University of Virginia Library

36. CHAPTER XXXVI.
THE DESERTER.

There had been a desertion from a regiment on the
Potomac. An officer of inferior rank, but whose position
had been such as to make him the possessor of much
valuable information, was missing from his command one
morning, and under such circumstances as to leave little
doubt that his intention was to reach the enemy's lines if
possible. Long and loud were the invectives against the
traitor, and none were deeper in their denunciations
than Captain Hugh Worthington, as, seated on his fiery
war-horse, Rocket, he heard from Irving Stanley the story
of Dr. Richards' disgrace.

“He should be pursued, brought back, and shot!” he
said, emphatically, feeling that he would like much to be
one of the pursuers already on the track of the treacherous
doctor, who skillfully eluded them all, and just at
the close of a warm summer day, sat in the shadow of
the Virginia woods, weary, foot-sore and faint with the
pain caused from his ankle, sprained by a recent fall.

He had hunted for Adah until entirely discouraged,
and partly as a panacea for the remorse preying so constantly
upon him, and partly in compliance with Anna's
entreaties, he had at last joined the Federal army, and
been sworn in with the full expectation of some lucrative

office. But his unlucky star was in the ascendant. Stories
derogatory to his character were set afloat, and the
final result of the whole was that he found himself enrolled
in a company where he knew he was disliked, and under
a captain whom he thoroughly detested, for the fraud
practised upon himself. In this condition he was sent to
the Potomac, and while on duty as a picket, grew to be
on the most friendly terms with more than one of the
enemy, planning at last to desert, and effecting his escape
one stormy night, when the watch were off their guard.
Owing to some mistake, the aid promised by his Rebel
friends had not been extended, and as best he could he
was making his way to Richmond, when, worn out with
hunger and fatigue, he sank down to die, as he believed,
at the entrance of some beautiful woods which skirted the
borders of a well-kept farm in Virginia. Before him, at
the distance of nearly a quarter of a mile, a large, handsome
house was visible, and by the wreath of smoke curling
from the rear chimney, he knew it was inhabited, and
thought once to go there, and beg for the food he craved
so terribly. But fear kept him back — the people might
be Unionists, and might detain him a prisoner until the
officers upon his track came up. Dr. Richards was cowardly,
and so with a groan, he laid his head upon the
grass, and half wished that he had died ere he came to be
the miserable wretch he was. The pain in his ankle was
by this time intolerable, and the limb was swelling so fast
that to walk on the morrow was impossible, and if he
found a shelter at all, it must be found that night.

Midway between himself and the house was a comfortable
looking barn, whither he resolved to go. But the
journey was a tedious one, and brought to his flushed
forehead great drops of sweat wrung out by the agony
it caused him to step upon his foot. At last, when he
could bear his weight upon it no longer, he sank upon
the ground, and crawling slowly upon his hands and

knees, reached the barn just as it was growing dark, and
the shadows creeping into the corners made him half
shrink with terror, lest they were the bayonets of those
whose coming he was constantly expecting. He could
not climb to the scaffolding, and so he sought a friendly
pile of hay, and crouching down behind it, fell asleep for
the first time in three long days and nights.

The early June sun was just shining through the cracks
between the boards when he awoke: sore, stiff, feverish,
burning with thirst, and utterly unable to use the poor,
swollen foot, which lay so helplessly upon the hay.

“Oh, for Anna now,” he moaned; “if she were only
here; or Lily, she would pity and forgive, could she see me
now.”

But hark, what sound is it which falls upon his ear,
making him quake with fear, and, in spite of his aching
ankle, creep farther behind the hay! It is a footstep — a
light, tripping step, and it comes that way, nearer, nearer,
until a shadow falls between the open chinks and tho
bright sunshine without. Then it moves on, round the
corner, pausing for a moment, while the hidden coward
holds his breath and listens anxiously, hoping nothing is
coming there. But there is, and it enters the same door
through which he came the previous night — a girlish
figure, with a basket on its arm — a basket in which she
puts the eggs she knew just where to find. Not behind
the hay, where a poor wretch was almost dead with terror.
There was no nest there, and so she failed to see the
ghastly face, pinched with hunger and pain, the glassy
eyes, the uncombed hair, and soiled, tattered garments of
him who once was known as one of fashion's most fastidious
dandies.

