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THE UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE WILMER COLLECTION 
 
 OF CIVIL WAR NOVELS 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
 RICHARD H. WILMER, JR. 
 

A WAK-TIME WOOING 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2009 with funding from 
 
 University of North Carolina at Chapel Hil 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/wartimewooingstoOOking 
 
Colonel Putnam raises to the light of the first lantern a hairy, 
 bushy olyject.'' — [See p. 50.] 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING 
 
 H Stori^ 
 
 BY 
 
 CAPTAIN CHARLES KING, U. S. A. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED 
 
 NEW YORK 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE 
 
 1888 
 
Copyright, 18SS, by Harper & Brothers. 
 
 All right} reserved. 
 
ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 " COLONEL PUTNAM RAISES TO THE LIGHT OF 
 THE FIRST LANTERN A HAIRY, BCSIIY 
 
 object" Frontispiece. 
 
 "the VIRGINIANS KNEW A BRAVE MAN WHEN 
 
 THEY SAW one" Fcicing paQC 8 
 
 " THE WHOLE TROOP IS HURRIEDLY SADDLING" " 70 
 
 " THEN BATHES, WITH COLOGNE, THE WHITE 
 TEMPLES AND SOFT, RIPPLING, SUNNY 
 HAIR " " 90 
 
 "BACK COME THEIR DAREDEVILS OF STUARt's " " 110 
 
 "A CAVALRY ORDERLY MAKES HIS APPEAR- 
 ANCE AT THE DOOU." '* 136 
 
 " THEN A YOUNG SOLDIER, IN HIS STAFF UNI- 
 FORM, TAKES THREE SPRINGING STEPS, 
 AND IS AT HER SIDE " " 172 
 
 '•DRAWS FORTH HER PRECIOUS PICTURE AND 
 
 LAYS IT AT A RIVAL's FEET " «' 194 
 
 602999 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 After months of disaster there had come 
 authentic news of victory. All Union-loving 
 men drew a long breath of relief when it was 
 certain that Lee had given up the field and fallen 
 back across the Potomac. The newsboys, yelling 
 through the crowded streets in town, and the 
 evening trains arriving from the neighboring 
 city were besieged by eager buyers of the "ex- 
 tras," giving lists of the killed and wounded. 
 Just at sunset of this late September day a tall 
 young girl, in deep mourning, stood at a suburban 
 station clinging to the arm of a sad, stern-featured 
 old man. People eyed them with respect and 
 sympathy, not unmixed with rural curiosity, for 
 Doctor Warren was known and honored by one 
 and all. A few months agone his only son had 
 1 
 
2 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 been brought home, shot to death at the head of 
 his regiment, and was laid in his soldier grave in 
 their shaded churchyard. It was a bitter trial, 
 but the old man bore up sturdily. He was an 
 eager patriot ; he had no other son to send to the 
 front and was himself too old to serve; it had 
 pleased God to demand his first-born in sacrifice 
 upon his country's altar, and though it crushed 
 his heart it could not kill his loyalty and devo- 
 tion. His whole soul seemed with the army in 
 Virginia; he had nothing but scorn for those 
 who lagged at home, nothing but enthusiastic 
 faith in every man who sought the battle-front, and 
 so it happened that he almost welcomed the indica- 
 tions that told him his daughter's heart was going 
 fast — given in return for that of a soldier lover. 
 For a moment it had dazed him. She was still 
 so young — so much a child in his fond eyes — still- 
 his sweet-faced, sunny-haired baby Bess. He 
 could hardly realize she was eighteen even when 
 with blushing cheeks she came to show him the 
 photograph of a manly, gallant -looldng young 
 soldier in the uniform of a lieutenant of infantry. 
 Strange as the story may seem to-day, there was 
 at the time nothing very surprising about its most 
 salient feature — she and her hiero had never met. 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 3 
 
 With other gMs she had joined a " Soldiers' 
 Aid Society ;" had wrought with devoted though 
 misguided diligence in the manufacture of " Hav- 
 elocks" that were bearers of much sentiment 
 but no especial benefit to the recipients at the 
 front ; and like many of her companions she had 
 slipped her name and address into one of these 
 soon-discarded cap covers. As luck would have 
 it, their package of " Havelocks," " housewives," 
 needle-cases, mittens (with trigger finger duly 
 provided for), ear-muffs, wristlets, knitted socks, 
 and such things, worn by the " boys " their first 
 winter in Virginia, but discarded for the regula- 
 tion outfit thereafter, fell to the lot of the — th 
 Massachusetts Infantry, and a courteous letter 
 from the adjutant told of its distribution. Bessie 
 Warren was secretary of the society, and the 
 secretary was instructed to write to the adju- 
 tant and say how gratified they were to find 
 their efforts so kindly appreciated. More than 
 one of the girls wished that she were secretary 
 just then, and all of them hoped the adjutant 
 would answer. He did, and sent, moreover, a 
 photographic group of several officers taken 
 at regimental headquarters. Each figure was 
 numbered, and on the back was an explana- 
 
4 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 tion setting forth the names of the officers, the 
 item which each had received as his share, and, 
 where it was known, the name of the fair man- 
 ufacturer. The really useful items, it would 
 seem, had been handed to the enlisted men, and 
 the officers had reserved for themselves only such 
 articles as exj^erience had proved to be of no 
 practical value. The six in the picture had all 
 chosen " Havelocks," and opposite the name of 
 Bessie "Warren was that of Second Lieutenant Paul 
 Eevere Abbot. Eeference to the " group " again 
 developed the fact that Mr. Abbot was decided- 
 ly the handsomest soldier of the party — tall, slen- 
 der, youthful, with clear-cut and resolute feat- 
 ures and a decidedly firm, solid loii about him 
 that was distinguishable in a group of decided- 
 ly distinguished -looking men. There followed 
 much laugliing talk and speculation and theory 
 among the girls, but the secretary was instructed 
 to write another letter of thanks, and did so very 
 charmingly, and mention was made of the cir- 
 cumstance that several of their number had 
 brothers or cousins at the front. Then some of 
 the society had happened, too, to have a photo- 
 graph taken in the quaint uniform, with cap and 
 apron, which they had worn at a recently given 
 
A WAK-TIME WOOING. 5 
 
 "Soldiers' Fair," and one of their number — not 
 Miss Warren — sent a copy of this to the camp of 
 the — th Massachusetts. Central figure in this 
 group was Bessie Warren, unquestionably the 
 lovehest girl among them all, and one day there 
 came to her a single photograph, a still handsomer 
 picture of Mr. Paul Kevere Abbot, and a letter in 
 a hand somewhat stiff and cramped, in which 
 the writer apologized for the appearance of the 
 scrawl, explained that his hand had been injured 
 while practising fencing with a comrade, but 
 that having seen her picture in the group he 
 could not but congratulate himself on having re- 
 ceived a "Havelock" from hands so fair, could 
 not resist the impulse to write and personally 
 thank her, and then to inquire if she was a sister 
 of Guthrie Warren, whom he had known and 
 looked up to at Harvard as a " soph " looks up 
 to a senior; and he enclosed his picture, which 
 would perhaps recall him to Guthrie's mind. 
 
 Her mother had been dead many years, and 
 Bessie showed this letter to her father, and with 
 his fuU consent and with much sisterly pride 
 wrote that Guthrie was indeed her brother ; that 
 he, too, had taken up arms for his country and 
 was at the front with his regiment, though no- 
 
6 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 where near their friends of the — th Massachu- 
 setts (who were watching the fords of the Po- 
 tomac up near Edward's Ferr}^), and that she 
 had sent the photograph to him. 
 
 One letter seemed to lead to another, and those 
 from the Potomac speedily became very interest- 
 ing, especially when the papers mentioned how 
 gallantly Lieutenant Paul Abbot had behaved at 
 Ball's Bluff and how hard he had tried to save 
 his colonel, who was taken prisoner. Guthrie re- 
 turned the photograph to Bess, with a letter 
 which the doctor read attentively. He remem- 
 bered Paul Abbot as being a leader in the young- 
 er set at Harvard, and was delighted to hear of 
 him " under the colors," where every Union-lov- 
 ing man should be — where, as he recalled him, he 
 knew Abbot must be, for he belonged to one of the 
 oldest and best families in all Massachusetts ; he 
 was a gentleman born and bred, and would make 
 a name for himseK in this war. Guthrie only 
 wished there were some of that stamp in his own 
 regiment, but he feared that there were few who 
 had the stuff of which the Abbots were made — 
 there were too many ward politicians. "But 
 I've cast my lot with it and shall see it through," 
 wrote Guthrie. Poor fellow ! poor father ! poor 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 7 
 
 loving-liearted Bessie ! The first volley from the 
 crouching gray ranks in those dim woods back 
 of Seven Pines sent the ward politicians in mad 
 rush to the rear, and when Guthrie Warren 
 sprang for the colors, and waved them high in 
 air, and shouted for the men to rally and follow 
 him, it was all in vain — all as vain as the ejffort 
 to stop the firing made by the chivalric Virginia 
 colonel, who leaped forward, with a few daring 
 men at his back, to capture the resolute Yankee 
 and his precious flag. They got them ; but the 
 life-blood Was welling from the hero's breast as 
 they raised him gently from the silken folds. 
 The Yirginians knew a brave man when they 
 saw one, and they carried him tenderly into their 
 lines and wrote his last messages, and that night 
 they sent the honored body back to his brigade, 
 and so the stricken father found and brought 
 home all that was left of the gallant boy in whom 
 his hopes were centred. 
 
 For a time Bessie's letters languished after 
 this, though she had written nearly every week 
 during the winter and early spring. Lieutenant 
 Abbot, on the other hand, appeared to redouble 
 his deep interest. His letters were full of sym- 
 pathy — of a tenderness that seemed to be with 
 
8 A WAE-TIME TVOOING. 
 
 difficulty repressed. She read these to her mourn- 
 ing father — they were so full of sorrow for the 
 bitter loss that had befallen them, so rich with 
 soldierly sentiment and with appreciation of 
 Guthrie's heroic character and death, so welcome 
 with reminiscence of him. ISTot that he and Ab- 
 bot had met on the Peninsula — it was the unhap- 
 py lot of the Massachusetts — th to be held with 
 McDowell's corps in front of Washington while 
 their comrades were doing sharp, soldierly work 
 down along the Chickahominy. But even where 
 they were, said these letters, men talked by the 
 hour of how Guthrie "Warren had died at Seven 
 Pines — how daring Phil Kearney himself had 
 ridden up and held forth — 
 
 "The one hand still left," 
 
 and asked him his name just before the final ad- 
 vance on the thicket. One letter contained a copy 
 of some soldierly verses her Massachusett's corre- 
 spondent had written — "Warren's Death at Seven 
 Pines " — in which he placed him peer with War- 
 ren who fell at Bunker Hill. The verses thrilled 
 through her heart and soul and brought a storm 
 of tears — tears of mingled pride and love and 
 hopeless sorrow from her aging father's eyes. 
 
s^^^^z^y^^^ ^ 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 9 
 
 No wonder she soon began to write more fre- 
 quently. These letters from Virginia were the 
 greatest joy her father had, she told herself, and 
 though she wrote through a mist that blurred 
 the page, she soon grew conscious of a strange, 
 shy sense of comfort, of a thrilling little spring 
 of glad emotion, of tender, shrinking, sensitive 
 delight, and by the time the hot summer was 
 waning and August was at hand this unseen sol- 
 dier, who had only shared her thoughts before, 
 took complete and utter control. Why tell the 
 old, old story in its every stage ? It was with a 
 new, wild fear at heart she heard of Stonewall 
 Jackson's leap for the Eapidan, of the grapple 
 at Cedar Mountain where the Massachusetts men 
 fought sternly and met with cruel loss. Her 
 father raged with anxiety when the news came 
 of the withdrawal from the Peninsula, the tri- 
 umphant rush of Lee and Longstreet on Jack- 
 son's trail, of the ill-starred but heroic struo^gfle 
 made by Pope along the banks of Bull Kun. A 
 few days and nights of dread suspense and then 
 came tidings that Lee was across the Potomac 
 and McClellan marching to meet him. Two more 
 letters reached her from the marching — th 
 Massachusetts, and a telegram from Washington 
 
10 A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 telling her where to write, and saying, ^' All well 
 so far as I am concerned," at which the doctor 
 shook his head — it sounded so selfish at such a 
 time ; it grated on his patriotic ear, and it wasn't 
 such as he thought an Abbot ought to telegraph. 
 But then he was hurried ; thej probably only let 
 him fall out of ranks a moment as they marched 
 through "Washington. And then the newspapers 
 began to teem with details of the fierce battles 
 of the last three days of August, and he forgave 
 him and fathomed the secret in his daughter's 
 breast as she stood breathing very quicklj^, her 
 cheek flushing, her eyes filling, and listening 
 while he read how Lieutenant Abbot had led the 
 charge of the — th Massachusetts and seized the 
 battle-fiag of one of Starke's brigades at that 
 bristling parapet — the old, unfinished railway 
 grade to the north of Groveton. JS'either father 
 nor daughter uttered a word upon the subject. 
 The old man simply opened his arms and took 
 her to his heart, where, overcome with emotion, 
 mingling pride and grief and anxiety and tender, 
 budding love, she burst into tears and hid her 
 burning face. 
 
 Then came the news of fierce fighting at South 
 Mountain, where the — th Massachusetts was 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 11 
 
 prominent ; then of the Antietam, where twice 
 it charged through that fearful stretch of corn- 
 field and had but a handful left to guard the rid- 
 dled colors when nightfall came, and then — si- 
 lence and suspense. JSTo letters, no news — nothing. 
 Her white, wan face and pleading eyes were 
 too much for the father to see. Though no for- 
 mal offer of marriage had been made, though 
 the word " love " had hardly been written in 
 those glowing letters, he reasoned rightly that 
 love alone could prompt a man to write day af- 
 ter day in all the excitements and vicissitudes of 
 stirring campaign. As for the rest — was he not 
 an Abbot? Did not Guthrie know and honor 
 him ? "Was he not a gallant officer as well as a 
 thoroughbred gentleman? No time for wooing 
 now! That would come with peace. He had 
 even given his consent when she blu shingly 
 asked him if she might — " Well, there ! read it 
 yom-self," she said, putting the closely written 
 page into his hands. It was an eager plea for 
 her picture — and the photograph was sent. He 
 chose the one himself, a dainty " vignette " on 
 card, for it reminded him of the mother who was 
 gone. It was fitting, he told himself, that his 
 daughter — her sainted mother's image, Guthrie's 
 
12 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 sister — should love a gallant soldier. He gloried 
 in the accounts of Paul Abbot's bravery, and 
 longed to meet him and take him by the hand. 
 The time would come. He could wait and watch 
 over the little girl who was drawing them togeth- 
 er. He asked no questions. It would all be right. 
 
 And now they stood together at the station 
 waiting for the evening cars and the latest news 
 from the front. It lacked but a few minutes of 
 train time when, with sad and sympathetic face, 
 the station-agent approached, a fateful brown en- 
 velope in his hand. The doctor turned quickly 
 at his daughter's gasping exclamation, 
 
 " Pajya ! Mr. Hardy has a telegram !" 
 
 Despite every effort his hand and lip trembled 
 violently as he took it and tore it open. It was 
 brief enough — an answer to his repeated de- 
 spatches to the "War Department. 
 
 ''Lieutenant Paul K. Abbot, dangerously 
 wounded, is at field hospital near Frederick, 
 Maryland." 
 
 The doctor turned to her pale, pleading face, 
 tears welling in his eyes. 
 
 " Be brave, my little girl," he murmured, bro- 
 kenly. " He is wounded, but we can go to him at 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 13 
 
 Nearly sunset again, and tlie South Mountain 
 is throwing its dark shadow clear across the 
 Monocacy. The day has been warm, cloudless, 
 beautiful, and, now that evening is approaching, 
 the sentries begin to saunter out from the deeper 
 shade that has lured them during the afternoon 
 and to give a more soldierly tone to the picture. 
 There are not many of them, to be sure, and this 
 is evidently the encampment of no large com- 
 mand of troops, despite the number of big white 
 tents pitched in the orchard, and the score of 
 white-topped army-wagons, the half-dozen yel- 
 low ambulances, and the scraggy lot of mules 
 in the pasture -lot across the dusty highway. 
 The stream is close at hand, only a stone's-throw 
 from the picturesque old farmhouse, and the ani- 
 mated talk among the groups of bathers has 
 that peculiarly blasphemous flavor which seems 
 inseparable from the average teamster. That 
 the camp is under mihtary tutelage is apparent 
 from the fact that a tall young man in the loose, 
 ill-fitting blue fatigue-dress of our volunteers, 
 with war-worn belts and a business-like look 
 to the long "Springfield" over his shoulder, 
 comes striding down to the banlv and shouts 
 forthwith, 
 
14 A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 " You fellows are making too much noise there, 
 and the doctor wants you to dry up." 
 
 ''Tell him to send us some towels, then," 
 growls one of the number, a black-browed, surly- 
 looking fellow with ponderous, bent shoulders and 
 a slouching mien. Some of his companions tit- 
 ter encouragingly, others are silent. The ser- 
 geant of the guard flushes angrily and turns on 
 the speaker. 
 
 " You know very well what I mean, Eix. I'm 
 using your own slang in speaking to you because 
 you Avouldn't comprehend decent language. It 
 isn't the first time you've been warned not to 
 make such a row here close to a lot of wounded 
 and dying men. jN'ow I mean business. Quit it 
 or 3^ou'U get into trouble." 
 
 "What authority have you got, I'd like to 
 know," is the sneering rejoinder. "You're noth- 
 ing but a hospital guard, and have no business 
 interfering with us. I ain't under no doctor's 
 orders. You go back to your stiffs and leave 
 live men alone." 
 
 The sergeant is about to speak, when the 
 bathers, glancing up at the bank, see him sudden- 
 ly face to his left and raise his hand to his shoul- 
 dered rifle in salute. The next instant a tall 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 15 
 
 young ofScer, leaning heavily on a cane and with 
 his sword-arm in a sling, appears at the sergeant's 
 side. 
 
 " Who is the man who questions your author- 
 ity?" he asks, in a voice singularly calm and 
 deliberate. 
 
 There is a moment's awkward silence. The 
 sergeant has the reluctance of his class to get- 
 ting a fellow-soldier into a scrape. The half- 
 dressed bathers stand uncomfortably about the 
 shore and look blankly from one to another. 
 The man addressed as Eix is busily occupied in 
 pulling on a pair of soldier brogans, and tying, 
 with great deliberation, the leather strings. 
 
 Casting his clear eyes over the group, as he 
 steps forward to the edge, the young officer 
 speaks again : 
 
 " You're here, are you, Eix. That leaves little 
 doubt as to the man even if I were not sure of 
 the voice. I could hear your brutal swearing, 
 sir, loud over the prayers the chaplain was say- 
 ing for the dead. Have you no sense of decency 
 ataU?" 
 
 " How'n hell did I know there was any pray- 
 in' going on ?" muttered Eix, bending his scowl- 
 ing brows down over his shoe and tugging sav- 
 agely at the string. 
 
16 A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 " What was that remark, Eix ?" asks the lieu- 
 tenant, his grasp tightening on the stick. 
 
 'No answer. 
 
 "Eix, drop that shoestring; stand attention, 
 and look at me," says the officer, very quietly, 
 but with setting teeth that no man fails to note. 
 Eix slowly and sullenly obeys. 
 
 " What was the remark you made just now ?" 
 is again the question. 
 
 '■ I said I didn't know they were praying," 
 growls Eix, finding he has to face the music. 
 
 " That sounds very little like your words, but 
 — let it go. You knew very well that men were 
 dying here right within earshot when you were 
 making the air blue Avith blasphemy, and when 
 better men svere reverently silent. It is the 
 third time you have been reprimanded in a week. 
 I shall see to it that you are sent back to your 
 company forthwith." 
 
 " ]Srot while Lieutenant Hollins is quartermas- 
 ter you won't," is the insubordinate reply, and 
 even the teamsters look scared as they glance 
 from the scowling, hanging face of Eix to the 
 clear-cut features of the officer, and mark the 
 change that sweeps over the latter. His e3^es 
 seem to flash fire, and his pallid face — thin with 
 
A WAK-TIME WOOING. 17 
 
 suffering and loss of blood — flushes despite his 
 physical weakness. His handsome mouth sets 
 like a steel-trap. 
 
 " Sergeant, get two of your men and put that 
 fellow under guard," he orders. ^'Stay where 
 you are, Eix, until they come for you." His 
 voice is low and stern ; he does not condescend 
 to raise it for such occasion, though there is a 
 something about it that tells the soldier-ear it 
 can ring with command where ring is needed. 
 
 "I'd like to know what I've done," mutters 
 Eix, angrily kicking at the pebbles at his feet. 
 
 No answer. The lieutenant has walked back 
 a pace and has seated himself on a little bench. 
 Another officer — a gray -haired and distinguished- 
 looking man, with silver eagles on his shoulders — 
 is rapidly nearing him and reaches the bank jast 
 in time to catch the next words. He could have 
 heard them farther back, for Eix is in a fury 
 now, and shouts aloud : 
 
 " If you knew your own interests — knew half 
 that I know about your affairs. Lieutenant Ab- 
 bot — you'd think twice before you ordered me 
 under arrest." 
 
 The lieutenant half starts from the bench, but 
 his self-control is strong. 
 
18 A WAR-TIME wooma. 
 
 " You are simply adding to your insubordina- 
 tioHj sir," he says, coldly. " Take your prisoner, 
 sergeant. You men are all witnesses to this lan- 
 guage." 
 
 And muttering much to himself, Teamster Eix 
 is marched slowly away, leaving an audience 
 somewhat mystified. The colonel stands look- 
 ing after him with a puzzled and astonished face ; 
 the men begin slowly to edge away, and then 
 Mr. Abbot wearily rises and — again he flushes 
 red when he finds his superior officer facing him 
 at not three paces distance. 
 
 " What on earth does that mean. Abbot ?" asks 
 the colonel. " Who is that man ?" 
 
 "One of the regimental teamsters, sir. He 
 came here with the wounded, and there appears 
 to have been no opportunity of sending him back 
 now that the regiment is over in the Shenandoah. 
 At all events, he has been allowed to loaf around 
 here for some time, and you probably heard him 
 swearing." 
 
 " I did ; that's what brought me out of the 
 house. But what does he mean by threatening 
 you ?" 
 
 " I have no idea, sir ; or, rather, I have an idea, 
 but the matter is of no consequence whatever, 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 19 
 
 and only characteristic of the man. He is a 
 scoundrel, I suspect, and I wonder that HoUins 
 has kept him so long." 
 
 " Do you know that IloUins hasn't turned up 
 yet«" 
 
 " So I heard this morning, colonel, and yet 
 you saw him the night of the battle, did you 
 not ?" 
 
 " N'ot the night after, but the night before. 
 We left him with the wagons when we marched 
 to the ford. I was knocked off my horse about 
 one in the afternoon, just north of the cornfield, 
 and they got me back to the wagons with this 
 left shoulder all out of shape — collar-bone bro- 
 ken ; and he wasn't there then, and hadn't been 
 seen since daybreak. Somebody said he was so 
 cut up when you were hit at the Gap. I didn't 
 know you were such friends." 
 
