“Oh, Gord,” she said in a hoarse, difficult whisper. “If I only knew—for a certainty. If I only did! If I only could!” “Doesn’t a woman recognize love when it comes to her, Madge?” “She should. That’s just it. Maybe that’s the trouble.” “Madge, what is the trouble between you and me? Is it what went before—the sort of a chap I started out to be?” “No! No! Somehow I’ve never thought of you that way the last few years. You’re not the same man at all. But—but—it’s a serious thing for a woman to send a man to war under the impression she loves him, when she isn’t sure of it herself. And real love—the long, fine, enduring kind—ought not to leave any room for doubt.” “I’ve never begged for your love, Madge. I’ll not begin now. I hoped to command it——” “And oh, how splendidly you’ve done, Gordon! I’m so proud of you—as I see you sitting here in your new uniform now and compare you with a boy I faced one horrible night in a Boston hotel. I’m so proud of you it hurts. But I’m wondering if love can be even commanded, Gordon? It just comes unannounced, for no apparent reason in the world, excepting that two people realize they’ve been created for each other and want to be together always. And Gordon—in fairness to you—I don’t know that our recognition has yet come—that way! Maybe—maybe—the war will show it.” “I may not come back from the war, Madge.” He did not say it as a threat or in self-pity. It was a simple statement of fact which he made no effort to ignore. “I know, Gordon! Oh, how I wish I had a few weeks more to decide. You want me, don’t you, dear? There’s no doubt in your love, is there?” An unusual thing happened, unusual for an erect, clean-cut, strong-jawed young lieutenant in khaki only a few days back from Plattsburg. As Madelaine turned her large, luminous eyes toward his face, she saw his own, brimming tears. Those tears dropped down his smoothly shaven cheeks and off the point of his cleft chin. He made no move to brush them away—did not act as though he realized they were there. “No, Madelaine,” he said solemnly, “in my love for you there’s no doubt. There’s never been a doubt. And I brought you something to-night I hope to leave with you—as a pledge between us—until ‘the war is over.’” His fingers were steady, as steady as his voice when he unbuttoned the breast pocket of his uniform and from it took a little box of wine-red plush. He snapped back the cover. The library lamp caught an iridescent drop of white fire, cold as a thousand winters, pure as a baby’s tear, with all the love and tragedy of the race deep in its refractive depths. Gordon passed it across. It was the ring he hoped her to wear,—the gift which stood for his heart. It was significant that the man did not take the ring from its white satin casket. He did not try to crush it on her finger. The girl gazed down upon it. “You beautiful, beautiful thing!” she whispered reverently.