“If I were in Lafayette's class,” sighed David, “I wouldn't be selling automatic punches.” “There's your trouble,” declared Emily “You lack self-confidence. You're too humble, you've got fighting blood and you ought to keep saying to yourself, 'Blood will tell,' and the first thing you know, it WILL tell! You might begin by going into politics in your ward. Or, you could join the militia. That takes only one night a week, and then, if we DID go to war with Spain, you'd get a commission, and come back a captain!” Emily's eyes were beautiful with delight. But the sight gave David no pleasure. In genuine distress, he shook his head. “Emily,” he said, “you're going to be awfully disappointed in me.” Emily's eyes closed as though they shied at some mental picture. But when she opened them they were bright, and her smile was kind and eager. “No, I'm not,” she protested; “only I want a husband with a career, and one who'll tell me to keep quiet when I try to run it for him.” “I've often wished you would,” said David. “Would what? Run your career for you?” “No, keep quiet. Only it didn't seem polite to tell you so.” “Maybe I'd like you better,” said Emily, “if you weren't so darned polite.” A week later, early in the spring of 1897, the unexpected happened, and David was promoted into the flying squadron. He now was a travelling salesman, with a rise in salary and a commission on orders. It was a step forward, but as going on the road meant absence from Emily, David was not elated. Nor did it satisfy Emily. It was not money she wanted. Her ambition for David could not be silenced with a raise in wages. She did not say this, but David knew that in him she still found something lacking, and when they said good-by they both were ill at ease and completely unhappy. Formerly, each day when Emily in passing David in the office said good-morning, she used to add the number of the days that still separated them from the vacation which also was to be their honeymoon. But, for the last month she had stopped counting the days--at least she did not count them aloud. David did not ask her why this was so. He did not dare. And, sooner than learn the truth that she had decided not to marry him, or that she was even considering not marrying him, he asked no questions, but in ignorance of her present feelings set forth on his travels. Absence from Emily hurt just as much as he had feared it would. He missed her, needed her, longed for her. In numerous letters he told her so. But, owing to the frequency with which he moved, her letters never caught up with him. It was almost a relief. He did not care to think of what they might tell him.