hing like scorn. He did not want any
lengthening out of his time if there could not be real power, real
service in each day. He would live while he lived, and die when he
had to, and with that resolution he tried to get back his calmness of
spirit.

Looking at himself in the glass, he had to admit his face was haggard,
and thinner than it had been, and he knew he had lost weight. Still,
that could be recovered--he was not going to worry or think about
himself. He had always contended that disease was ninety per cent.
imagination and ten per cent. reality, and now he was going to see.
Every one is under the death sentence; the day is set for each man. "I
am no worse off," he thought, "than I was before--if I could only see
it that way--and I will--I am going to be the Captain of my soul--even
though it may be for a very short cruise--no disease or whimpering
weakness will usurp my place--'Gladly I lived--gladly I died. And I
laid me down with a will,'" he quoted, but his mouth twisted a little
on the words. Life was too sweet. He loved it too well to lay it down
gladly. O no, there could be no pretence of gladness.

He found himself thinking of Pearl, and the tender, loving, caressing
light in her eyes, her impulsive kiss--her honest words of heavenly
sweetness; what a girl she was! He had watched her grow from a little
bright-eyed thing, who always interested him with her wisdom, her
cheerfulness, her devotion to her family, until now, when she had
grown to be a serious-minded, beautiful girl, with a manner full of
repose, dignity, grace--a wonderfully attractive girl--who looked
honestly into his eyes and told him she loved him, and he had had to
turn away from his happiness and tell her it could not be. And he had
seen the dimming of those shining eyes and the tightening of her lips.
He had had to hurt Pearl, and that was the bitterest thought of all.

Again the temptation came to tell her! But the stern voice of
conscience cried out to him that if she knew she would consider
herself bound to him, and would not take her liberty, and the finest
years of her young life would be spent in anxiety and care.

"I might live to be an old man," he said bitterly. "If I were sure I
could drop out soon, it would not matter so much. Pearl would still
have her life ahead of her, and I would come to be but a memory, but
as it is--there's but one straight and honorable course--and I will
take it."

Then he thought of the roses,