would he be with an ugly face, beside the curled, beribboned, and handsome lover, the tender glance from dream-loving eyes, the soft hand? No."
"I don’t agree," said the second youth. "What! the courage of the snarling hound, before silken gowns, horses, the envy of one’s neighbours? Gold it is, hard, yellow gold, that makes the ring."
"Beauty wins the eyes," said the grey man softly, "and gold is pretty to the touch; both make marriage. But I spoke of love—and courage wins the heart."
"You have a story to tell," said one youth, filling his pipe; "I see by your face."
"Go on," said the other, replenishing his glass.
"I have a story," said the grey man hesitatingly, "of a woman—of courage—of a man who was a coward. It happened some ten or twelve years ago, and I knew the man."
****
This is the story that he told, and as he talked the glasses of the youths were unemptied and their pipes unfilled. But he had