 " Well, we've known each other a long time — 
 were together at Harvard and moved in the 
 same set ; but there was never any intimacy, 
 colonel." 
 
 " I see, I see," says the older officer, reflective- 
 ly. " He was a stranger to me when I joined the 
 regiment and found him quartermaster. He was 
 Colonel Eaymond's choice, and you know that in 
 
20 A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 succeeding to his place I preferred to make no 
 changes. But I sa}^ to you now that I wish 
 I had. Ilollins has failed to come up to the 
 standard as a campaign quartermaster, and the 
 men have suffered through his neglect more than 
 once. Then he stayed behind when we marched 
 through Washington — a thing he never satisfac- 
 torily explained to me — and I had serious thoughts 
 of reUeving him at Frederick and appointing you 
 to act in his stead. 'Now the fortune of war has 
 settled both questions. Hollins is missing, and 
 3^ou are a captain or will be within the month. 
 Have you heard from Wendell ?" 
 
 '' His arm is gone, sir ; amputated above the 
 elbow; and he has decided to resign. Foster 
 commands the company, but I shall go forward 
 just as soon as the doctor will let me." 
 
 '• TTe'll go together. He says I can stand the 
 ride in ten days or two weeks, but neither of 
 your wounds has healed 3^et. How's the leg? 
 That must have been a narrow squeak." 
 
 " No bones were touched, sir. It was only 
 that I lost so much blood from the two. It was 
 the major who reported me to you as danger- 
 ously wounded, was it not ?" 
 
 '' Yes ; but when he left 3^ou there seemed to 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 21 
 
 be very little chance. You were senseless and 
 exhausted, and with two rifle bullets through 
 you what was to be expected ? He couldn't tell 
 that they happened to graze no artery, and the 
 surgeon was too busy elsewhere." 
 
 " It gave them a scare at home," said Abbot, 
 smiling ; " and my father and sister were on the 
 point of starting for Washington when I man- 
 aged to send word to them that the wounds were 
 shght. I want to get back to the regiment be- 
 fore they find out that they were comparatively 
 serious, because the family will be importuning 
 the Secretary of War to send me home on leave." 
 
 " And any man of your age, with such a home, 
 and a sweetheart, ought to be eager to go. Why 
 not go, Abbot ? There will be no more fighting 
 for months now; McClellan has let them slip. 
 You could have a fortnight in Boston as well as 
 not, and wear your captain's bars for the first 
 time. I fancy I know how proud Miss Winthrop 
 would be to sew them on for you." 
 
 The colonel is leaning against the trunk of a 
 spreading oak-tree as he speaks. The sun is 
 down, and twilight closing around them. Mr. 
 Abbot, who had somewhat wearily reseated him- 
 self on the rude wooden bench a moment before. 
 
22 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 has turned gradually away from the sjDeaker 
 during these words, and is gazing dow^n the beau- 
 tiful valley. Lights are beginning to twinkle 
 here and there in the distance, and the gleam of 
 one or two tiny fires tells of other camps not far 
 away. A dim mist of dust is rising from the 
 highroad close to the stream, and a quaint old 
 Maryland cabriolet, drawn by a venerable gray 
 horse, is slowly coming around the bend. The 
 soldiers grouped about the gateway, back at the 
 farmhouse, turn and look curiously towards the 
 hollow-sounding hoof-beats, but neither the col- 
 onel nor his junior officer seems to notice them. 
 Abbot's thoughts are evidently far away, and he 
 makes no reply. The surgeon who sanctions his 
 return to field duty yet a while would, to all ap- 
 pearances, be guilty of a professional blunder. 
 The lieutenant's face is pale and thin ; his hand 
 looks very fragile and fearfully white in contrast 
 with the bronze of his cheek. He leans his head 
 upon his hand as he gazes away into the distance, 
 and the colonel stands attentively regarding him. 
 He recalls the young fellow's gallant and spirited 
 conduct at Manassas and South Mountain; his 
 devotion to his soldier duty since the day he first 
 " reported." If ever an officer deserved a month 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 23 
 
 at home, in which to recuperate from the shock 
 of painful wounds, surely that officer was Abbot. 
 The colonel well knows with what pride and 
 blessing his revered old father would welcome 
 his coming — ^the joy it would bring to the house- 
 hold at his home. It is an open secret, too, that 
 he is engaged to Genevieve AYinthrop, and surely 
 a man must want to see the lady of his love. He 
 well remembers how she came with other ladies 
 to attend the presentation of colors to the regi- 
 ment, and how handsome and distinguished a 
 woman she looked. The Common was thronged 
 with Boston's " oldest and best " that day, and 
 Colonel Eaymond's speech of acceptance made 
 eloquent reference to the fact that of all the 
 grand old names that had been prominent in the 
 colonial history of the commonwealth not one 
 was absent from the muster-roll of the regiment 
 it was his high honor to command. The Ab- 
 bots and Winthrops had a history coeval with 
 that of the colony, and were long and intimately 
 acquainted. When, therefore, it was rumored 
 that Genevieve Winthrop was to marry Paul 
 Abbot " as soon as the war was over," peojDle 
 simply took it as a matter of course — they had 
 been engaged ever since they were trundled side 
 
24 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 by side in the primitive baby-carriages of the 
 earhest forties. This reflection leads tlie colonel 
 to the realization of the fact that they must be 
 very much of an age. Indeed, had he not heard 
 it whispered that Miss Winthrop was the senior 
 by nearly a year ? Abbot looked 3"oung, almost 
 boyish, when he was first commissioned in May 
 of '61, but he had aged rapidly, and was greatly 
 changed. He had not shaved since June, and a 
 beard of four months' growth had covered his 
 face. There are lines in his forehead, too, that 
 one could not detect a year before. "Why should 
 not the young fellow have a few weeks' leave, 
 thinks the colonel. The regiment is now in camp 
 over beyond Harper's Ferry, greatly diminished 
 in numbers and waiting for its promised recruits. 
 It is evident that McClellan has no intention of 
 attacking Lee again ; he is content with having 
 persuaded him to retire from Maryland. Noth- 
 ing wiU be so apt to build up the strength and 
 spirits of the new captain as to send him home 
 to be honized and petted as he deserves to be. 
 Doubtless all the languor and sadness the colonel 
 has noted in him of late is but the outward and 
 visible sign of a longing for home which he is 
 ashamed to confess. 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 25 
 
 " Abbot," he says again, suddenly and abruptly, 
 "I'm going back to Frederick this evening as 
 soon as the medical director is ready, and I'm 
 going to get him to give you a certificate on 
 which to base application for a month's leave. 
 Don't say no. I understand your scru23les, but 
 go you shaU. You richly deserve it and will be 
 all the better for it. ]S'ow your people won't 
 have to be importuning the War Department; 
 the leave shall come from this end of the line." 
 
 The heutenant seems about to turn again as 
 though to thank his commander when there 
 comes an interruption — the voice of the sergeant 
 of the guard close at hand. He holds forth a 
 card ; salutes, and says : 
 
 " A gentleman inquiring for Colonel Putnam." 
 
 And the gentleman is but a stejD or two be- 
 hind — an aging man with silvery hair and beard, 
 with lines of sorrow in his refined and scholarly 
 face, and fatigue and anxiety easily discernible 
 in his bent figure — a gentleman evidently, and the 
 colonel turns courteously to greet him. 
 
 " Doctor Warren !" he savs, interrogativel}^, as 
 he holds forth his hand. 
 
 "Yes, colonel, they told me you were about 
 going back to Frederick, and I desired to see you 
 
26 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 at once. I am greatly interested in a young offi- 
 cer of your regiment who is here, wounded ; he is 
 a college friend of my only son's, sir — Guthrie 
 Warren, killed at Seven Pines." The colonel 
 lifts his forage cap with one hand while the other 
 more tightly clasps that of the older man." I 
 hear that the reports were exaggerated and that 
 he is able to be about. It is Lieutenant Abbot." 
 
 "Judge for yourself, doctor," is the smiling 
 reply. " Here he sits." 
 
 "With an eager light in his eyes the old gen- 
 tleman steps forward towards Abbot, who is 
 slowly rising from the bench. He, too, court- 
 eously raises his forage cap. In a moment both 
 the doctor's hands have clasped the thin, white 
 hand that leans so heavily on the stick. 
 
 " My dear young friend !" he sa3^s. " My gal- 
 lant boy ! Thank God it is not what we feared !" 
 and his eyes are filling, his lip is trembling pain- 
 fully. 
 
 " You are very kind, sir," says Abbot, vaguely, 
 "I am doing quite well." Then he pauses. 
 There is such yearning and — something he can- 
 not fathom in the old man's face. He feels that 
 he is expected to say still more — that this is not 
 the welcome looked for. " I beg a thousand par- 
 
A WAE-TDIE WOOING. 27 
 
 dons, sir, perhaps I did not catch the name aright. 
 Did you say Doctor Warren ?" 
 
 "Certainly, B — Guthrie Tv^arren's father — 
 you remember?" and the look in the sad old 
 eyes is one of strange perplexity. "I cannot 
 thank you half enough for all you have written 
 of my boy." 
 
 And still there is no sign of recognition in 
 Abbot's face. He is courteous, sympathetic, but 
 it is all too evident that there is somethino: 
 grievously lacking. 
 
 "I fear there is some mistake," he gently says ; 
 " I have no recollection of knowin^: or writinir of 
 any one of that name." 
 
 " Mistake ! Good God ! How can there be ?" 
 is the gasping response. The tired old eyes are 
 ablaze with grief, bewilderment, and dread com- 
 mingled. "Surely this is Lieutenant Paul Ee- 
 vere Abbot — of the — th Massachusetts." 
 
 " It certainly is, doctor, but — " 
 
 " It surely is your photograph we have : sure- 
 ly you wrote to — to us all this last year — letter 
 after letter about my boy — my Guthrie." 
 
 There is an instant of silence that is almost 
 agonizing. The colonel stands hke one in a state 
 of shock. The old doctor, trembhng from head 
 
28 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 to foot, looks with almost piteous entreaty ; with 
 anguish and incredulity, and half - awakened 
 wrath, into the pale and distressed features of 
 the young soldier. 
 
 " I bitterly grieve to have to tell you, sir," is 
 the sorrowful answer, '' but I know no such name. 
 I have written no such letters." 
 
 Another instant, and the old man has dropped 
 heavily upon the bench, and buried his face in 
 his arms. But for the colonel he might have 
 fallen prone to earth. 
 
II. 
 
 An hour after sundown and the rattling old 
 cabriolet has two occupants as it drives back to 
 town. Colonel Putnam comes forth with the old 
 gentleman w^hom he had so tenderly conducted 
 to the farmhouse but a few moments after the 
 strange scene out on the bank, and is now his 
 escort to Frederick. The sergeant of the guard 
 has been besieged with questions, for several of 
 the men saw the doctor drop upon the bench and 
 w^ere aware of the melodramatic nature of the 
 meeting. Lieutenant Abbot w4th a face paler 
 than before, with a strange look of perplexity 
 and smouldering wrath about his handsome eyes, 
 has gone over to his own tent, w^here the surgeon 
 presently visits him. The colonel and his civihan 
 visitor are closeted together over half an hour, 
 and the latter looks more dead than alive, say 
 the men, as he feebly totters down the steps 
 clinging to the colonel's arm. 
 
 " What did you say was the name of the officer 
 
30 A WAK-TIME WOOmG. 
 
 Tvho was killed— his son ?" asks one of the guards 
 as he stands at the entrance to the tent. 
 
 " AYarren — Guthrie "Warren," answers the ser- 
 geant, brie%. "■ I don't know whether the old 
 man's crazy or not. He said the lieutenant had 
 been writing to him for months about his son, 
 and the lieutenant denied having written a line." 
 
 " He lied then, by !" comes a savage growl 
 
 from within the tent. " Where is the old man ? 
 Give me a look at him !" and the scowling face 
 of Eix makes its sudden appearance at the tent- 
 flop, peering forth into the fire-hght. 
 
 " Be quiet, Kix, and go back where you belong. 
 You've made more than enough trouble to-day," 
 is the sergeant's low-toned order. 
 
 " I tell 3^ou I only want to see the old man," 
 answers the teamster, struggling, "Don't you 
 threaten me with that bayonet, Drake," he 
 growls savagely at the sentry, who has thrown 
 himself in front of the opening. " It'll be the 
 worse for you fellows that you ever confined me, 
 no matter by whose order ; but as for that stuck- 
 up prig, by ! you'll see soon enough what'll 
 
 come of Ms ordering me into the guard-tent." 
 
 His voice is so hoarse and loud with anger 
 that the colonel's attention is attracted. He has 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 31 
 
 just seated Doctor Warren in the vehicle, and is 
 about to take his place by his side when Eix's 
 tirade bursts upon his ear. The words are only 
 partially distinguishable, but the colonel steps 
 promptly back. 
 
 "What is the matter with your prisoner, ser- 
 geant ? Is he drunk or crazy, that he persists in 
 this uproar ?" 
 
 " I don't think it either, sir," answers the ser- 
 geant ; while Eix, at sight of his commanding offi- 
 cer, pops his head back within the tent, and shuts 
 the narrow slit. " He's simply ugly and bent on 
 making trouble." 
 
 " Well, stop it ! If he utters another insubordi- 
 nate word, have him bucked and gagged at once. 
 He is disgracing the regiment, and I won't toler- 
 ate it. Do you understand ?" 
 
 "I do, sir." 
 
 The colonel turns abruptly away, while the 
 prisoner, knowing his man, keeps discreetly out 
 of sight, and correspondingly silent. At the 
 gate the older officer stops once more and calls 
 to a soldier who is standing near. 
 
 " Give my compliments to Lieutenant Abbot, 
 and say that I will be out here again to-morrow 
 afternoon. !N'ow, doctor, I am with you." 
 
32 A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 The old gentleman is leaning wearily back in 
 his corner of the cab ; a strange, stunned, lethargic 
 feehng seems to have come over him. His eyes 
 are fixed on vacancy, if anything, and the colonel's 
 attempt at cheeriness meets no response. As the 
 vehicle slowly rattles away he makes an effort, 
 rouses himself as it were from a stupor-like con- 
 dition, and abruptly speaks ; 
 
 " You tell me that — that you have seen Lieu- 
 tenant Abbot's mail all summer and spring and 
 never saw a — our postmark — Hastings?" 
 
 " I have seen his mail very often, and thought 
 his correspondents were all home people. I am 
 sure I would have noticed any letters coming 
 frequently in one handwriting, and his father's 
 is the only masculine superscription that was at 
 all regular. 
 
 " My letters— our home letters— were not often 
 addressed by me," hesitates the doctor. " The 
 postmark might have given you an idea. I had 
 not time — " but he breaks off, weakly. It is so 
 hard for him to prevaricate : and it is bitter as 
 death to tell the truth, now. And worse — worse ! 
 What is he to tell — how is he to tell her ? 
 
 The colonel speaks slowly and sadh', but with 
 earnest conviction : 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 33 
 
 "Xo words can tell you how I mourn the 
 heartlessness of this trick, doctor ; but you may 
 rest assured it is no doing of Abbot's. "What 
 earthly inducement could he have ? Think of it ! 
 a man of his family and connections— and char- 
 acter, too. Some scoundrel has simply borrowed 
 his name, possibly in the hope of bleeding you 
 for money. Did none of the letters ever suggest 
 embarrassments? It is most unfortunate that 
 you did not bring them with you. I know the 
 writing of every oflBcer and many of the men in 
 the regiment, and it would give me a clew with 
 which to work. Promise me you will send them 
 when you reach home." 
 
 The Doctor bows his head in deep dejection. 
 "What good wiU it do? I thought to find a 
 comrade of my boy's. Indeed ! it must be one 
 who knew him well !— and how can I desire to 
 bring to punishment one who appreciated my 
 son as this unknown writer evidently did. His 
 only crime seems to have been a hesitancy about 
 giving his own name." 
 
 " And a scoundrelly larceny of that of a better 
 
 man in every way. Xo, doctor. The honor of 
 
 my regiment demands that he be run down and 
 
 brought to justice ; and you must not withhold 
 
 3 
 
34 A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 the only proof with which we can reach him. 
 Promise me !" 
 
 " I — I will think. I am all unstrung now, my 
 dear sir ! Pray do not press me ! If it was not 
 Mr. Abbot, who could it have been ? Who else 
 could have known him ?" 
 
 '' Why, Doctor Warren, there are probably 
 fifty Harvard men in this one regiment — or were 
 at least," says the colonel, sadly, " up to a month 
 ago. Cedar Mountain, Bull Run, South Moun- 
 tain, and Antietam have left but a moiety. Most 
 of our officers are graduates of the old college, 
 and many a man was there. I dare say I could 
 have found a dozen who well knew your son. 
 In the few words I had with Abbot, he told me 
 he remembered that there had been some talk 
 among the officers last July after your son was 
 killed. Some one saw the name in the papers, 
 and said that it must have been Warren of the 
 class of '58, and our Captain Webster, who was 
 killed at Manassas, was in that class and knew 
 him well. Abbot said he remembered him, by 
 sight, as a sophomore would know a senior, but 
 had never spoken to him. Anybody hearing all 
 the talk going on at the time we got the news 
 of Seven Pines could have woven quite a college 
 history out of it — and somebody has." 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 35 
 
 " Ah, colonel ! There is still the fact of the 
 photograph, and the letters that were written 
 about Guthrie all last winter — long before Seven 
 Pines." 
 
 The colonel looks utterly dejected, too ; he 
 shakes his head, mournfully. " That troubles 
 Abbot as much as it does me. Fields, gallant 
 fellow, was our adjutant then, and he and Ab- 
 bot were close friends. He could hardly have 
 had a hand in anything beyond the photograph 
 and letter which, you tell me, were sent to the 
 Soldier's Aid Society in town. I remember the 
 young fellows were having quite a lot of fun 
 about their ITavelocks when we lay at Edwards's 
 Ferry — but Fields was shot dead, almost the 
 first man, at Cedar Mountain, and of the thirty- 
 five officers we had when we crossed the !Poto- 
 mac the first time, only eleven are with the — th 
 to-day. Abbot, who was a junior second heu- 
 tenant then, is a captain now, by rights, and 
 daily expecting his promotion. I showed you 
 several letters in his hand, and they, you admit, 
 are utterly unhke the ones you received. In- 
 deed, doctor, it is impossible to connect xibbot 
 with it in any way." 
 
 The doctor's face is covered by his hands. In 
 
36 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 ten minutes or less he must be at Tier side. What 
 can he tell his little girl? "What shall he say? 
 What possible, probable story can man invent 
 to cover a case so cruel as this ? He hardly hears 
 the colonel's words. He is thinking — thinking 
 with a bursting heart and whirling brain. For 
 a time all sense of the loss of his only son seems 
 deadened in face of this undreamed-of, this al- 
 most incredible shadow that has come to blight 
 the sweet and innocent life that is so infinitely 
 dear to him. What can he say to Bessie when 
 he meets those beautiful, pleading, trusting, anx- 
 ious eyes ? She has borne up so bravely, silent- 
 ly, patiently. Their journey has been trjang 
 and full of fatigue, but once at Frederick he has 
 left her in the hands of a sympathetic woman, 
 the Vv'ife of the proprietor of the only tavern in 
 which a room could be had, and, promising to 
 return as soon as he could see the lieutenant, he 
 has gone away on his quest with hopeful heart. 
 A soldier claiming to be of the — th Massachu- 
 setts told them that very morning at the Balti- 
 more station that Mr. Abbot was well enough 
 to be up and about. It is barely nine o'clock 
 now. In less than an hour there will be a train 
 going back. AIL he can think of is that they 
 
A WAK-TBIE WOOING. 37 
 
 must go — go as quick as possible. They have 
 nothing now to keep them here, and he has one 
 secret to guard from all — his little girls'. Xo 
 one must know, none suspect that. In the bit- 
 terness of desolation, still stunned and bewil- 
 dered by the cruelty of the blow that has come 
 upon them, his mind is clear on that point. If 
 possible no one, except those people at the tav- 
 ern, must know she was with him. Kone must 
 suspect — above all — none must suspect the bit- 
 ter truth. It would crush her like a bruised and 
 trodden flower. 
 
 " If — if it had been a correspondence where 
 there was a woman in the case," begins the col- 
 onel again — and the doctor starts as though 
 stung, and his wrinkled hands wring each other 
 under the heavy travelling-shawl he wears — " I 
 could understand the thing better. Quite a num- 
 ber of romantic correspondences have grown up 
 between our soldiers and young girls at home 
 through the medium of these mittens and things ; 
 they seem to have lost their old significance. 
 But you give me to understand that — that there 
 was none ?" 
 
 " The letters were solely about my son, aU 
 that ever came to me," said the doctor, nervously. 
 
38 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 " That seems to complicate the matter. If it 
 were a mere flirtation by letter, such as is occa- 
 sionally going on, then somebody might have 
 borrowed his name and stolen his photograph; 
 but I don't see how he could have secured the 
 rephes — the girl's letters — in such a case. Xo. 
 As you say, doctor, that wasn't apt to be the so- 
 lution, though I'm at a loss to account for the 
 letters that came from you. They were addressed 
 to Lieutenant Abbot, camp of the — th Massa- 
 chusetts, you tell me, and Abbot declares he has 
 never heard from any one of your name, or had 
 a letter from Hastings. He would be the last 
 man, too, to get into a correspondence with a 
 woman — for he is engaged." 
 
 The doctor starts again as though stung a 
 second time. Was there not in one of those let- 
 ters a paragraph over which his sweet daughter 
 had blushed painfully as she strove to read it 
 aloud? Did it not speak of an entanglement 
 that once existed ; an affair in which his heart 
 had never been enlisted, but where family con- 
 siderations and parental wishes had conspired 
 to bring about a temporary '' understanding " ? 
 The cabriolet is bouncing about on the cobble- 
 stones of the old-fashioned street, and the doctor 
 
A WAK-TIME WOOING. 39 
 
 is thankful for the physical jar. Another mo- 
 ment and they draw up at the door of the old 
 Maryland hostelry, and the colonel steps out 
 and assists his companion to alight. 
 
 " Let me take you to your room now, doctor ; 
 then I'll have onr staff surgeon come over and 
 see you. It has been a shock which would break 
 a younger man — " 
 
 But the old gentleman has nerved himself for 
 the struo:o:le. First and foremost — no one must 
 follow him to his room — none suspect the trial 
 there awaiting him. He turns sadly, but with 
 decision. 
 
 ^•' Colonel, I cannot thank you now as 3^ou de- 
 serve ; once home, I will write, but now what I 
 need is absolute rest a little while. I am stunned, 
 bewildered. I must think this out, and my best 
 plan is to get to sleep first. Forgive me, sir, for 
 my apparent discourtesy, and do not take it 
 amiss if I say that for a few moments — for the 
 present — I should like to be alone. ^Ye — we will 
 meet again, sir, if it rest with me, and I will 
 write. Good-night, colonel. Good-night, sir." 
 
