And “the young lady” sat down. What could she do else, with the whole world whirling, whirling, and her feet so strangely determined to whirl out from under her? And then it grew dark, and when it came light again there was a wet cloth on her hair, and she lay on a lounge in a cool basement, and the kind girl who had cared for her told her that she had fainted. And then she had some food and grew refreshed a little, but was strangely confused yet, and with only one thought, to which she held with all the strength of her will,—that she had come to see Jack and must look for him till he came. So on the steps she stationed herself, and the crowd surged by. Military companies, grown-up ones, came and went with glitter of brave uniforms and joyful clamor of music, and Conn watched, with all her soul in her eyes, but still no Jack.
It was mid-afternoon at last when suddenly she saw the familiar blue, and marching down the street came the boyish ranks, following their own band—tired enough, all of them, no doubt, but their courage kept up by the music and the hope of fireworks by and by. Conn strained her eyes. She did not mean to speak, but after a little, when the face she longed for came in sight, something within her cried out with a sharp, despairing cry, “Oh, Jack, Jack!”
And Jack heard. Those who were watching saw one boy break from the long blue line, and spring up the step where Conn sat, and seize in strong hands the shoulders of a girl all in white, her face as white as her gown, and some red roses, withered now, upon her breast.
“Conn—Conn Richmond!” the boy cried, “what does this mean?”
“Don’t scold—oh, don’t scold, Jack!” said the pitiful, quivering lips. “I only came in to see you marching with the rest, and—I’m tired.”
“Yes,” said the girl who had befriended her, “and she fainted clean away, and she’s more dead than alive now; and if you’ve a heart in your bosom, you’ll let your play soldiering go, and take care of her.”
And just then Jack realized, boy as he was, that he had a heart in his bosom, and that his Cousin Conn was the dearest and nearest thing to that heart in the whole world. But he did not tell her so till long years afterwards. Just now his chief interest was to get her home. No more marching for him; and what were fireworks, or the supper the boys were to take together, in comparison with this girl, who had cared so much to see him in his holiday glory?
He took her to an omnibus, which ran in those days to Brighton, and by tea-time he had got her home. He found his mother frightened and helpless, and too glad to get Conn back to think of scolding.