“Then—then—you will?”
“If dadda still— Before I answer—I—something must be told that I wish—oh, how I wish, for your sake and for mine!—had never been. I gave—I tried to be truthful to you, Philemon, but, unknown to myself, some love I gave to —to one I need not name, and though I—though he quickly killed it, ’t is but fair that you should know that the little heart—for I—I fear me I am cold by nature—I had to give was wasted on another. But if, after this confession, you still would have me for a wife, and dadda and mommy wish it, I will wed you, and try my best to be dutiful and loving.”
“’T is all I ask,” eagerly exclaimed Philemon, as he caught her hand, and drew her toward him. “Ah, Janice, if you but knew how I love—”
“Ho! there ye are,” came the voice of the commissary not five paces away. “I saw ye go toward the river, and followed.”
“My Lord, Miss Meredith and I are engaged in a private conversation, and cannot but take your intrusion amiss."
“Fudge, man, is not the night hot enough but ye must blaze up so? Nor is the river-bank your monopoly.”
“Keep it all, then, and a good riddance to the society you enjoy it with. Come, Janice, we’ll back to the house.”
At the doorway Philemon held out his hand. “We ride away while you will be sleeping, but ’t is a joyous heart you let me carry.”
“I am glad if I—if you are happy,” responded the girl, as she let him press her fingers. Then, regardless of the sentry, she laid her free hand on Phil’s arm impulsively and imploringly, as she added, “Oh, Philemon, please—whatever else you are, please don’t be hard and cruel to me.”
“I’ll try my best not to be, though ’t is difficult for a soldier to be otherwise; but, come what may, I’ll never pain or deny you knowingly, Janice.”