She had secured her eggs for the morning meal, and the
doctor hoped she was about to leave, when there was a
rustling of the hay, and he almost uttered a scream of
fear. But the sound died on his lips, as he heard the

voice of prayer — heard that young girl as she prayed,
and the words she uttered, stopped, for an instant, the
pulsation of his heart, and partly took his senses away.
First for her baby-boy she prayed, asking that God would
be to him father and mother both, and keep him from
temptation. Then for her country; and the doctor,
listening to her, knew it was no Rebel tongue calling so
earnestly on God to save the Union, praying so touchingly
for the poor, suffering soldiers, and coming at last to him,
the miserable outcast, whose blood-shot eyes grew blind,
and whose brain grew giddy and wild, as he heard again
Lily's voice, pleading for George, wherever he might be.
She did not say, “God send him back to me, who loves
him still.” She only asked forgiveness for the father of
her boy, but this was proof to the listener that she did not
hate him, and forgetful of his pain he raised himself
upon his elbow, and looking over the pile of hay, saw
her where she knelt, Lily,—Adah,—his wife, her fair face
covered by her hands, and her soft, brown hair cut short,
and curling in her neck.

Twice he essayed to speak, but his tongue refused to
move, and he sunk back exhausted, just as Adah rose
from her knees and turned to leave the barn. He could
not let her go. He should die before she came again; he
was half dying now, and it would be so sweet to breathe
out his life upon her bosom, with perhaps her forgiving
kiss upon his lips.

“Adah!” he tried to say; but the quivering lips made
no sound, and Adah passed out, leaving him there alone.
“Adah, Lily, Anna,” he gasped, hardly knowing himself
whose name he called in his despair.

She heard that sound, and started suddenly, for she
thought it was her old, familiar name, which no one knew
there at Sunny Mead. For a moment she paused; but
it came not again, and so she turned the corner, and her
shadow fell a second time on the haggard face pressed

against that crevice in the wall, the opening large enough
to thrust the long fingers through, in the wild hope of
detaining her as she passed.

“Adah!”

It was a gasping, bitter cry; but it reached her, and
looking back, she saw the pale hand beckoning, the fingers
motioning feebly, as if begging her to return. There was
a moment's hesitation, and then conquering her timidity,
Adah went back, shuddering as she passed the still beckoning
hand, and caught a glimpse of the wild eyes peering
at her through the crevice.

“Adah!”

She heard it distinctly now, and with it came thoughts
of Hugh. It must be he; and her feet scarcely touched
the ground in her eagerness to find him. Over the threshold,
across the floor, and behind the hay she bounded;
but stood aghast at the spectacle before her. He had struggled
to his knees; and with his sprained limb coiled under
him, his ashen lips apart, and his arms stretched out,
he was waiting for her. But Adah did not sprung into
those trembling arms, as once she would have done. She
would never willingly rest in their embrace again; and
utter, overwhelming surprise, was the only emotion visible
on her face as she recognized him, not so much by his
looks as by the name he gave her.

“George, oh, George, how came you here?” she asked,
drawing backward from the arm reached out to touch her.

He felt that he was repulsed, and, with a wail which
smote painfully on Adah's heart, he fell forward on his
face, sobbing, “Oh, Adah, Lily, pity me, pity me, if you
can't forgive! I have slept for three nights in the woods,
without once tasting food! My ankle is sprained, my
strength is gone, and I wish that I were dead!”

She had drawn nearer to him while he spoke, near
enough to recognize her country's uniform, all soiled and
tattered though it was. He was a soldier then — Liberty's
loyal son — and that fact awoke a throb of pity.

“George,” she said, kneeling down beside him, and laying
her hand upon his ragged coat, “tell me how came
you here, and where is your company?”

He would not deceive her, though tempted to do so,
and he answered her truthfully, “Lily, I am a deserter.
I am trying to join the enemy!”

He did not see the indignant flash of her eyes, or the
look of scorn upon her face, but he felt the reproach her
silence implied, and dared not look up.

“George,” she began at last, sternly, very sternly, “but
for Him who bade us forgive seventy times seven, I should
feel inclined to leave you here to die; but when I remember
how much He is tried with me, I feel that I am to be
no one's judge. Tell me, why you have deserted; and
tell me, too — oh, George, in mercy — tell me if you know
aught of Willie?”

The mother had forgotten all the wrongs heaped upon
the wife, and Adah drew nearer to him now, so near indeed,
that his arm encircled her at last, and held her
close; but the ragged, dirty, fallen creature did not dare
to kiss her, and could only press her convulsively to his
breast, as he attempted an answer to her question.

