ne."

She seated herself silently upon the ground, signing to Charles Henry to
follow her example.

"It was here," said Anna, hastily, "that you first told me of your
love."

"Yes, it was here, Anna," repeated he, "and you then told me that my
love was returned, and that you would be my wife when we had saved
enough to commence housekeeping. But still I have always felt that you
were not kind to me, not as the other girls in the village are to their
lovers. You have never permitted me to come under your window at night;
I have never been allowed to take you in my arms and kiss you tenderly,
as the others boys do their sweethearts; and never, no never, have you
given me a kiss unasked; and, after all my entreaties, you kissed me
only in the presence of my old father and his dog."

"It is not in my nature to be very tender," said Anna, shrugging her
shoulders. "I read in one of my books lately a fairy tale, in which
there was a young girl, of whom it was said that a bad fairy had bound
her heart in iron, to prevent its full play; the girl was constantly
bewailing this fatality, saying, 'I can only like, but never love.'
Perhaps it is thus with me, but I do not weep over it, like the foolish
girl in the book."

"And was this what you had to tell me?" asked Charles Henry, mockingly.

She gave him a look that sent the jeering smile from his lip.

"No, Charles Henry," said she, "this is not what I have to tell you."

"Well, what is it then, Anna, for this wounds me?" said he impatiently.

"Perhaps the other will do so also," said she, sadly. "But it must come
out, I cannot suppress it. Hear, Charles Henry, what I have to say, and
if it is not true, forgive me. I fear you do not go willingly into
the army, and that your heart does not beat with joy at the thought of
becoming a soldier."

"You are right," said Charles Henry, laughing, "I do not go willingly;
and how should it be otherwise? it is a wild, disorderly life, and it
strikes me it cannot be right for men who, our pastor says, should love
each other like brothers, to vie in cutting off each other's limbs,
and to fire upon each other without mercy or pity, as if one were the
butcher, the other the poor ox, who only resists because he does not
wish to give up his life; and in this case all would be the butchers,
and none the oxen, therefore each one gives his stroke bravely to
preserve his own life."

"It would be sad if it were as you say," said Anna, shaki