"Say, little Joan," he cried, "guess you're that gal-hero after all."
Joan responded to his look.
"How?" she inquired, with a heightened color.
"Why, jest git a look at me. Me! You're goin' to marry me! I'd sure say you've a heap more grit than any gal-hero I've heard tell of."
Joan surveyed his unkempt figure,--the torn clothing, his unshaven face; the bandages made of her own undergarments, which he still wore,--and the happy smile on her young face broadened.
"Well, you see, Buck, dear," she said joyously, "you can't be a proper hero if you don't carry the scars of battle on you." She sighed contentedly. "No, I'm afraid it doesn't need much 'grit' to marry you."