“You must be quick,” she said, suddenly remembering
herself; “it is growing late, Mrs. Ellsworth will be waiting
for her breakfast; and since the stampede of her servants,
two old negroes and myself are all there are left to
care for the house. Stay,” she added, as a new thought
seemed to strike her; “I must go, or they will look for
me; but after breakfast I will return, and do for you what
I can. Lie down again upon the hay.”

She spoke kindly to him, but he felt it was as she
would have spoken to any one in distress, and not as once
she had addressed him. But he knew that he deserved
it; and he suffered her to leave him, watching her with
streaming eyes as she hurried along the path, and counting
the minutes, which seemed to him like hours, ere he saw

her returning. She was very white when she came back,
and he noticed that she frequently glanced toward the
house, as if haunted by some terror. Constantly expecting
detection, he grasped her arm, as she bent to bathe his
swollen foot, and whispered huskily, “Adah, there's something
on your mind — some evil you fear. Tell me, is
any one after me!”

Adah nodded; while, like a frightened child, the tall
man clung to her neck, saying, piteously, “Don't give me
up! Don't tell; they would hang me, perhaps!”

“They ought to do so,” trembled on Adah's lips, but
she suppressed the words, and went on bandaging up the
ankle, and handling it as carefully as if it had not belonged
to a deserter.

He did not feel pain now in his anxiety, as he asked,
“Who is it, Adah? who's after me?” but he started when
she replied, with downcast eyes and a flush upon her cheek,
“Major Irving Stanley. You were in his regiment, the
— th N. Y. Volunteers.”

Dr. Richards drew a relieved breath. “I'd rather it
were he than Captain Worthington, who hates me so
cordially. Adah, you must hide me; I have so much to
tell. I know your parents, your brother, your husband;
and I am he. It was not a mock marriage. It has been
proved real. It was a genuine Justice who married us,
and you are my lawful wife. Oh, pray, please don't hurt
me so,” and he uttered a scream of pain as Adah's hands
pressed heavily upon the hard, purple flesh.

She scarcely knew what she was doing as she listened
to his words, and heard that she was indeed his wife.
Two years before, such news would have overwhelmed
her with delight, but now for a single instant a fierce
and almost resentful pang shot through her heart as she
thought of being bound for life to one for whom she had
no love, and whose very caresses made her loathe him
more and more. But when she thought of Willie, and

that the stain upon his birth was washed away, the hard
look left her eyes, and her hot tears dropped upon the
ankle she was bandaging.

“You are glad?” he asked, looking at her curiously, for
her manner puzzled him.

“Yes, very glad for Willie,” she replied, keeping her
face bent down so he could not see its expression.

Then when her task was done, she seemed to nerve
herself for some painful task, and sitting down upon the
hay, said to him,

“Tell me now all that has happened since I left Terrace
Hill; but first of Willie. You say Anna has
him?”

“Yes, Anna — Mrs. Millbrook,” he replied, and was
about to say more, when Adah interrupted him with,

“It may spare you some pain if I tell you first what I
know of the tragedy at Spring Bank. I know that
'Lina is dead, and that the fact of my existence prevented
the marriage. So much I heard Mrs. Ellsworth tell her
brother. I had just come to her then. She was prouder
toward me than she is now, and I dared not question her.
Go on, you spoke of my parents, my brother. Who are
they?”

Her manner perplexed him greatly, but he controlled
himself, while he repeated rapidly the story known already
to our readers, the story which made Adah reel, and
turn so white that he attempted to reach her and so keep
her from falling. But just the touch of his hand had
power to rouse her, and drawing back she laid her face in
the hay, and moaned.

“It's more than I ever hoped. Oh, Heavenly Father,
accept my thanks for this great happiness. A mother and
a brother found.”

“And husband, too,” chimed in the doctor, eagerly,
“thank him for me, Adah. You are glad to find me?”

