She patted his shoulder in comradely fashion.
"Buck up, Don Mike!" she pleaded. "Tears from such men as you are
signs of strength, not weakness. And remember--life has a habit of
obeying commanding men. It may execute another about face for you."
"I've lost everything that made life livable," he protested.
"Ah! No, no! You must not say that. Think of that cheerful warrior
who, in defeat, remarked, 'All is lost save honor.'" And she touched
the pale-blue star-sprinkled ribbon on his left breast.
He smiled again, the twisted smile.
"That doesn't amount to a row of pins in civil life." Something of
that sense of bitter disillusionment, of blasted idealism, which is the
immediate aftermath of war, had crept into his voice. "The only thrill
I ever got out of its possession was in the service. My colonel was
never content merely with returning my salute. He always uncovered to
me. That ribbon will have little weight with your father, I fear, when
I ask him to set aside the foreclosure, grant me a new mortgage, and
give me a fighting chance to retain the thing I love." And his
outflung arm indicated the silent, moonlit valley.
"Perhaps," she replied, soberly. "He is a businessman. Nevertheless,
it might not be a bad idea if you were to defer the crossing of your
bridges until you come to them." She unlatched the gate and swung it
open for him to pass through.
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