She had her ideal of what a man should
be--a monarch among other men, but one knowing no God but her God, no
creed but her creed, no master but Duty, no mistress but herself, and
no weakness whatsoever. A braver, simpler, kinder soul than her
captain there dwelt not in the service of his country, but he loved
his pipe, his song, his dogs, his horses, his troop, and certain
soldier ways that, during his convalescence from wounds, she had not
had opportunity to observe. She had nursed him back to life and love
and, unwittingly, to his former harmless habits. These all she would
have had him forswear, not for her sake so much, she said, but because
they were in themselves sinful and beneath him. She sought to train
him down too fine for the rugged metal of the veteran soldier, and the
fabric snapped in her hands. She had sent him forth sore-hearted over
her ceaseless importunity. She had told him he must not only give up
all his ways, but, if he would make her happy, he must put the words
of Ruth into his mouth, and that ended it. He transferred into another
corps when she broke with him; carried his sore heart to the Southern
plains, and fell in savage battle within another month.
Not long thereafter her little fortune, invested according to the
views of a spiritual rather than a temporal adviser,--and much against
her brother's wishes,--went the way of riches that have wings, and
now, dependent solely upon him, welcomed to his home and fireside, she
nevertheless strove to dominate as of yore.
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