But she could not; her own struggle was too desperate.

Minutes passed before she spoke again, and then there was a change in her, for her voice was much more steady.
'It was so easy to be good when he was dead.' She had been happy an hour ago, yesterday, last week, working and waiting for the blessed end, believing that he had died to serve his country and that God would let him meet her in heaven.

Why had he come back now, too late for earth, but a lifetime too soon for heaven?
It had been so easy to be strong and brave and faithful for his sake, when he was dead.

It was little enough that she had said, but each word had meant a page of her life.

Mother Veronica heard, and she understood.
'Pray,' she said, after a long time; and her voice came as from very far away, for she too had told her story in that one syllable.
Human nature turned upon her, rebellious, with a rending cry.
'I cannot! He is alive! He is here! Don't you understand?
How can I pray?
For what?
That he may die again?
God of mercy! And if not that, can I pray to be free?
Free?
Free from what?
Free to do what?
To die?
Not even that! Others will be taken, but I shall live--thirty, forty, fifty years, knowing that he is alive--knowing that I may see him any day!' The elder woman's white fingers twined round each other more desperately, for Sister Giovanna's face was turned full to her now, and their eyes were meeting; the young nun's were fierce with pain, but the Mother's were strangely lustreless and dull.
'No,' she said, mechanically answering the last words, 'you must not see him.' 'Not see him once ?' Sister Giovanna leaned far forwards, grasping the arms of the easy-chair, and her voice came thick and hoarse.