How queer Christine was,—to think always of the land and the crops and the money.

It had been in April that John’s first letter had come from the box-stall in the Des Moines speed stable.

On a warm night in May, Isabelle came walking up the lane toad under the poplars. Abbie had not expected her home and she ran to the sitting-room door with cheery words of greeting. On the porch steps Isabelle stood and looked at her mother with wide tragic eyes. Did nothing,—said nothing,—but stood and looked with wide tragic eyes.

“Isabelle!” Abbie’s heart was pounding tumultuously. “What is it?”

“I’m married.” The girl’s voice was dull, without expression.

“Married?” Abbie repeated in a voice equally as dull, and with equal lack of expression.

Isabelle put out her hand. There was a wide gold band on her slender finger.

“Last night. And he’s gone.”

“You mean you’re married to . . . to? . . .”

“He’s gone,” she repeated dully. There was only one man in the world, so why name him?

“You married Harrison Rhodes . . . before he left?”

“For San Francisco.”

Abbie pulled Isabelle into the house and with shaking hands took off the girl’s hat.

“They’ll be sent to the Philippines,” Isabelle said in that same expressionless way. Abbie was trembling in every limb. She had read about such things happening to other mothers. And now it was happening to her. She could not think it,—that her own little Isabelle Deal had married in that hasty manner. Why, she wasn’t even Isabelle Deal,—she was Isabelle Rhodes. Everything seemed tumbling about Abbie’s head,—all her plans for her musical girl. Why, Isabelle was only finishing her sophomore year. And then, suddenly, Abbie thought of the pearls lying in their velvet box in the old calf-skin-covered chest, waiting for Isabelle to be a bride. For a moment, a great disappointment overtopped all her other emotions. Oh, why had Isabelle done this hasty thing?

“Oh, Isabelle . . . without a wedding! I’ve always wanted every one of my girls to have a wedding at home.”

“Oh, what difference is a wedding?” And Isabelle began to cry, great wrenching sobs that shook her.

Abbie put comforting arms around her. “There . . . there . . . dearie. That’s right . . . after all . . . what difference is a wedding?”

“He cared for nothing in the world but me and music,” Isabelle said in her bitterness, “but he went to war.”

Abbie held her close, rocked her as if she were a child.

“Yes, yes, Isabelle. They care for nothing in the world but women and their work . . . and they go to war.”

Isabelle would not go back to school for the remaining few weeks of the year. She would only sit at home and wait dully. And now Abbie had the new experience of attempting to keep another person courageous. It was more trying than to keep up her own spirits. Why must she always be strong for other people? How Isabelle sapped at her strength! She seemed to have no stamina. Sometimes Abbie thought the girl was selfish in it, and then she would say. “But I’m her mother. I’m the one for her to take her troubles to.” Abbie had John to think about also. She felt a little jealous that Isabelle was thinking of Harrison all the time, when John was in the same danger.