 And he turns hurriedly away. For a moment 
 the soldier stands uncertain what to do. Then 
 he enters the hallway determined to bespeak the 
 
40 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 best offices of the host in behalf of his stricken 
 friend. There is a broad stairway some distance 
 back in the hall, and up this he sees the doctor 
 slowly laboring. He longs to go to his assist- 
 ance, but stands irresolute, fearing to offend. 
 The old gentleman nears the top, and is almost 
 on the landing above, when a door is suddenly 
 opened, a light, quick step is heard, and in a.n 
 instant a tall, graceful girl, clad in deep black — 
 a girl whom the colonel sees is young, beautiful, 
 and very pale — springs forward into view, places 
 her hands on the old man's shoulders, and looks 
 eagerly, imploringly, into his face. What she 
 asks, what she says, the colonel cannot hear; 
 but another moment solves all doubt as to his 
 proper course. He sees her clasped to the doc- 
 tors breast ; he sees them clinging to each other 
 one instant, and then the father, with sudden 
 rally, bears her pale and probably fainting from 
 his sight. A door shuts with muffled slam, and 
 they are gone ; and with the intuition of a gen- 
 tleman Colonel Putnam realizes why his proffer 
 of services would now be out of place. 
 
 " And so there is a woman in the case, after 
 all," he thinks to himself as he steps forth into 
 the cool evening air. "And it is for her sake 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 41 
 
 the good old man shrinks from dragging the 
 matter into the light of day — his daughter, 
 probably ; and some scoundrel has been at work, 
 and in my regiment." 
 
 The colonel grinds his teeth and clinches his 
 fists at this reflection. He is a husband and 
 father himself, and now he understands some 
 features in the old doctor's trouble which had 
 puzzled him before. He strolls across the street 
 to the sidewalk under the quaint old red-brick, 
 dormer- windowed houses where lights are still 
 gleaming, and where groups of people are chat- 
 ting and laughing in the pleasant air. Many of 
 them are in the rough uniform of the army 
 — teamsters, drivers, and slightly wounded sol- 
 diers out on pass from the neighboring field hos- 
 pitals. The old cabriolet is being trundled off 
 to some neighboring stable after a brief confab- 
 ulation between the driver thereof and the land- 
 lord of the tavern, and the colonel is about hail- 
 ing and tendering the Jehu another job for the 
 morrow, when he sees that somebody else is 
 before him; and, bending down from his seat, 
 the driver is talking with a man who has come 
 out from the shadow of a side porch. There is 
 but httle light in the street, and the colonel has 
 
42 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 turned on reaching the curb, and is seeking among 
 the windows across the way for one which may 
 possibly prove to be the young lady's. He is 
 interested in the case more than ever now, but 
 the windows give no sign. Some are lighted, 
 and occasional shadows flit across them, but none 
 that are familiar. Suddenly he hears a sound 
 that brings him back to himself — the tramp of 
 marching feet, and the sudden clash of arms as 
 they halt ; a patrol from the provost-marshal's 
 guard comes quickly around a corner from the 
 soft dust of a side street, and the non-commis- 
 sioned officers are sharply halting all neighbor- 
 ing men in uniform, and examining their passes. 
 Several parties in army overcoats shuffle uneasily 
 up the street, only to fall into the clutches of a 
 companion patrol that pops up as suddenly around 
 the next corner beyond. '' Eounding up the 
 stragglers," thinks the colonel, with a quiet smile 
 of approval, and, like the soldier he is, he finds 
 time to look on a moment and watch the man- 
 ner in which the work is done. The patrol seems 
 to have possessed itself of both sides of the 
 street at the same instant, and " spotted " every 
 man in blue. These are bidden to stand until 
 their papers are examined by the brace of young 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 43 
 
 officers who appear upon the scene, belted and 
 sashed, and bearing small lanterns. Kor are 
 uniforms alone subject to scrutiny. Ever since 
 Second Bull-Eun there has been much strao-o-lino- 
 m the army, and not a little desertion ; and though 
 a fortnight has passed since Antietam was fought, 
 the proYost-marshars men have not yet finished 
 scouring the country, and a sharp lookout is kept 
 for deserters. Those civilians who can readily 
 estabhsh their identity as old residents of the 
 town have no trouble. Occasionally a man is 
 encountered whom nobody seems to know, and, 
 despite their protestations, two of those charac- 
 ters have been gathered in by the patrol, and are 
 now on their way to the office. The colonel 
 hears their mingled complaint and blasphemy as 
 they are marched past him by a file of the guard, 
 
 and then turns to the nearest of the officers— 
 "Lieutenant, did you note the man who ran 
 
 back from where that cab is standino- ?" 
 
 The officer of the patrol looks quickly up from 
 
 the " pass " he is examining by the light of his 
 
 lantern, and at sight of Colonel Putnam his hand 
 
 goes up to the visor of his cap. 
 
 " ]^o, colonel ; was there one ? Which way did 
 
 he go ?" 
 
44 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 " Straight back to the shadow of the porch ; 
 just a minute ago. What attracted my attention 
 to him was the fact that he was deep in talk with 
 the driver when your men rounded the corner, 
 and did not seem to see or hear them. Then I 
 turned to look at that corporal yonder, as he 
 crossed to halt a man on the east side, and at 
 sound of his voice this fellow at the cab started 
 suddenly and ran, crouching in the shadow, back 
 to the side of the tavern there. It looks suspi- 
 cious.'^ 
 
 " Come with me, two of you," says the lieu- 
 tenant, quickly, and, followed by a brace of his 
 guard, he crosses the street, and his lantern is 
 seen dancing around the dark gallery. The colo- 
 nel, meantime, accosts the driver : 
 
 *'What took that man away so suddenly? 
 Who is he f 
 
 " I don't know, sir. I never seen him afore. 
 He stopped me right here to ask who the gen- 
 tleman was I was drivin'. I told him your name, 
 'cause I heard it, and he started then kinder queer, 
 but came back and said 'twas the citizen he meant ; 
 and the boss here had just told me that was Doc- 
 tor Warren, and that his daughter Vv^as up-stairs. 
 Then the feller jumped like he was scared ; the 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 45 
 
 guard had just come round the corner, and when 
 he saw them he just put for the barn." 
 
 ''Is there a barn back there?" asks the colo- 
 neL The driver nods assent. A moment's si- 
 lence, and then the colonel continues : " I want 
 to see you in the morning. Wait for me here at 
 the hotel about nine o'clock. Meantime say noth- 
 ing about this, and you'll lose nothing by holding 
 your tongue. What was his face like — this man 
 I mean ?" 
 
 " Couldn't see it, sir. It was dark, and he had 
 a beard all over it, and wore a black -felt hat — 
 soft ; and he had a cloak something like yours, 
 that was wrapped all over his shoulders." 
 
 "Eemember, I want to see you here in the 
 morning ; and hold your tongue till then." 
 
 "With that the colonel hastens off on the trail 
 of the searching-party. He sees the lantern glim- 
 mering among some dark buildings beyond the 
 side-gallery, and thither he follows. To all ap- 
 pearances the spot is almost a cul de sac of wood- 
 en barns, board-fences, and locked doors, except 
 for a gateway leading to the yard behind the 
 tavern. The search has revealed no trace of 
 the skulker, and the lieutenant holds his lamp 
 aloft as he examines the gate and peers over the 
 
46 A wAE-TiME wooma. 
 
 picket fence that stands barely breast-high and 
 bars them out. 
 
 "May have gone in here,'- he mutters. " Come 
 on!" 
 
 But the search here only reveals half a dozen 
 avenues of escape. The man could have gone 
 back through several doors into the building it- 
 self, or eastward, through some dilapidated yards, 
 into a street that was uninfested by patrols, and 
 dark as the bottom of a well. "It is useless to 
 waste further time," sa3^s the lieutenant, who 
 presently rejoins the colonel behind the tavern, 
 and finds him staring up at the rear windows. 
 To him the young officer, briefly and in low 
 tone, reports the result of his search. 
 
 " I presume there is nothing else I can do just 
 here, is there, colonel?" he asks. The colonel 
 shakes his head. 
 
 " j^othing that I can think of, unless you look 
 through the halls and oflice." 
 
 "We are going there. Shall I light you back 
 to the street ?" 
 
 " Er — ah — no ! I think I'll wait here — just a 
 moment, " says the colonel, and, marvelling not 
 a little, the subaltern leaves him. 
 
 ISTo sooner is he gone, followed by his men, 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 4:7 
 
 than Colonel Putnam steps back to the side of 
 an old chain-pump that he has found in the course 
 of his researches, and here he leans for support. 
 Though his shoulder has set in shape, and is do- 
 ing fairly well, he has had two rather long drives 
 this day, and one fatiguing experience ; he is be- 
 ginning to feel wearied, but is not yet ready to 
 go to his bed. That was Doctor AYarren's shad- 
 ow, bent and feeble, that he saw upon the yellow 
 light of the window-shade a moment ago, and he 
 is worried at the evidence of increasing weakness 
 and sorrow. Even while he rests there, irreso- 
 lute as to what he ought to do — whether to go 
 and insist on his right, as a man and a father, to 
 be of some comfort to another in his sore trial, 
 or to respect that father's evident wish to con- 
 ceal his daughter's interest in the trouble that 
 had come upon them — he is startled to see an- 
 other shadow, hers ; and this shadow is in hat 
 and veil. Whither can they be going at this hour 
 of the night ? 'Tis nearly ten o'clock. Yes, sure- 
 ly ; there is the doctor's bent shadow once more, 
 and he has thrown on an outer coat of some kind. 
 Then they are going back by the night train. 
 They shrink from having it known that she was 
 here at all ; that she was in any way interested. 
 
48 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 And the doctor wants to make his escape with- 
 out the pang of seeing or being seen again by 
 those who witnessed his utter shock and distress 
 this day. So be it! thinks the colonel. God 
 knows I would not intrude on the sanctity of 
 his sorrow or her secret. Later, when they are 
 home again, the matter can be looked into so far 
 as getting specimens of this skulking felon's hand- 
 writing is concerned, and no one need know, 
 when he is unearthed, that it was a young girl 
 he was luring under the name of another man. 
 So be it! They may easily elude all question 
 now. Night and the sacred mantle of their evi- 
 dent suffering will shield them from observation 
 or question. 
 
 The colonel draws deeper into the shade of the 
 barn. It seems a sacrilege now to be thus spy- 
 ing upon their movements, and he is ashamed of 
 the impulse that kept him there. He decides to 
 leave the j^ard and betake himself to his lodgings, 
 when he is suddenly aware of a dark object ris- 
 ing from under the back porch. Stealthily and 
 slowly the figure comes crouching out into the 
 open yard, coming towards where the colonel 
 stands in the shadow of the black out-buildings ; 
 and then, when close by the pump where he stood 
 
A WAR-TniE WOOING. 49 
 
 but a moment before, it rises to its full height, 
 and draws a long breath of relief. It is a man 
 in a soft black-felt hat, with a heavy, dark beard, 
 and wearing one of the biggest of the great cir- 
 cular capes that make a part of the officer's over- 
 coat, and are most frequently worn without the 
 coat itself, unless the weather be severe. 
 
 The colonel is unarmed ; his pistols are over at 
 the room he temporarily occupies in town ; he is 
 suffering from recent injury, and one arm is prac- 
 tically good for nothing, but he loses no time in 
 lamenting these points. The slight form of the 
 girl approaches the window at this very instant 
 as though to pick up some object on the sill, then 
 disappears, and the hght vanishes from the room. 
 From the figure at the pump he hears a stifled 
 exclamation of surprise, but no articulate word ; 
 and before the figure has time to recover he 
 stands close beside it and his voice breaks the 
 stillness of the night. 
 
 " Your name, sir, and your regiment ? I am 
 Colonel Putnam." 
 
 He has laid his hand on the broad shoulder un- 
 der the cloak and plainly feels the start and thrill 
 with which his words are greeted. He even 
 
 fancies he can hear the stifled word " God !" 
 4 
 
50 ' A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 The man seems stricken dumb, and more sharply 
 the colonel begins his stern query a second time, 
 but gets no farther than ^' Your name," when, 
 with a violent wrench, the stranger is free ; he 
 makes a spring, trips over some loose rubbish, 
 and goes crashing to earth. 
 
 " The guard !" yells the colonel, as he throws 
 himself upon him, but the man is up in an in- 
 stant, hurls off his antagonist, and, this time, leaps 
 off into the darkness in comparative safety. But 
 he has left a clew behind. As the soldiers of the 
 provost guard come running around into the 
 yard and the windows are thrown up and eager 
 heads peer forth in excited inquiry. Colonel 
 Putnam raises to the light of the first lantern a 
 hairy, bushy object that he holds in his hand ; it 
 is a false beard, and a big one. 
 
 '• By Jove !" says the heutenant. " It must be 
 some rebel spy." 
 
III. 
 
 Daybeeak, and the broad expanse of valley 
 opening away to the south is just lighting up in 
 chill, half -reluctant fashion, as though the night 
 had been far too short or the revels of yester-even 
 far too long. There is a swish and plash of rapid 
 running waters close at hand, and here and there, 
 where the stream is dammed by rocky ridge, the 
 wisps of fog rise slowly into air, mingling with 
 and adding to the prevailing tone of chilly gray. 
 Through these fog-Tv^eaths there stands revealed 
 a massive barrier of wooded and rock-ribbed 
 heights, towering aloft and shutting out the 
 eastern sky, all their crests a-swim in floating 
 cloud, all their rugged foothills dotted with the 
 tentage of a sleeping army. Here, close at hand 
 on the banks of the rushing river, a sentry paces 
 slowly to and fro, the dew dripping from his 
 shouldered musket and beading on his cartridge- 
 box. The collar of his light -blue overcoat is 
 muffled up about his ears, and his forage cap is 
 
52 A wAE-TiME wooma. 
 
 pulled far down over his blinking eyes. As he 
 paces southward he can see along the stream-bed 
 camps and pale-blue ghosts of sentries pacing as 
 ^yearily as himself in the wan and cheerless light. 
 Trees are dripping with heavy charge of moist- 
 ure that the faintest whiff of morning air sends 
 showering on the bank beneath ; and a little del- 
 uge of the kind coming suddenly down upon 
 this particular sentry as he strolls under the 
 spreading branches serves to augment the ex- 
 pression of general weariness and disgust, which 
 by no means distinguishes him from his more 
 distant fellows, but evokes no further comment 
 than a momentary huddling of head and shoul- 
 ders into the depths of the blue collar, and the 
 briefest possible mention of the last place of all 
 others one would be apt to connect with cooUng 
 showers. Facing about and slouching along the 
 other way the sentry sees a picture that, had he 
 poetry or love of the grand and beautiful in his 
 soul, would a thousand-fold compensate him for 
 his enforced vigil. Every moment, as the timid 
 light grows bolder with its reinforcement from 
 the east, there opens a vista before his eyes that 
 few men could look upon unmoved. To his right 
 the brawling Shenandoah, swift and swirling, goes 
 
A WAK-TIME WOOmG. 53 
 
 rushing through its last rapids, as though bent on 
 having one final "hurrah" on its own account 
 before losing its identity in the welcoming waters 
 of the Potomac. Hemmino^ it in to the rig-ht — 
 the east — and shutting out the crimson dawn are 
 the massive bulwarks of the Loudon Heierhts 
 climbing towards the changing heavens. West- 
 ward, less bold and jagged, but still a mighty 
 barrier in almost any other companionship, are 
 the sister heights of Bolivar, scarred and seamed 
 with earth-work and rifle-pit, and bristling with 
 ahattls and battery. Down the intervening val- 
 ley plunges the Shenandoah and winds the mac- 
 adam of the highway, its dust subdued for the time 
 being; while, straight away to the front, mist- 
 wreathed at their base from the sleeping waters 
 of the winding canal, cloud-capped at their lofty 
 summit from the bank of vapor that hovers along 
 the entire range, rock-ribbed, precipitous, mag- 
 nificent in silent, stubborn strength, the tower- 
 ing heights of Maryland span the scene from 
 east to west, and stand superb, the background 
 to the picture. All as yet is sombre in tone, 
 black, dark green, and brown and gray. The 
 mist hangs heavy over everything, and the twin- 
 kle of an occasional camp-fire is but the sodden 
 
54 A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 glow of ember whose life is long since burned out. 
 But, see ! Through the deep, jagged rift where 
 runs the Potomac, along the rock-bound gorge 
 through which in ages past the torrent burst its 
 way, there creeps a host of tiny shafts of color — 
 the skirmishers, the edaireurs, of the irresistible 
 array of which they form but the foremost line 
 — the coming army of the God of Day. Here 
 behind the frowning Loudon no such light troops 
 venture ; but, skilled riders as they are, 
 
 "Spurring the winds of the morning," 
 
 they pour through the rocky gap, and now they 
 find their lodgment on every salient of the grim 
 old wall beyond the broad Potomac. Here, there, 
 everywhere along the southern face are glinting 
 shafts or points on rocks or ridge. Seam and 
 shadow take on a purplish tinge. The hanging 
 mass of cloud beams with answering smile upon 
 its earthward face as gold and crimson and roy- 
 al purple mantle the billowy cheeks. I^ow the 
 rocks light up with warmer glow, and long, hori- 
 zontal shadows are thrown across the hoary cur- 
 tain, and slowly the gorgeous cloud -crests lift 
 away and more and more the heights come 
 gleaming into view. Now there are breaks and 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 55 
 
 caverns here and there through the shifting 
 vapors, and hurried little glimpses of the cliffs 
 beyond, and these cloud-caves grow and widen, 
 and broad sheets of yellow light seem warming 
 up the dripping wall and changing into mist the 
 clinging beads of dew. And now, far aloft, the 
 fringe of firs and stunted oaks is seen upon the 
 summit as the sun breaks through the shimmer- 
 ing veil, and there, fluttering against the blue of 
 heaven, circled in fleecy frame of vapor, glowing, 
 waving in the sky, all aflame with tingeing sun- 
 shine, there leaps into view the " Flag of the Free,'- 
 crowning the IMaryland heights and shining far 
 up the guarded valley of the Shenandoah. A 
 puff of smoke juts out from the very summit 
 across the stream ; the sentry eyes it with a sigh 
 of reviving interest in life ; five, ten, twenty sec- 
 onds he counts before the boom of the salute 
 follows the sudden flash and wakes the echoes of 
 the opposite cliffs. 
 
 Listen ! Up on the westward heights, some- 
 where among those frowning batteries, a bugle 
 rings out upon the air — 
 
 "I can't get 'em up, I can't get 'em up, 
 I can't get 'em up in the mo — orning," 
 
 it merrily sings, and the rocks of Loudon echo 
 
56 A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 back the spirited notes. Farther up the valley a 
 distant drum rattles, and then, shrill and pierc- 
 ing, with hoarse, rolling accompaniment, the lifes 
 of some infantry regiment burst into the lively 
 trills of the reveille. Another camp takes up the 
 strain, off to the left. Then the soft notes of the 
 cavalry trumpets come floating up from the water- 
 side, and soon, regiment after regiment, the field- 
 music is all astir and the melody of the initial 
 effort becomes one ringing, blaring, but most ef- 
 fectually waking discord. Loud in the nearest 
 camp the little drummers and fifers are thumping 
 away at " Bonnie Lass o' Gawrie." Over by the 
 turnpike the rival corps of the — th Connecticut 
 are pounding out the cheerful strains in which 
 Ireland's favored bard declared he would " Mourn 
 the hopes that leave," little dreaming that Brit- 
 ish fifes and drums would make it soldier music 
 — ''two-four time" — all the world over. Half- 
 way across the valley, where the Bolivars nar- 
 row it, an Ohio regiment is announcing to the 
 rest of the army, within earshot, that it wakes to 
 the realization that its " JST ame it is Joe Bowers," 
 tooted and hammered in " six-eight time " through 
 the lines of " A " tents ; and a Kew York Zouave 
 organization turns out of its dew-dripping blank- 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 57 
 
 ets and cordially blasphemes the musicians who 
 are expressing as their conception of the regi- 
 mental sentiment, '' Oh, Willie, we have missed 
 you." And so the chorus goes up and down 
 the Shenandoah, and the time-worn melodies 
 of the earhest war -days — the dsijs before we 
 had '' Tramp, tramp," and " Marching through 
 Georgia" (which we never did have in Virginia), 
 and even lackadaisical "When this crew-el war 
 is o-vor," are the matins of the soldiers of the 
 Union Army. 
 
 At last the uproar dies away. Here in the 
 neighboring camp the sergeants are rapidly call- 
 ing the rolls, and some companies are so reduced 
 in number that no call over is necessary — a sim- 
 ple glance at the baker's dozen of war-worn, grish^ 
 looking men is sufficient to assure the sergeant of 
 the presence of every one left to be accounted for. 
 In this brigade they are not turning out under 
 arms just now, as is the custom farther to the 
 front. It has been cruelly punished in the late 
 battle, and is accorded a resting-spell pending the 
 arrival of recruits from home. One first sergeant, 
 who still wears the chevrons of a corporal, in 
 making his report to his company commander 
 briefly says : 
 
58 A WAE-TniE WOOING. 
 
 " Eix came back last niglit, sir ; returned to 
 duty with his company." 
 
 '' Hello, Hunnewell !" sings out the officer ad- 
 dressed, calling to the new adjutant, who is hur- 
 riedly passing by. '' What does this mean ? Are 
 the wagons back?" 
 
 '•IS^o," says the adjutant, halting short with 
 the willingness of a man who has news to tell. 
 " Some of the provost-marshal's men came up 
 last night from Point of Eocks and fetched Eix 
 with them, and letters from the colonel. Both he 
 and Abbot made complaint of the man's con- 
 duct, and had him relieved and sent up here un- 
 der guard. Heard about Abbot ?" 
 
 " IS'o— what ?" 
 
 "He's appointed major and assistant adjutant- 
 general, and goes to staff duty ; and the colonel 
 vnll be back this week." 
 
 "Does he say who's to be quartermaster?" 
 asks the lieutenant with eager interest, and for- 
 getting to record his congratulations on the good- 
 fortune that has befallen his regimental comrade. 
 
 " ISTo," says Mr. Hunnewell, with some hesi- 
 tancy. " There's a hitch there. To begin with, 
 does anybody know that a vacancy exists ?" 
 
 "Why, Hollins has been missing now ever 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 59 
 
 Since the 18th of September, and he mnst be 
 either dead or taken prisoner." 
 
 The adjutant looks around him, and, seeing 
 other officers and men within earshot, though 
 general!}^ occupied with their morning ablutions, 
 he comes closer to his comrade of the line and 
 the two who have joined him, and speaks with 
 lowered voice. 
 
 " There is some investigation going on. The 
 colonel sent for such books and papers of Hol- 
 lins's as could be found about camp, and an order 
 came last night for Captain Dodge to report at 
 once at Frederick. He was better acquainted 
 with Hollins than any one else — among the offi- 
 cers anyway — and he knew something about 
 his whereabouts the other times he was missing. 
 This makes the third." 
 
