"Who does favor war, Mr. Sanderson?" asked the girl seriously. "Surely the poor men fighting in the trenches are not in favor of it. Their masters all publicly deplore it. And the neutral peoples condemn it utterly. Still——"
"Still Mars reigns," he interposed. "To take their word for it, nobody is to blame and nobody wants to continue fighting. Yet the munition factories and gun works keep busy. There will be plenty of work for you good women—and plenty for me to do too," he added in a lower tone.
"It is so dangerous—your work," she sighed.
"I was just thinking that about yours," he returned, smiling. "You will work within sound—perhaps within reach—of the guns if you serve in the field hospitals."
"While you will be in the very midst of battle," she returned more lightly. "Yet you would not falter?"
"No-o. Nor I wouldn't have you, as long as you have signed up for the job," he admitted. "You know, we Americans have our national reputation to keep up. We aren't supposed to get cold feet."
"I am not sure that I am an American," she murmured.
"Why, of course you are! I've thought a good bit about what you said once of your mixed ancestry, and how you felt the German part of you and the French part of you at war. I reckon such a mixture makes exceedingly good American timber, after all."
"I wish you might prove that thesis to my satisfaction, Mr. Sanderson."
"Why, if the German part of you is dissatisfied with the French part of you, and vice versa, then throw the opinions and prejudices of both away and declare yourself an out-and-out Yankee. As they used to say in the old-time revival meetings, 'Claim the blessing, and it's yours!'"