"Yes," he replied. "I am a happy monument of self-sacrifice."

"But not a brazen one," she added quickly.

"No, nor a bronze one, either," he said, and a sudden gloom gathered
in his large dark eyes.

She had always admired the pallor of his face. "It set off his
superb brown eyes and heavy mustache so finely," she was accustomed
to say. But this evening for some reason she wished that there was
a little more bronze on his cheek and decision in his manner. His
aristocratic pallor was a trifle too great, and he seemed a little
frail to satisfy even her ideal of manhood.

She said, in gentle solicitude, "You do not look well this spring.
I fear you are not very strong."

He glanced at her quickly, but in her kindly blue eyes and in every
line of her lovely face he saw only friendly regard--perhaps more,
for her features were not designed for disguises. After a moment
he replied, with a quiet bitterness which both pained and mystified
her:

"You are right. I am not strong."

"But summer is near," she resumed earnestly. "You will soon go to
the country, and will bring back this fall bronze in plenty, and
the strength of bronze. Mother says we shall go to Saratoga. That
is one of your favorite haunts, I believe, so I shall have the