 " Three times and out, say I," answers one of 
 the party. " I heard some talk at division head- 
 quarters when I was up there last night : the 
 general has a letter that Colonel Ea}Tnond wrote 
 soon after he was exchanged, but if it be any- 
 thing to Hollins's discredit I wonder he did not 
 write to Putnam. He wouldn't want his succes- 
 sor to be burdened with a quartermaster whom 
 he knew to be — well — shady, so to speak." 
 
60 A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 " That's the one thing I never understood 
 about Abbot," says the caj^tain, sipping the cup 
 of coffee that a negro servant had just brought 
 to him. " Some more of that, Belshazzar ; these 
 gentlemen will join me. How he, who is so 
 blue-blooded, seems to be on such terms of inti- 
 macy with HoUins is what I mean," he explains. 
 "It was through him that Hollins was taken 
 into companionship from the very start. He 
 really is responsible for him. They were class- 
 mates, and no one else knew anything of him — 
 except vaguely." 
 
 " Now there's just where you wrong Abbot, 
 captain," answers Mr. Hunnewell, very promptly, 
 " and I want to hit that nail on the head right 
 here. I thought just as you did, for a while ; but 
 got an inkling as to the real state of the case 
 some time ao:o. It wasn't Abbot who endorsed 
 him at aU, except by silence and sufferance, you 
 may say. Hollins was at his tent day and night 
 — always following him up and actually forcing 
 .himself upon him ; and one night, after Hollins 
 had that first scrape, and came back under a 
 cloud and went to Abbot first thing to intercede 
 with the colonel, I happened to overhear a piece 
 of conversation between them. Abbot was just 
 
A WAR-TIIVIE WOOING. 61 
 
 as cold and distant as man could possibly be. 
 He told him plainly that he considered his course 
 discreditable to the whole regiment, and especial- 
 ly annoying to him, because, said Abbot, ' You 
 have virtually made me your sponsor with every 
 man who showed a disposition to repel you.' 
 Then Hollins made some reply which I did not 
 fully catch, but Abbot was angry, and anybody 
 could have heard his answer. He told HoUins 
 that if it had not been for the relationship to 
 which he alluded he could not have tolerated 
 him at all, but that he must not draw on it too 
 often. Then Holhns came out, and I heard him 
 muttering to himself. He fawned on Abbot 
 while he was in the tent, but he was scowlinof 
 and gritting his teeth when he left ; and I heard 
 him cursing sotto voce, until he suddenly caught 
 sight of me. Then he was all joviaUty, and took 
 me by the arms to tell me how ' Paul, old bo}", 
 has been raking me over the coals. We were 
 chums, you know, and he thinks a heap of me, 
 and don't want the home people to know of my 
 getting on a spree,' was the way he explained it. 
 ;N'ow, if you remember, it was Hollins who was 
 perpetually alluding to his intimacy with the 
 Abbots. Paul himself never spoke of it. What 
 
62 A WAE-TIME WOOESTG. 
 
 Palfrey once told me in Washington may explain 
 it ; he said that Hollins was distantly related to 
 the Winthrops, and that there was a time when 
 he and Miss Winthrop were quite inseparable — 
 you know what a handsome fellow he was when 
 he first joined us ?" 
 
 " Well," answers the captain, with the half- 
 way and reluctant withdrawal of the average 
 man who has made an unjust statement, "it 
 may be as you say, but all the same it was Ab- 
 bot's tacit endorsement or tolerance that ena- 
 bled Holhns to hold a place among us as long as 
 he has. If he has been sheltered under the shad- 
 ow of Abbot's wing, and turns out to be a vaga- 
 bond, so much the worse for the wing. All the 
 same, I'm glad of Abbot's promotion. Wonder 
 whose staff he goes on?" 
 
 " Lieutenant," says a corporal, saluting the 
 group and addressing his company commander, 
 "Rix says he would like to speak with the major 
 before breakfast. He was for going to head- 
 quarters alone just now, but I told him he must 
 wait until I had seen you." 
 
 The lieutenant glances quickly around. There, 
 not ten paces away — his forage cap on the back 
 of his head, his hulking shoulders more bent than 
 
A WAK-TIME WOOING. 63 
 
 ever, hands in his pockets and a scowl on his 
 face — stands, or rather slouches, Kix. He looks 
 unkempt, dirty, determinedly ugly, and very 
 much as though he had been in liquor most of 
 the week, and was sober now only through ad- 
 verse circumstances over which he had no control. 
 
 " What do you want of the major, Kix ?" de- 
 mands the lieutenant, with military directness. 
 
 "Well, I want him — 'n that's enough," says 
 the ex-teamster, with surly, defiant manner, and 
 never changing his attitude. " I want t' know 
 what I'm sent back here for, like a criminal." 
 
 " Because you look most damnably like one," 
 says the officer, impulsively, and then, ashamed 
 of having said such a thing to one who is power- 
 less to resent, he tempers the wrath with which 
 he would rebuke the man's insubordination, and, 
 after an instant's pause, speaks more gently. 
 
 " Come here, Eix. Stand up like a man and 
 tell me your trouble. If you have been wronged 
 in any way I'll see that you are righted ; but 
 recollect what and where you are." 
 
 " I'm a man, by God ! Good as any of you a 
 year ago ; better'n most of 3^ou five years ago ; 
 an' now I'm ordered about by boys just out of 
 their teens. I'm not under Abbot's orders. Lieu- 
 
64: A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 tenant Hollins is my officer ; he'll fix me all right. 
 Where's lie^ lieutenant ? He's the man I want." 
 
 " Eix, you will only get into more trouble if 
 you don't mend your manners," says the heuten- 
 ant, half agreeing with the muttered comment 
 of a comrade, that the man had better be gagged 
 forthwith, but determined to control his own 
 temper. " As to Lieutenant Hollins, he has not 
 been heard of since Antietam. ITobody knows 
 what's become of him." 
 
 The effect of this announcement is startling. 
 Eix turns ghastly white ; his bloodshot eyes 
 stare fearfully at his informant, then blink sav- 
 agely around on one after another of the party. 
 His fingers twitch nervously, and he clutches at 
 his throat." 
 
 " Are — are you sure, lieutenant ?" he gasps, all 
 his insolence of manner gone. 
 
 " Sure, sir. He hasn't been seen or heard of 
 since — " 
 
 " Why, my God ! He told me back there at 
 Boonsboro' that he would ride right over to 
 camp — time I was going back with the colonel 
 through the Gap ." 
 
 " Boonsboro' ! Why, man, that was several 
 days after the battle that you went back with 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 65 
 
 the colonel's ambulance ! Then you've seen him 
 since we have. Where was it ?" 
 
 But Eix has recovered his wits, such as they 
 are. He has made a damaging admission, and 
 one that places him in a compromising position. 
 He quickly blurts forth a denial. 
 
 " 'No, no ! It wasn't then. I misremembered. 
 'Twas when we went over the first time. He 
 says to me right there at Boonsboro' — " 
 
 " You're lying, Eix," interposed the senior offi- 
 cer of the party, who has been an absorbed list- 
 ener. "You didn't go through Boonsboro' at all, 
 first thne over. We followed the other road, and 
 you followed us. It must have been when you 
 went back. ^N'ow what did the quartermaster 
 say?" 
 
 But Kix sets his jaws firmly, and will tell no 
 more. Twice he is importuned, but to no pur- 
 pose. Then the captain speaks again. 
 
 " We need not disturb the commanding officer 
 until breakfast-time, but there is no doubt in my 
 mind this man can give important evidence. I 
 will take the responsibility. Have Eix placed in 
 charge of the guard at once." 
 
 And when the corporal reappears it is with a 
 file of men, armed with their Springfields. Be- 
 
QQ A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 tween them Eix is marched away, a scared and 
 haggard-looking man. 
 
 For a moment the officers stand in silence, 
 gazing after him. Then the captain speaks. 
 
 " That man could tell a story, without deviat- 
 ing a hair's-breadth from the truth, that would 
 astonish the commonwealth of Massachusetts, or 
 I am vastly mistaken in him. Does anybody 
 know his antecedents ?" 
 
 "He was our first quartermaster -sergeant, 
 that's all I know of him," answers Mr. Hunne- 
 well ; " but he was in bad odor with the colonel, 
 I heard, long before Cedar Mountain. He would 
 have 'broken' him if it had not been for Hol- 
 lins's intercessions." 
 
 " I mean his antecedents, before the outbreak 
 of the war, not in the regiment. "Where did Hol- 
 lins get him ? Whi/ did he get him, and have him 
 made quartermaster-sergeant, and stick to him as 
 he did for months, after everybody else was con- 
 vinced of his worthlessness ? There is something 
 I do not understand in their relations. Do you 
 remember, when we were first camped at Merid- 
 ian Hill, Hollins and Eix occupied the same tent 
 a few days, and the colonel put a stop to it? 
 Hollins was furious, and tried to raise a point 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 67 
 
 against the colonel. He pointed to the fact that 
 in half the regiments around us the quartermas- 
 ter was allowed to have his sergeant for a tent- 
 mate if he wanted to ; and if Colonel Eaymond 
 had any objections, why didn't he say so before 
 they left the state ? He had lived with him a 
 whole month in camp there, and the colonel 
 never said a word. I confess that some of us 
 thought that Eix was badly treated when he 
 was ordered to pitch his tent elsewhere, but the 
 colonel never permitted any argument. I heard 
 him tell Holhns that what was permissible while 
 we were simply state troops was not to be con- 
 sidered precedent for his action when they were 
 mustered into the national service. In his regi- 
 ment, as in the well-disciphned regiments of any 
 state, the officers and enlisted men must live 
 apart." 
 
 " But HoUins claimed that Eix was a man of 
 good birth and education, and that he was coach- 
 ing him for a commission," interposes one of the 
 group. 
 
 " That was an afterthought, and had no bear- 
 ing on the case anyway. I know that in this, as 
 in some other matters, there were many of us 
 who chafed a little at the idea of regular army 
 
QS A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 discipline among ns, but we know now the colo- 
 nel was right. As for Kix, he turned out to be 
 a drunkard before we got within rifle-range of 
 Yirginia." 
 
 "Yet he was retained as quartermaster-ser- 
 geant." 
 
 " Because Hollins shielded him and kept him 
 out of the way. I tell you," puts in the captain, 
 testily, " Colonel Eaymond would have ' broken' 
 him if he had not been taken at Ball's Bluff. 
 Putnam didn't like to overthrow Eaymond' s ap- 
 pointee without his full knowledge and consent, 
 and so he hung on till after we got back to Alex- 
 andria. Even then HoUins had him detailed as 
 driver on plea that his lame foot would prevent 
 his marching. But Hollins is gone now and Mr. 
 ex-Q. M. Sergeant Kix is safely jugged. Mark 
 my words, gentlemen, he'll be needed when Hol- 
 lins' s papers are overhauled." 
 
 " Hullo ! What's up now ?" suddenly demands 
 the adjutant. " Look at headquarters." 
 
 From where they stand the broad highway up 
 the valley is plainly visible for a mile or more, 
 and to the right of the turnpike, on a little rising 
 ground, are pitched the tents of the division com- 
 mander and his staff. Farther away, among 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 69 
 
 some substantial farm-buildings, are to be seen 
 the cavalrymen of the regular service who are 
 attached, as escort and orderlies, to the head- 
 quarters of the Second Corps, and a dozen of 
 these gentry are plainly visible scurrying about 
 between their little tents and the picket-line, 
 where their horses are tethered. It is evident 
 that the whole troop is hurriedly saddling and 
 that orderlies are riding off beyond the buildings, 
 each with one or more led horses — the " mounts " 
 of the staff. Here, close at hand, among the tents 
 of the Massachusetts men, the soldiers have risen 
 to their feet, and with coffee steaming from the 
 battered tin cup in one hand and bread or bacon 
 clutched in the other they are gazing with in- 
 terest, but no sign of excitement, at the scene of 
 evident action farther to the front. A year ago 
 such signs of preparation at headquarters would 
 have sent the whole regiment in eager rush for 
 its arms and equipments, but it has learned wis- 
 dom with its twelve-month of campaigning. ISTot 
 a shot has been heard up the valle}^. It can be 
 no attack there. Yet something unquestionably 
 has happened. Yes, the escort is " leading out." 
 See ! far up on the heights, to the west, the men 
 are thronging on the parapets. They have a 
 
YO A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 better view from there of what is going on at 
 Sumner's headquarters. JSText, shooting around 
 the building on the low rise to the right front, 
 there comes a staff-officer at rapid gallop. Down 
 the slope he rides, over the low stone wall his 
 charger bears him, and down the turnpike he 
 speeds, heedless of the shouts of inquiry that 
 seem to greet him from the camps that flank the 
 road. Sharp to his right he turns, at a little lane 
 a quarter-mile away, and disappears among the 
 trees. " Going to the cavalry camps," hazards 
 the adjutant, and determines that he had better 
 get over to the major's tent — their temporary 
 commander — and warn him "something's com- 
 ing." Another minute, quick, pealing, spirited, 
 there rings on the air the sound of a trumpet, and 
 the stirring call of " Boots and saddles !" startles 
 the ear of many a late sleeper among the officers. 
 The sun is not yet shining in the valle}^ ; the dew 
 is sparkling on every blade and leaf: but the 
 Second Corps is all astir, and there is a cheer in 
 the cavalry camp that tells of soldierly doings 
 close at hand. A light battery is parked just 
 across the highway, and as the aide reappears, 
 spurring from the lane out into the pike again, 
 the officers see how its young commander has 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 71 
 
 vaulted into saddle and is riding down to inter- 
 cept him so that not a minute be lost if the guns 
 are needed. Thej are. For though the aide 
 comes by like a shot, he has shouted some quick 
 words to the captain of the battery, and the lat- 
 ter waves his jaunty forage cap to his expectant 
 bugler, standing, clarion in hand, by the guard- 
 fire. '' Boots and saddles !" again ; and— drivers 
 and cannoneers — the men drop their tin cups 
 and plates, and leap for the lines of harness. 
 Down comes the aide full tilt as before. Cap- 
 tain Lee runs to the roadside and hails him with 
 famihar shout : 
 
 "What's up. Win?" 
 
 And gets no further answer than 
 
 " Tell you as I come back." 
 
 Meantime other aides have been scurrj^ing to 
 and fro ; and far and near, up and down the Shen- 
 andoah and out across the valley, where the 
 morning sunshine triumphs over the barring 
 Loudon, the same stirring call rings out upon the 
 air. " Boots and saddles !" everywhere, and no- 
 where the long-roll or the infantry assembly. 
 
 "Back to your breakfast, boys," says a tall 
 and bearded sergeant. " Whatever it is, it don't 
 amount to shucks. The infantry isn't called for." 
 
72 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 But that it amounts to more than " shucks/' 
 despite the footman's epigram, is presently ap- 
 parent when the staff-officer comes more slowly 
 back, easing his panting horse. The major has 
 by this time turned out, and in boots and over- 
 coat is striding over to the stone wall to get the 
 news. 
 
 " What is it. Win ?" he asks. 
 
 And the aide-de-camp, bending low from the 
 saddle and with grave face, replies, 
 
 " Stuart again, by Heaven ! He whipped 
 around our right, somewhere near Martinsburg, 
 last night, and is crossing at Williamsport now." 
 
 " What! Why, we've got three corps over 
 there about Antietam 3^et." 
 
 " Yes ; and he'll go around them, just as he did 
 round us, and be up in Pennsylvania to-morrow. 
 Where are your wounded ?" 
 
 "Some over near Keedysville; the others, 
 those we lost at South Mountain, somewhere 
 near Frederick. The colonel and Abbot were 
 there at last accounts. Why ?" 
 
 " Because it will be just like him to go clean 
 around us and come down the Monocacy. If he 
 should, they are gone, sure." 
 
ly. 
 
 Two days after the excitement in Frederick 
 consequent upon the escape of the supposed spy 
 Colonel Putnam was chatting with the jDrovost- 
 marshal and the landlord of the tavern where 
 Doctor Warren had paid his brief visit. They 
 were discussing a piece of news that had come 
 in during the morning. From the very first the 
 proprietor of the old tavern had scoffed at the 
 theory of there being anything of a Southern 
 spy about the mysterious stranger. He was a 
 Southern man himself, and, though hardly an 
 enemy to the Union, he had that personal sym- 
 pathy for a host of neighbors and friends which 
 gave him something of a leaning that way. He 
 did not believe, he openly said, that anything on 
 earth could whip the South so long as they kept 
 on their own soil ; but things looked black for 
 their cause when they crossed the Potomac. Ma- 
 ryland had not risen in tumultuous welcome as 
 Lee hopefully expected. The w^orn, ragged, half- 
 
74 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 starved soldiers that had inarched up the valley 
 in mid-September had little of the heroic in their 
 appearance, despite the fame of their exploits; 
 and in their hunger and thirst they had made 
 way, soldier-fashion, with provender for which 
 they could not pay. The host himself had suf- 
 fered not a nttle from their forays, and while 
 his sentiments were broadly Southern his busi- 
 ness instincts were emphatically on the side of 
 the greenbacks of the Xorth. He had found 
 the Union officers men of means, if not of such 
 picturesquely martial attributes as their Southern 
 opponents; and while he would not deny his 
 friendship for many a gallant fellow in the rebel 
 gray, neither would he rebuff the blue-coat whose 
 palm was tinged with green. He liked the pro- 
 vost-marshal because that functionary had twice 
 rescued his bar from demolition at the hands of 
 a gang of stragglers. He admired Colonel Put- 
 nam as a soldier and a gentleman, but he was 
 enjoying a triumph over both of them; he had 
 news to tell which seemed to sustain his theory 
 and defeat theirs as to the identity of the man 
 who left his beard behind him. 
 
 "I am told you knew this Doctor Warren, 
 colonel," he was saying, " and up to this time I 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOINQ. 75 
 
 had not spoken of him for reasons which — well, 
 because he had reasons for asking me to make 
 no mention of his being here. ]^ow, if he was a 
 Doctor Warren, from the Korth, and a loyal 
 man, what would he be doing with a spy ?" 
 
 " I did not know he saw him at all," said Colo- 
 nel Putnam, quickly. 
 
 " Kor do I ; but I do believe that he was here 
 purposely to meet him ; that he, the man you 
 tried to arrest, was here at this house to meet 
 your friend who followed you out to camp. If 
 Doctor "Warren is a loyal man, as you doubtless 
 beheve him, he would have no call to be here to 
 get papers from a man who could only meet him 
 in disguise. I'm told the doctor made himself 
 all clear to you as to who he was." 
 
 Colonel Putnam's face is a study. He is un- 
 questionably turning pale, and his eyes are filled 
 with a strange, introspective, puzzled look. He 
 is startled, too. 
 
 " Do you mean to tell me he did have commu- 
 nication with the doctor V he asks. 
 
 " My wife is ready to swear to it," replies mine 
 host. " Her story is simply this : She had come 
 down-stairs just as the doctor returned. She had 
 been sitting with the young lady, who was very 
 
76 A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 nervous and ill at ease while he was away, and 
 had gone into the kitchen at the back of the 
 house to get her a cup of tea. She was startled 
 by a rap at the door, and in walks a man wrapped 
 up in a big military cape. He wore spectacles 
 and a full black beard, and he took off his hat, 
 and spoke like a gentleman. He said he desired 
 to see either Doctor Warren or the young lady 
 at once on business of the utmost importance, 
 and asked her if she would conduct him up by a 
 rear stairwa}^ My wife told him to go around 
 to the office, but he replied that he expected that, 
 and hastened to tell her that it was because there 
 were Union officers in the hallway that he could 
 not go there. There were personal reasons why 
 he must not be seen ; and she said to him that a 
 man who looked Uke an officer and spoke like a 
 gentleman ought not to be afraid to go among 
 his fellows ; and he said he was not an officer, 
 and then asked her, suddenly, if she was a friend 
 to the ;North or the South ; and before she could 
 answer they both saw lights dancing about out 
 there in the yard, and he was startled, and said 
 'twas for him they were searching, and begged 
 her, as she was a woman, not to betray him ; he 
 was the young lady's lover, he said in explana- 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 77 
 
 tion, and had risked much to meet her. And my 
 wife's lieart was touched at that, and she showed 
 him a place to hide ; and when she went up she 
 heard the young lady sobbing and the old man 
 trying hard to comfort her ; and she knocked, 
 but they begged to be left undisturbed until they 
 called, and she went down and told the man ; and 
 he was fearfully nervous and worried, she said, 
 especially when told about the crying going on ; 
 and he wrote a few lines on a scrap of paper, 
 gave it to her with a little packet, and she 
 took them up to the doctor ; and they were just 
 coming out of their room at the moment, and the 
 doctor put the papers in his pocket, and said to 
 her and to me that he begged us to make no men- 
 tion of his daughter's being there to any one — 
 there were reasons. And her face was hidden 
 in her veil, and he seemed all broken down with 
 anxiety or illness, and said they must have a car- 
 riage or something to take them at once to the 
 railway. They probably went back to Baltimore 
 that night, but the doctor took the packet in his 
 pocket; and the man whom you saw come up 
 from under the back piazza, colonel, was the man 
 who sent it him." 
 The provost-marshal is deeply interested. Colo- 
 
78 A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 nel Putnam sits, in a maze of perplexity, silent 
 and astounded. 
 
 " The doctor was well known to you, was he 
 not, Putnam ?" asked the marshal. 
 
 The colonel starts, embarrassed and troubled. 
 
 " JSTo. I never saw him before." 
 
 " He brought letters to you, didn't he ?" 
 
 " Xo letters. In fact, it wasn't me whom he 
 came to see at all." 
 
 " Whom did he want, then ?" 
 
 " Mr. Abbot," answers the colonel, briefly, and 
 with growing embarrassment. 
 
 " Oh ! Abbot knew him, did he ?" 
 
 " ISTo ; he didn't. That is the singular part of 
 it. The more I recall the interview the more I'm 
 upset." 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 " Because he said he had come to see an old 
 friend of his son's whom he mourned as killed at 
 Seven Pines. He named Abbot, and said he had 
 been in correspondence with him for a 3^ear. As 
 luck would have it. Abbot was sitting right there 
 beside me, and I said at once, ' Here's your man,' 
 or something like it ; and then Abbot didn't know 
 him at all ; declared he had never written a hne 
 to him ; never heard of him. The old gentleman 
 
A WAK-TIME WOOING. 79 
 
 was completely floored. He vowed that for a 
 whole year he had been receiving letters from 
 Lieutenant Paul Eevere Abbot, and now had 
 come to see him because he was reported severe- 
 ly wounded." 
 
 " Did he show you any of the letters ?" 
 
 " "Why, no ! He said there were none with 
 him. He — I declare I do not know what ex- 
 cuse he did give," says the colonel, in dire dis- 
 tress of mind. 
 
 The provost-marshal's eyes are gUttering, and 
 his face is set and eager. He thinks intently one 
 moment, and then turns on the silent colonel and 
 their perplexed landlord. 
 
