"Spirit has nothing to do with it," Helen replied. "It is simply a fact."
"I'd make it the whole army!" said Peter, who belonged to the school which believes that if you make up your mind to do a thing you will do it.
Phil was writing again, his fingers moving more rapidly than usual, his writing less distinct, as if he were under the pressure of strong emotion:
"I should have slipped if it had not been for her. It is a thing one can't talk about—the great thing of all, that makes me bear the pain and make the fight—what Henriette has done for me."
"Henriette!"
Dr. and Mrs. Sanford and Peter uttered the word together and stared involuntarily at Helen, in blank inquiry. She looked away quickly at the floor and murmured:
"Yes, Henriette!"
There was a silence then, while she took the pad and pencil from Phil and removed the little table, which provided her with the relief of movement.
"Not too much at one time, lest we tire him," she said.
She went with them through the court, where the seeing men in their pain watched them passing; and on the way her glance hovered into theirs beseechingly and her lips were parted as if about to speak, but she could not find words until they were on the path.