Here was a tragedy unrelieved, stupid, useless.

Here was no consoling knowledge of glorious sacrifice; no dying for one's country.

There was no dismissing it with a heroic word that caught in the throat.
I have not started out to write this little chronicle of Wellingsford in order to weep over the pain of the world.

God knows there is in it an infinity of beauty, fresh revelations of which are being every day unfolded before my eyes.
If I did not believe with all my soul that out of Darkness cometh Light, I would take my old service revolver from its holster and blow out my brains this very minute.

The eternal laughter of the earth has ever since its creation pierced through the mist of tears in which at times it has been shrouded.