that he was not the first callow
youth that she had entangled with her provoking glances and her witty
tongue. The epithet by which his brother officers qualified her was
expressive, though impolite. James repeated these things a hundred
times: he said that Mrs. Wallace was not fit to wipe Mary's boots; he
paraded before himself, like a set of unread school-books, all Mary's
excellent qualities. He recalled her simple piety, her good-nature, and
kindly heart; she had every attribute that a man could possibly want in
his wife. And yet--and yet, when he slept he dreamed he was talking to
the other; all day her voice sang in his ears, her gay smile danced
before his eyes. He remembered every word she had ever said; he
remembered the passionate kisses he had given her. How could he forget
that ecstasy? He writhed, trying to expel the importunate image; but
nothing served.

Time could not weaken the impression. Since then he had never seen Mrs.
Wallace, but the thought of her was still enough to send the blood
racing through his veins. He had done everything to kill the mad,
hopeless passion; and always, like a rank weed, it had thriven with
greater strength. James knew it was his duty to marry Mary Clibborn, and
yet he felt he would rather die. As the months passed on, and he knew he
must shortly see her, he was never free from a sense of terrible
anxiety. Doubt came to him, and he could not drive it away. The
recollection of her was dim, cold, formless; his only hope was that when
he saw her love might rise up again, and kill that other passion which
made him so utterly despise himself. But he had welcomed the war as a
respite, and the thought came to him that its chances might easily solve
the difficulty. Then followed the months of hardship and of fighting;
and during these the image of Mrs. Wallace had been less persistent, so
that James fancied he was regaining the freedom he longed for. And when
he lay wounded and ill, his absolute weariness made him ardently look
forward to seeing his people again. A hotter love sprang up for them;
and the hope became stronger that reunion with Mary might awaken the
dead emotion. He wished for it with all his heart.

But he had seen Mary, and he felt it hopeless; she left him cold, almost
hostile. And with a mocking laugh, James heard Mrs. Wallace's words:

"Subalterns always get engaged to the same type of girl. They photograph
so badly."

* * *

And now he did not know what t