“Indeed, and there will, but”—a wan little smile broke through the film of gathering tears—“we will be waiting till they are needed, and we will be praying that the evil day may never come.”
“I’m hoping that myself,” I told her, smiling, “but hope never turns aside the leaden bullet.”
“Prayers may,” she answered quickly, the shy lids lifting from the blue eyes bravely to meet my look, “and you will never be wanting (lacking) mine, my friend.” Then with the quick change of mood that was so characteristic of her, she added: “But I will be the poor friend, to fash (bother) you with all these clavers (idle talk) when I should be heartening you. You are glad to be going, are you not?”
All the romance and uplift of our cause thrilled through me.
“By God, yes! When my King calls I go.”
Her eyes shone on me, tender, wistful, proud.
“And that’s the true word, Kenneth. It goes to the heart of your friend.”
“To hear you say that rewards me a hundred times, dear.”
I rose to go. She asked, “Must you be leaving already?”
When I told her “Yes!” she came forward and shyly pinned the cockade on the lapel of my coat. I drew a deep breath and spoke from a husky throat.