It was, I suddenly felt, not like the facile tears of an ordinary woman, but like the utter breakdown of a strong man. And she was as ashamed of it.

Then I had enough enlightenment to see some little relief for her, not from the weight of horrible new knowledge, but from the added burden of her selfrestraint.

I knelt beside her and got her into my arms, her head hidden on my shoulder. "Dear," said I,

"Dear—I can't help the horror, but at least I can help you bear it—and you can let me try. You see you're all alone here—I'm all you've got. You'll have to let it out somehow— just say it all to me."

She held me very close then, with a tense, frightened grip. "I want—I want—my Mother!" she sobbed.

Ellador's mother was one of those wise women who sat in the Temples, and gave comfort and counsel when needed. They loved each other more than I, not seeing them always together, had understood. Yet her mother had counseled her going, had urged it, for the sake of their laud and its future.

"Mother! Mother! Mother!" she sobbed under her breath. "Oh— Mother! Help me bear it!"

There was no Mother and no Temple, only one man who loved her, and in that she seemed to find a little ease, and slowly grew quieter.

"There is one thing we know more about than you do," I suggested. "That is how to manage pain. You mustn't keep it to yourself—you must let it out—let the others help bear it. That's good psychology, dear."

"It seems so—unkind," she murmured.

"Oh, no, it's not unkind; it's just necessary. 'Bear ye one another's burdens,' you know. Also we have a nice proverb about marriage. 'It makes joy double and halveth trouble.' Just pile it on me, dearest—that's what a husband is for."

"But how can I say to you the things I feel? It seems so rude, so to reflect on your people—your civilization."

"I think you underrate two things," I suggested. "One is that I'm a human creature, even if male; the other that my visit to Herland, my life with you, has had a deep effect on me. I see the awfulness of war as I never did before, and I can even see a little of how it must affect you. What I want you to do now is to relieve the pressure of feeling which is hurting so, by putting it into words—letting it out. Say it all. Say the very worst. Say—'This world is not civilized, not human. It is worse than the humble savagery below our mountains.' Let out, dear—I can stand it. And you'll feel better."

She lifted her head and drew a long, shuddering breath.

"I think you are right—there must be some relief. And here are You!" Suddenly she threw her arms around me and held me close, close.

"You do love me—I can feel it! A little—a very little—like mother love! I am so grateful!"

She rested in my arms, till the fierce tempest of pain had passed somewhat, and then we sat down, close together, and she followed my advice, seeking to visualize, to put in words, to fully express, the anguish which was upon her.

"You see," she began slowly, "it is hard for me to do this because I hate to hurt you. You must care so—so horribly."

"Stop right there, dear," I told her. "You overestimate my sensitiveness. What I feel is nothing at all to what you feel—I can see that. Remember that in our race-traditions war is a fine thing, a splendid thing. We have idealized war and the warrior, through all our history. You have read a good deal of our history by now."

She had, I knew, and she nodded her head sadly. "Yes, it's practically all about war," she agreed.