“Then you should not be sorry, because if she loves you she will wait for you.”
That seemed like rather cold philosophy. Its power over me grew as I thought of it, however, and by-and-by it began to have a sustaining force.
“I wish I could go to the war,” I remarked, with a sigh, for I longed to be a hero and show my courage, as my father had done.
“That's a wicked business,” said my mother, sadly. “I hoped that you would never want to go. I think it would be wise for you to go with Mr. McCarthy. He is fond of you and has good principles, and I presume it is best for you to leave this town; but I can't spare you for the war.”
I told them all about my visit to the handmade gentleman.
“Is he as homely as ever?” my sister asked.
“No, he has grown good-looking,” I answered. “He is going to be married.” And I told of his engagement.
“My land! I wouldn't marry him if he were the last man in the world!” Sarah exclaimed.
“Why?” was my query.
“He looked and talked so funny—just like a young old man. Then he was so afraid of me—hardly dared to look me in the face. I don't see how he had the courage to ask her.”