And when Sara had come to live with Patrick, a dozen years ago, he had
rigorously inculcated in her youthful mind a contempt for every form of
cowardice, moral and physical.

It had not been all plain sailing, for Sara was a highly strung child,
with the vivid imagination that is the primary cause of so much that is
carelessly designated cowardice. But Patrick had been very wise in his
methods. He had never rebuked her for lack of courage; he had simply
taken it for granted that she would keep her grip of herself.

Sara's thoughts slid back to an incident which had occurred during their
early days together. She had been very much alarmed by the appearance
of a huge mastiff who was permitted the run of the house, and her uncle,
noticing her shrinking avoidance of the rather formidable looking beast,
had composedly bidden her take him to the stables and chain him up. For
an instant the child had hesitated. Then, something in the man's quiet
confidence that she would obey had made its claim on her childish pride,
and, although white to the lips, she had walked straight up to the great
creature, hooked her small fingers into his collar, and marched him off
to his kennel.

Courage under physical pain she had learned from seeing Patrick contend
with his own infirmity. He suffered intensely at times, but neither
groan nor word of complaint was ever allowed to escape his set lips.
Only Sara would see, after what he described as "one of my damn bad
days, m'dear," new lines added to the deepening network that had so aged
his appearance lately.

At these times she herself endured agonies of reflex suffering and