“I know, Paula,” she said, putting her gently away from her. “I know what you have to tell me. Barry is dead. My dear love is dead!” Her voice was tender, soft and low. “Don't fear to tell me, Neil,” she said. “See, I am quite steady.” She put out her hand that he might see that there was no tremour in it.
“Sit down, darling,” besought Paula, again winding her arms about her.
“No, no, let me stand, Paula dear. See, I am quite strong. Now tell me about it, Neil—all about it. You were his dear friend, you know.”
Her voice, so sweet, so soft, so perfectly controlled, helped Captain Neil with his task. It seemed an offence that he should intrude any exhibition of grief or emotion upon the serene calm of this young girl, standing so straight, so proud, and regarding him with such brave eyes.
Then Captain Neil told his tale. He began with the last service upon the Parade Ground before the battalion moved into action. He told of Barry's bitter disappointment, and of their relief that he was not allowed to accompany them to the front line. He told of Barry's long day at the casualty clearing station, and of his service to the wounded, and of how good the divisional commander had been to him that night.
“It was there he got your letter, Phyllis.”
“Oh, he got my letter. I'm so glad,” whispered the girl, with a quick breath and a sudden flushing of her pale cheeks. “He knew! He knew!”
“I have his letter in reply here,” said Captain Neil, handing it to her.
She took it in both her hands, kissed it tenderly, as if caressing a child, and put it in her bosom.
“Please go on,” she said, and Captain Neil took up his tale again. He told how the major tried to persuade him not to go out after the wounded that night.