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.She had made herself a leader who spared noeffort, no sacrifice, no expense in what she considered her duty.Conservation of food, intensive farm production, knitting for soldiers,Liberty Loans and Red Cross--these she had studied and mastered, to theend that the women of the great valley had accomplished work which wonnational honor.It had been excitement, joy, and a strange fulfilmentfor her.But after the shock caused by the fatal news about Dorn she hadlost interest, though she had worked on harder than ever.Just a night ago her father had gazed at her and then told her to cometo his office.She did so.And there he said: "You're workin' too hard.You've got to quit.""Oh no, dad.I'm only tired to-night," she had replied."Let me go on.I've planned so--""No!" he said, banging his desk."You'll run yourself down.""But, father, these are war-times.Could I do less--could I think of--""You've done wonders.You've been the life of this work.Some one elsecan carry it on now.You'd kill yourself.An' this war has cost theAndersons enough.""Should we count the cost?" she asked.Anderson had sworn."No, we shouldn't.But I'm not goin' to lose mygirl.Do you get that hunch?.I've bought bonds by the bushel.I'vegiven thousands to your relief societies.I gave up my son Jim--an' thatPage 204 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlcost us mother.I'm raisin' a million bushels of wheat this year thatthe government can have.An' I'm starvin' to death because I don't getwhat I used to eat.Then this last blow--Dorn!--that fine youngwheat-man, the best--Aw! Lenore.""But, dad, is--isn't there any--any hope?"Anderson was silent."Dad," she had pleaded, "if he were really dead--buried--oh! wouldn't Ifeel it?""You've overworked yourself.Now you've got to rest," her father hadreplied, huskily."But, dad.""I said no.I've a heap of pride in what you've done.An' I surethink you're the best Anderson of the lot.That's all.Now kiss me an'go to bed."That explained how Lenore came to be alone, high up' on the vastwheat-slope, watching and feeling, with no more work to do.The slowclimb there had proved to her how much she needed rest.But work evenunder strain or pain would have been preferable to endless hours tothink, to remember, to fight despair.Mortally wounded! She whispered the tragic phrase.When? Where? How hadher lover been mortally wounded? That meant death.But no other word hadcome and no spiritual realization of death abided in her soul.It seemedimpossible for Lenore to accept things as her father and friends did.Nevertheless, equally impossible was it not to be influenced by theirpractical minds.Because of her nervousness, of her overstrain, she hadlost a good deal of her mental poise; and she divined that the only helpfor that was certainty of Dorn's fate.She could bear the shock if onlyshe could know positively.And leaning her face in her hands, with thewarm wind blowing her hair and bringing the rustle of the wheat, sheprayed for divination.No answer! Absolutely no mystic consciousness of death--of an end to herlove here on earth! Instead of that breathed a strong physical presenceof life all about her, in the swelling, waving slopes of wheat, in thebeautiful butterflies, in the singing birds low down and the soaringeagles high above--life beating and surging in her heart, her veins,unquenchable and indomitable.It gave the lie to her morbidness.But itseemed only a physical state.How could she find any tangible hold onrealities?She lifted her face to the lonely sky, and her hands pressed to herbreast where the deep ache throbbed heavily."It's not that I can't give him up," she whispered, as if impelled tospeak."I _can_.I _have_ given him up.It's this torture of suspense.Oh, not to _know!_.But if that newspaper had claimed him one of thekilled, I'd not believe."So Lenore trusted more to the mystic whisper of her woman's soul than toall the unproven outward things.Still trust as she might, the voice ofthe world dinned in her ears, and between the two she was on the rack [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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.She had made herself a leader who spared noeffort, no sacrifice, no expense in what she considered her duty.Conservation of food, intensive farm production, knitting for soldiers,Liberty Loans and Red Cross--these she had studied and mastered, to theend that the women of the great valley had accomplished work which wonnational honor.It had been excitement, joy, and a strange fulfilmentfor her.But after the shock caused by the fatal news about Dorn she hadlost interest, though she had worked on harder than ever.Just a night ago her father had gazed at her and then told her to cometo his office.She did so.And there he said: "You're workin' too hard.You've got to quit.""Oh no, dad.I'm only tired to-night," she had replied."Let me go on.I've planned so--""No!" he said, banging his desk."You'll run yourself down.""But, father, these are war-times.Could I do less--could I think of--""You've done wonders.You've been the life of this work.Some one elsecan carry it on now.You'd kill yourself.An' this war has cost theAndersons enough.""Should we count the cost?" she asked.Anderson had sworn."No, we shouldn't.But I'm not goin' to lose mygirl.Do you get that hunch?.I've bought bonds by the bushel.I'vegiven thousands to your relief societies.I gave up my son Jim--an' thatPage 204 ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.htmlcost us mother.I'm raisin' a million bushels of wheat this year thatthe government can have.An' I'm starvin' to death because I don't getwhat I used to eat.Then this last blow--Dorn!--that fine youngwheat-man, the best--Aw! Lenore.""But, dad, is--isn't there any--any hope?"Anderson was silent."Dad," she had pleaded, "if he were really dead--buried--oh! wouldn't Ifeel it?""You've overworked yourself.Now you've got to rest," her father hadreplied, huskily."But, dad.""I said no.I've a heap of pride in what you've done.An' I surethink you're the best Anderson of the lot.That's all.Now kiss me an'go to bed."That explained how Lenore came to be alone, high up' on the vastwheat-slope, watching and feeling, with no more work to do.The slowclimb there had proved to her how much she needed rest.But work evenunder strain or pain would have been preferable to endless hours tothink, to remember, to fight despair.Mortally wounded! She whispered the tragic phrase.When? Where? How hadher lover been mortally wounded? That meant death.But no other word hadcome and no spiritual realization of death abided in her soul.It seemedimpossible for Lenore to accept things as her father and friends did.Nevertheless, equally impossible was it not to be influenced by theirpractical minds.Because of her nervousness, of her overstrain, she hadlost a good deal of her mental poise; and she divined that the only helpfor that was certainty of Dorn's fate.She could bear the shock if onlyshe could know positively.And leaning her face in her hands, with thewarm wind blowing her hair and bringing the rustle of the wheat, sheprayed for divination.No answer! Absolutely no mystic consciousness of death--of an end to herlove here on earth! Instead of that breathed a strong physical presenceof life all about her, in the swelling, waving slopes of wheat, in thebeautiful butterflies, in the singing birds low down and the soaringeagles high above--life beating and surging in her heart, her veins,unquenchable and indomitable.It gave the lie to her morbidness.But itseemed only a physical state.How could she find any tangible hold onrealities?She lifted her face to the lonely sky, and her hands pressed to herbreast where the deep ache throbbed heavily."It's not that I can't give him up," she whispered, as if impelled tospeak."I _can_.I _have_ given him up.It's this torture of suspense.Oh, not to _know!_.But if that newspaper had claimed him one of thekilled, I'd not believe."So Lenore trusted more to the mystic whisper of her woman's soul than toall the unproven outward things.Still trust as she might, the voice ofthe world dinned in her ears, and between the two she was on the rack [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]