pt for courage, no knight but for chivalry. Yet how proudly
his eyes met hers! What was this glance that seemed suddenly to fall
upon her from some unbroken, awful height? It was a great thing to say,
with the knowledge that came with that glance,--

"Do you no longer think so? Patriotism has its tests. This war will be
long enough to sift enthusiasms."

Humbly he answered,--

"I wait my time."

Then, urged on by two motives, distinct, yet confluent, and so
all-powerful,--

"Strange army, Adam, if all the soldiers waited for it."

He answered her as mildly as before, but with quite as deep assurance,--

"Not a man of them but has heard his name called. The time of a man is
his own. The trumpet sounds, and though he were dead, yet shall he
live."

"And do you wait that sound? Then verily you may remain here safely, and
paint fine pictures of wounded men on awful battle-fields."

The artist looked at the woman. Did she speak to test his patience, or
his courage, or his loyalty? Gravely he answered, true to himself,
though baffled in his endeavor to read what she chose to conceal,--

"Once I took everything you said as if you were inspired, for I believed
you were. For years I have been accustomed to think of your approval,
and wait for it, and long for it; for I always knew you would finally
stand here in the midst of my work as the one thing that should prove to
me it was good. If you could only know what sort of value I have set on
the praise of critics while waiting for yours, you would deem me
ungrateful. But I knew you would come. You are here, then,--and I
perceive, though you do not say so, that I have not wasted time; often,
while I was painting that hero yonder, I said to myself, 'Better die
than hold on to life or self a moment after the voice calls!' Julia, it
has called!"

This was spoken quietly enough, but with the deep feeling that seeks
neither outlet nor consolation in sound. Having spoken, he went up to
his easel, cut away the canvas with long, even knife-strokes, set aside
the frame. He was ready. And now he waited further orders,--looking at
the woman who had accomplished so much.

She did not, by gesture or word, interrupt him; but when he stood
absolutely motionless and silent, as if more were to be said, and by
her, she evidently faltered.

"Give me the canvas," she said.

"Your trophy."

He gave it her with a smile.

"No; but if a trophy, worth more than could be told.
There's