“Oh, don’t let’s do that!” she cried. 

 “Why not, Comrade Jennie?” And he added, “I don’t know as I can help it.”  

 “Oh, we were having such a happy time, Mr. Gudge! I thought we were going to work for the cause!”  

 “Well, but it won’t interfere—”  

 “Oh, but it does, it does; it makes people unhappy!”  

 “Then—” and Peter’s voice trembled—“then you don’t care the least bit for me, Comrade Jennie?”  

 She hesitated a moment. “I don’t know,” she said. “I hadn’t thought—”  

 And Peter’s heart gave a leap inside him. It was the first time that any girl had ever had to hesitate in answering that question for Peter. Something prompted him—just as if he had been doing this kind of “sleuthing” all his life. He reached over, and very gently took her hand. “You do care just a little for me?” he whispered. 

 “Oh, Comrade Gudge,” she answered, and Peter said, “Call me ‘Peter.’  Please, please do.”  

 “Comrade Peter,” she said, and there was a little catch in her throat, and Peter, looking at her, saw that her eyes were cast down. 

 “I know I’m not very much to love,” he pleaded. “I’m poor and obscure—I’m not good looking—”  

 “Oh, it isn’t that!” she cried, “Oh, no, no! Why should I think about such things? You are a comrade!”  

 Peter had known, of course, just how she would take this line of talk. “Nobody has ever loved me,” he said, sadly. “Nobody cares anything about you, when you are poor, and have nothing to offer—”  

 “I tell you, that isn’t it!” she insisted. “Please don’t think that! You are a hero. You have sacrificed for the cause, and you are going on and become a leader.”  

 “I hope so,” said Peter, modestly. “But then, what is it, Comrade Jennie? Why don’t you care for me?”  

 She looked up at him, and their eyes met, and with a little sob in her voice she answered, “I’m not well, Comrade Peter. I’m of no use; it would be wicked for me to marry.”  

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