“He is wounded, you know; how can he write?” asked Gregory, with some irony. “Until he was wounded, how many times did I bring you fifty thousand kisses?”
“Oh, it is not that I was thinking of, though I am sure that was very nice of him. Ah, you need not be laughing, Gregory dear, as if you would not do the same to Phyllis. But do tell me what you have heard, dear brother; I can put up with anything better than doubt.”
“Are you quite sure of that, darling Mab? Can you make up your mind for some very bad news?”
“I have not been used to it, Gregory: I—I have always been so happy. Is he dead? Only say that he is not dead?”
“No, he is not dead. Sit down a moment, under this old willow, while I fetch some water for you.”
“I cannot sit down till I know the worst. If he is not dead, he is dying of his wounds. Oh my darling Hilary!”
“He is not dying; he is much better, and will soon rejoin his regiment.”
“Then why did you frighten me so, for nothing? Oh how cruel it was of you! I really thought I was going to faint—a thing I have never done in my life. You bring me the best news in the world, and you spoil it by your way of telling it.”
“Don’t be in such a hurry, darling. I wish that was all I have to tell you. But you have plenty of pride now, haven’t you?”
“I—I don’t know at all, I am sure; but I suppose I am the same as other girls.”