There was a pleading in his tone — earnest pleading,

for the terrible conviction was fastening itself upon him,
that not as they once parted had he and Adah met. For
full five minutes Adah lay upon the hay, her whole soul
going out in a prayer of thankfulness for her great joy, and
for strength to bear the bitterness mingling with her joy.
Her face was very white when she lifted it up at last, but
her manner was composed, and she questioned the doctor
calmly of Spring Bank, of Alice, of Hugh, of Anna,
but could not trust herself to say much to him of Willie,
lest her calmness should give way, and a feeling spring
up in her heart of something like affection for Willie's
father. Alas, for the miserable man. He had found his
wife, but there was between them a gulf which his own
act had built, and which he never more might pass. He
began to suspect it, and ere she had finished the story of
her wanderings, which at his request she told, he knew
there was no pulsation of her heart which beat for him.
He asked her where she had been since she fled from
Terrace Hill, and how she came to be in Mrs. Ellsworth's
family.

There was a moment's hesitancy, as if she was deciding
how much to tell him of the past, and then resolving
to keep nothing back which he might know, she told him
how, with a stunned heart and giddy brain, she had gone
to Albany, and mingling with the crowd had mechanically
followed them down to a boat just starting for New
York. That, by some means, she found herself in the saloon,
and seated next to a feeble, deformed little girl, who
lay upon the sofa, and whose sweet, childish voice said to
her pityingly,

“Does your head ache, lady, or what makes you so
white?”

She had responded to that appeal, talking kindly to the
little girl, between whom and herself the friendliest of relations
were established, and whose name, she learned, was
Jenny Ellsworth. The mother she did not then see, as,

during the journey down the river she was suffering from
a nervous headache, and kept her room. From the child
and child's nurse, however, she heard that Mrs. Ellsworth
was going to Europe, and was anxious to secure some
competent person to act in the capacity of Jenny's governess.
Instantly Adah's decision was made. Once in
New York she would by letter apply for the situation, for
nothing then could so well suit her state of mind as a
tour to Europe, where she would be far away from all she
had ever known. Very adroitly she ascertained Mrs. Ellsworth's
address, wrote her a note the day following her
arrival in New York, and the day following that, found
her in Mrs. Ellsworth's parlor at the Brevoort House,
where for a few days she was stopping. It had troubled
her somewhat to know what name to take, but she decided
finally upon Adah Gordon as the one by which she
was known ere George Hastings crossed her path, and in
her note to Mrs. Ellsworth she signed herself “A Gordon.”
From her little girl Mrs. Ellsworth had heard much of the
“sweet young lady, who was so kind to her on the boat,”
and was thus already prepossessed in her favor.

Adah did not tell Dr. Richards, and perhaps she did
not herself know how surprised and delighted Mrs. Ellsworth
was with the fair, girlish creature, announced to her
as Miss Gordon, and who won her heart before five minutes
were gone, making her think it of no consequence to
inquire concerning her at Madam —'s school, where she
said she had once been a pupil.

Naturally very impulsive and unsuspecting, Mrs. Ellsworth
usually acted upon her likes or dislikes, and Adah
was soon installed as governess to the delighted little
Jennie, who learned to love her gentle teacher with a love
almost amounting to idolatry.

“You were in Europe, then, and that is the reason why
we could not find you,” Dr. Richards said, adding, after
a moment, “And Irving Stanley went with you — was
your companion all the while?”

“Yes, all the while,” and Adah's cold fingers worked
nervously at the wisp of hay she was twisting in her
hand. “We came home sooner than we intended, as he
was anxious to join the army. I had seen him before
— he was in the cars when Willie and I were on our way
to Terrace Hill. Willie had the ear-ache, and he was so
kind to us both.”

Adah looked fixedly now at the craven doctor, who
could not meet her glance, for well he remembered the
dastardly part he had played in that scene, where his own
child was screaming with pain, and he sat selfishly idle.

“She don't know I was there, though,” he thought, and
that gave him some comfort.

But Adah did know, and she meant he should know
she did. Keeping her eyes still fixed upon him, she continued,

“I heard Mr. Stanley talking of you once to his sister,
and among other things he spoke of your dislike for children,
and referred to an occasion in the cars, when a little
boy, for whom his heart ached, was suffering acutely,
and for whom you evinced no interest, except to say that
you hated children, and to push his feet from your lap. I
never knew till then that you were so near to me.”

“It's true, it's true,” the doctor cried, tears rolling down
his soiled face; “but I never guessed it was you. Lily, I
supposed it some ordinary woman.”

“So did Irving Stanley,” was Adah's quiet, cutting answer;
but his heart was open to sympathy, even for an
ordinary woman.”

The doctor could only moan, with his face still hidden
in his hands, until a sudden thought like a revelation flashed
upon him, and forgetting his wounded foot, he sprang
like a tiger to the spot where Adah sat, and winding his
arm firmly around her, whispered hoarsely,

“Adah, you love Irving Stanley. My wife loves another
than her husband.”

