In the present position there are no subtleties and no complications.

Good-night." Marigold, with a wooden face, opened wide the door, and Randall, with a shrug of the shoulders, went out.
I stayed awake the whole of that livelong night.
When I learned the death of young Oswald Fenimore, whom I loved far more dearly than Randall Holmes, I went to bed and slept peacefully.

A gallant lad died in battle; there is nothing more to be said, nothing more to be thought.

The finality, heroically sublime, overwhelms the poor workings of the brain.

But in the case of a fellow like Randall Holmes--well, as I have said, I did not get a wink of sleep the whole night long.
Someone, a few months ago, told me of a young university man--Oxford or Cambridge, I forget--who, when asked why he was not fighting, replied; "What has the war to do with me?
I disapprove of this brawling." Was that the attitude of Randall, whom I had known all his life long?
I shivered, like a fool, all night.