She was worshipping a hero; she was glorifying in her sacrifice; she was faithful to a man; she was being a woman.

At first she grew pale, tense, quiet, and seemed to be going into a decline.

Then that stage passed; and the roseleaf flush returned to her cheeks, the purple fire deepened in her eyes, the quivering life in all her supple young body.
Night after night loneliness had no fears for her.

If she heard a whistle on the avenue, the honk of a car--the familiar old signals of the boys and girls, she smiled her disdain, and curling comfortably in her great chair, bent her lovely head over her books.
In the beginning her dreams were all of Daren Lane, of the strangeness and glory of this soldier who spent so many secret hours with her.

And when the time came that she did not see him so often her dreams were just as full.