I am afraid--afraid for all of us!" "Afraid of what ?" he asked gently.
"Afraid," she went on, "because it seems to me that I can hear, at times like this, when one is alone, the sound of what one of your writers called footsteps amongst the hills, footsteps falling upon wool, muffled yet somehow ominous.

There is trouble coming.

I know it.
I am sure of it." "In this country they do not think so," he reminded her.

"Most of our great statesmen of today have come to the conclusion that there will be no more war." "You have no great statesmen," she answered simply.

"You have plenty of men who would make very fine local administrators, but you have no statesmen, or you would have provided for what is coming." There was a curious conviction in her words, a sense of one speaking who has seen the truth.
"Tell me," he asked, "is there anything that you know of--" "Ah! but that I may not tell you," she interrupted, turning away from the window.