Adah did not struggle to release herself from his
grasp, but her whole soul loathed that close embrace,
and the loathing expressed itself in the tone of her voice,
as she replied,

“Until within an hour I did not suppose you were my
husband. You said you were not in that letter; I have
it yet; the one in which you told me it was a mock
marriage, as, by your own confession, it seems you meant
it should be.”

“Oh, darling, you kill me, yet I deserve it all; but,
Adah, I have suffered enough to atone for the dreadful
past; and I tried so hard to find you. Forgive me, Lily,
forgive,” and falling again on his knees, the wretched man
poured forth a torrent of entreaties for her forgiveness,
her love, without which he should die.

Holding fast her cold hands, he pleaded with all his
eloquence, until, maddened by her silence, he even
taunted her with loving another, while her own husband
was living.

Then Adah started, and pushing him away, sprang to
her feet, while the hot blood stained her face and neck,
and a resentful fire gleamed from her brown eyes.

“It is not well for you to reproach me with faithlessness,”
she said, “you, who have dealt so treacherously
by me; you, who deliberately planned my ruin, and would
have effected it but for the deeper-laid scheme of one
you say is my father. No thanks to you that I am a lawful
wife. You did not make me so of your own free will.
You did to me the greatest wrong a man can do a woman,
then cruelly deserted me, and now you would chide me for
respecting another more than I do you.”

“Not respecting him, Adah, no, not for respecting him.
You should do that. He's worthier than I; but, oh,
Adah, Lily, wife, mother of my boy, do you love Irving
Stanley?”

He was sobbing bitterly, and the words came between

the sobs, while he tried to clutch her dress. Staggering
backward against the wooden beam, Adah leaned there for
support, while she replied,

“You would not understand if I should tell you the
terrible struggle it was for me to be thrown each day in
the society of one as noble, as good as Irving Stanley, and
not come at last to feel for him as a poor governess ought
never to feel for the handsome, gifted brother of her
employer. Oh, George, I prayed against it so much, prayed
to be kept from the sin, if it were a sin, to have Irving
Stanley mingled with every thought. But the more I
prayed, the more the temptation seemed thrust upon me.
The kinder, gentler, more attentive, grew his manners
toward me. He never treated me as a mere governess.
It was more like an equal at first, and then like a younger
sister, so that few strangers took me for a subordinate, so
kind were both Mrs. Ellsworth and her brother.”

“And he,” the doctor gasped, looking wistfully in her
face, “does he — do you think he loves you?”

Adah colored crimson, but answered frankly,

“He never told me so; never said to me a word which
a husband should not hear; but — sometimes, I've left
him abruptly lest he should speak, for that I knew would
bring the crisis I so dreaded. I must tell him the whole
then, and by my dread of doing this, I knew he was more
than a friend to me. I was fearful at first that he might
recognize me, but I was much thinner than when I saw
him in the cars, while my hair, purposely worn short, and
curling in my neck, changed my looks materially, so that
he only wondered whom I was so much like, but never
suspected the truth.”

There was silence, a moment, and then the doctor asked,
“How is all this to end?”

The question brought into Adah's eyes a fearful look of
anguish, but she did not answer, and the doctor spoke
again.

“Have I found Lily only to lose her?”

Still there was no reply, and the doctor continued, “You
are my wife, Adah. No power can undo that, save death,
and you are my child's mother. For Willie's sake, oh
Adah, for Willie's sake, forgive.”

When he appealed to her as his wife, Adah seemed turning
into stone; but the mention of Willie, touched the
mother, and the iceberg melted at once.

“For Willie, my boy,” she gasped, “I could do
almost anything; I could die so willingly, but — but
— oh, George, that ever we should come to this. You a
deserter, a traitor to your country — lame, disabled, wholly
in my power, and begging of me, your outcast wife, for
the love which surely is dead — dead. No, George, I do
forgive, but never, never more can I be to you a wife.”

There was a rising resentment now in the doctor's manner,
as he answered reproachfully: “Then surrender me
at once to the lover hunting for me. Let him take me
back where I can be shot, and that will leave you free.”

