“Waiting for what?”
He drew a step nearer, and his voice became very gentle. “Cummings and I reach our regiment tomorrow night; and there in the camp is a group of men on the way to the war, and they all go the more bravely because each one of them has you in his heart;—not one but will be a better soldier because of you. I want you to believe that if all of them don't come back, yet the one whose safety you think of and fear for will return. For, you see, Crailey told me what you said to him when—when he met you here the last time. I have no way to know which of them you meant; but—he will come back to you! I am sure of it, because I believe you are to be happy. Ah, you've had your allotment of pain! After all, there is so little to regret: the town seems empty without its young men, yet you may rejoice, remembering how bravely they went and how gaily! They will sing half the way to Vera Cruz! You think it strange I should say there is so little to regret, when I've just laid away my best friend. It was his own doctrine, and the selfish personal grief and soreness grows less when I think of the gallant end he made, for it was he who went away most bravely and jauntily of all. Crailey was no failure, unless I let what he taught me go to no effect. And be sure he would have told you what I tell you now, that all is well with all in the world.”
“Please!” she cried, with a quick intake of breath through closed teeth.
“I will do anything in the world to please you,” he answered, sorrowfully. “Do you mean that—”
She turned at last and faced him, but without lifting her eyes. “Why did you come to say good-by to me?”
“I don't understand.”
“I think you do.” Her voice was cold and steady, but it was suddenly given to him to perceive that she was trembling from head to heel.
An exclamation of remorse broke from him.
“Ah! You came here to be alone. I—”
“Stop,” she said. “You said good-by to me once before. Did you come to see—what you saw then?”