Her face suddenly became very grave and sad, and a moment later she turned away her eyes that were full of tears. "I wish you hadn't asked that question; but I will explain my seeming weakness," she said, in a low, faltering voice. "I lost my only brother in the war—I was scarcely more than a child; but I can see him now—my very ideal of brave, loyal manhood. Should I not love the country for which he died?"
Politics! a word that men so often utter with contempt, has been hallowed to me since that moment.
She looked away for a moment, swiftly pressed her handkerchief to her eyes, then turning toward me said, with a smile, and in her former tones:
"Forgive me! I've been a bit lonely and blue this afternoon, for the day has reminded me of the past. I won't be weak and womanish any more. I think some political questions interest a great many women deeply. It must be so. We don't dote on scrambling politicians; but a man as a true statesman makes a grand figure."
I was not thinking of statecraft or the craftsmen.
"By Jove!" I exclaimed mentally, "this girl is more beautiful than my 'perfect flower of womanhood.' Night-owl that I am, I am just gaining the power to see her clearly as the sun declines."
I know my face was full of honest sympathy as I said, gently and reverently:
"Tell me more of your brother. The thoughts of such men make me better."
She shot a quick, grateful glance, looked down, trembled, shook her head as she faltered:
"I cannot—please don't; speak of something far removed."