"Was such a thing ever intended for a woman to wear!" she exclaimed.

"For most women, surely not," said I. "Few could carry that handicap
and win. But after all, your uncle means it kindly. He acts from
interest in your soul's welfare."

Mary's face became serious.

"Yes," she said, "he has paid me the highest compliment a man can pay
to a woman--he wants to meet me in Heaven."

How could I blame Luther Warden?

I had forgotten my uniform and my glory, my hair and my hat, and was
leaning forward with my eyes on the girl. And she was leaning toward
me and our heads were very close. The rebellious brown hair was almost
in the shade of my own dashing hat-brim.

Then I said to myself in answer to the poet, "Here's the cheek that
doth not fade, too much gazed at." For its color was ever changing.
And again I said to myself and to the poet, when my glance had met
hers, and the color was mounting higher: "Here's the maid whose lip
mature is ever new; here's the eye that doth not weary." And now
aloud, forgetfully, leaning back in my chair and gazing at her from
afar off--"Here's the face one would meet in every place."

Mary's chair flew back, and it was for her to gaze at me from afar off.

"What were you saying?" she demanded in a voice not "so very soft."