"Poor boy, he loved its wild din and roar. It was play to his daring spirit."
A sob caught her voice and then it rose in fierce rebellion:
"Where was God when he fell? He was thirty-one years old, in the glory of a beautiful life—"
Her sister spoke in gentle sympathy.
"His fame fills the world, dear."
"Fame? Fame? What is that to me, now? I stretch out my hand, and it's ashes. My arms are empty. My heart is broken. Life isn't worth the living."
Her voice drifted into a dreamy silence as the tears streamed down her cheeks. She stood for half an hour staring through blurred eyes at the cold clay.
She turned at last and seized her sister's hands both in hers, and gazed with a strange, set look that saw something beyond time and the things of sense.
"My dear sister, God will yet give to the mothers of men the power to stop this murder. There's a better way. There's a better way,"