As of old, she thought and brooded when her hands were busy,
and during her long, solitary evenings on the piazza. Strange to
say, she was drawing much of her inspiration from a grave--the grave
of a rough, profane soldier whom she knew only as "Yarry." There was
something in his self-forgetful effort in her behalf, even when in
the mortal anguish of death, which appealed to her most powerfully.
His heroism, expecting, hoping for no reward, became the finest
thing in her estimation she had ever witnessed. Her own love taught
her why Scoville was attracted by her and became ready to do
anything for her. "That's the old, old story," she mused, "ever
sweet and new, yet old as the world. Poor Yarry was actuated by a
purely unselfish, noble impulse. Only such an impulse can sustain
and carry me through my life. No, no, Mrs. Waldo, I can never become
happy in making others happy. I can never be happy again. The bullet
which killed Allan Scoville pierced my heart also and it is dead,
but that poor soldier taught me how one can still live and suffer
nobly, and such a life must be pleasing to the only God I can
worship.
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