she was relieved, whatever renewed activity took place in the firing above and about her, with the breaking of the dawn, she would not flinch—not now! A thrill of joy ran through her. Every event in her life that made possible this particular hour of dawn and fulfillment, she accepted eagerly, gladly. Everything in her life, past and present, was "all right—all right, at last," she said out loud. She was happy, happy! If only Dad could know how happy she was! She wished she might tell him that he needn't worry ever again about what she had said to him that far-off day at home.
He did worry. She was sure of it. Two weeks after her outbreak she recalled how sadly he had remarked to her one Saturday morning, driving home after a game of golf, "I'm sorry anybody whose life seems of such importance to me should wonder why she was ever born." And a half dozen times at least in his letters lately, he had repeated her unfortunate phrase, word for word. She did wish she could talk to Dad now—to-night—this moment. It would be too bad for Dad to keep on believing her dissatisfied with her lot—unhappy—unrecompensed. Oh, he mustn't! Dear Dad—she loved him most of any man. He of all people ought to know of the revelation that had come to her to-night.
