The Colonel bowed low, and in look, word, and manner rose to greatness, it seemed to me.
“Those in favor will salute her with a kiss,” said the old gentleman, as he embraced his daughter.
Then he led her to Pearl, who recorded his vote, after which he pinned one of his medals on her waist, and then the hand-made gentleman supported the motion. It was my turn next.
She laughed and turned away from me, her cheeks red as roses. Then she ran to the corner of the room, and hid her face in her handkerchief and cried a little, and I stole up and kissed her cheek and led her back to her chair, and every man of us had wet eyes for some reason.
“Now,” said the Colonel, cheerfully, as he rose and went to the fireplace, “with your kind indulgence, I will sing you a song.”
He sang an old lyric entitled The Man of Scars, pointing at Pearl and me as he roared along, and, really, it took all the shame out of me which had come of my injured looks. I sat down by her, and we had a little talk of “old times,” as we called them.
Some one spoke of Bony.
“By the blood of the martyrs,” said Colonel Busby, “he hasn't a scar on his body, and never will have unless he meets with an accident!”
“Which he has done,” said the Pearl of great price, as he smiled at McCarthy.
“I think we'd better go,” said the gentleman. “I'm afraid that our dear friend on the bed there is growing weary.”