“He was a great man; his name will never be forgotten.  His sword has now carved it imperishably on the key-stone of the new state’s triumphal arch,” said Philip Alston.

“And Tommy Dye?” asked Ruth, lifting her wet eyes.  “The Sisters are so anxious.”

“And poor Tommy Dye, also,” answered Father Orin.

These two brave men who lived their lives so far apart, had fallen almost side by side.  Joe Daviess, the noble, the fearless, the highly gifted, the honored, the famous; and Tommy Dye, the kindly, the reckless, the poorly endowed, the misguided, the obscure,—­both had done all that the noblest could do.  The mould and the dead leaves of the wilderness would cover both their graves.  Only the initials of his name roughly cut on a tree would mark the glorious resting-place of the one.  Only an humble heap of unmarked earth would tell where a noble death had closed the ignoble life of the other.

XXIII

LOVE CLAIMS HIS OWN

The tears had been heavy on Ruth’s dark lashes when she had fallen asleep, but she awoke with a smile, radiant and expectant.  She could not remember at first what made her so happy, and a pang touched her heart at the sudden recollection of the night’s sadness.  And then suddenly she began to glow again at the thought of her lover’s coming.  The week of his exile was ended on that day, and he would come.  She knew just how he would look when he came with his head held high, and his clear eyes, so kind, and yet so fearless, looking straight in every face.  She could tell the very moment when he would come, for she had the happiness—­which every woman prizes and few ever know—­of loving a man who kept his word in the letter as well as the spirit.  If men could but know the difference there is to a woman!  But they hardly ever do know, because this is a little thing, and they can never understand that it is the little things and not the large ones that make the happiness or the wretchedness of most women.

She exulted in the thought that he would come at the very instant he had named, no sooner and no later, and this would be precisely at four o’clock.  She looked round with a smile, trying to tell by the mark on the window-sill what the time was then.  But the day was gloomy, and there was no sunlight to mark the hour.  Solitary snowflakes were drifting irresolutely across the window, as if uncertain whether to go on earthward or return whence they came.  The birds sat on the bare branches near the window waiting for their breakfast in ruffled impatience, the blue jay having done his best to call her to the window earlier.  And he said so, in his own way, as she scattered the crumbs with a cheery good morning.