welding present. He straightened himself and spoke brusquely, but to
Mary:

"I'll go back and write that letter. Here is the one I wrote last
night."

He took it from his pocket, tore it in two, and gave it to her. Then he
turned away and walked with the soldier's step home. Jerome could not
look at her. He began moving back the picture.

"There!" he said, "it's finished. Better make up your mind where you'll
have it put. I shall be picking up my traps this morning."

Then Mary gave him his other surprise. Her hands were on his shoulders.
Her eyes, full of the welling gratitude that is one kind of love, spoke
like her lips.

"Oh!" said she, "do you think I don't know what you've done? I couldn't
take it from anybody else. I couldn't let him take it. It's like
standing beside him in battle; like lending him your horse, your sword.
It's being a comrade. It's helping him fight. And he _will_ fight.
That's the glory of it!"




The Bitter Cup

BY CHARLES B. DE CAMP