She was tired, and for a moment it seemed to Kent that she was almost ready to cry.

Her ringers twisted nervously at the shining end of the braid in her lap, and more than ever he thought how slim and helpless, she was, yet how gloriously unafraid, how unconquerable with that something within her that burned like the fire of a dynamo.

The flame of that force had gone down now, as though the fire itself was dying out; but when she raised her eyes to him, looking up at him from out of the big chair, he knew that back of the yearning, child-like glow that lay in them the heart of that fire was living and unquenchable.

Again, for him, she had ceased to be a woman.

It was the soul of a child that lay in her wide-open, wonderfully blue eyes.