If there were to be—life, then there must be work, God's work; he was no coward, he would do his part.
Mingled with the many, dear, familiar things of the life that no longer was to be his, was a slim, pretty, little girl whom he had enshrined in his college days, and before whom he had laid his heart's sacredest offerings since. She, and his splendid courage would make even St. Angé a Paradise.
Raising his eyes to her face, as she sat beside his bed the day the specialist had given his final command, Drew whispered his hope to her.
The soft, saintly eyes fell before the trusting, pitiful ones.
"Dear," he said, a new doubt faced him—one he had never believed possible; "they say I will be well—quite well, there if I stay. And you and I—" but that drooping face drove him back among the shadows.
"We—must—think of others." It was the voice of a self-sacrificing saint, but the heart-touch was lacking, and Drew received his sentence then and there.
For a few, weak days he decided to remain and finish it all and forever.
Then his manly faith bade him sternly to gather the poor remnant of his strength together; grasp the broken blade that was his only weapon, and finish the fight how and where he could.
"We'll go with you, laddie," Aunt Sally whispered, hanging over this boy whom she loved as her own.
"And, dear," Constance sobbed on his pillow, "she wasn't worth your love. I just knew it from the start. She's a selfish—egotistical—" a thin, feverish hand stayed the girlish outburst.