“When once within the cabin, Reynolds brought forth his two medals and laid them upon the table.  Eagerly Glen picked up one, and examined it by the light of the shaded lamp.

“‘For Distinguished Conduct on the Field,’” she read.  “Oh, isn’t it great!  I knew that you had done something wonderful,” and she turned her sparkling eyes to her lover’s face.  “What is the other one for, daddy?” she asked, for her father was examining it intently.

“This is ‘For Bravery on the Field,’” Weston read.  “Allow me to congratulate you, young man,” and he grasped Reynolds by the hand.  “I am so thankful now that I did not submit such a man as you to the Ordeal.”

Reynolds smiled, although, he was considerably confused.

“You reserved it for this moment, I suppose,” he replied.  “This is somewhat of an ordeal to me.”

“Then, let me increase your agony,” and Glen’s eyes twinkled as she, too, held out her hand.

Reynolds took her firm, brown hand in his, and held it tight.  He found it difficult to control himself.  How he longed to stoop, clasp her in his arms, and take his toll from those smiling lips.  That would have been the best congratulation of all.  He merely bowed, however, and remained silent.  His heart was beating rapidly, and his bronzed face was flushed.

“Suppose you tell us some of your experiences at the Front,” Weston suggested, divining the cause of the young man’s confusion.  “It has not been my fortune to meet anyone who has come through what you have, and I am sure Glen will enjoy it as well as myself.”

Although somewhat loath to tell of his adventures, Reynolds could not very well refuse such a request, so, seating himself, he simply related the story of his service under arms.  He said as little as possible about his own part in the fray, and touched but lightly upon the scenes wherein he had won his special decorations.  Weston, sitting by his side, listened as a man in a dream.  At times a deep sigh escaped his lips, for he himself had ardently longed to enlist, but had been rejected owing to his age.

Not a word of the tale did Glen miss.  With her arms upon the table, and her hands supporting her cheeks, she kept her eyes fixed earnestly upon her lover’s face.  Her bashfulness had departed, and she only saw in the young man across the table her ideal type of a hero.  She had no realization of the beautiful picture she presented, with the light falling softly upon her hair and animated, face.  But Reynolds knew, and as his eyes met hers, he became slightly confused, and hesitated in his story.  What a reward, he told himself, for all that he had endured.  He had been happy when the decorations were pinned upon his breast.  But that reward was nothing, and the medals mere baubles compared to the joy he was experiencing now.  If the love of such a woman had been his during the long, weary campaign, what might he not have accomplished?  How he would have been inspired to do and to dare, and in addition to those medals there might have been the coveted Victoria Cross.