Clarisse tossed an adorable crown of golden curls. “I don’t understand.”
“Didn’t expect you to, at first. It’s this way. He’s been through some very big, very terrible experiences, and he can’t forget them. He isn’t the boy you used to play with, the boy who was happy just having a good time. He’s grown very serious. That’s what experience is likely to do for us all in time, but with him it’s come all in a heap. When that happens you can’t go back and be happy in the old way. Do you see?”
“Go on.”
“He’s bound fast and walled about with the memories of what he has been through—killing human beings, watching his comrades die, seeing what the Germans have done. For the moment it has made him forget that the sun shines and birds sing and the world is a place to be glad in. The bright colors have faded out of life for him; everything looks gray and somber.”
“Gee! and how he used to like a good cabaret with a jazz band!” The girl whispered it, and there was awe in her voice. “And colors! I had to wear the gayest things I had, to please him.”
“Yes, I know. And he’ll like them best again, some day. Just be patient, dear. And the waiting won’t be hard, you’ll have so much to do for him. You’ll have to be bringing the sunshine back, making him listen to the bird-songs, teaching him how to be glad, to love doing all the happy, foolish boy-things he used to like.”
“I see—I can.” The girl’s voice was breathless.
“I’m sure you can.” Sheila tried to put conviction into her words. “At first you may find it a little hard. It means—”
“Yes?”
“It means creeping into his prison with him, so gently, so lovingly, and staying close beside him while you cut the memory-cords one by one. Could you do that?”