“If you were not to go I should never have told you,” she answered; “but if you die in battle you must remember it at the last.”
“It seems an awful waste of opportunities,” he said, “but I'll make it up on the day that I come back a Major-general. Then I shall say 'forward, madam,' and you'll marry me on the spot.”
“Don't be too sure. I may grow coy again when the war is over.”
“When you do I'll find the remedy—for I'll be a Major-general, then, and you a private. This war must make me, dear. I shan't stay in the ranks much longer.”
“I like you there—it is so brave,” she said.
“But you'll like me anywhere, and I prefer the top—the very top. Oh, my love, we'll wring our happiness from the world before we die!”
With a shiver she came back to the earth.
“I had almost forgotten him,” she said in keen self-reproach, and went quickly over the rustling leaves to the cabin door. As Dan followed her the day seemed to grow suddenly darker to his eyes.
On the threshold he met Mrs. Ambler, composed and tearless, wearing her grief as a veil that hid her from the outside world. Before her calm gray eyes he fell back with an emotion not unmixed with awe.
“I did the best I could,” he said bluntly, “but it was nothing.”