 " Keep this thing perfectly quiet, gentlemen ; 
 I may have to look further into it ; but at this 
 moment, colonel, circumstances point significant- 
 ly at your friend, the doctor. Do you see noth- 
 ing suspicious in his conduct? His confident 
 claim of a year's correspondence with an offi- 
 cer of your regiment was possibly to gain your 
 friendship and protection. As ill-luck for him 
 and good-luck for us would have it, he named 
 the wrong man. Abbot was there, and could 
 deny it on the spot. The old man was floored, 
 of course ; but his only way of carrpng the thing 
 
80 A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 through was to play the martyr, and tell the sto- 
 ry that for a year somebody had been writing to 
 him daily or weekly over the name of Abbot. 
 What a very improbable yarn, Putnam! Just 
 think for ^^ourself. "VYhat man would be apt to 
 do that sort of thing? What object could he 
 have? Why, the doctor himself well realized 
 what a transparent fiction it must a23pear, and 
 away he slips by the night train the moment he 
 gets back. And now our friend, the landlord, 
 throws further light upon the matter. He was 
 here to meet that night visitor, perhaps convey 
 valuable information to him, but was fright- 
 ened by the blunder he had made, and got away 
 as speedily as possible, and without seeing the 
 owner of the beard, although a packet of papers 
 was duly handed to him from that mysterious 
 party. Doctor Warren may turn out a candi- 
 date for the fortress of that name in your own 
 harbor, colonel." 
 
 And, thinking it all over, Putnam cannot make 
 up his mind what to say. There is something in 
 his impression of the doctor that utterly sets at 
 naught any belief that he was acting a part. 
 He was so simple, so direct, so genuine in his 
 manner and in his distress. On the other hand, 
 
A WAK-TIME WOOING. '81 
 
 analyzing the situation, the colonel is compelled 
 to realize that to any one but himself the doc- 
 tor's story would appear unworthy of credence. 
 He is in this uncomfortable frame of mind when 
 a staff -officer conres to see him with some papers 
 from the quartermaster-general that call for an 
 immediate investigation of the affairs of the miss- 
 ing Lieutenant IloUins, and for two or three days 
 Colonel Putnam is away at the supply depot on 
 the railway. It is there that he learns the pleas- 
 ant news that his gallant young comrade has been 
 promoted to a most desirable staff position, and 
 ordered to report for duty in "Washington as soon 
 as able to travel. He writes a line of congratu- 
 lation to Abbot, and begs him to be sure and send 
 word when he will come through, so that they 
 may meet, and then returns to his patient over- 
 hauling of the garbled accounts of the quondam 
 quartermaster. 
 
 ISTo answer comes from Abbot, and the colonel 
 is so busy that he thinks little of it. The inves- 
 tigation is giving him a world of insight into the 
 crookedness of the late administration, and has 
 put him in possession of facts and given rise to 
 theories that are of unusual interest, and so, when 
 he hears that Abbot was able to leave the hospi- 
 6 
 
82 A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 tal and ride slowly in to the railway and so on 
 to Baltimore, he merely regrets not having seen 
 him, and thinks little of it. 
 
 But the provost-marshal has been busily at 
 work ; has interviewed Abbot and cross-exam- 
 ined the landlady. He has found an officer who 
 says that the night of the escapade at Frederick 
 his horse was taken from in front of the house 
 of some friends he was visiting in the southern 
 edge of the town, and was found next morning 
 by the pickets clear down at the bridge where 
 the canal crosses the Monocac}^ ; and the pickets 
 said he looked as though he had been ridden hard 
 and fast, and that no trace of rider could be 
 found. Inquiry among patrols and guards de- 
 velops the fact that a man riding such a horse, 
 wearing such a hat and cape as was described, 
 but with a smooth face and spectacles, had passed 
 south during the night, and claimed to be on his 
 way to Point of Rocks with despatches for the 
 commanding officer from General Franklin. He 
 exhibited an order made out for Captain Hol- 
 lister, and signed by Seth WilHams, adjutant- 
 general of the army in the field. 'No such officer 
 had reached Point of Rocks, and the provost- 
 marshal becomes satisfied that on or about the 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 83 
 
 4:tli or 5th of October this very party who was 
 prowhng about the town of Frederick has gotten 
 back into Virginia, possibly with vahiable infor- 
 mation. 
 
 "When, on the evening of the 10th, there comes 
 the startUng news that " Jeb " Stuart, with all 
 his daring gray raiders at his back, has leaped 
 the Potomac at AYilliamsport, and is galloping up 
 the Cumberland Yalley around McClellan's right, 
 the provost-marshal is convinced that the bold 
 dash is all due to information picked up under 
 his very nose in the valley of the Monocacy. If 
 he ever had the faintest doubt of the justice of 
 his suspicions as to ^' Doctor Warren's" compKc- 
 ity, the doubt has been removed. Already, at his 
 instance, a secret-service agent has visited Hast- 
 ings, and wires back the important news that the 
 doctor left there about the 25th of September, 
 and has not returned. On the 11th he is rejoiced 
 by a telegram from Washington which tells him 
 that, acting on his advices, Doctor "Warren had 
 been found, and is now under close surveillance 
 at AYillard's. 
 
 Then it is time for him to look out for his own 
 movements. Having leaped into the Union lines 
 with all his native grace and audacity, the cava- 
 
84 A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 lier Stuart reposes a few days at Chambersburg, 
 placidly surveying the neighborhood and inviting 
 attack. Then he rides eastward over the South 
 Mountain, and the next heard of him he is com- 
 ing down the Monocacy. McClellan's army is 
 encamped about Sharpsburg and Harper's Ferry. 
 He has but few cavalry, and, at this stage of the 
 war, none that can compete successfully with 
 Stuart. ISTot knowing just w^hat to do against 
 so active and calmly audacious an opponent, the 
 Union general is possibly too glad to get rid of 
 him to attempt any check. To the vast indigna- 
 tion, and disappointment of many young and ar- 
 dent soldiers in our lines, he is apparently riding 
 homeward unmolested, picking up such supplies 
 as he desires, parohng such prisoners as he does 
 not want to burden himself with, and exchanging 
 laughing greetings with old friends he meets ev- 
 erywhere along the Monocacy. At Point of 
 Eocks, whither our provost-marshal and Colonel 
 Putnam are driven for shelter, together with nu- 
 merous squads of convalescents and some dozen 
 stragglers, there is arming for defence, and every 
 intention of giving Jeb a sharp fight should he 
 attempt to pick up supplies or stragglers from 
 its sturdy garrison. Every hour there is exciting 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 85 
 
 news of his coming, and, with their glasses, the 
 officers can see clouds of dust rising high in air 
 far up the valle}^ Putnam has urgent reason for 
 wanting to rejoin his regiment at once. What 
 with the information he has received from the 
 two or three officers whom he has questioned, 
 and the papers themselves, he has immediate 
 need of seeing the ex -quartermaster sergeant, 
 Rix. But he cannot go when there is a chance 
 for a fight right here. Stuart may dash in west- 
 ward, and have just one lively tussle with them 
 to cover the crossing of his valuable plunder and 
 prisoners belovv'. Of course they have not men 
 enough to think of confronting him. Just in the 
 midst of all the excitement there comes an or- 
 derly with despatches and letters from up the 
 river, and one of them is for Putnam, from the 
 major commanding the regiment. It is brief 
 enough, but exasperating. '^ I greatly regret to 
 have to report to you, in answer to your direc- 
 tions with regard to Eix, that they came too late. 
 In some utterly unaccountable way, though we 
 fear through coUusion on part of a member or 
 members of the guard, Eix made his escape two 
 nights ago, and is now at large." 
 
To say that Paul Abbot was made very happy 
 over his most miexpected promotion would be 
 putting it mildly. He hates to leave the old reg- 
 iment, but he has done hard fighting, borne sev- 
 eral hard knocks, is still weak and shaky from 
 recent wounds ; and to be summoned to Wash- 
 ington, there to meet his proud father, and to 
 receive his appointment as assistant adjutant- 
 general from the hands of the most distinguished 
 representative "in Congress assembled" of his 
 distinguished state, is something to put new life 
 into a young soldier's heart. Duties for him 
 there are none at the moment : he is to get 
 strong and well before again taking the field, 
 and, for the time being, he is occupying a room 
 at Willard's adjoining that of his father. His 
 arm is still in a sling ; his walk is still slow and 
 somewhat painful ; he has ordered his new uni- 
 form, and meantime has procured the staff shoul- 
 der-straps and buttons, and put them on his sack- 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 87 
 
 ,coat ; lie has had many letters to write, and much 
 pleasant congratulation and compliment to ac- 
 knowledge ; and so the three or four days suc- 
 ceeding his arrival pass rapidly by. One after- 
 noon he returns from a drive with his father ; 
 they have been out to visit friends in camp, and 
 talk over home news, and now he comes some- 
 what slowly up the stairs of the crowded hotel 
 to the quiet of the upper corridors. He smiles 
 to himself at the increasing ease with which he 
 mounts the brass-bound steps, and is thankful for 
 the health and elasticity returning to him. He 
 has just had the obnoxious beard removed, too ; 
 and freshly shaved, except where his blond mus- 
 tache shades the short upper lip, with returning 
 color and very bright, clear eyes, the young ma- 
 jor of staff is a most presentable-looking ^^outh 
 as he stops a moment to rest at the top of the 
 third flight. His undress uniform is decidedly 
 becoming, and all the more interesting because 
 of the sling that carries his wounded arm. And 
 now, after a moment's breathing-spell, he walks 
 slowly along the carpeted corridor, and turns 
 into the hall-way leading to his own room. Along 
 this he goes some twenty paces or more, when 
 there comes quickly into view from a side gallery 
 
88 A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 the figure of a tall, slight, and graceful girl. She 
 has descended some little flight of stairs, for he 
 could hear the patter of her slippered feet, and 
 the swish of her skirts before she appeared. 
 JSTow, with rapid step she is coming straight tow- 
 ards him, carrying some little glass phials in her 
 hand. The glare of the afternoon sun is blazing 
 in the street, and at the window behind her. 
 Against this glare she is revealed only en silhou- 
 ette. Of her features the young soldier can see 
 nothing. On the contrary, as he is facing the 
 light. Major Abbot realizes that every line of his 
 countenance is open to her gaze. Before he has 
 time to congratulate himself that recent shaving 
 and the new straps have made liim more pre- 
 sentable, he is astonished to see the darkly-out- 
 lined figure halt short : he sees the slender hands 
 fly up to her face in sudden panic or shock; 
 crash go the phials in fragments on the floor, and 
 the young lady, staggering against the wall, is 
 going too — some stifled exclamation on her lips. 
 Abbot is quick, even when crippled. He springs 
 to her side just in time to save. He throws his 
 left arm around her, and has to hug her close to 
 prevent her slipping through his clasp — a dead 
 weight — to the floor. She has fainted away, he 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 89 
 
 sees at a glance, and, looking about him, he finds 
 a little alcove close at hand ; he knows it well, 
 for there on the sofa he has spent several restful 
 hours since his arrival. Thither he promptly 
 bears her ; gently lays her down ; quickly opens 
 the window to give her air; then steps across 
 the hall for aid. Xot a soul is in sight. His 
 own room is but a few paces away, and thither 
 he hastens ; returns speedily with a goblet of ice- 
 water in his hand, and a slender flask of cologne 
 tucked under his arm. Kneeling by the sofa, he 
 gently turns her face to the hght, and sprinkles 
 it with water; then bathes, with cologne, the 
 w^hite temples and soft, rippling, sunny hair. 
 How sweet a face it is that lies there, all uncon- 
 scious, so close to his beating heart ! Though 
 colorless and marble-hke, there is beauty in every 
 feature, and signs of suffering and pain in the 
 dark circles about the eyes and in the lines at the 
 corners of the exquisite mouth. Even as he clum- 
 sily but most assiduously mops with his one avail- 
 able hand and looks vaguely around for feminine 
 assistance, Major Abbot is conscious of a feeling 
 of proprietorship and confidence that is as unwar- 
 ranted, probably, as it is new. 'Tis only a faint, 
 he is certain. She will come to in a moment, so 
 
9.0 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 why be worried ? But then, of course, 'twill be 
 embarrassing and painful to her not to find some 
 sympathetic female face at hand when she does 
 revive ; and he looks about him for a bell-rope : 
 none nearer than the room, and he hates to leave 
 her. At last comes a little shivering sigh, a 
 long gasp. Then he holds the goblet to her lips 
 and begs her to sip a little water, and, somehow, 
 she does, and with another moment a pair of 
 lovely eyes has opened, and she is gazing wildly 
 into his." 
 
 "Lie still one minute," he murmurs. "You 
 have been faint ; I will bring your friends." 
 
 But a little hand feebly closes on his wrist. 
 She is trying to speak ; her hps are moving, and 
 he bends his handsome head close to hers ; per- 
 haps she can tell him whom to summon. 
 
 But he starts back, amazed, when the broken, 
 haK - intelligible, almost inaudible words reach 
 his ears, 
 
 "Paul! Papa — said — you were killed. Oh! 
 he will be so glad !" 
 
 And then comes a burst of tears. 
 
 Abbot rises to his feet and hurries into the 
 hall. He is bewildered by her words. He feels 
 that it must be some case of mistaken identity, 
 
liillilliililiiiliiJillllllSi lE^^iak 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 91 
 
 but — how strange a coincidence ! Close by the 
 fragments of the phials he finds a door key and 
 the presumable number of her room. Only ten 
 steps away from the little flight of stairs he finds 
 a corresponding door, and, next, an open room. 
 Looking therein, he sees a gentle, matronly wom- 
 an seated by a bedside, slowly fanning some re- 
 cumbent invalid. She puts her fingers on her 
 lips, warningly, as she sees the uniform at her 
 door. 
 
 " Do not wake him, it is the first sound sleep 
 he has had for days," she says. " Is this the army 
 doctor?" 
 
 " ^o," he whispers, " a young lady has just 
 fainted down in the next corridor. Her room 
 adjoins this. Do you know her ?" 
 
 '' Oh, Heaven ! I might have known it. Poor 
 child, she is utterly worn out. This is her father. 
 Will you stay here just a few moments? His 
 son was a soldier, too, and was killed — and so 
 was her lover — and it has nearly killed the poor 
 old gentleman. I'll go at once." 
 
 Still puzzling over his strange adventure, and 
 thinking only of the sweet face of the faint- 
 ing girl. Abbot mechanically takes the fan the 
 nurse has resigned and slowly sweeps the cir- 
 
92 , A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 cling flies away. The invalid lies on his right 
 side with his face to the wall ; but the soft, curl- 
 ing gray hair ripples under the waves of air 
 stirred by the languid movement of the fan. 
 The features have not yet attracted his attention. 
 He is listening intently for sounds from the cor- 
 ridor. His thoughts are with the girl who has 
 so strangely moved him ; so strangely called his 
 name and looked up into his eyes with a sweet 
 light of recognition in hers — with a wild thrill of 
 delight and hope in them, unless all signs deceive 
 him. The color, too, that was rushing into her 
 face, the sudden storm of emotion that bursts 
 in tears ; what meant all this — all this in a girl 
 whom never before had he seen in all his life ? 
 Yerily, strange experiences were these he was 
 going through. Only a week or so before had 
 not that gray-haired old doctor shown almost as 
 deep an emotion on meeting him at Frederick? 
 And was he not prostrated when assured of his 
 mistake, and was it not hard to convince him 
 that the letters to which he persistently referred 
 were foro-eries ? Some scoundrel who claimed to 
 know his son was striving to bleed him for money, 
 probably, and using, of all others, the name of 
 Paul Abbot. And this poor old gentleman here 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 93 
 
 had also lost a son, and the sweet, fragile-looking 
 girl a lover ! How peacefully the old man sleeps, 
 thinks Abbot, as he glances a moment around the 
 room. There are flowers on the table near the 
 open window; books, too, which, perhaps, she 
 had tried to read aloud. The window opens out 
 over Pennsylvania Avenue, and the hum and 
 bustle of thronging life comes floating up from 
 below ; a roar of drums is growing louder every 
 minute, and presently bursts upon the ear as 
 though, just issuing from a neighboring street, 
 the drummers vrere marching forth upon the 
 avenue. Abbot glances at his patient, fearful 
 lest the noise should wake him, but he sleeps the 
 sleep of exhausted nature, and the soldier in his 
 temporary nurse prompts him to steal to the win- 
 dow and look down upon the troops. They are 
 marching south, along Fourteenth Street — a regi- 
 ment going over to the fortifications beyond the 
 Long Bridge, and, after a glance. Abbot steps 
 quickly back. On the table nearest the window 
 lies a dainty writing-case, a woman's, and the 
 flap is down on a half-finished letter. On the 
 letter, haK disclosed, is the photograph of an 
 officer. It is strangely familiar as Abbot steps 
 towards it. Then — the roar of the drums seems 
 
94 A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 deafening; the walls of the little room seem 
 turning upside down; his brain is in some 
 strange and sudden whirl ; but there in his 
 hands he holds, beyond all question — his own 
 picture — a photograph by Brady, taken when he 
 was in Washington during the previous summer. 
 He has not recovered his senses when there is an 
 uneasy movement at the bed. The gray-haired 
 patient turns Avearily and throws himself on 
 the other side, and now, though haggard and 
 worn with suffering, there is no forgetting that 
 sorrow-stricken old face. In an instant Major 
 Abbot has recognized his visitor of the week be- 
 fore. There before him lies Doctor "Warren. 
 Who — idIw then is she f 
 
YI. 
 
 Sitting hy the open AYindo^y and looking out 
 over the busthng street Major Abbot later in the 
 evening is trying to collect his senses and con- 
 vince himself that he really is himself. " It never 
 rains but it pours," and events have been pouring 
 upon him with confusing rapidity. Early in the 
 summer he had noted an odd constraint in the 
 tone of the few letters that came from Miss Win- 
 throp. That they were few and far between was 
 not in itself a matter to give him much discom- 
 fort. From boyliood he had been accustomed to 
 the household cry that at some time in the fut- 
 ure — the distant future — Yiva Winthrop was to 
 be his wife. He had known her quite as long as 
 he had been conscious of his own existence, and 
 the relations between the families were such as 
 to render the alliance desirable. Excellent friends 
 were the young people as they grew to years of 
 discretion, and, in the eyes of parents and in- 
 timate acquaintances, no formal betrothal was 
 
96 A WAE-TIME WOOmG. 
 
 ever necessary, simply because " it was such an 
 understood thing." For more than a year pre- 
 vious to the outbreak of the war, however. Miss 
 Winthrop was in Europe, and much of the time, 
 it was said, she had been studying. So had Mr. 
 Ilollins, who withdrew from Harvard in his sec- 
 ond year and read law assiduously in the office 
 of Winthrop & Lawrence, and then went abroad 
 for his health. They returned on the Cunarder 
 in the early part of April, and Mrs. Winslow was 
 ill from the time she set foot on the saloon deck 
 until they sighted the State House looming 
 through the fog, and nothing could have been 
 more fortunate than that Mr. HoUins was with 
 them — he was so attentive, so very thoughtful. 
 When he wasn't doing something for her he was 
 promenading with Yiva on deck or bundling that 
 young lady in warm wraps and hedging her in 
 a sunny corner. Pity that Mr. Holhns was so 
 poor and rather obscure in his family — his im- 
 mediate family — connections. His mother was 
 Mr. "Winthrop's first cousin, and she had been 
 very fond of Mr. Winthrop when she was a child, 
 and he had befriended her son when a friend 
 was needed. She died years ago, and no one 
 knew just when her husband followed her. He 
 
A WAR-TENIE WOOING. 97 
 
 was a person no one ever met, said Mrs. "Win- 
 throp, a man who had a singular career, was an 
 erratic genius, and very dissipated. But he was 
 a very fascinating person, she understood, in his 
 younger days, and his son was most talented 
 and deserving, but entirely out of the question 
 as an intimate or associate. Yiva would not be 
 apt to see anything of him after their return ; but 
 the question never seemed to occur to her, how 
 much had the daughter been influenced by their 
 frequent companionship abroad ? It really mat- 
 tered nothing. Yiva was to marry Eevere Ab- 
 bot, as Mrs. Winthrop preferred to call him, and 
 such was distinctly the family understanding. 
 Miss Winthrop had been home but a few weeks 
 when all the JS'orth was thrilled by the stirring 
 call for volunteers, and the old Bay State re- 
 sponded, as was to be expected of her. In the 
 — th Massachusetts Avere a score of ofiicers, as 
 has been said, whose names were as old as the 
 colony and whose family connections made them 
 thoroughly well known to each other at the ear- 
 liest organization of the command. That Paul 
 Abbot should be among the first to seek a com- 
 mission as a junior lieutenant was naturally ex- 
 pected. Then with all possible hesitancy and 
 1 
 
98 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 delicacy, after a feminine council in the family, 
 his mother asked him if he did not think there 
 ought to be some distinct understanding about 
 Yiva Winthrop before he went away to the 
 front. The matter was something that he had 
 thought of before she went to Europe, but be- 
 lieved then that it could wait. Xow that she 
 had returned, improved both physically and in- 
 tellectually, Mr. Abbot had once or twice thought 
 that it would not be long before lie would be 
 asked some such question as his mother now pro- 
 pounded, but again decided that it was a matter 
 that could be deferred. They had met with 
 much hearty cordiality, and called each other 
 Paul and Yiva, as they had from babj^hood, and 
 then she had a round of social duties and he be- 
 came absorbed in drills, day and night, and they 
 saw very httle of each other — much less than was 
 entirely satisfactory to the parental councils, and 
 these were frequent. While the masters of the 
 households of Abbot and Winthrop seldom inter- 
 changed a word on the subject, they had their 
 personal views none the less; and, as to the 
 mothers, their hearts had long been set upon the 
 match. Miss Winthrop had abundant wealth in 
 her own right. Paul Abbot's blood was blue as 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 99 
 
 the doctrines of the Puritans. Without being a 
 beauty in face or form, Miss Winthrop was un- 
 questionably distinguished-looking, and her repu- 
 tation for a certain acerbity of temper and the 
 faculty of saying cutting things did not materi- 
 ally lower her value in the matrimonial market. 
 There was, however, that consta^ntly recurring 
 statement, " Oh, she's engaged to Paul Abbot," 
 and that, presumably, accounted for the lack of 
 those attentions in society which are so intangi- 
 ble when assailed, and yet leave such a void when 
 omitted. Mrs. Abbot put it very plainly to Paul 
 when she said : 
 
 "Everybody considers her as virtually engaged 
 to you and expects you to look after her. That 
 is why I say it is due to her that you should 
 arrive at some understanding before your orders 
 come." 
 
 Paul had come up from camp that day — a 
 Saturday afternoon — and he stood there in the 
 old family gathering room, a very handsome 
 young soldier. He had listened in silence and 
 respect while his mother spoke, but without much 
 sign of responsive feeling. When she had fin- 
 ished he looked her full in the face and quietly 
 said: 
 
100 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 " And is there any other reason, mother ?" 
 
 Mrs. Abbot flushed. There was another rea- 
 son, and one that after much mental dodging both 
 she and Mrs. Winthrop had been compelled to 
 admit to each other within a very few days. 
 Mr. Hollins was constantly finding means to 
 come over to the city and see Miss Winthrop, 
 and the ladies could not grapple with the intri- 
 cacies of a mihtary problem which permitted one 
 officer to be in town three or four days a week 
 and kept the others incessantly drilling at camp. 
 Mrs. Abbot, motherlike, had more than once sug- 
 gested to her son that he ought to be able to visit 
 town more frequently, and on his replying that it 
 was simply impossible, and that none of the offi- 
 cers could leave their duties, had triumphantly 
 pointed to Mr. Hollins. 
 
