"Aren't those fog shapes startling?" she said, pointing with her stick. "No wonder the soldiers saw miracles on the field of Mons."
"But the real miracle that happened there, they did not see," he answered.
"What was that?"
"The Christmas truce in the trenches was the miracle of our times—the great hope of our future. If men can respect one another as enemies, instead of hating one another, some day we may have an end of war."
"I cannot dream nor philosophize war out of life, Mr. Christiansen. If it is not between nations, it will be between classes. If it is not for booty, it will be for survival. How can we hope to do away with it?"
"By another miracle, already begun—a sense of brotherhood in the world of men. If, even in the trenches, men clasped hands on Christmas Day, and gave the enemy Christmas greeting; if only a few employers lead off with a coöperative ownership; if only a few workmen in the unions meet the employers in fairness, it means that the day of universal amnesty is not a dream."
"You dear, big believer in miracles!" she scoffed.
"Poor little cynic, snarling at the heels of truth," he retorted.
The heavens opened at that moment, and the rain descended with midsummer violence.
"Shall we run for the woods?" he asked.