She turned into the Park and, after walking for a minute, caught sight of Dick, moodily awaiting her. She gave a great gulp, and pressed her muff to her mouth to avoid crying out. Oh, the horrid, shooting pain in her breast, and the stinging in her eyes! The tree trunks began to waver, and the ground was as cotton-wool beneath her feet. Tears?--absurd! A soldier's daughter send her lover to the front with hysterical sobs? Never! She controlled herself, and approached him quite close before he saw her, so absorbed was he in meditation. "Dora!" he cried. He opened his arms, and she dropped into them, sobbing shockingly (like any civilian's daughter), and shedding floods of tears. He held her to his heart without a word, till the wild throbbing of her bosom died down into a little flutter. Then, she smiled up at him, like the sun shining through the rain. "I didn't mean to cry, Dick." "Nor I," he replied huskily, looking down upon her with tears almost falling from his long-lashed, tender eyes. "I knew it would be hard to go. Love is like a fever, and makes one faint and weak. Oh! why did I let a little silly pride stand in the way of my happiness? Why did I promise to fight in a cause I disapprove? War always was, and always will be with me, an abomination. I don't know why I ever joined the wretched militia. Yes, I do--I joined for fun--without thinking--because others did. They had a good time, and wanted me to share it." "Dick, that is not the mind of a soldier." "Well, it's my mind, anyway. You see, you've been born and bred in the atmosphere of this sort of thing. I was reared in a rectory, where we were taught to love our enemies, and turn to the smiter the other cheek. I used to regard that as awful rot, too. But I see now that training tells, in spite of yourself." "But you'll go now, and fight for your country and--for me. You'll come back covered with glory, I know you will." "Perhaps--and maybe I sha'n't come back at all." "Then, I shall mourn my hero as a noble patriot, who never showed the white feather." "Oh, it isn't courage that I lack. Give me a good fight, and I'm in it like anybody else. It's the idea of carnage, and gaping wounds, and men shrieking in agony, gouging one another's eyes out, and biting like wild-cats, with cold steel in their vitals--all over a quarrel in which they have no part." "Every man is a part of his nation, and the nation's quarrel is his own." "We won't argue it, darling. It's settled now, and I'm going through with it. I start to-morrow. You'll write to me often?" "Every day." "If you don't often get replies you'll know it's the fault of the army postal service--and perhaps my hatred of writing letters as well." "You certainly are a very bad letter-writer, Dick," she protested, with a laugh. "I've only had two notes from you, but those are very precious--precious as though written on leaves of gold."