And that other thing there was to tell her—?  Was that, too, something that would have hurt them?  She hoped not.  It seemed she could bear the actual hurt to herself better than thought of the hurt it would have been to them.

But when the bell rang and she heard his voice asking for her a tumult of happiness crowded all else out.

She was shyly radiant as she came to him.  As he looked at her, it seemed to pass belief.

But when he dared, and was newly convinced, as, his arms about her he looked down into her kindling face, his own grew purposeful as well as happy, more resolute than radiant.  “We will make a life together,” he said, as if answering something that had been in his thoughts.  “We will beat it all down.”

An hour went by and he had not told the story of his life, life itself too mysterious, too luring, too beautiful.  Whenever they came near to it they seemed to hold back, as if they would remain as they were then.  Instead, they told each other little things about themselves, absurd little things, drawing near to each other by all those tender little paths of suddenly remembered things.  And they lingered so, as if loving it so.

It was when Katie spoke of her brother that he was swept again into the larger seriousness.  Looking into her tender face, his own grew grave.  “You know, Katie—­what I told you—­what I must tell you—­”

“Oh yes,” said Katie, “there was something, wasn’t there?” But she put out her hand as if to show there was nothing that could matter.  He took the hand and held it; but he did not grow less grave.

“Katie,” he asked, “how much do you really care for the army?”

It startled her, stirring a vague fear in her happy heart.

“Why—­I don’t know; more than I realize, I presume.”  She was silent, then asked:  “Why?”

He did not reply; his face had become sober.

“You are thinking,” she ventured, “that your feeling for it is going to be—­hard for me?”

He nodded; he was still holding her hand tightly, as if to make sure of keeping it.

“You see, Katie,” he went on, with difficulty, “I have reason for that feeling.”

“What do you mean?” she asked sharply.

“I have tried not to show you that I knew anything—­in a personal way—­about the army.”

Her breath was coming quickly; her face was strained.  But after a moment she exclaimed:  “Why—­to be sure—­you were in the Spanish War!”

“No,” said he with a hard laugh, “I am nothing so glorious as a veteran.”

He felt the hand in his grow cold.  She drew it away and rose; turned away and was picking the leaves from a plant.

But she found another thing to reach out to.  “Well I suppose”—­this she ventured tremulously, imploringly—­“you went to West Point—­and were—­ didn’t finish?”

“No, Katie,” he said, “I never went to West Point.”

“Well then what did you do?” she demanded sharply.