cross-roads—directing traffic in the great world-war, gave justification to her birth, she believed! A feeling of exaltation took possession of her at the mere thought of such a possibility. It crowded out her fear, it crowded out fatigue—hunger. It penetrated to her soul. It did something to her eyes—something magic. Doubt, perplexity had been gradually disappearing from her vision ever since she landed in France, but now that vision became of supernatural clearness. This night—the two soldiers whom she had just saved, the others approaching whom she might save—she saw flash before her as the "central object" in her picture. Her deplored childlessness, her hunger for close human ties, her lamented mediocrity sank where they belonged, into the background of the composition. They were insignificant—trivial. Even the weaknesses of her character would appear less distinct if she could triumph to-night.
The real test of courage lies in the length of its endurance. It was when the first signs of dawn began to steal into the troubled sky above Constance, after she had directed some dozen or so refugees along the way to safety, that she knew, without a shadow of doubt, that she would continue equal to the demands of her great opportunity. She would not fail. At whatever hour
