“Presentiments，“hescoffed，“aretheexcusesofcowards。Don’tbeafraid，Florence。RememberalwaysthatIlookahead。DoyouthinkthatIcouldstayherecontentedwithwhatyoucallmycompensations-myart，thestudyofbeautifulthings，thecalmepicureanismofthesedateandsimplelife？YouknowverywellthatIcouldnotdothat。Thecravingforotherthingsisinmyheartandblood。TheexcitementwhichIcannothaveinoneway，Imustfindinanother，andIthinkthatbeforemanynightshavepassed，Ishalllieonmypillowandhearthegunsroar，hearthefootstepsofthegreatarmiesoftheworldmovingintobattle。ItisforthatIlive，Florence。“
Shetookupherknittingagain。Hereyeswerefixeduponthesky-line。Twicesheopenedherlips，buttwicenowordscame。
“Youunderstand？“hewhispered。“Youbegintounderstand，don’tyou？“
Shelookedathimonlyforamomentandbackatherwork。
“Isupposeso，“shesighed。