 "But he is quartermaster," said Paul, "and 
 has to come on business." 
 
 " He manages to combine a good deal of pleas- 
 ure vfiih his business," was the tentative response, 
 and Abbot knew that he was expected to ask 
 the nature of Mr. Hollins's pleasures. He was 
 silent, however, much to his mother's disappoint- 
 ment, for he had heard from other sources of the 
 frequency with which Mr. Hollins and Miss Win- 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 101 
 
 throp were seen together. Finding that he would 
 not ask, Mrs. Abbot was compelled to suppress 
 the inchnation she felt to have her suspicions 
 dragged to light. She wished he had more curi- 
 osity, or jealousy, or something ; but in its ab- 
 sence she could only say, 
 
 "Well, I wish you were quartermaster, that's 
 aU." 
 
 And now that he had asked her if there w^ere 
 no other reason, there was something in his placid 
 tone she did not like. A month agone she wanted 
 him to know of Mr. Hollins's evident attentions 
 to Genevieve because it would ^^robably, or pos- 
 sibly, spur him into some exertion on his ov^n 
 account. Now that she felt sure he had heard of 
 it, and it had not spurred him, she was as anx- 
 ious to conceal the fact that, both to Mrs. Win- 
 throp and herself, these attentions were becom- 
 ing alarming. If he did not care for Yiva, the 
 chances were that so soon as he found that pub- 
 lic attention had been drawn to her acceptance 
 of such devotions, Paul would drop the matter 
 entirely, and that would be a calamity. Know- 
 ing perfectly well, therefore, what was in his 
 mind when he asked the question, Mrs. Abbot 
 parried the thrust. Though she flushed, and her 
 
102 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 voice quivered a little, she looked him straight in 
 the face. 
 
 "There is, Paul. I — think she has a right to 
 expect it of you ; that — that she does expect it." 
 
 Abbot looked with undisguised perplexity into 
 his mother's face. 
 
 " You surprise me very much, mother ; I can- 
 not see how Yiva would betray such an idea, 
 even if she had it ; it is not Hke her." 
 
 "Women see these things where men cannot," 
 was the somewhat sententious replj^ " Besides, 
 Paul—" 
 
 " Well, mother, besides — ?" 
 
 " Mrs. Winthrop has told me as much." 
 
 That evening, before returning to camp. Lieu- 
 tenant Abbot went round the square — or what 
 is the Bostonian equivalent therefor — and sur- 
 prised Miss Winthrop with a call. He told her 
 what he had not told his mother, that Colonel 
 Ea^^mond that morning received a telegram from 
 Washington saying that on the following Tues- 
 day they must be in readiness to start. 
 
 " We have been good friends always, Yiva," he 
 said; "but you have been something more to 
 me than that. I did not mean to make so sud- 
 den an avowal, but soldiers have no time to call 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. l03 
 
 their own just now, and every honr has been 
 given up to duty with the regiment. Kow this 
 sharp summons comes and I must go. If I re- 
 turn, shall we — " (he had almost said, " shall we 
 fulfil our manifest destiny, and make our parents 
 happy ?" but had sense enough to realize that she 
 was entitled to a far more personal proposition). 
 He broke off nervously. 
 
 " You have always been so dear to me, Yiva. 
 Will you be my wife ?" 
 
 She was sitting on the sofa, nervously twisting 
 the cords of a fan in and out among her slender 
 white fingers. Iler eyes were downcast and her 
 cheeks suffused. For an instant she looked up 
 and a question seemed trembling on her lips. 
 She was a truthful woman and no coward. 
 There was something she was entitled to know, 
 something the heart within her craved to know, 
 yet she knew not how to ask, or, if she did, was 
 too proud to frame the words, to plead for that 
 thing of all others which a woman prizes and 
 glories in, yet will never knowingly beg of any 
 man — his honest and outspoken love. She looked 
 down again, silent. 
 
 His tone softened and his voice quivered a lit- 
 tle as he bent over her. 
 
104 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 " Has any one else won away the heart of my 
 little girl-love?" he asked. "We were sweet- 
 hearts so long, Yiva ; but have you learned to 
 care for some other ?" 
 
 " Ko. It— it is not that." 
 
 " Then cannot you find a little love for me 
 left over from the childish days ? You were so 
 loyal to me then, Yiva — and it would make our 
 home people so happy." 
 
 " I suppose it might — them." 
 
 " Then promise me, dear ; I go so soon, and — " 
 
 She interrupted him now, impetuously. Look- 
 ing straight up into his eyes, she spoke in low. 
 vehement tone, rapidly, almost angrily. 
 
 " On this condition, Paul ; on this condition. 
 You ask me to be your wife and— and I suppose 
 it is what is expected of us — what you have ex- 
 pected all along, and are entitled to an answer 
 now. Promise me this, if ever you have a thought 
 for another woman, if ever you feel in your heart 
 that perhaps another girl would make you hap- 
 pier, or if— if you feel the faintest growing 
 fancy for another, that you will tell me." 
 
 He smiled gravely as he encircled her in his 
 arm. She drew back, but he held her. 
 
 " Why, Yiva, I have never had a thought for 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 105 
 
 any other girl. I simply thought you might 
 care for some one more than you did for me. 
 It is settled, then — I promise," and he bent and 
 softly kissed her. 
 
 They met again — twice — before the regiment 
 took the cars. It had been settled that no an- 
 nouncement of the engagement should be made, 
 but there are some secrets mothers cannot keep, 
 and there were not lacking men and women to 
 obtrude premature "congratulations" even on 
 the day she came with mothers, sisters, cousins, 
 and sweethearts by the score to witness the 
 presentation of colors and say adieu. That af- 
 ternoon the regimental quartermaster returned 
 from the city after a stay of thirty-six hours, 
 thirty of wdiich were unauthorized, and it was 
 rumored that Colonel Eaymond was very angr}^ 
 and had threatened extreme measures. It was 
 this prospect, possibly, that shrouded ]\Ir. IloUins's 
 face in gloom, but most people were disposed to 
 think that he had taken the engagement very 
 much to heart. There were many who consid- 
 ered that, despite the fact of his lack of fortune, 
 birth, and " position," Mr. Hollins had been treat- 
 ed very shabbily by the heiress. There were a 
 few who said that but for his '' lacks " she would 
 
106 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 have married him. What she herself said was 
 something that caused Mr. Abbot a good deal of 
 wonderment and reflection. 
 
 " Paul, I want you to promise me another 
 thing. Mr. Hollins has very few friends in the 
 regiment. He is poor, sensitive, and he feels it 
 keenly. He is our kinsman, though distant, and 
 he placed me under obligations abroad by his 
 devotion to mother, and his courtesy to me when 
 we needed attention. He thinks you dislike him, 
 as well as many of the others. Eemember what 
 he is to us, and how hard a struggle he has had, 
 and be kind to him — for me." 
 
 And though his college remembrances of Mr. 
 Hollins were not tinged with romance, Paul Ab- 
 bot was too glad and proud in the thought of 
 going to the front — too happy and prosperous, 
 perhaps, to feel anything but pity for the quar- 
 termaster's isolation. He made the promise, and 
 found its fulfilment, before they had been away 
 a fortnight, a very irksome thing. Hollins fairly 
 lived at his tent and better men kept away. 
 Gradually they had drifted apart. Gradually 
 the feeling of coldness and aversion had become 
 so marked that he could not conceal it ; and final- 
 ly, after one of the frequent lapses of which the 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 107 
 
 quartermaster was guilty, there had come rupt- 
 ure of all social relations, and the only associate 
 left to Mr. Hollins was the strange character 
 whom he had foisted upon the regiment at its 
 organization — the quondam quartermaster - ser- 
 geant, Kix. 
 
 But in all the marching and fighting of the 
 battle summer of '62, these things were of less 
 account than they had been during the inaction 
 of the winter and early spring, until, at the Mo- 
 nocacy, Mr. Abbot's curiosity was excited by the 
 singular language used by Eix when ordered 
 under guard. "What could such a man as he 
 have to do with the affairs, personal or profes- 
 sional, of the officers of the regiment? It was 
 rabid nonsense — idle boasting, no doubt ; and 
 yet the new-made major found that melodra- 
 matic threat recurring to his mind time and again. 
 
 Another thing that perplexed him was the fact 
 already alluded to, that during the winter Yi- 
 va's letters, never too frequent or long, had be- 
 gun to grow longer as to interval and shorter 
 as to contents. He made occasional reference 
 to the fact, but was referred to the singular cir- 
 cumstance that ^' he began it." Matters were 
 mended for a while, then drifted into the old 
 
108 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 channel again. Then came the stirring inci- 
 dents of June ; the sharp, hard inarches of July 
 and August ; the thrilling battles of Cedar Moun- 
 tain and Second Bull Kun ; and he felt that his 
 letters were hardly missed. Then came the dash 
 at Turner's Gap ; his wounds, rest, recovery, and 
 promotion. But there was silence at home. He 
 had not missed her letters before. Now he felt 
 that they ought to come, and had w^ritten more 
 than once to say so. 
 
 And now, alone in his room, he is trying to 
 keep cool and clear-headed ; to fathom the mys- 
 tery of his predicament before going to his father 
 and telling him that between Genevieve Win- 
 throp and himself there has arisen a cloud which 
 at any moment may burst in storm. 
 
 Her letter — the first received since Antietam — 
 he has read over time and again. It must be 
 confessed that there is a good deal therein to 
 anger an honest man, and Abbot believes he is 
 entitled to that distinction : 
 
 "You demand the reason for my silence, and shall have 
 it. I did not wish to endanger your recovery, and so have 
 kept my trouble to myself, but now I write to tell you that 
 the farce is ended. You have utterly broken your promise ; 
 I am absolved from mine. The fact that you could find time 
 
A WAK-TIME WOOING. 109 
 
 to write day after day to Miss Warren, and neglect me for 
 weeks, would in itself be justification for demanding my re- 
 lease from an engagement you have held so lightly. But 
 that you should have sought and won another's love even 
 while your honor was pledged to me, is more than enough. 
 I do not ask release. I break the bond — once and for all. 
 
 " You will have no place to receive your letters at the front. 
 They, with your ring, and certain gifts with which you have 
 honored me from time to time, will be found in a packet 
 which is this day forwarded to your mother. 
 
 " Genevieve Winthrop." 
 
 Abbot is seated with his head buried in his 
 hands. That name again ! the girl who fainted 
 at sight of him ! the old man who was prostrate 
 at his denial on the Monocacy ! the picture of 
 himself in he)' desk ! and now, this bitter, in- 
 sulting letter from the woman who was to have 
 been his wife ! Kix's words at the field hospi- 
 tal ! — what in Heaven's name can it all mean ? 
 What network of crime and mystery is this that 
 is thrown around him ? 
 
 There is a sudden knock at the door — a negro 
 Avaiter with a telegram : 
 
 " Point of Rocks, Md., Oct. —,1862. 
 "Major Paul R. Abbot, 
 
 Willard's Hotel, Washington : 
 "HoUins still missing ; believed to have followed you to 
 Washington. Use every effort to secure arrest. 
 
 * ' Putnam. " 
 
YII. 
 
 There is an air of unusual excitement about 
 the War Department this bright October day. 
 It is only a month since the whole army seemed 
 tramping through the streets on its way to the 
 field of the Antietam; only three weeks since 
 the news was received that Lee was beaten back 
 across the Potomac, and every one expected that 
 McClellan would be hot on his trail, eager to 
 pursue and punish before the daring Southerners 
 could receive accessions. But though two corps 
 managed to reoccupy Harper's Ferry and there 
 go into camp, the bulk of the army has remained 
 where Lee left it when he slipped from its grasp, 
 and McClellan's cry is for reinforcements. Three 
 weeks of precious time slip by, and then — back 
 come those daredevils of Stuart's, riding with 
 laugh and taunt and jeer all around the Union 
 forces ; and there is the mischief to pay here in 
 "Washington, for if he should take a notion to 
 pay the capital a visit on his homeward trip, what 
 
^ 1 
 
 Back cmne those daredevils of Stuart's. 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. Ill 
 
 would the consequences be ? Of course there are 
 troops — lots of them — all around in the fortifi- 
 cations. The trouble is, that we have so few 
 cavalry, and, after all, the greatest trouble is the 
 old one — those fellows, Stuart and Jackson, have 
 such a consummate faculty of making a very 
 little go a great way. All that is known of 
 Stuart's present move is, that he is somewhere 
 up the Cumberland Yalley ; that telegraphic 
 communication beyond McClellan's headquar- 
 ters is broken, and that it is more than likely 
 he will come hitherwards when he chooses to 
 make his next start. 
 
 Going to the War Department to make in- 
 quiries for the provost-marshal, and show him 
 Putnam's telegram, Major Abbot finds that offi- 
 cial too busy to see him, " unless it be something 
 urgent," says the subaltern, who seems to be an 
 aide-de-camp of some kind. 
 
 " I have come to show him a despatch received 
 last night — late — from Point of Rocks." 
 
 " You are Major Abbot, formerly — th Mas- 
 sachusetts, I believe, and your despatch is about 
 the missing quartermaster, is it not ?" 
 
 " Yes," replies Abbot, in surprise. 
 
 " We have the duplicate of the despatch here," 
 
112 A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 says the young officer, smiling. "You would 
 know Hollins at once, would you not ?" 
 
 " Yes, anywhere, I think." 
 
 " One of the secret-service men will come in 
 to see you this morning if you will kindly remain 
 at your room until eleven or twelve o'clock. Par- 
 don me, major, you saw this Doctor Warren at 
 Frederick, did you not ?" 
 
 " Yes. The evening he came out to the field 
 hospital." 
 
 "Did he impress you as a man who told a 
 perfectly straight story, and properly accounted 
 for himself?" 
 
 " Why — You put it in a way that never oc- 
 curred to me before," says the major, in bewil- 
 derment. " Do you mean that there was any- 
 thing wrong about him ?" 
 
 " Strictly entre nous, major — something dam- 
 nably w^rong. He was all mixed up on meeting 
 you, we are told. He claimed to have known 
 and been in correspondence with you, did he 
 not?" 
 
 "Yes; he did. But—" 
 
 "That is only one of several trips he made. 
 There are extraordinary rumors coming in about 
 spies around Frederick, and there seems to be an 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 113 
 
 organized gang. It is this very matter the gen- 
 eral is overhauhng now, and he gave orders that 
 he should be uninterrupted until he had finished 
 the correspondence. "Will you Avait V 
 
 "Thank you, no. I believed it my duty to 
 show him this despatch, but he knows as much 
 as, or more than, I do. May I ask if you have 
 any inkling of Ilollins's whereabouts." 
 
 *']Srot even a susjDicion. He simply dropped 
 out of sight, and no man in the army appears to 
 have set eyes on him since the night before An- 
 tietam. Colonel Putnam is investigating his ac- 
 counts at Point of Eocks, and is most eager to 
 get him." 
 
 Major Abbot turns away with a heavy weight 
 at heart. All of a sudden there has burst upon 
 him a comphcation of injustice and mystery, of 
 annoyance and perplexity that is hard to bear. 
 In some way he feels that the disappearance of 
 the quartermaster is a connecting link in the 
 chain of circumstance. He associates him, vague- 
 ly, with each and every one of the incidents 
 which have puzzled him within the month past — 
 with Rix, with Doctor Warren's coming, with 
 that cold and bitter letter from Miss Winthrop, 
 and finally with the shock and faintness that 
 overcame this fair young girl at sight of him. 
 
114: A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 To his father he has shown Miss Winthrop's 
 letter, and briefly sketched the visit of Doctor 
 Warren, and the sudden meeting with his daugh- 
 ter the evening previous. Mr. Abbot is in a 
 whirl of indignation over the letter, which he 
 considers an insult, but is all aflame with curi- 
 osity about the doctor and the young lady. He 
 has been preparing to return to Boston this very 
 week, but is now determined to wait until he can 
 see these mysterious people, who are so oddly 
 mixed up in his son's afi'airs. It is with some 
 difiiculty that the major prevails upon him not 
 to write to Miss "Winthrop, and overwhelm her 
 with reproaches. That letter must be answered 
 only by the man to whom it was written, ssijs 
 Abbot, and it is evident that he does not mean to 
 be precipitate. lie has much to think of, and 
 so drives back to Willard's and betakes himself 
 to his room, where his father awaits him, and 
 where they are speedily joined by an ofiicial of 
 the secret service, who has a host of singular 
 questions to ask about HoUins. Some of them 
 have a tendency to make the young major won- 
 der if he really has been the possessor of eyes 
 and ears, or powers of discernment, during the 
 past winter. Then come some inquiries about 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 115 
 
 Rix. Abbot is forced to confess that he knows 
 nothing of his antecedents, and that he was made 
 quartermaster-sergeant at Hollins's request, at a 
 time when nobody had a very adequate idea of 
 what his duties might be. 
 
 "Who had charge of the distribution of the 
 regimental mail all winter and spring ?" asks the 
 secret-service man, after looking over some mem- 
 oranda. 
 
 "The quartermaster, ordinarily. The mail- 
 bag was carried to and from the railway about 
 thrice a week, while we were at Edward's Ferry 
 in the fall. Rix looked after it then, and when 
 we came down in front of Washington the mat- 
 ter still remained in his hands. There was never 
 any complaint, that I can remember." 
 
 " Did any of your officers besides Mr. Holhns 
 have civilian dress or disguise of any kind ?" 
 
 "I did not know that he did — much less any 
 ,of the others." 
 
 " He wore his uniform coming to the city, but 
 would soon turn out in ^cits,' and in that way 
 avoided all question from patrols. As he gam- 
 bled and drank a good deal then, we thought, 
 perhaps, it was a rule in the regiment that offi- 
 cers must not wear their uniforms when on a 
 
116 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 lark of any kind ; but he was always alone, and 
 seemed to have no associates among the officers. 
 What use could he have had for false beard and 
 wig ?" 
 
 " Kone whatever that I know of." 
 
 " He bought them here, as we know, and, pre- 
 sumably, took them down to camp with him. 
 If he has deserted, he is probably masquerading 
 in that rig now. I tell you this knowing you 
 will say nothing of it. Major Abbot, and because 
 I feel that you have had no idea of the real 
 character of this man, and it is time you had." 
 
 Abbot bows silently. If the detective only 
 knew what was going on at home, how much the 
 more would he deem the missing quartermaster 
 a suspicious character. 
 
 Then there comes a knock at the door, and, 
 opening it. Major Abbot finds himself face to face 
 with the nurse whom he had seen the previous 
 afternoon in Doctor Warren's room. She looks 
 up into his face with a smile that betokens a new 
 and lively interest. 
 
 " The doctor left us but a few minutes ago," 
 she says, "and he tells me my patient is on 
 the mend. Of course, we have said nothing to 
 him as yet about Miss Bessie's fainting yesterday, 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 117 
 
 but — I thought you might be anxious to know 
 how they are." 
 
 "I am indeed," says Abbot, cordially, '^ and 
 thank you for coming. How is Miss Warren to- 
 day?" 
 
 " She keeps her room, as is natural after one 
 has been so agitated, and, of course, she does not 
 like to speak of the matter, and has forbidden my 
 telling the doctor — her father, I mean. But he 
 will be sitting up to-morrow, probably, and — I 
 thought you might like to see them. He is sleep- 
 ing quietly now." 
 
 "Yes, I want very much to see him, as soon 
 as he is well enough to talk, and, if the young 
 lady should be well enough to come out into the 
 parlor this afternoon or take the air on the piaz- 
 za, will you let me know ?" 
 
 The nurse's smiles of assent are beaming. 
 Whether she, too, has seen that photograph Ab- 
 bot cannot tell. That she has had the feminine 
 keenness of vision in sighting a possible romance 
 is beyond question. The secret-service official is 
 at Abbot's side as he turns back from the door, 
 
 " I shall see you again, perhaps to-morrow," 
 he says ; '' meantime there is a good deal for us to 
 do," and before the nurse has reached the sick 
 
lis A WAPw-TIME WOOING. 
 
 man's door, she is politely accosted by the same 
 urbane young man, and is by no means sorry to 
 stop and talk with somebody about her sad-faced 
 old patient and his wonderfully pretty daughter. 
 It was Abbot's ^^urpose to devote a little time 
 that afternoon to answering the letter received 
 but yesterday from Miss Winthrop. It needs no 
 telling — the fact that there had never been a 
 love-affair in their engagement ; and no one can 
 greatly blame a woman who is dissatisfied with 
 a loveless match. Yiva Winthrop was not so 
 unattractive as to be destitute of all possibility 
 of winning adorers. Indeed, there was strong 
 ground for believing that she fully realized the 
 bliss of having at least one man's entire devo- 
 tion. Whatsoever evil traits may have cropped 
 out in Mr. IloUins's army career, she had seen 
 nothing of them, and knew only his thoughtful 
 and lover-hke attentions while they were abroad, 
 and his assiduous wooiug on his return. Paul 
 Abbot had never asked for her love — indeed, he 
 had hardly mentioned the word as incidental 
 to their engagement. Nevertheless, yielding to 
 what she had long been taught to consider her 
 fate, she had accepted the family arrangement — 
 and him — and was the subject of incessant and 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 119 
 
 enthusiastic congratulation. Abbot's gallant ser- 
 vice and distinguished character as an officer had 
 won the hearty admiration of all the circle in 
 which she lived and moved and had her being, 
 and she was thought an enviable girl to have 
 won the love of so brave and so promising a 
 man. . A little more reserved and cold than ever 
 had Miss Winthrop become, and the smile with 
 which she thanked these many well-wishers was 
 something wintry and weary in the last degree. 
 If he had only loved her, there might have 
 bloomed in her heart an answering passion that 
 would have filled her nature, and made her 
 proudly happy in her choice. But that he had 
 never had for her anything more than a brother- 
 and-sister, boy-and-girl sort of affection — a kind, 
 careless, yet courteous tenderness — was some- 
 thing she had to tell herself time and again, and 
 to hear as well from the letters of a man whose 
 letters she should have forbidden. 
 
