“She is quite right, Larry. I want to see that young lady Jane. She must be quite unique. I owe her something.”
“Good-bye, then,” said Larry. “I have already seen your mother. Good-bye, you dear things. God give you everything good. He has already given you almost the best.”
“Good-bye, you dear boy,” said Rowena. “I have wanted to kiss you many a time, but didn't dare. But now—you are going to the war”—there was a little break in her voice—“where men die. Good-bye, Larry, dear boy, good-bye.” She put her arms about him. “And don't keep Jane waiting,” she whispered in his ear.
“If I were a German, Larry,” said Hugo, giving him both hands, “I would kiss you too, old boy, but being plain American, I can only say good luck. God bless you.”
“You will find Elfie in her room,” said Rowena. “She refuses to say good-bye where any one can see her. She is not going to weep. Soldiers' women do not weep, she says. Poor kid!”
Larry found Elfie in her room, with high lights as of fever on her cheeks and eyes glittering.
“I am not going to cry,” she said between her teeth. “You need not be afraid, Larry. I am going to be like the Canadian women.”
Larry took the child in his arms, every muscle and every nerve in her slight body taut as a fiddle-string. He smoothed her hair gently and began to talk quietly with her.
“What good times we have had!” he said. “I remember well the very first night I saw you. Do you?”
“Oh,” she breathed, “don't speak of it, or I can't hold in.”