He was looking at her with those shy, worshipping eyes of his that always made her marvel at her own wonderfulness. “Don’t make us out all alike,” pleaded his sister with a laugh. “There are still a few old-fashioned papers that do give their opponents fair play.”!

“And those that have gone before?” she demanded. “Those that have won the ground from where we are fighting. Had they no need of patience? Was the cry never wrung from their lips: ‘How long, oh Lord, how long?’ Is it for us to lay aside the sword that they bequeath us because we cannot hope any more than they to see the far-off victory? Fifty years I have fought, and what, a few years hence, will my closing eyes still see but the banners of the foe still waving, fresh armies pouring to his standard?” “But I’ve won,” she said. “I’m dying further forward. I’ve helped advance the line.”

“No,” answered Joan. “Surely you’re not one?” “Man has more interests,” Joan argued, “a thousand other allurements to distract him; we must cultivate his finer instincts.” “No, it wasn’t,” answered the child. “Most of them were against it. And then there was Mama,” she added in a lower tone.