be still, and go."

"But I know you are not indifferent; you cannot conceal the truth."

"Then be content, be satisfied, be generous."

"If you will only say one thing."

"What?"

"That I may come to you--after the war."

She stood a moment motionless, and then withdrew her hand.

"That would be equivalent to a hope which I cannot give," she returned
soberly. "When the war ends I shall probably no longer be Willifred
Hardy." My heart beat like a trip-hammer; I could hear it in
the silence.

"The man yonder?"

She bent her head.

"You will not," my voice firm with swift conviction. "If that is all, I
am not afraid. If you loved him would you be standing here even to say a
word of farewell? Whatever pledge may be between you, on your part it is
not love. You cannot deny this--not to me! Yes, and you are already
beginning to know him. Remember, I have had to listen to some
conversation between you--I know his style. Ah, yes, I will go, because
I dare not keep you out here longer, but, if God lets me live, I am