He kissed her many times, and Bell did not prevent it, but gave him kiss after kiss, then, still doubting the evidence of her eyes, she unclasped his clinging arms, and holding both his poor hands in hers, gave vent to a second gush of tears as she said,
“I am so glad—oh, so glad!”
Then, as it occurred to her that he might perhaps misjudge her, and put a wrong construction upon her joy, she added,
“I did not care for myself, Robert. Don’t think I cared for myself, or was ever sorry a bit on my own account.”
Bob looked a little bewildered as he replied, “Never were sorry and never cared!—I can scarcely credit that, for surely your tears and present emotions belie your words.”
Bell knew he had not understood her, and said,
“Your arm, Robert, your arm. We heard that it was cut off, and that you were otherwise mutilated.”
“Oh, that’s it, then!” and something like his old mischievous smile glimmered about Bob’s mouth as he added, “They spared my arms, but, Bell,” and he tried to look very solemn, “suppose I tell you that they hacked off both my legs, and if you marry me, you must walk all your life by the side of wooden pins and crutches!”
Bell knew by the curl of his lip that he was teasing her, and she answered laughingly,
“Wooden pins and crutches will be all the fashion when the war is over—badges of honor of which any woman might be proud.”