I was a rapid writer, and many had praised the neatness and legibility of my penmanship. Then, too, I was rather fond of the hand-made gentleman, and had a great faith in him. But how about my mother and sister and Jo, for both Heartsdale and Merrifield were a long way from Rushwater.
“I'd like to go to the war,” I answered, “if my mother will consent.”
“The ambition is meritorious,” said he. “There can be nothing nobler than the wish to serve your country, but I don't think it needs you. The war will be over in a few weeks. Then there are your mother and sister—don't they need you more than the country does?”
“I'm afraid they do.”
“Then you mustn't think of going. Your father gave his life in battle. I think your mother has given the country enough.”
I walked up and down the room thinking. “It's hard work,” said Mr. McCarthy. “I sit here until midnight sometimes pounding at the letters. But you'll have a chance to travel and meet men who amount to something, and we'll have a good time together.”
“It's only a matter of arranging my affairs,” I said to him. “There's my mother and sister.”
“Go home and see if you can get them to move here.”
He lighted a long cigar, and sat down with one foot on the desk. The hand-made gentleman had learned to smoke.
“There's another thing—I want to open my heart to you,” he said. “I haven't a brother or sister or friend that I can talk to about certain matters. The fact is, I'm in love and engaged to be married.”