Against her a homely garb failed. She was
beautiful in spite of her clothes and not because of them. But this is
generally true with women. This one, instead of sharing our admiration
with her gown, claimed it all for herself. Her face had no rival.
I did not turn away. I could not. The gray eyes, once flashing with
the light of kindly humor, now softened with sympathy, now glowed with
pity. Pity! The thought of it stirred me with anger. The justice of
it made me rage. She saw in the chair a thin, broken figure, a drawn
brown face, a wreck of a man. Yesterday--a soldier. To-day--a hero.
To-morrow--a crippled veteran, and after that a pensioner drifting fast
into a garrulous dotage. She, too, was looking into the future. She
knew what I had lost. She saw what I dreaded. Her eyes told me that.
She did not know what I had gained, for she came of a silly people
whose blood quickened only to the swing of a German hymn and who were
stirred more by the groans of a penitent sinner than the martial call
of the bugle.
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