Chapter I: DANCED--composed only waltzes--sang love songs. But now--sorrow has

played on the chords of my heart--to teach me these deeper tones--to teach me music for the Passion--for the Crucifixion.

YOU must learn, my child, that through sorrow men accomplish great things.

WHEN they weep they send out tones into the world that men remember and cherish.

BEETHOVEN lived and suffered--and has left to the world things of immortal greatness.

BUT now--go--else I shall sadden you beyond your years----

SLOWLY Janet walked through the darkening streets. The words of the organist filled her mind. She felt prophetically her heart must pass through fire.

WOULD she be strong enough--or would weakness--desire for joy--conquer and kill the power within.

II

THE homesick girl of seventeen has given place to a worldly wise young woman of twenty-five.

NO more longing for the land across the seas. The power within still sleeps--Paris. With its pleasure haunts, its lights, its theatres--

JANET KNOTT--the center of an admiring coterie--she plays light music--waltzes. The joy of being alive--the whirl of a great city--subdued laughter of groups of men and women walking in the moonlight--the flowering chestnut trees--the roses--

RACES of Longchamps--gay colors--a world of excitement.

LIFE--

ITS waves swept over her.

SHE had chosen between this and art--fulfillment of the Soul.

SOMETIMES shadows of her power rose--beckoned.

SHE consoled these moments with coquetry. A success--flowers

* * * * *

THE war broke out. Excitement still filled her. It would soon be over.

SOMETHING new--

THEN--one by one all the men she had known, flirted, danced with, left for the front. To die. That the enemy should not pass.

PARIS in danger. Death and sorrow near.

THE best in Janet Knott gradually awakened. A desire to help grew until she could contain it no longer.

ONE Sunday evening she went to Notre-Dame for Benediction--Kneeling in the shadows of the pillars she heard the organ--sad agonizing chords

SORROW has played on the chords of my heart to teach me these deeper tones--

THE memory of the little church, of the old organist--of herself, the former Janet, the homesick child.

HER gift--was it dead or only sleeping? Could she awaken it--Spin a new life on the webs of war--

THE shadow of the Janet of seventeen wept over the wasted years.

III

THERE seemed to be no end. The war-filled years crept slowly onward, each day bringing more sorrow--more death.

JANET was torn in two.

THE human pleasure-loving side lay bleeding--dying inch by inch.

THE other, with tones of deepest beauty, rose above it, sighing that it must take such tragedy to break down its prison bars--that it might live.

IT rose--comforting Janet in many a weary hour--comforting the wounded, the dying. In a village church which had been turned into a base hospital she often played--and as they listened some pain was eased, some picture rose of happy fields, of homes. Would they see them again--

IN this tragedy of nations she had found herself. Found the purpose of her life. Her art had come into its own--had comforted.

DEATH from a shell might take her--as it took thousands each day--but she was fulfilling the mission of her soul.

IV

ONE night the Church Hospital lay sleeping. Very softly Janet crept to the organ loft--softer still she played to the moonlight.

HE was rapidly improving. His wounds had not been serious. Something--very soft, faint--woke him. For a minute he could not recall his surroundings--and he rose up--but a sharp pain in his shoulder brought back the memory of the trenches, of the horror--