Adah raised her hand deprecatingly, and when he had
finished, rejoined: “You mistake Maj. Stanley, if you
think he would marry me, knowing what I should tell
him. It's not for him that I refuse. It's for myself. I
could not bear it. I —”

“Stay, Adah, Lily, don't say you should hate me;” and
the doctor's voice was so full of anguish that Adah involuntarily
advanced toward him, standing quite near, while he
begged of her to say if the past could not be forgoten.
His family were anxious to receive her. Sweet Anna
Millbrook already loved her as a sister, while he, her
husband, words could not tell his love for her. He would
do whatever she required; go back to the Federal army
if she said so; seek for the pardon he was sure to gain;
fight for his country like a hero, periling life and limb, if
she would only give him the shadow of a hope.

“I must have time to think. I cannot decide alone,”

Adah answered, while the doctor clutched her dress, half
shrieking with terror,

“You surely will not consult Major Stanley?”

“No,” and Adah spoke reverently, “there's a mightier
friend than he. One who has never failed me in my need.
He will tell me what to do.”

The doctor knew now what she meant, and with a moan
he laid his head again upon the hay, wishing, so much,
that the lessons taught him when in that little attic chamber,
years ago, he knelt by Adah's side, and said with her,
“Our Father,” had not been all forgotten. When he
lifted up his face again, Adah was gone, but he knew she
would return, and waited patiently while just outside the
door, with her fair face buried in the sweet Virginia
grass, and the warm summer sunshine falling softly upon
her, poor half-crazed Adah fought and won the fiercest
battle she had ever known, coming off conqueror over self,
and feeling sure that God had heard her earnest cry for
help, and told her what to do. There was no wavering
now; her step was firm; her voice steady, as she went
back to the doctor's side, and bending over him, said,

“I will nurse you, till you are well; then you must go
back whence you came, confess your fault, rejoin your regiment,
and by your faithfulness wipe out the stain of desertion.
Then, when the war is over, or you are honorably
discharged, I will — be your wife. I may not love
you at first as once I did, but I shall try, and He, who
counsels me to tell you this will help me, I am sure.”

It was almost pitiful now to see the doctor, as he crouched
at Adah's feet, kissing her hands and blessing her
'mid his tears. “He would be worthy of her, and they
should yet be so happy.”

Adah suffered him to caress her for a moment, and
then told him she must go, for Mrs. Ellsworth would
wonder at her long absence, and possibly institute a
search. Pressing one more kiss upon her hand the doctor

crept back to his hiding place, while Adah went slowly
back to the house where she knew Irving Stanley was
anxiously waiting for her. She dared not meet him alone
now, for latterly each time they had so met, she had kept
at bay the declaration trembling on his lips, and which
must never be listened to. So she staid away from the
pleasant parlor where all the morning he sat chatting
with his sister, who guessed how much he loved the beautiful
and accomplished girl, her daughter's governess.

Right-minded and high-principled, Mrs. Ellsworth had
conquered any pride she might at first have felt — any reluctance
to her brother's marrying her governess, and
now like him was anxious to have it settled. But Adah
gave him no chance that day, and late in the afternoon
he rode back to his regiment wondering at the change in
Miss Gordon, and why her face was so deadly white, and
her voice so husky, as she bade him good-bye.

Poor Adah! Hers was now a path of suffering, such
as she had never known before. But she did her duty to
the doctor, nursing him with the utmost care; but never
expressing to him the affection she did not feel. It was
impossible to keep his presence there a secret from the
two old negroes, and knowing she could trust them, she
told them of the wounded Union soldier, enlisting their
sympathies for him, and thus procuring for him the care
of older and more experienced people than herself.

He was able at length to return, and one pleasant summer
night, just three weeks after his arrival at Sunnymead,
Adah walked with him to the woods, and kneeling with
him by a running stream, whose waters farther away
would yet be crimson with the blood of our slaughtered
brothers, she commended him to God. Through the leafy
branches the moon-beams were shining, and they showed
to Adah the expression of the doctor's wasted face, as
he said to her at parting, “I have kissed you many times,
my darling, but you have never returned it. Please do

so once, for the sake of the olden time. It will make me
a better soldier.”

She kissed him once for the sake of the olden time, and
when he whispered, “Again for Willie's sake,” she kissed
him twice, and then she bade him leave her, herself buttoning
about him the soldier coat which her own hands
had cleaned and mended and made respectable. She was
glad afterward that she had done so; glad, too, that she
had kissed him and waited by the tree, where, looking
backward, he could see the flutter of her white dress until
a turn in the forest path hid her from his view.