"Nancy, child, if you could only cry, it would be such a wonderful relief to your poor heart. Lors, here is Mayne coming! Maybe you'd better take him into the Den, and talk it out face to face."
"You know all about it, Nancy," he began, when she beckoned him to follow her into the little room, where both had spent such pleasant hours.
She nodded assent. Within the last three days the girl appeared to have undergone an extraordinary change; the childish air had vanished; her face was shrunken, and drawn, all life and spontaneity had departed. She wore a long white peignoir, which gave her height and dignity, and looked years older—in short, it was another personality.
"You know I'm awfully fond of you, Nance," continued Mayne, stooping to take a cold, limp hand, "and that I'll do my very best to make you happy."
"Happy!" and she dashed his hand aside, "as if I could ever be happy again!"
"You will, by and by," he went on steadily, unmoved by her outburst; "we shall settle down; you will get used to soldiering—and this awful time will be as a bad dream."
"Never," rejoined Nancy with emphasis. "Bad dreams are forgotten. Do you imagine, that I shall ever forget this?" and she stared at him with a pair of tearless, glittering eyes. Then there ensued a long, expressive, and uncomfortable pause, during which Togo trotted in, and gazed at the couple. They seemed so odd,—almost like two strangers: the girl sitting by the closed piano, the man with his hands in his pockets, standing with his back to the wall. After a moment's hesitation, and bewilderment, Togo trotted out.
"Well, Nancy, what do you think?" inquired Mayne at last.
"I'll do anything father wishes—anything to make him at ease. They say," and she choked, then continued in a hard, metallic voice, "he has only two days to live."
"I wish to God it had been me instead," burst out Mayne.