"Oh, it isn't as bad as that," said Carlton. "I think I know
what it is, and what it means to other people, but I can't
feel it myself. The best idea I ever got of it--the thing
that made it clear to me--was a line in a play. It seemed to
express it better than any of the love-poems I ever read. It
was in Shenandoah."

Miss Morris laughed.

"I beg your pardon," said Carlton.

"I beg yours," she said. "It was only the incongruity that
struck me. It seemed so odd to be quoting Shenandoah here
in the Dardanelles, with these queer people below us and
ancient Troy on one hand--it took me by surprise, that's all.
Please go on. What was it impressed you?"

"Well, the hero in the play," said Carlton, "is an officer in
the Northern army, and he is lying wounded in a house near the
Shenandoah Valley. The girl he loves lives in this house, and
is nursing him; but she doesn't love him, because she
sympathizes with the South. At least she says she doesn't
love him. Both armies are forming in the valley below to
begin the battle, and he sees his own regiment hurrying past
to join them, So he gets up and staggers out on the stage,
which is set to show the yard in front of the farm-house, and
he calls for his horse to follow his men. Then the girl runs
out and begs him not to go; and he asks why, what does it
matter to her whether he goes or not? And she says, `But I