When war was not immediately declared the rector, who on the Sunday
following that eventful Saturday of the President's speech to Congress
had preached a rousing call to arms, began to feel a bit sheepish about
it.

"War or no war, my dear," he said to Delight, "it made them think for as
much as an hour. And I can change it somewhat, and use it again, if the
time really comes."

"Second-hand stuff!" she scoffed. "You with your old sermons, and Mother
with my old dresses! But it was a good sermon," she added. "I have
hardly been civil to that German laundress since."

"Good gracious, Delight. Can't you remember that we must love our
enemies?"

"Do you love them? You know perfectly well that the moment you get on
the other side, if you do, you'll be jerking the cross off your collar
and bullying some wretched soldier to give you his gun."

He had a guilty feeling that she was right.

It was February then, and they were sitting in the parish house. Delight
had been filling out Sunday-school reports to parents, an innovation she
detested. For a little while there was only the scratching of her pen
to be heard and an occasional squeal from the church proper, where
the organ was being repaired. The rector sat back in his chair, his
fingertips together, and whistled noiselessly, a habit of his when he
was disturbed. Now and then he glanced at Delight's bent head.