 Even in his astonishment at the charge brought 
 against him, and in his indignation at the accusa- 
 tion of deceit, Paul Abbot cannot but feel that 
 allowances must be made for Yiva Winthrop. 
 He meant to marry her, to be a loyal and affec- 
 tionate husband ; but he had not loved her as 
 
120 A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 women love to be loved, and she was conscious 
 of the lacking chord. That she had been de- 
 ceived and swindled, too, by some shameless 
 scoundrel, and made to believe in her fiance's 
 guilt, was another thing that was plain to him. 
 She had probably been told some very strong 
 story of his interest in this other girl. Yer}^ 
 probably, too, HoUins was the informer and, pre- 
 sumably, the designer of the plot. Who can tell 
 how deep and damnable it was, since it had been 
 carried so far as to induce the AYarrens to believe 
 that he was the writer of scores of letters from 
 the front ? Then again, ever since he had raised 
 that fainting girl in his arms, especially ever 
 since the moment when her lovely eyes were 
 Hfted to his face and her sweet lips murmured 
 his name, Paul Abbot has been conscious of a 
 longing to see her again. Xot an instant has he 
 been able to forget her face, her beauty, her 
 soft touch ; the wave of color that rushed to her 
 broAV as he met her at her father's door when the 
 nurse brought her, still trembling, back to the old 
 man's bedside. He had murmured some hardly 
 articulate words, some promise of coming to in- 
 quire for her on the morrow, and bowed his 
 adieu. But now — now, he feels that not only 
 
A WAK-TIME WOOING. 121 
 
 Genevieve, but that Bessie AYarren, too, has been 
 made a victim of this scoundrers plottings, and, 
 though longing to see her and hear her speak 
 again, he knows not what to say. It Avas hard 
 enough to have to deny himself to the poor old 
 doctor when he came out to the Monocacy. 
 Could he look in her face and tell her it was all 
 a fraud ; that some one had stolen and sent her 
 his picture % some one had stolen and used his 
 name, and, whatsoever were the letters, all were 
 forgeries % No ! He must wait and see Doctor 
 Warren, and let her think him come back to life 
 — let her think they were his letters — rather than 
 face her, and say it was all a lie. Yet he longs 
 to see her once again. 
 
 But to Yiva he must write without further de- 
 lay. Her letter unquestionably frees him, and 
 does it with a brusqueness that might excuse a 
 man for accepting the situation without a word. 
 If the engagement has ever been irksome to him 
 it is now at an end, and he is in no Avise respon- 
 sible. Giving him no opportunity for denial, she 
 has accused him of breach of faith and cast 
 him off. Wounded pride, did he love her deep- 
 ly, might now impel him to be silent. A sense 
 of indignity and wrong might drive many a man 
 
122 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 to turn away at such a juncture, and leave to the 
 future the unravelling of the plot. There are mo- 
 ments, it must be confessed, when Major Abbot 
 is so stung by the letter that he is half disposed 
 to take it as final, and let her bear the conse- 
 quences of discovery of the fraud ; but they are 
 quickly followed by others in which he is heart- 
 ily ashamed of himself for such a thought. Eight 
 or wrong, Yiva Winthrop is a woman who has 
 given her life into his hands ; a woman who has 
 been reared in every luxury only to be denied 
 the one luxury a woman holds most precious of 
 all. He has not been a devoted lover any more 
 than he has been disloyal ; and now that trouble 
 has come to her, and she is deceived, perhaps en- 
 dangered. Major Abbot quietly decides that the 
 only obvious course for a gentleman to follow is 
 to crush his pride under foot and to act and think 
 for her. And this, after several attempts, is what 
 he finally writes her ; 
 
 " Your letter came last night, dear Yiva, and I have thought 
 long over it before answering. It is all my fault that this 
 constraint has hung over your letters. I have seen it for 
 months, and yet made no effort until lately to have it ex- 
 plained. Long ago, had I done so, you would probably have 
 given me the reason, and I could have assured you of the er- 
 
A WAR-TTME WOOING. 123 
 
 ror into wliicli you were led. Now it seems that you and I 
 are not the only ones involved. 
 
 "Neither to Miss AYarren nor any other girl have I written 
 since our engagement; but her father has been to see me, and 
 tell me that many letters purporting to come from me have 
 been received, and I have hardly time to recover from that 
 surprise when your indignant charge is added. Taken to- 
 gether, the two point very strongly to a piece of villainy. 
 You could never have believed this of me, Viva, without 
 proofs; and I feel sure that letters must have been sent to 
 you. Now that we are pushing every effort to detect and 
 punish the villain who has wrought this, and I fear other 
 wrongs, such letters will be most important evidence, and I 
 conjure you to send them to me by express at once. Father 
 would come for them, but I need him here. I do not seek to 
 inquire into your personal correspondence, Viva, but letters 
 that bear upon this matter are of vital weight. 
 
 " As to my dismissal, may I not ask you to reconsider your 
 words, and, in the light of my assurance that I am innocent 
 of the sin with which you have charged me, permit me to sign 
 myself, as ever, lovingly and faithfully yours? Paul." 
 
 It is no easy letter to write. He wants to 
 be calm and just, and that makes it sound cold 
 and utterly unimpassioned. Beyond doubt she 
 would be far happier with a fury of reproaches, 
 cutting sarcasm, and page after page of indig- 
 nant denial. He also wants to be tender when 
 he thinks of what he has not had to lavish on 
 her in the past, and that prompts him to the lit- 
 
124 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 tie touch of sentiment at the close — a touch that 
 is perhaps unwarranted by the facts in the case. 
 There is a third matter, one that he does not 
 want to mention at all, a name he hates to put 
 on any page addressed to her ; but he knows that 
 it is due her she should be told the truth, and at 
 last, just as sunset is coming, he adds a postscript : 
 
 " I feel that I must tell you that IMr. Hollins has been miss- 
 ing ever since Antietam, under circumstances that cloud his 
 name with grave suspicion. It is no longer concealed that 
 his conduct and character have left him practically friendless 
 in the regiment, and that he could not long have retained his 
 position. He is not worthy the friendship you felt for him, 
 Viva; of that I am certain." 
 
 He is still pondering over this when his father 
 comes in for a word or two. 
 
 " I am going over to call at Doctor Warren's 
 room and ask how he is. Possibly he may be 
 able to see me. Have you written to — " 
 
 And he stops. He does not feel like saying 
 " Yiva " to or of the girl who has so misjudged 
 his boy. 
 
 Abbot holds up the letter and its addressed 
 envelope. 
 
 " Yes, and it must go at once or miss the mail." 
 
 "I'll post it for you, then, as I have to go to 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 125 
 
 the office a moment," is the answer, and the elder 
 stands looking at his son, while the latter quickly 
 scans the last page, then folds and encloses it. 
 Paul smiles into his father's eyes as he hands it, 
 and the letter-bearer goes briskly away. 
 
 His footsteps have hardly become inaudible 
 when there is a tap at the door, and behold ! the 
 nurse. 
 
 " You told me you would like to know when 
 Miss "Warren came out, major. She is on the ve- 
 randa now." 
 
YIII. 
 
 Throwing over his shoulders the cape of his 
 army overcoat, Major Abbot hastens from his 
 room in the direction of the Uttle gallery or ve- 
 randa at the side of the house. Evening is just 
 approaching, and the lights are beginning to 
 twinkle on the broad avenue below. He has 
 not yet had time to determine upon his course 
 of conduct. If, as he begins to suspect, it is 
 Bessie Warren w^ho received all those guileful 
 letters, his will be a most difficult part to play, 
 lie longs to speak with her as well as to see her, 
 but at this moment he knows not what may be 
 expected of him, and, rather than have to inflict 
 mortification or pain upon so sweet a girl, he is 
 almost ready to wish that it had been his privi- 
 lege to write to her. The fact that her father 
 was so overcome at his denial, the fact that she 
 fainted at sight of him, the fact that her first 
 words on reviving were to the effect that her 
 father had told her Paul Abbot was dead — all 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 127 
 
 seemed to point to the conclusion that she had 
 received love-letters, and that she had become 
 deeply interested in her unseen correspondent. 
 It would be no difficult matter to act the lover, 
 and endorse anything these letters might have 
 said to such a girl, thinks Abbot, as he hastens 
 along the carpeted corridor, but then there is his 
 letter to Yiva ; there is the fact that he has vir- 
 tually declined to release her. It is this thought 
 that suddenly "gives him pause," and, at the 
 very moment that he comes to the doorway lead- 
 ing to the veranda, causes him to stop short and 
 reflect. 
 
 There is a little sitting-room opening off this 
 hallway. One or two couples are chatting and 
 gossiping therein, but Abbot steps past them to 
 the window and gazes out. As he expected, 
 there is a view of one end of the veranda, and 
 there she stands, looking far out into the gath- 
 ering]: nio:ht. 
 
 A sweeter, lovelier face one seldom sees; so 
 delicate and refined in every feature, so gentle 
 and trusting in its expression. Her deep mourn- 
 ing seems only to enhance her fragile beaut3^ and 
 to render more observable the grace of her slen- 
 der form. She leans against the iron treUis-work, 
 
128 A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 and one slim ^yhite hand sweeps back the sunny 
 hair that is playing about her temple. Her 
 thoughts are not so ver}^ far away. He is stand- 
 ins' in the shadow of a curtained niche in a room 
 whose light comes mainly from the flickering 
 coal-fire in the grate, for the October evening is 
 chill. She stands where the light from the big 
 lamps at the corner is sufficient to plainly show 
 her every look and gesture. Abbot marks that 
 twice or thrice, as footsteps are heard in the hall, 
 she glances quickly towards the doorway ; then 
 that a shade of disappointment gathers on her 
 brow as no one comes. Then, once or twice, 
 timidly and furtively, she casts shy, quick glan- 
 ces aloft and towards the front of the building. 
 It requires little calculation to tell Major Abbot 
 that those glances are towards the window of 
 his room. Then can it be that she is there, wait- 
 ing him, impatient of his coming ? 
 
 Whether or no, this is no place for him. He 
 has no business here spying upon her. He has 
 had his look ; has seen again the sweet face that 
 so fascinated him. Kow, though he could gaze 
 indefinitely, he feels that he should either go forth 
 and meet her openly or, perhaps better, retire and 
 avoid her entirelv. Before he can summon cour- 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 129 
 
 age to go he turns for one last look, and his course 
 is decided for him. 
 
 A footstep, somewhat slow, either from a dis- 
 position to saunter on the part of the promenader 
 or possible languor and weakness, is coming along 
 the hallway. She hears it, too, and he sees how 
 her white hands clasp the rail of the balcony, and 
 how she turns her bonnie head to listen, l^earer 
 it comes ; he cannot see who approaches, because 
 that would involve his stepping back and losing 
 sight of her; and as it nears the doorway he 
 marks her eager, tremulous pose, and can almost 
 see the beating of her heart. She has not turned 
 fully towards the hall — just partially, as though a 
 sidelong glance were all she dared give even in 
 her joyous eagerness. Then a form suddenly 
 darkens the portal, and just as suddenly a shad- 
 ow of keen disappointment clouds her face. She 
 turns abruptly, and once more gazes wistfully 
 down the street. 
 
 The next thing Abbot sees is that the man is at 
 her side ; that he has accosted her ; that she is 
 startled and annoyed ; and that although in to- 
 tally different garb, her caller is no less a person 
 than the secret-service official Avho visited him 
 that morning. What on earth can that mean ? 
 9 
 
130 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 Whatever the conversation, it is very brief. 
 Obedient to some suggestion or request, though 
 not without one more quick glance at his win- 
 dow, Abbot sees her turn and enter the house. 
 Quickly she passes the doorway and speeds along 
 the hall. Eegardless of the opinions and prob- 
 able remarks of the gossipers in the sitting-room, 
 Major Abbot hastens to the entrance and gazes 
 after her until the graceful form is out of sight. 
 Then he turns and confronts the sauntering de- 
 tective — 
 
 "^' I did not know you knew Miss Warren," he 
 says. 
 
 " I don't," is the answer. " Neither do you, 
 do you ?" 
 
 '' Well, we never met before yesterday, but — " 
 
 '' You never wrote to her, did you, or to her 
 father ?" 
 
 " Never, and yet I think there is a matter con- 
 nected with it all that will require explanation." 
 
 " So do I. One of the worst points against 
 the old gentleman is that very bad break he 
 made in claiming that you had been a constant 
 correspondent of his and of his daughter's." 
 
 " One of the worst ! Why, what is he ac- 
 cused of f 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 131 
 
 " Being a rebel spy — not to put too fine a point 
 upon it." 
 
 Abbot stands aghast a moment. 
 
 " "Why, man, it's simply impossible ! I tell you, 
 you're all wrong." 
 
 " Wish you'd tell my chief that," answers the 
 man, impassively. " I don't like the thing a par- 
 ticle. They've got points up at the office that I 
 know nothing about, and, probably, have more 
 yet, now ; for the package of papers was found 
 upon him just as described from Frederick." 
 
 " What papers ?" 
 
 " Don't know. They've taken them up to the 
 office. That's what makes the case rather weak 
 in my eyes ; no man would carry a packet of 
 implicating papers in the pocket of his overcoat 
 all this time. Such a package v»^as handed to 
 him as he left the tavern there by the landlord's 
 wife, and she got it from the rebel spy who es- 
 caped back across the Potomac the next morn- 
 ing. He's the man your Colonel Putnam so 
 nearly captured. Doctor Warren broke down 
 on the back trip, it seems, and was delirious here 
 for some days ; but even then I should think he 
 would hardly have kept these papers in an over- 
 coat pocket, unless they were totally forgotten. 
 
132 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 and that would look vastly like innocence of 
 their contents, which is what he claimed." 
 
 " Do you mean that he knows it ? Has he 
 been accused ?" asks Abbot. 
 
 " Certainly. That's what I came down here 
 for; he wanted his daughter. He is perfectly 
 rational and on the mend now, and as the phy- 
 sicians said he would be able to travel in a day 
 or two, it was decided best to nail him. There 
 are scores of people hereabouts who'll stand 
 watching better than this old doctor, to my 
 thinking ; but we are hke you soldiers, and have 
 our orders." 
 
 " Was my father up there when he was noti- 
 fied of his arrest," aslvs Abbot. 
 
 "No; Mr. Abbot has gone over to Senator 
 Wilson's. He was met by a messenger while 
 standing in the office a while ago." 
 
 The major tugs his mustache in nervous per- 
 plexity a moment. He needs to see the doctor. 
 He cannot rest satisfied now until he has called 
 upon him, assured him of his sympathy, his 
 faith in his innocence, and his desire to be of 
 service. More than that, he longs to tell him 
 that he believes it in his power to explain the 
 whole complication. More and more it is dawn- 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 133 
 
 ing upon him that he has had an arch-enemy at 
 work in this missing HoUins, and that his vil- 
 lainy has involved them all. 
 
 " Can I see Dr. Warren ?" he suddenly asks. 
 
 " I don't know. I am not directly in charge, 
 but I will ask Hallett, who is up at the room 
 now." 
 
 " Do ; and come to my room and let me know 
 as soon as you can." 
 
 In less than five minutes the officer is down 
 at his door. 
 
 "I declare I wish you irould come up. It 
 seems more than ever to me that there's a blun- 
 der somewhere. The old man takes it mighty 
 hard that he should be looked upon as a spy by 
 the government he has suffered so much for. 
 He says his only son was killed; captain in a 
 Xew York regiment." 
 
 " Yes, and I beUeve it. I knew him at col- 
 lege." 
 
 " "WeU, if that don't beat all ! And now that 
 pretty girl is all he has left, and she's breaking 
 her heart because she don't know how to com- 
 fort him." 
 
 " Come on," says Abbot. ^- 1 know the way." 
 
 And, for a lame man, he manages to make 
 
134: A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 marvellous time through the hallway and up 
 that little flight of stairs. The room door is 
 open as before. A man is pacing restlessly up 
 and down the hall. There is a sound of sobbing 
 from within, and, never stopping to knock, Paul 
 Abbot throws off his cloak and enters. 
 
 She is bending over the bedside, mingling en- 
 treaty and soothing words with her tears ; striv- 
 ing to induce her raging old father to lay him- 
 self down and take the medicine that the panic- 
 stricken nurse is vainly offering. The doctor 
 seems to have but one thought — wrath and in- 
 dignation that he, the father of a son who died 
 so gallantly, should have been accused of so vile 
 a crime ; he has but one desire, to rise and dress, 
 and confront his accusers. If ever man needed 
 the strong arm of a son to rest on at this mo- 
 ment, it is poor old Warren. If ever woman 
 needed the aid and presence of a gallant lover, 
 it is this sweet, half -distracted Bessie ; and if 
 ever man looked thoroughly fit to fill all re- 
 quirements, it is the self-same young major of 
 staff who comes striding in and grasping the 
 situation with a soldiers glance. 
 
 Heaven ! How her eyes fight and beam at sight 
 of him ! How even through her tears, the flush 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 135 
 
 of hope and joy springs to her cheek. How 
 eagerly, trustfully, she turns to him, as though 
 knowing all must now be well. 
 
 '• Oh, papa ! here is Mr. Abbot," she exclaims, 
 and says it as though she felt that nothing more 
 could ever be needed. 
 
 He steps between her and the staring eyes 
 of the old gentleman ; bends quickly down over 
 him. 
 
 " Yes, doctor. Paul Abbot, whom you thought 
 killed," and he gives him a significant glance ; 
 a glance that warns him to say no word that 
 might undeceive her. '* I have just had news 
 of this extraordinary charge. I've come to you, 
 quick as legs can carry me, to tell you that you 
 are to lie perfectly still, and rest this burden with 
 me. Don't stir ; don t worry ; don't say one 
 word. I'm going straight to the provost-mar- 
 shal's to tell them what I know, and explain 
 away this whole thing. A most extraordinary 
 piece of scoundrelism is at the bottom of it all, 
 but I am beginning to understand it, fully. Doc- 
 tor, will you trust me ? Will you let me try and 
 be Guthrie to you to-night ; and promise me to 
 lie still here until I come back from the provost- 
 marshal's ?" 
 
136 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 '' Do, father !" implores Bessie, bending over 
 him, too. 
 
 There is a look of utter bewilderment in the 
 doctors haggard face, but he says no word. For 
 a moment he gazes from one to the other, then 
 drops back upon the pillow, his eyes fixed on 
 Abbot's face. 
 
 " I am all unstrung, weak as a child/' he mur- 
 murs ; " I cannot understand ; but do as you will.'' 
 
 There are voices in the hall ; the clink of spurs 
 and sabre ; and a cavalry orderly makes his ap- 
 pearance at the door. 
 
 " I was to give this to Major Abbot, instantly," 
 he says, saluting and holding forth an envelope. 
 Abbot takes and tears it open. The message is 
 brief enough, but full of meaning : 
 
 " Your presence necessary here at once to ex- 
 plain the papers found on Doctor Warren. Looks 
 like a case of mistaken identity." 
 
 It is signed by the young oificer whom he met 
 on the occasion of his last visit. 
 
 " I thought so, doctor !" he says, triumphantly. 
 " They are shaky already, and send for me to 
 come. Depend upon it I'll bring you glad tid- 
 ings in less than no time, and have an end to 
 these mysteries. !N'ow try and rest." 
 
"A cavalry orderly makes his ajipearance at tlie door.""* 
 
A WAK-TLME WOOING. 137 
 
 Then he turns to her. Can he ever forget the 
 trust, the radiance, the restfulness in the shy, 
 sudden look she gives him ? His heart bounds 
 Tvith the sight ; his pulse throbs hard as he holds 
 forth his hand, and, for the first time, her soft 
 warm palm is clasped in his. 
 
 " Don't worry one bit, Miss Bessie ; we'll have 
 this matter straightened out at once." 
 
 Then there is a pressure he cannot resist; a 
 shy, momentary answer he cannot mistake ; and, 
 with his veins all thrilling, Paul Abbot goes forth 
 upon his mission, leaving her looking after him 
 with eyes that plainly say, " There walks a demi- 
 god." 
 
 At the office he is prom43tly ushered into the 
 presence of three or four men, two of them in 
 uniform. 
 
 " Major Abbot, here is a packet of letters in a 
 lady's hand, addressed to 3"ou. They were found on 
 Doctor Warren, in the very pocket where he placed 
 the package that Avas given him at Frederick. 
 Have you lost such, or canyon account for them ?" 
 
 " I can account for them readily," answers 
 Abbot, promptly. " They are mine, written by 
 Miss Warren, and were stolen from me, as I be- 
 lieve ; was there no explanation or address ?" 
 
138 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 "JS'othing but this," is the answer, and the 
 speaker holds forth a wrapper inside which is 
 Avritten these words : 
 
 " For your daughter. Euined though I am, 
 I can never forgive myself for the fearful wrong 
 I have done her. Tell her it was all a lie. He 
 never wrote, and she will never know the man 
 who did." 
 
 Abbot stands staring at the paper, his hands 
 clinching, his mouth setting hard. Xo word is 
 spoken for a moment. Then, in answer to a 
 courteous question, he looks up. 
 
 " It is as I thought. His villainy has in- 
 volved others besides me. Doctor Warren is 
 no more spy than I am. This writing is that 
 
 d d scoundrel Hollins's, who deserted from 
 
 our regiment." 
 
IX. 
 
 It is late that evening when Major Abbot re- 
 turns to Willard's. He has found time to write 
 a brief note to the doctor, which it was his inten- 
 tion to send by the orderly who bears the official 
 order releasing the AYarrens from surveillance. 
 It suddenly occurs to him, however, that she 
 may see the note. If so, what will be her sensa- 
 tions on finding that the handwriting is utterly 
 unlike that in which all her letters had come to 
 her. Abbot tears it into shreds, and contents 
 himself with a message, saying that he is com- 
 pelled to see the adjutant-general on immediate 
 business, but will soon be with them. 
 
 It is true that the adjutant-general has business 
 with Major Abbot, but it is some time before 
 audience is obtained. There is still a whirl of 
 excitement over Stuart's movements, and it is 
 ten o'clock before the young officer is able to see 
 his chief. The general is courteous, but a trifle 
 formal and cold. Staff officers, be says, are now 
 
14:0 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 urgently needed, and he desires to know how 
 soon the major will feel able to resume duty. 
 
 " At once, sir," is the answer. 
 
 '^ But 3^ou are still far from strong, and — I do 
 not mean office duty here ; we have abundance 
 of material for that sort of work." 
 
 " J^either do I, sir. I mean duty at the front. 
 I can sit around headquarters in the field as com- 
 fortably as I can anywhere, and, to the best of 
 my observation, the duty performed by the ad- 
 jutant-general at corps or division headquarters 
 is not such as involves much physical exertion." 
 
 The general smiles benignantly upon the 
 younger officer, and with the air of a man 
 who would say, "How little you know of the 
 importance and responsibilities of the labors to 
 which we are assigned; but you will soon un- 
 derstand." 
 
 " But can you ride yet ?" he asks. 
 
 " I can ; if a forward movement is in contem- 
 plation ; and every day will bring me strength," 
 answers Abbot. " In brief, general, if you have 
 a post for me at the front I can go at once." 
 
 " One other thing. Have you any idea of the 
 whereabouts of Mr. HoUins of your old regiment, 
 or can you give us any idea as to where he would 
 
A WAK-TIME WOOING. 141 
 
 be likely to go ? He has forwarded his resigna- 
 tion, dated Keedysville, Maryland, September 
 18. It was post-marked Baltimore, October 
 8, and came direct. Of course it cannot be ac- 
 cepted. "What is needed is some clew as to his 
 movements. Could he or would he have gone 
 back to Boston ? Had he anything to draw him 
 thither?" 
 
 Abbot reflects a moment. " I can form no idea 
 where he has gone," he answers. 
 
