"I didn't mean that I thought you ought not to go to the war, Teunis,"
said she. "You must go, of course."
"Maybe your friends," I said after standing dumb for a while, "will be
on the Union side."
"No," said she. "I have no relations--and few friends there; but all I
have will be on the other side, I reckon. It makes no difference.
They've forgotten me by this time. Everybody has forgotten me that once
liked me--everybody but Elder Thorndyke and Mrs. Thorndyke. They love
me, but nobody else does."
"I thought some others acted as if they did," I said.
"You thought a lot about it!" she scoffed. Then we sat quite a while
silent. "I shall think every day," said she at last, "about the only
happy time I have had since Ann took sick--and long before that. The
only happy time, and the happiest, I reckon, that I ever'll have. I'll
think of it every day while you're at the front. I want you to know when
you are suffering and in danger that some one thinks of the kindest
thing you ever did--and maybe the kindest thing any boy ever did. You
don't care about it now, maybe; but the time may come when you will."
"What time was that?" I asked.
"You know, Teunis," the tears were falling in her lap now. "Those days
when we were together alone on the wide prairie--when you took me in and
was so good to me--and saved me from going wild, if not from anything
else bad. I remember that for the first few days, I was not quite easy
in my feelings--I reckon your goodness hadn't come to me yet; but one
day, after you had been away for a while, there in the grove where we
stayed so long, you looked so pale and sorry that I began talking to you
more intimately, you remember, and we suddenly drew close to each other,
and for the first time, I felt so safe, so safe! Something has come
between us lately, Teunis.
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