"I heard you were going this morning, Bob," she said, "and I have just crept away like a deserter; I felt I must; I didn't make things plain to you the other day. Bob, you have forgiven me, haven't you?"
"There was nothing to forgive," said Bob, and his heart beat madly.
"You aren't a coward," she said; "you're just—just the bravest man I ever knew. You believe I think that of you, don't you?"
He laughed nervously; he wanted to say a great deal, but the words wouldn't come.
"And—and, Bob, you know what you said to me, what that man Proctor and your mother told you?"
He looked at her in a puzzled way; even yet, he did not dare to hope.
"And—and, Bob"—with the words came a sob—"there's no one in the world but you."
"Nancy," he cried, "You don't mean . . . ?"
At that moment he was summoned to his duty. Still she stood before him—half sobbing, the same light in her eyes which he remembered seeing down by the Cornish sea.
A command from his superior officer was given; he must go. Close by, the soldiers stood in marching order. They had been wounded, but now they were ready for duty again; they were in great good humour, and discipline even yet was somewhat relaxed. They were laughing and talking gaily; they were going back to fight, but they were going with a laugh upon their lips.