“Surely we must,” replied Rushbrooke impatiently. “I am convinced this war will soon be over. In three months the British navy together with the armies of their allies will wind this thing up.”
Through a wonder world of moonlit waterways and dark, mysterious channels, around peninsulas and between islands, across an open traverse and down a little bay, they took their course until Jim had them safely landed at their own dock again. The magic beauty of the white light upon wooded island and gleaming lake held them in its spell for some minutes after they had landed till Mrs. Murray came down from the bungalow to meet them.
“Safe back again,” she cried with an all too evident effort to be cheery. “How lovely the night is, and how peaceful! James,” she said in a low voice, turning to her husband, “I wish you would go to Isabel. I cannot get her to sleep. She says she must see you.”
“Why, what's up?”
“I think she has got a little fright,” said his wife. “She has been sobbing pitifully.”
Mr. Murray found the little thing wide awake, her breath coming in the deep sobs of exhaustion that follows tempestuous tears. “What's the trouble, Sweetheart?”
“Oh, Daddy,” cried the child, flinging herself upon him and bursting anew into an ecstasy of weeping, “she—said—you would—have—to—go. But—you won't—will you—Daddy?”
“Why, Isabel, what do you mean, dear? Go where?”
“To the—war—Daddy—they said—you would—have—to go—to the war.”
“Who said?”