With something of the same jealousy, developed and intensified,
which he had experienced while watching Albert glide away on the
ice with the child adored in a dumb, boyish way, Hobart had seen
his old schoolmate depart for the front. Then his rival took the
girl from him; now he took her heart. Martine's lameness kept him
from being a soldier. He again virtually stood chilled on the
bank, with a cold, dreary, hopeless feeling which he believed
would benumb his life. He did not know, he was not sure that he
had lost Helen beyond hope, until those lurid days when men on
both sides were arming and drilling for mutual slaughter. She was
always so kind to him, and her tones so gentle when she spoke,
that in love's fond blindness he had dared to hope. He eventually
learned that she was only sorry for him. He did not, could not,
blame her, for he needed but to glance at Nichol's stalwart form,
and recall the young soldier's record, in order to know that it
would be strange indeed if the girl had chosen otherwise. He would
have been more than human if there had not been some bitterness in
his heart; but he fought it down honestly, and while pursuing his
peaceful avocations engaged in what he believed would be a
lifelong battle.
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