"Well you see, one cannot help sighing a little at the thought that one is laid up, a useless man, when one is scarce twenty-one." "You have done your work, Terence. You have made a name for yourself, when others are just leaving college and thinking of choosing a profession. You have done more, in five years, than most men achieve in all their lifetime. "This is the first time I have heard you grumble. I know it is hard, but what has specially upset you, today?" "I suppose I am a little out of sorts," he said. "I was thinking, perhaps, how different it might have been, if it hadn't been for that unlucky shell." "You mean that you might have gone on to Burgos, and fallen in the assault there; or shared in that dreadful retreat to the frontier again." "No. I was not thinking of Spain, nor even of the army. I was thinking of here." "But you said, over and over again, Terence, that you will be able to ride, and drive, and get about like other people, in time." "Yes, dear. In many respects it will be the same, but not in one respect." Then he broke off. "I am an ungrateful brute. I have everything to make me happy--a comfortable home, a good father, and a dear little sister to nurse me." "What did I tell you, sir," she said, after a pause, "when I said goodbye to you at Coimbra? That I would rather be your cousin. You were quite hurt, and I said that you were a silly boy, and would understand better, some day." "I have understood, since," he said, "and was glad that you were not my sister; but now, you see, things have altogether changed, and I must be content with sistership." The girl looked in the fire, and then said, in a low voice: "Why, Terence?" "You know why," he said. "I have had no one to think of but you, for the last four years. Your letters were the great pleasures of my life. I thought over and over again of those last words of yours, and I had some hope that, when I came back, I might say to you: "'Dear Mary, I am grateful, indeed, that you are my cousin, and not my sister. A sister is a very dear relation, but there is one dearer still.' "Don't be afraid, dear; I am not going to say so now. Of course, that is over, and I hope that I shall come, in time, to be content to think of you as a sister." "You are very foolish, Terence," she said, almost with a laugh, "as foolish as you were at Coimbra. Do you think that I should have said what I did, then, if I had not meant it? Did you not save me, at the risk of your life, from what would have been worse than death? Have you not been my hero, ever since? Have you not been the centre of our thoughts here, the great topic of our conversation? Have not your father and I been as proud as peacocks, when we read of your rapid promotion, and the notices of your gallant conduct? And do you think that it would make any difference to me, if you had come back with both your legs and arms shot off?