s as cotton-wool beneath her feet. Tears?--absurd! A
soldier's daughter send her lover to the front with hysterical sobs?
Never!

She controlled herself, and approached him quite close before he saw her,
so absorbed was he in meditation.

"Dora!" he cried.

He opened his arms, and she dropped into them, sobbing shockingly (like
any civilian's daughter), and shedding floods of tears. He held her to
his heart without a word, till the wild throbbing of her bosom died down
into a little flutter. Then, she smiled up at him, like the sun shining
through the rain.

"I didn't mean to cry, Dick."

"Nor I," he replied huskily, looking down upon her with tears almost
falling from his long-lashed, tender eyes. "I knew it would be hard to
go. Love is like a fever, and makes one faint and weak. Oh! why did I let
a little silly pride stand in the way of my happiness? Why did I promise
to fight in a cause I disapprove? War always was, and always will be with
me, an abomination. I don't know why I ever joined the wretched militia.
Yes, I do--I joined for fun--without thinking--because others did. They
had a good time, and wanted me to share it."

"Dick, that is not the mind of a soldier."

"Well, it's my mind, anyway. You see, you've been born and bred in the
atmosphere of this sort of thing. I was reared in a rectory, where we
were taught to love our enemies, and turn to the smiter the other cheek.
I used to regard that as awful rot, too. But I see now that training
tells, in spite of yourself."

"But you'll go now, and fight for your country and--for me. You'll come
back covered with glory, I know you will."

"Perhaps--and maybe I sha'n't come back at all."

"Then, I shall mourn my hero as a noble patriot, who never showed the
white feather."

"Oh, it isn't courage that I lack. Give me a good fight, and I'm in it
like anybody else. It's the idea of carnage, and gaping wounds, and men
shrieking in agony, gouging one another's eyes out, and biting like
wild-cats, with cold steel in their vitals--all over a quarrel in which
they have no part."

"Every man is a part of his nation, and the nation's quarrel is his
own."

"We won't argue it, darling. It's settled now, and I'm going through with
it. I start to-morrow. You'll write to me often?"

"Every day."

"If you don't often get replies you'll know it's the fault of the army
postal service--and perhaps my hatred of writing letters as well."

"You certainly are a very