one--her heart told her exultingly, "You are a _woman_."

Girlhood had come again, but girlhood made all woman by immense
tenderness, by the up-rush of a wild love, and by the awakening of all
her instincts of home and mating and child-bearing. And then had come
that mad, wind-blown twilight at the riverside when the spirit of life
had drenched her and she had become grave, tender, and wrought of all
lovely power. Joe was just a boy then to her, and her great woman-heart
drew him in and sheltered him in the sacred warmth of her being. In that
moment she had reached the highest point of her womanhood, a new
unfolding, a new release. And then had come horror, and he had been
swept away from her--one glimpse of his numb, ghastly face, and he was
gone.

It was Fannie Lemick that took her home. She only knew that she was
being led away, while crashing through her mind went flames, smoke, the
throbbing of the engines, and the words: "I may never see you again ...
dead girls...." All that night she tossed about in a horror, and in the
morning she feverishly read the terrible news until she thought she must
swoon away. She became sick; the landlady had to come up and help her;
the doctor had to be sent for, and he had told her that this nervous
breakdown had been long overdue; she had been working under too great a
strain; it only needed some shock to break her.

But while she lay in a sick fever her heart went out to Joe. If she only
could be at his side, nerve him to the fight, protect him and soothe
him. She knew that his whole old life had been consumed in that fire,
and lay in ruins, and she felt subtly that he had been taken from her.
By one blow, at the very moment of the miracle of their love, they had
been torn from each other. She did not want to live; she hoped that she