I had not
been married.

I think Dicky must have read my thoughts in my face, for, after a
moment, he said gently, yet with a tenseness which told me he was
putting a rigid control over his voice:

"You must not blame yourself so harshly. Your cousin would probably
have gone to the war even if--circumstances had been different."

There was that in Dicky's voice and eyes which told me that he, too,
was suffering. I gathered my strength together, made a supreme effort
to put the sorrow and remorse I felt behind me until I could be alone.
I knew that I must strive at once to eradicate the false impression
my husband had gained as a result of my reception of the news of my
brother-cousin's death.

So I forced my lips to words which, while not utterly false, yet did
not at all reveal the truth of what I was feeling.

"I know that, Dicky," I returned, and I tried to hold my voice to a
conversational tone. "He went with his dearest friend, a Frenchman,
you know. I had nothing to do with his going. It isn't that which
makes me feel as I do. It is because his death brings back my mother's
so plainly. He was always so good to her, and she loved him so much."

Dicky bent his face so quickly to mine that I could not catch his
expression. He kissed me tenderly, and, kneeling down by the side of
the bed, gathered my head up against his shoulder.

"Cry it all out, if you want to, sweetheart," he said, and I fancied
the tension was gone from his voice. "It will do you good."

So, "cry it out" I did, against the blessed shelter of my husband's
shoulder. And the tears seemed to wash away all the shock of the
news I had, heard, all the bitter, morbid remorse I had felt, all
the secret wonder as to whether I might have loved and married my
brother-cousin if Dicky had not come into my life. There was left only
a sane, sisterly sorrow for a loved brother's death, and a tremendous
surge of love for my husband, and gratitude for his tenderness.

"Try to sleep if you can," he said.

I tried to obey his injunction, but I could not. I could see the hands
of my little bedroom clock, and after the longest quarter of an hour I
had ever known I turned restlessly on my pillow.

"It's no use, Dicky," I said, "I cannot go to sleep. I would rather
talk. Tell me, did Mrs. Stewart's voice sound as if she were much
upset? She is an old woman, you know, and she was very fond of Jack."

Dicky hesitated, and a curious, intent expression came int