Forsyth and Ronald were walking back and forth in front of the Fort, talking earnestly. A little apart stood Mackenzie and Captain Franklin, while Indians went in and out of the stockade, apparently at pleasure.
"Aunt Eleanor," said Beatrice, thoughtfully, "I read a story once about a girl. There were two men who—who—well, they liked her, you know. They were both good, but there was a difference. One always teased her and tormented her and made her feel at odds with herself, even though she knew he was just in fun.
"The other always rested her. No matter how tired she was, or how much out of sorts she happened to be, it always made her feel better to be with him. He was quiet and his ways were gentle, and he knew more about—about books and things, you know. The other one was a soldier, and this one was a student, but he—he wasn't brave. He couldn't help it, but he was afraid."
"A woman never could love a man who wasn't brave," said Mrs. Mackenzie.
"No, of course she couldn't."
"And if a man always teased and tormented a woman, and made her feel irritable, she would never be happy with him."
"No; she couldn't expect to be."
"Perhaps she had made a mistake about the other one—perhaps he really was brave."
"No; because she saw him twice when she knew he was afraid."