"I know," said Sally. "It seems strange, doesn't it? But I've known so many like her. The happiest woman I ever knew had lost everything she cared for in the war. That war was fought on women's hearts, but they went on beating just the same. I'm glad I wasn't I then."
"And I'm sorry. I like stirring deeds and shot and shell and tattered flags. They thrill one."
"And kill one," added Sally. "But you've got that kind of pluck. You aren't afraid."
"Oh! yes, I am," protested Eugenia. "I'm afraid of bats and of getting fat like my forefathers."
Sally shook a reassuring head.
"But you won't, darling. Your mother was thin, and you're the image of her—everybody says so."
"But I'm afraid—horribly afraid. I don't dare eat potatoes, and I wouldn't so much as look at a glass of buttermilk. The fear is on me."
"It's absurd. Why, your grandma Tucker was a rail—I remember her. I know your other grandmother was—enormous; but you ought to strike the happy medium—and you do. You're splendid. You aren't a bit too large for your height."
Eugenia laughed as she twisted Sally's curls about her fingers. "You're the dearest little duck that ever lived on dry land," she said. "If I were a man I'd be wild about you."
"A few of them are," returned Sally meekly, casting up her eyes, "but I—"