“No,” is the prompt reply. “If there are such men, I have never met them. But I would far rather wait for the dim ideal than try the commonplace reality.”
“But is all the reality commonplace? Let me tell you a story, Dorris; I shall not bore you, for it is not long: When I joined the army, in the first of the war, I went to tell an old friend, and to take leave of him. He was a peculiar fellow, seemingly cold, light and satirical, half-sneering at the ardent blaze of patriotism that was burning all around him, seeming to have no intention of serving his country in her need. And yet I knew him to be the truest, noblest, tenderest, and most loyal fellow among all my friends. He looked at me with real envy, and then exclaimed: ‘I wish to Heaven I could go with you, Allen!’ and I answered: ‘Why don’t you? I have never asked before because I knew you had some worthy reason.’ After some hesitation, he began: ‘Because you have never doubted or questioned me I will tell you why I am here, when every feeling is against my inactivity. You will keep my secret?’ Of course I promised, and he went on: ‘You know I am very wealthy, Max, that my income is, for these times, extremely large; but you do not know that, by my grandfather’s will, the next heir, in case of my death, is my cousin, a man who aids and abets the Tories in every possible way, a man unscrupulous and unprincipled to the last degree. I have but one life; I might lay it down in my first battle, and that property, over which I have no control, would be worse than useless to my country. It would aid her foes, and, much as she needs men, she needs money even more. So I stay here, and put my income, as fast as I get it, to the national use. You know what my income is. I’ll show you my expenses’; and he showed me the merest fraction—less than I spend myself, I began to expostulate on his endurance of suspicion and blame for what might be so nobly explained, but he would only say, ‘Oh, it would sound quixotic and sentimental; and, after all, what does it matter? I know myself that I am serving my country to the best of my poor ability.’ But at last, Dorris, he is rewarded, for he was born to be a soldier; and when, three weeks ago, he received news of the sudden death of that cousin, he immediately enlisted, and is now serving his country in the way he has so long desired. What do you think of such a man as he?”
“He is a hero,” answered Dorris, steadily, though a suspicion, quick as a ray of light, had flashed through her mind as to who this hero was. “A hero as true as any my fancy could paint. Who is he—this noble friend of yours?”
“Keith Endicott,” is the quiet answer, adding, quickly, as he rose to take his leave. “Forgive me, sweet friend, that I could no longer bear that you should do injustice to him, for those quick words of yours the last evening we were all together have rankled in my heart, as I know they have in his, ever since.”
Dorris was not too proud to acknowledge when she was in the wrong, and with winning grace she said, as she gave him her hand:—
“I thank you for the lesson you have taught me, Max. I was wrong to judge him so hardly, but be assured I will make full amends when we meet again.”
Then the good-bys were said, the good wishes given, and the last of Dorris’s three cavaliers had left her.
Summer has gone, and snow lies white upon the ground, and we find Dorris seated before the old desk, whose secret drawer is no longer empty, but holds a faded cluster of roses and forget-me-nots, writing busily in her diary a record not only of the day’s doings but of the varying emotions which each day brought to life. The words the busy hand is tracing are these:—
“Jan. 2, 1779. Yesterday was the beginning of the New Year, and as I wondered what it would bring me,—joy or grief, pleasure or pain,—I saw a carriage come up the drive-way and then stop, while the driver assisted to the door a figure in a soldier’s uniform. In a moment I was in the hall, and my arms around my brother—for it was my own bravest Roy. He had often written us, but we received none of his letters: they were either intercepted or lost. But, oh, how can I forgive myself when I think to whom I owe my brother’s life! that, when Roy was surrounded by enemies, and desperately wounded, it was Keith Endicott who rushed to his aid, and, fighting against fearful odds, bore him alive from the field, at the cost of a sabre cut on his own hand. It was he who saw Roy daily in his long struggle with death, and when that dreadful presence was banished it was he who cared for his safe transportation home, to enjoy the rest which is the only means of giving him back his old strength and vigor. And Roy almost worships Keith, as well he may, saying he is the idol of the soldiers, who have dubbed him the hero of the regiment.