“Is that all? Isn’t there a nobler courage that goes hand in hand with reason and love and unselfishness? A man ought to fear when there is reason to fear—to fear evil, or hurt of others, or dishonor, or sin. You have unreasoning courage. How are you better than a bulldog? I remember once, at your father’s table, that I asked a great and wise general as to another, who was famous for mere heedless bravery, what he thought of him. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘he was a great thunderbolt of war, to be thrown by a hand not his own.’ The man who spoke was brave as are God’s bravest, Jack; but he had always his wits about him, and knew when to go on and when to fall back. Isn’t that the finer courage?”
“I guess so,” said the boy. And then, abruptly, “Are you ever afraid, Aunt Anne?”
“No.” And it was true.
“But if you were in a battle, or were going to die?”
“I am!”
“Oh, but soon?”
“I am! Look here, Jacky, my dear Jacky. I never talk of myself; but I will this once, for you. I am a very ill woman; in a year or two I shall die. It is certain. I am to leave this world and those I love. I suffer pain all the time. No one knows how much.”
“Oh, Aunt Anne!”
“Yes. Now I am not afraid to die. I am not even afraid of this pain, which goes on from bad to worse. If some angel came and said, ‘You are free to die to-morrow,’ I would say ‘No.’ Life is my little bear-cub, and it isn’t like your cub. I should be afraid to be such a coward as, for fear of pain, to want to let go my cub; and that is because God has put me here to bear what ills come to me, and to use them so as to get something out of life—to learn endurance and true courage. Perhaps some one else may get something out of it. I do not want to talk over your head, Jack. Do you understand me?”
“I think so,” and tears began to fall on her hand. “I am—I am so sorry for you.”