cared for me more than for anyone else in the world. But that night
when I had asked her if she loved me, she had turned my collar up. I
believed that when she spoke then it was what she thought the truth.
She had pledged herself to me and I had not demanded more. I had been
selfish enough to ask that she link herself to my narrow life, and she
had looked at me clear in the eye. "You are strong, Mark, and good,
and true," she had said, "and in all the world there is none I trust
more. I'll love you, too. I promise."

On that promise I had built all my hopes and happiness, and it had
failed me. It was not strange. I had been a fool, a silly dreamer,
and now I had found it out. A soldier? Paugh! Away back somewhere in
the past, I had gone mad at a bugle-call. A hero? For a day. For a
day I had puffed myself up with pride at my deeds. And now those deeds
were forgotten. I was a veteran, a crippled pensioner, an humble
pedagogue, a petty farmer. This was the lot I had asked her to share.
She had made her promise, and that promise made and broken was more
than I deserved. From a heaven she had smiled down on me, and I had
climbed to the clouds, reaching out for her. Then her face was turned
from me, and down I had come, clattering to common earth, cursing
because I had hurt myself.

I turned to my pipe and lighted it again. Old Captain came and rested
his head on my knee and looked up at me, as I stroked it slowly.

"Poor dog," I said. It was such a relief, and Perry misunderstood.

"Has he been hurt?" he asked sympathetically.

"Yes," I answered, still stroking the old hound's head. "Very badly.