Somebody shouted my name. Then there rose a cry of three cheers for Brower. It's some of the boys of the Tribune, I thought—I could see a number of them in the crowd. One brought me a basket of flowers. I thought they were trying to have fun with me.
'Thank you!' said I, 'but what is the joke?'
'No joke,' he said. 'It's to honour a hero.'
'Oh, you wish me to give it to somebody.'
I was warming with embarrassment
'We wish you to keep it,' he answered.
In accounts of the battle I had seen some notice of my leading a charge but my fame had gone farther—much farther indeed—than I knew. I stood a moment laughing—an odd sort of laugh it was that had in it the salt of tears—and waving my hand to the many who were now calling my name.
In the uproar of cheers and waving of handkerchiefs I could not find Uncle Eb for a moment. When I saw him in the breaking crowd he was cheering lustily and waving his hat above his head. His enthusiasm increased when I stood before him. As I was greeting him I heard a lively rustle of skirts. Two dainty, gloved hands laid hold of mine; a sweet voice spoke my name. There, beside me, stood the tall, erect figure of Hope. Our eyes met and, before there was any thinking of propriety, I had her in my arms and was kissing her and she was kissing me.
It thrilled me to see the splendour of her beauty that day; her eyes wet with feeling as they looked up at me; to feel again the trembling touch of her lips. In a moment I turned to Uncle Eb.
'Boy,' he said, 'I thought you...' and then he stopped and began brushing his coat sleeve.