“You will some day,” he said, thoughtfully.  “You cannot help doing so.  It is the law of nature.  I know I can never be the equal of Lane and Blauvelt.”

“Arthur,” she said, gravely, taking his hand, “let me be frank with you.  It will be best for us both.  I love you too dearly, I admire and respect you too greatly, to be untrue to your best interests even for a moment.  What’s more, I am absolutely sure that you only wish what is right and best for me.  Look into my eyes.  Do you not see that if your name was Arthur Vosburgh, I could scarcely feel differently?  I do love you more than either Mr. Lane or Mr. Blauvelt.  They are my friends in the truest and strongest sense of the word, but—­let me tell you the truth—­you have come to seem like a younger brother.  We must be about the same age, but a woman is always older in her feelings than a man, I think.  I don’t say this to claim any superiority, but to explain why I feel as I do.  Since I came to know—­to understand you—­indeed, I may say, since we both changed from what we were, my thoughts have followed you in a way that they would a brother but a year or two younger than myself,—­that is, so far as I can judge, having had no brother.  Don’t you understand me?”

“Yes,” he replied, laughing a little ruefully, “up to date.”

“Very well,” she added, with an answering laugh, “let it be then to date.  I shall not tell you that I feel like a sister without being as frank as one.  I have never loved any one in the way—­Oh, well, you know.  I don’t believe these stern times are conducive to sentiment.  Come, tell me your story.”

“But you’ll give me an equal chance with the others,” he pleaded.

She now laughed outright.  “How do I know what I shall do?” she asked.  “I may come to you some day for sympathy and help.  According to the novels, people are stricken down as if by one of your hateful shells and all broken up.  I don’t know, but I’m inclined to believe that while a girl can withhold her love from an unworthy object, she cannot deliberately give it here or there as she chooses.  Now am I not talking to you like a sister?”

“Yes, too much so—­”

“Oh, come, I have favored you more highly than any one.”

“Do not misunderstand me,” he said, earnestly, “I’m more grateful than I can tell you, but—­”

“But tell me your story.  There is one thing I can give you at once,—­the closest attention.”

“Very well.  I only wish you were like one of the enemy’s batteries, so I could take you by storm.  I’d face all the guns that were at Gettysburg for the chance.”

“Arthur, dear Arthur, I do know what you have faced from a simple sense of duty and patriotism.  Blauvelt was a loyal, generous friend, and he has told us.”

“You are wrong.  ‘The girl I left behind me’ was the corps-de-reserve from which I drew my strength.  I believe the same was true of Blauvelt, and a better, braver fellow never drew breath.  He would make a better officer than I, for he is cooler and has more brains.”