"Not pained—I can't truthfully say that I am pained—or care much in that way. He is dead, so what is the use of caring or worrying about it. That cannot bring him back to life again. Of course I would rather he had lived—that this had never happened, yet I do not feel pain, only an abhorrence. I couldn't touch him as you are doing, not for anything!"
"And you are not pained! You, a woman with a white soul and a clean heart—one of God's choicest creations—you stand there without a pang of sorrow—dry-eyed. Haven't you a heart, girl?" He rose to his feet, holding up the lantern until it shone squarely in her face. "Look at him lying there! See the blood upon his clothes—the look on his face! What he suffered! See what he holds so tightly in his hand,—his last thought,—a letter from his sweetheart over in Germany, the girl he was to have married, who is even now on her way to him. He had been reading her letter all day. It came this morning, and he held it in his hand planning their future with a happy heart, when some brute sent a bullet here. If it could have been me, how gladly I would make the exchange, for I have nothing that this poor boy possessed—mother, sweetheart—no one. Yet you, a girl, can see him so, unmoved! Good God, what are you, stone? See his face, he did not die at once, and suffering, dying, still held that letter. If not his story, then does not his suffering appeal to you? His dying groans, can you not hear them?"
"Stop!" she cried, backing away from him until she leaned against her horse for support. "Stop! How dare you talk like that to me! His groans——" She sobbed wildly, her face buried in her saddle, which she clutched.
He came close beside her, touching her lightly, wondering. "I am so sorry, forgive me! I did not realize what I was doing. I did not wish to frighten you, believe me!"
The sobs were hushed instantly. She raised her head, and looked at him, still dry-eyed.
"You were right," she said. "I do not even now feel for him—perhaps some for the little girl now on her way to him; but it is all unreal. I have seen men dead like this before, and I could not feel anything but horror—no sorrow. I am as I am. It makes no difference what you say,—what anyone says,—I cannot change. I am not tender—only please do not terrify me again!"
"I was a brute!" he exclaimed, then left her and returned to the dead man's side.
The girl stood for some time quietly beside her horse, then began to loosen the cinch. Livingston watched her wonderingly as she drew out the blanket, and secured the saddle once more into place. He did not realize her motive until she stood beside him, holding in her hand the gayly colored saddle blanket. Kneeling opposite him, beside the body of the boy, she tenderly lifted the long hair from his forehead, spread over his face a white handkerchief, then stood up and unfolded the blanket, covering the rigid form with it.
"You have a heart!" exclaimed Livingston softly. "You are thinking of him tenderly, as a sister might, and of his sweetheart coming over the water to him!"
"No, not of that at all," said the girl simply, "nor of him, as you think; but of one who might be lying here in his place—one who has no sweetheart, near or far away, to cover him with the mantle of her love."