“Yes.  But I had to tell him—­I started to tell him—­and—­oh, would you believe how splendid he is!  He knew already!  He stopped me short—­and I never can forget the look in his face.  And he said:  ’Child—­child!  You can tell me nothing I am not already aware of.  And I am aware of nothing except your goodness.’”

“I thought I knew Phineas Benton,” said Berkley, warmly.  “He was too upright a character for me to enjoy with any comfort—­a few years back. . . .  I’m trying harder than you ever had to, Letty.  You always desired to be decent; I didn’t.”  He shook both her hands heartily.

“You deserve every atom of your happiness, you dear, sweet girl!  I only wish you were safely out of here and back in the North!”

Letty began to cry softly: 

“Forgive me, please; I’m not naturally as tearful as this.  I am just tired.  I’ve done too much—­seen too much—­and it hasn’t hardened me; it has made me like a silly child, ready to sniffle at anything.”

Berkley laughed gently.

“Why are you crying now, Letty?”

“B-because they have offered me a furlough.  I didn’t apply.  But Dr. Benton has made me take it.  And it almost kills me to go North and leave Ailsa—­alone—­and so strangely changed toward me——­”

She straightened her shoulders resolutely; brushed the tears from her lashes; strove to smile at him.

“Shall we walk a little?  I am not on duty, you know; and I’ve had enough sleep.  There’s such a pretty lane along the creek behind the chapel. . . .  What are you doing here, anyway?  I suppose you are acting orderly to poor Colonel Arran?  How splendidly the Lancers have behaved! . . .  And those darling Zouaves!—­oh, we are just bursting with pride over our Zou-zous——­”

They had turned away together, walking slowly through the grove toward a little cart road deep in golden seeded grass which wound down a hollow all moist with ferns and brambles and young trees in heavy leaf.

Her hand, unconsciously, had sought his nestling into it with a confidence that touched him; her pale, happy face turned continually to meet his as she chatted innocently of the things which went to make up the days of life for her, never conscious of herself, or that the artless chatter disclosed anything admirable in her own character.  She prattled on at random, sometimes naive, sometimes wistful, sometimes faintly humourous—­a brave, clean spirit that was content to take the consequence of duty done—­a tender, gentle soul, undeformed amid the sordid horrors that hardened or crippled souls less innocent.

Calm, resourceful, patient, undismayed amid conditions that sickened mature experience to the verge of despair, she went about her business day after day, meeting all requisitions upon her slender endurance without faltering, without even supposing there was anything unusual or praiseworthy in what she did.