with him. He'd be made happy for the poor little rest of his life. He
loves me. You see, Wheeler, I was his first--his only sweetheart. I'm on
a pedestal, he says, in his dreams. I never told you--but that boy was
willing to marry me, Wheeler, knowing--some--of the things I am. He's
always carried round a dream of me, you see--no, you wouldn't see, but
I've been--well, I guess sort of a medallion that won't tarnish in his
heart. Wheeler, for the boy's few weeks he has left? Wheeler?"

"Well, I'll be hanged!"

"I'm not turning holy, Wheeler. I am what I am. But that boy lying
out there--I can't bear it! It wouldn't make any difference with
us--afterward. You know where you stand with me and for always, but it
would mean the dying happy of a boy who fought for us. Let me marry
that boy, Wheeler. Let his light go out in happiness. Wheeler? Please,
Wheeler?" He would not meet her eyes. "Wheeler?"

"Go to it, Hester," he said, coughing about in his throat and rising to
walk away. "Bring him here and give him the fat of the land. You can
count on me to keep out of the way. Go to it," he repeated.

And so they were married, Hester holding his hand beside the hospital
cot, the man nurse and doctor standing by, and the chaplain incanting
the immemorial words. A bar of sunshine lay across the bed, and Gerald
pronounced each "I will" in a lifted voice that carried to the four
corners of the little room. She was allowed to stay that night past
hospital hours, and they talked with the dusk flowing over them.

"Hester, Hester," he said, "I should have had the strength to hold out
against your making this terrible sacrifice."