you here," he said, hesitatingly.
"I have come to say good-by."

She did not turn toward him, nor did more than her lips move as she
answered, "Good-by," and her tone was neither kind nor cold, but held no
meaning whatever, not even indifference.

There was an interval of silence; then, without surprise, he walked
sadly to the gate, paused, wheeled about suddenly, and returned with a
quick, firm step.

"I will not go until I know that I do not misunderstand you," he said,
"not even if there is only the slightest chance that I do. I want to say
something to you, if you will let me, though naturally I remember
you once asked me never to speak to you again. It is only that I have
thought you did that under a misconception, or else I should still obey
you. If you--"

"What is it that you wish to say?" Her tone was unchanged.

"Only that I think the hardest time for you has passed, and that--"

"Do you?" she interrupted.

"Yes," he returned, "the saddest of your life. I think it has gone
forever. And I think that what will come to you will be all you wish
for. There will be a little time of waiting--"

"Waiting for what?"

He drew a step nearer, and his voice became very gentle. "Cummings and
I reach our regiment tomorrow night; and there in the camp is a group of
men on the way to the war, and they all go the more bravely because each
one of them has you in his heart;--not one but will be a better soldier
because of you. I want you to believe that if all of them don't come
back, yet the one whose safety you think of and fear for will return.
For, you see, Crailey told me what you said to him when--when he met
you here the last time. I have no way to know which of them you meant;
but--he will come back to you! I am sure of it, because I believe you
are to be happy. Ah, you've had your allotment of pain! After all, there
is so little to regret: the town seems empty without its young men, yet
you may rejoice, remembering how bravely they went and how gaily! They
will sing half the way to Vera Cruz! You think it strange I should say
there is so little to regret, when I've just laid away my best friend.
It was his own doctrine, and the selfish personal grief and soreness
grows less when I think of the gallant end he made, for it was he who
went away most bravely and jauntily of all. Crailey was no failure,
unless I let what he taught me go to no effect. And be sure he would
have told you what I tell you now, that all