The man's face grew sober, a bit troubled. "Well," he said, "I've
decided. I'm going to enlist."

She was still for a second. Then: "I think that's splendid," she brought
out. "Splendid. Of course, I knew you'd do it. It's the only thing that
could be. I'm glad."

"Yes," the man spoke slowly. "It's the only thing that could be. There's
nothing to keep me. My mother's dead. My father's husky and not old and
my sisters are with him. There's nobody to suffer by my going."

"N-no," the girl agreed. "But--it's the fine thing to do just the same.
You're thirty-two you see, and couldn't be drafted. That makes it rather
great of you to go."

"Well," the man answered, "not so very great, I suppose, as it's what
all young Americans are doing. I rather think it's one of those things,
like spelling, which are no particular credit if you do them, but a
disgrace if you don't."

"What a gray way of looking at it!" the girl objected. "As if all the
country wasn't glorying in the boys who go! As if we didn't all stand
back of you and crowd the side lines to watch you, bursting with pride.
You know we all love you."

"Do you love me, Mary? Enough to marry me before I go?" His voice was
low, but the girl missed no syllable. She had heard those words or some
like them in his voice before.

"Oh, Jim," she begged, "don't ask me now. I'm not certain--yet. I--I