The war broke out. Excitement still filled her. It would soon be over.
Something new—
Then—one by one all the men she had known, flirted, danced with, left for the front. To die. That the enemy should not pass.
Paris in danger. Death and sorrow near.
The best in Janet Knott gradually awakened. A desire to help grew until she could contain it no longer.
One Sunday evening she went to Notre-Dame for Benediction—Kneeling in the shadows of the pillars she heard the organ—sad agonizing chords
Sorrow has played on the chords of my heart to teach me these deeper tones—
The memory of the little church, of the old organist—of herself, the former Janet, the homesick child.
Her gift—was it dead or only sleeping? Could she awaken it—Spin a new life on the webs of war—
The shadow of the Janet of seventeen wept over the wasted years.