he said, as he placed the letter he had written in his pocket, and scribbled a hasty reply to Dolores' telegram.
Arriving at Paris, he found Mrs. Butler in an extremely critical condition. She had been ill since the day following her arrival, and Dolores had scarcely slept or tasted food in her care and anxiety.
"Never since my uncle died," she said to Percy, "have I known such loneliness and dependence as I feel now. It seemed to me I must have some one near me, who would share my anxiety and personal interest in the patient. I hope you will forgive me for sending for you: but when I realized that she might die, I could not bear the suspense any longer alone."
Percy proved himself a hero in the emergency: he was brother, father, friend and messenger, all in one.
He performed all those innumerable outside duties necessitated by illness, and helped sustain Dolores' courage and strength, until at length the patient was pronounced on the highway to recovery.
Then there were long health-restoring drives, and pleasant afternoons when Percy read to the convalescent, while Dolores sat near with her sewing or drawing. But by and by there came a day when Percy realized that he must tear himself away, at once.
He had been reading aloud, and, among other things, he read a little poem entitled "The Farewell." It seemed particularly suited to his case.
'Tis not the untried soldier new to danger
Who fears to enter into active strife.
Amidst the roll of drums, the cannons' rattle,
He craves adventure, and thinks not of life.
But the scarred veteran knows the price of glory,
He does not court the conflict or the fray.
He has no longing to rehearse that gory
And most dramatic act, of war's dark play.
He who to love, has always been a stranger,
All unafraid may linger in your spell.
My heart has known the warfare, and its danger.
It craves no repetition—so farewell.