 " It was proposed to send an officer of your 
 regiment back to confer with the police authori- 
 ties. Major Abbot, and there are reasons why I 
 prefer you should go. A few days' visit at your 
 old home may not be unacceptable, and you can 
 probably render valuable service. I have been 
 told that there is reason to believe that Lieuten- 
 ant HoUins is lurking somewhere around Bos- 
 ton at this very minute, and that is the first 
 duty on which you are needed. Your instnic- 
 tions can be written later, ^ow can you go in 
 the morning 1" 
 
 There is a moment's silence. This is not the 
 duty which Major Abbot expected, nor is it at all 
 what he desires. He wonders if his father has 
 not been in collusion with the senator, and, be- 
 
142 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 tween the two, if some pretext has not been de- 
 vised to get him home for a few days. It looks 
 vastly that way. 
 
 "I confess that my hopes were in the oppo- 
 site direction, general. I had visions of immedi- 
 ate employment at the front, when you spoke." 
 
 The bureau official is evidently pleased. He 
 likes the timber the younger soldier is made of, 
 and his grim, care-worn face relaxes. 
 
 '^ Major Abbot, you shall have your wish, and, 
 depend upon me, the moment there is prospect 
 of a forward move you shall join a division at 
 the front. Your old colonel will have one this 
 very vreek if it can be managed here, and he will 
 be glad of your services ; but I tell you, between 
 ourselves, that I do not believe ]\IcClellan can be 
 made to budge an inch from where he stands un- 
 til positive orders are given from here. You go 
 — not on leave, but on duty — for a week, and then 
 we'll have work for you in the field. I have 
 promised it." 
 
 Then the bewildered 3'oung major is notified 
 that his father is waiting for him at the senator's, 
 and thither he drives, half determined to upbraid 
 them both ; but the delight in the old gentle- 
 man's face is too much for him. It is nearly 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 143 
 
 eleven when they reach Willard's, and, before he 
 will consent to pack his soldier kit, Paul Abbot 
 goes at once to the Warrens' room, and his father 
 follows. 
 
 The secret-service man has gone. The physi- 
 cian is there and the nurse, both conversing vrith 
 their patient, when the two gentlemen appear. 
 Major Abbot presents his father and looks around 
 the room somewhat disappointedly. Despite his 
 excitement of the day, and possibly because of 
 it, Doctor Warren seems in higher spirits and 
 better condition than Abbot has imagined it pos- 
 sible for him to be. The two old gentlemen 
 shake hands, and Mr. Abbot speedily seats him- 
 self by the side of the invalid, and frees himself 
 of his impressions as to the extraordinary^ charges 
 that had been preferred, and his satisfaction at 
 their speedy refutation. The local physician, in 
 low tones, is assuring Major Abbot that a day or 
 two will restore their patient to strength suf- 
 ficient to journey homewards, and that he be- 
 heves the " set back " of the early evening will 
 be of no avail if he can get liim to sleep by mid-, 
 night. Abbot hastily explains that he leaves at 
 daybreak for Boston, and had only come in ful- 
 filment of a promise. Then he accosts his father. 
 
144 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 '^ I know we have both a great deal to say to 
 Doctor Warren, father, hut it is a pleasure only 
 to be deferred. We must say good-niglit, so that 
 he can sleep, and will meet in KeAv York next 
 week." 
 
 Doctor Warren looks up inquiringl}^ He is 
 far from willing to let them go, but the physician 
 interposes. They say their adieux and still Ab- 
 bot hesitates ; his eyes wander to the door which 
 communicates with Bessie's room, and, as though 
 in answer, it opens and she softly enters. 
 
 " I am so glad you have come," he says, in low, 
 eager tone. " Let me present my father," and 
 the old gentleman bows with courtly grace and 
 comes forward to take her hand. She is a lovely 
 picture to look at, with the sweet, shy conscious- 
 ness in her face. The very gaze in Abbot's eyes 
 has sent the color to her brows, and he holds her 
 hand until he has to transfer it to his fathers out- 
 stretched palm. 
 
 " The doctor tells us we must not stay. Miss 
 Bessie," he continues, " but I could not go with- 
 out a word. I am ordered to Boston by first 
 train in the morning, but shall see you — may 
 I not— in I^ew York ?" 
 
 Brave as she is, it comes too suddenly — this 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 145 
 
 news that she must part with her knight just as 
 he has done her such loyal service, and before 
 she has even thanked him by look or word. All 
 the radiance, all the bright color fades in an in- 
 stant, and Paul Abbot cannot but see it and di- 
 vine, in part at least, the reason. He has in his 
 pocket letters from her own fair hand, that he 
 knows were written for him, and yet that he has 
 no right to see. He reads in her lovely eyes a 
 trust in him, a pain at this sudden parting, that 
 he thrills in reahzing, 3-et should steel his heart 
 against or be no loyal man. But he cannot go 
 without a word from her, and it is a moment be- 
 fore she can speak : 
 
 "Is — is it not very sudden? I shall never 
 thank you enough for what you have done for 
 father — for tcs, this evening. What would w^e 
 have done without you ?" 
 
 " That is nothing. There is no time now — but 
 next week — Xew York — I may see you there, 
 may I not ?" 
 
 May he not ? What man can look in her eyes 
 and ask less ? He holds her hand in close press- 
 ure one instant and hastens from the room. 
 
 Forty-eight hours later he is in the presence 
 10 
 
14:6 A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 of the woman who had promised to be his wife. 
 The evening has seemed somewhat long. She 
 was out when he called at an earlier hour, but 
 was to be found at a dinner-party in the neigh- 
 borhood. Major Abbot feels indis^Dosed to meet 
 her in presence of " society," and leaves word that 
 he will return at ten o'clock. He finds her ptill 
 absent and has to wait. Mr. AYinthrop is at his 
 club ; Mrs. "\Yinthrop has begged to be excused — 
 she had retired early with a severe headache. 
 She does not want to see me, thinks Abbot, and 
 that looks as though Yiva were obdurate. It is 
 a matter that has served to lose its potency for 
 ill, and the major is angered at himself because 
 of a thrill of hope ; because of the thought of an- 
 other face that will intrude. It is nearly eleven 
 o'clock when he hears the rumble of carriage 
 wheels at the door. He steps to the front win- 
 dow and looks out upon the pavement. Yes, 
 there is the old famil}^ carriage drawn up in 
 front in the full glare of the gas lamp. The foot- 
 man is opening its door and Yiva Winthrop steps 
 quickly forth, glances up and down the street as 
 though expectant of some one's coming, and turns 
 quickly to speak to some one in the carriage. 
 Abbot recognizes the face at the open window 
 
A WAE-TEME WOOIXG. 147 
 
 as that of an old family friend nodding good- 
 night. The footman still stands, but Yiva speaks 
 to him ; he touches his hat respectfully, but in 
 some surprise, and then springs to his perch ; the 
 t\yo ladies nod and exchange cordial good-nights 
 again, and away goes the carriage, leaving Miss 
 "VVinthrop standing on the sidewalk, where she is 
 still searchingly looking up and down and across 
 the street. As though in answer there comes 
 springing through the dim light the huUdng, 
 slouching, round-shouldered figure of a big man. 
 He is across the street and at her side in a few 
 vigorous leaps, and away as quick as he came. 
 IS'o word has been interchanged, no sign on his 
 part. He has handed her a small white parcel. 
 She has placed in his hand a dark roll of some- 
 thing that he eagerly seizes and makes off with. 
 It all happens before Abbot has time to realize 
 what is going on, then she scurries up the stone 
 steps and rings the bell. His first impulse is to go 
 and open the door himself, but that will produce 
 confusion. She will have no time to dispose of 
 that packet, and IMajor Abbot will not take ad- 
 vantage of what he has inadvertently seen. He 
 hears the old butler shuffling along the marble 
 hallway, and his deferential announcement. 
 
148 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 " Mr. Abbot is in the parlor, Miss "Winthrop." 
 
 And then he steps forward under the chande- 
 lier to meet her. 
 
 It is a moment before she enters. Evidently 
 his coming is a shock for which she is unprepared. 
 She comes in with swiftly changing color and lips 
 that tremble despite the unflinching courage of 
 her eyes. 
 
 "This is indeed a surprise," she says, as she 
 gives him her hand. "Why — when did you 
 come, and how did you come, and how well you 
 look for a man who has had so much suffering — 
 I mean from your wounds," she linishes, hurried- 
 ly. It is all said nervously and with evident 
 purpose of simply talking to gain time and 
 think. " "Won't you sit down? You must be so 
 fatigued. Take this chair, it's so much more com- 
 fortable than that one you are getting. Have 
 you seen mamma ! ]^o? Why? Does she know 
 you are here ? Oh, true ; she did speak of a 
 headache before I went out. Mrs. Laight and I 
 have been to dinner at the Farnham's and have 
 just returned. Why didn't 3^ou come round there 
 — they'd have been so delighted to see 3"ou ? You 
 know you are quite a hero now." 
 
 He lets her run on, sitting in silence himself, 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 149 
 
 and watching her. She continues her rapid, ner- 
 vous talk a moment more, her color coming and 
 going all the time, and then she stops as suddenly. 
 " Of course you can answer no questions when I 
 keep chattering like a magpie." 
 
 She is seated now on the sofa facing him, as 
 he leans back in one of those old-fashioned easy- 
 chairs that used to find their way into some par- 
 lors in the ante -helium days. When silence is 
 fully established, and she is apparently ready to 
 listen, he speaks : 
 
 " I came to-night, Yiva, and to see you. Did 
 you get my letter ?" 
 
 " Your last one, from "Washington ? Yes. It 
 came yesterday." 
 
 " I have come to see the letters." 
 
 "What letters r' 
 
 " Those which you must have received or been 
 shown in order to make you believe me disloyal 
 to you." 
 
 " I have no such letters." 
 
 " Did you send them to me, Yiva." 
 
 ":n'o." 
 
 "What did you do with them?" 
 She hesitates, and colors painfully ; then seeks 
 to parry. 
 
150 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 " How do 3'oii know I ever saw any letters ?" 
 
 ''Because nothing less could explain your ac- 
 tion; nor does this justify it. Still, I am not 
 here to blame you. I want to get at the truth. 
 What did you do with them ?" 
 
 '' They— went back." 
 
 " When ? Before or after you got my letter ?" 
 
 ISTo answer for a moment, then : 
 
 " Wh}^ do yo.u ask that ? What possible differ- 
 ence can it make ? They were shown me in strict 
 confidence. I had long believed you cared more 
 for another girl than jon did for me, and these 
 letters proved it." 
 
 '' I do not admit that, Yiva," is the grave, al- 
 most stern repl3\ " But do you mean that, after 
 receiving my letter, you returned those that I 
 asked for — that I had a right to see ?" 
 
 "They were called for; and they were not 
 mine to do as I chose with." 
 
 '' Will you tell me how and by whom they were 
 called for ?" 
 
 He has risen now, and is standing under the 
 chandelier, drawn to his full height. 
 
 " I do not wish to speak of it further. I have 
 told the person that you denied the truth of them, 
 and that is enough." 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 151 
 
 "I am sorry that you mentioned me to the 
 person, or weighed my statements in any such 
 scale." 
 
 '' Paul Abbot !" she breaks in impetuously, ris- 
 ing too. " You say you never Avrote to this girl, 
 and I believe you; but tell me this: have you 
 never seen her ? do you not at this moment care 
 for her infinitely more than you do for me ?" 
 
 He considers a moment. It is a leading ques- 
 tion ; one he had not expected ; but he will not 
 stoop to the faintest equivocation. Still, he wants 
 her to understand. 
 
 ^' Listen, Yiva. Up to the time of your letter s 
 coming she was a stranger to me. Xow I have 
 met her. She and her father were in the same 
 hotel with us at Washington ; and she, too, has 
 been victimized by forged letters as you have." 
 
 "Enouo:h, enouo^h! AYhv not end it where it 
 is ? You know well that if you cared for me that 
 would be the first assurance. Granted that we 
 have both been cheated, fooled, tricked, why 
 keep up the farce of a loveless engagement? 
 That, at least, must end noioP 
 
 " Even if it should, Yiva, I am not absolved 
 from a duty I owe you. It is my conviction 
 that you have been drawn into a correspondence 
 
152 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 with a man against whom it is my solemn right 
 and duty to warn you at once. You have no 
 brother. For Heaven's sake be guided by what 
 I say. Whatever may have been his influence 
 in the past, you can never in the future recog- 
 nize Mr. Hollins. If not captured by this time, 
 he is a disgraced exile and deserter." 
 
 " He is nothing of the kind ! You, and impe- 
 rious men like you, denied to him the compan- 
 ionship of his brother officers, and his sensitive 
 nature could not stand it. He has resigned and 
 left the service, that is all." 
 
 "You are utterly mistaken, Yiva. What I 
 tell you is the solemn truth. For your name's 
 sake I implore you tell me what has been his in- 
 fluence in the past. I well know he can be noth- 
 ing to you in the future, Yiva. You are not in 
 communication with him now, are you ?" 
 
 A ring at the bell. The old butler comes sleep- 
 ily shuffling along the hall again, and appears at 
 the parlor with a telegram. " They sent it after 
 you, sir," is the explanation. Abbot, with curi- 
 ous foreboding, opens, and hurriedly reads the 
 words, 
 
 " Eix also deserted ; is believed to have gone 
 to Boston." 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 153 
 
 " Yiva !" he exclaims, '' the man you gave that 
 packet to was ELx, another deserter. My God ! 
 Do you hiow where HoUins is ?" 
 
 But Yiva Winthrop has fallen back on the sofa, 
 covering her face with her hands. 
 
Major Abbot's stay in Boston is but brief. He 
 had a hurried conference with the j)olice late at 
 night, after his painful interview with Miss Win- 
 throp, and there is lively effort on part of those 
 officials to run down the bulky stranger to whom 
 she had intrusted that packet. There has been 
 a family conference, too, between the elders of 
 the households of Abbot and Winthrop, and the 
 engagement is at an end. Coming in suddenly 
 from his club, Mr. "Winthrop entered the parlor 
 immediately after the receipt of the telegram, 
 and he is overwhelmed with consternation at the 
 condition of affairs. He has insisted on a full 
 statement from Yiva's lips, and to her mother 
 the story has been told. She withholds no point 
 that is at all material, for her pride has been hum- 
 bled to the dust in the revelation that has come 
 to her. She is not the first woman, nor is she at 
 all liable to be the last, to undertake the task of 
 championing a man against the verdict of his 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOmG. 155 
 
 associates, and the story is simple enough. With 
 his sad, subdued manner, his air of patient suf- 
 fering, and his unobtrusive but unerring atten- 
 tions, Mr. HoUins had succeeded in making a 
 deep impression while they were abroad. ISTot 
 that her heart was involved ; she protests against 
 that ; but her sympathy, her pity, was aroused. 
 He had never inflicted his confidences upon her, 
 but had deftly managed to rouse her curiosity, 
 and make her question. By the time they re- 
 turned to America she believed him to be a sen- 
 sitive gentleman, poor, talented, struggling, and 
 yet burdened with the support of helpless rela- 
 tives, too distant of kin for her father's notice. 
 She had come back all aflame with patriotic fer- 
 vor, too ; and his glowing words and soldierh^ 
 longings had inspired her with the belief that here 
 was a man who only needed a start and fair treat- 
 ment to enable him to rise to distinction in his 
 country's service. Through her father's influ- 
 ence he was commissioned in the — th, then 
 being organized, and in her friendship she had 
 sought to make his path easy for him. But he 
 was certainly deep in her confidence even then, 
 and shrewd enough to take advantage of it. He 
 had frequently written before, and it was not un- 
 
156 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 natural he should write after the regiment left 
 for the front — letters which intimated that he 
 was far from content among his associates, which 
 hinted at distress of mind because he daily saw 
 and heard of things which would cause bitter 
 sorrow to those who had the right to command 
 his most faithful services. He had shown deep 
 emotion when informed of her engagement to 
 Mr. Abbot, and it was hard to confess this. It 
 soon became apparent to her that he desired her 
 to understand that he deeply loved her, and was 
 deterred only by his poverty from seeking her 
 hand. Then came letters that were constructed 
 with a skill that would have excited the envy of 
 an lago, hinting at other correspondences on 
 part of ]\Ir. Abbot and of neglects and infideli- 
 ties that made her proud heart sore. Still there 
 were no direct accusations ; but, taken in con- 
 nection with the long periods of apparent silence 
 on his part and the unloverlike tone of his let- 
 ters when they reached her, the hints went far 
 to convince her that she had promised her hand 
 to a careless and indifferent wooer. This palli- 
 ated in her mind the disloyalty of which she was 
 guilty toAvards him, and at last, in the summer 
 just gone, she had actually written to Mr. Hoi- 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 157 
 
 lins for proofs of his assertions. For a long time 
 — for weeks — he seemed to hold back, but at last 
 there came three letters, written in a pretty, girl- 
 ish hand. She shrank from opening them, but 
 Mr. Hollins, in his accompanying lines, simply 
 bade her have no such compunction. They had 
 been read by half a dozen men in camp already, 
 and the girl was some village belle who possibly 
 knew no better. She did read, just ten lines, of 
 one of them, and was shamed at her act as she 
 was incensed at her false fiance. The ten lines 
 were sweet, pure, maidenly words of trust and 
 gratitude for his praise of her heroic brother; 
 and in them and through them it was easy for 
 the woman nature to read the budding love of a 
 warm-hearted and innocent girl. 
 
 This roused her wrath, and would have led to 
 denunciation of him but for the news of liis 
 wounds and danger. Then came other letters 
 from Hollins, hinting at troubles in which he 
 was involved ; and then, right after Antietam, 
 he seemed to cease to write for a fortnight, and 
 his next letter spoke of total change in all his 
 prospects — resignation from the service, serious 
 illness, possibly permanently impaired health, 
 and then of suffering and want. A foul accusa- 
 
158 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 tion had been trumped up against him by ene- 
 mies in the regiment ; he Avas alleged to have 
 stolen letters belonging to officers. In part it 
 was true. He had bribed a servant to get those 
 three letters which he sent her, that she might 
 be saved from the fate that he dreaded for her. 
 It was for her sake he had sinned ; and now he 
 implored her to keep his secret, and to return to 
 liim all his letters on that subject, as well as those 
 he had sent as proofs. He dare not trust them 
 to the mails, but a faithful friend, though a poor 
 man like himself, would come with a note from 
 him, and he would be a trusty bearer. The friend 
 had come but the morning of Abbot's arrival. 
 He humbly rang at the basement door ; sent up 
 a note ; and, recognizing IloUins's writing, she 
 had gone down and questioned him. He sadly 
 told her that the quartermaster was in great 
 trouble. "His enemies had conspired against 
 him;" his money accounts were involved, and 
 there lay the great difficulty. Mr. Hollins 
 would never forgive him, said the man, if he 
 knew he was hinting at such a thing, but what 
 he needed to help him out of his trouble was 
 money. It made her suspicious, but she reread 
 the note. "He is devoted to me, and perfectly 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 159 
 
 reliable. I have cared for him and his sister 
 from childhood. Do not fear to trust the letters, 
 or anything you may write, to him." 
 
 Mr. Hollins was too proud ever to ask for 
 money and could not contemplate the possibility 
 of its being asked in his behalf, she argued. But 
 if anything she might write was to be trusted to 
 the messenger, surely she could trust his state- 
 ments, and so she questioned eagerly. The bear- 
 er thought a thousand dollars might be enough 
 to straighten everything, and she bade him be at 
 the front of the house that night by half after 
 ten, to bring her a little packet he spoke of as 
 having received from Hollins — her OAvn letters to 
 him — and the money w^ould be ready. There was 
 something about the man's face and carriage 
 that was familiar. She could not tell where she 
 had seen him, but felt sure that she had, and it 
 seemed to her that it was in uniform. But he 
 denied having ever been in service, and seemed to 
 shrink into shadow as though alarmed at the 
 idea. During the day she got the money from 
 the bank and gave it, as Abbot saw, and then 
 when the telegram came it all flashed across her 
 — the messenger was indeed Eix. Eix was a de- 
 serter beyond all peradventure. Then, doubtless, 
 
160 A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 she was all wrong and Abbot all right as to the 
 real status of Mr. Hollins. No wonder she Tvas 
 overwhelmed. 
 
 But in all her self-abasement and distress of 
 mind Yiva Winthrop was clear-headed on the 
 question of the dissolution of that engagement. 
 " He does not love me and I do not deserve that 
 he should," was her epitome of the situation. 
 " It will cause him no sorrow now, and it must 
 be ended." And it was. He called and asked 
 to see her, if she felt well enough to receive him ; 
 he acquiesced in her decision, but he wanted to 
 part as friends. She begged to be excused, ex- 
 plaining that she had not left her rooms since the 
 night of his arrival, w^hich was true. And now, 
 with a heart that beats more joyously despite 
 the major's proper and conscientious effort to 
 believe that he is not happier in his freedom, he 
 is hastening back to the front, for his orders have 
 come. 
 
 Two things remain to be attended to before 
 reporting for duty. He makes every effort to 
 find Hollins's hiding-place, but without avail. 
 Miss "Winthrop tells him that beyond the post- 
 mark, Baltimore, there is not a clew in any of the 
 letters, and that they have ceased coming entire- 
 
A WAE-TIME Yv^OOING. 161 
 
 ly. Eix made no mention beyond saying that 
 lie was in Baltimore among people who would 
 guard him, and Eix himself has gone — no man 
 can say whither. 
 
 The other matter is one to which he hastens 
 with eager heart. Twice he has written to Doc- 
 tor Warren since their parting at AYashington, 
 and he has asked permission to call upon them at 
 Hastings before returning. His orders come be- 
 fore any reply. He therefore writes to Hastings 
 the day before he leaves home, begging that a 
 telegram be sent to meet him at the Metropoh- 
 tan, the war-time rendezvous of army men when 
 in Xew York on leave, and his face is blank with 
 disappointment when the clerk tells him that no 
 telegram has been received. He has a day at 
 his disposal, and he loses no time, but goes up 
 the river by an afternoon train, and returns by 
 the evening " accommodation " with uneasy heart. 
 Doctor Warren and Miss Bessie had not yet come 
 back was the news that met him at the prett}^ 
 little homestead. The doctor had been ill in 
 Washington, and when he was well enough to 
 start the young lady was suddenly taken down. 
 Abbot is vaguely worried. He anxiously ques- 
 tions the kindly old housekeeper, and draws from 
 11 
 
162 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 her all that she knows. She is looking for letters 
 any moment ; but the last one was from Willard's, 
 four days since, saying they would have to stay. 
 Miss Bessie was suddenly taken ill. Won't the 
 gentleman come in ? and she will get the letter. 
 He takes off his cloak and forage cap, and steps 
 reverently into the little sitting-room, wherein 
 every object is bathed in the sunshine of late af- 
 ternoon, and everywhere he sees traces of her 
 handiwork. There on the wall is Guthrie's pict- 
 ure ; there hangs his honored sword and the sash 
 he wore when he led the charge at Seven Pines. 
 AYith the soldier-spirit in his heart, with the thrill 
 of sympathy and comradeship that makes all 
 brave men kin. Abbot stands before that silent 
 presentment of the man he knew at college, and 
 slowly stretches forth his hand and reverently 
 touches the sword-hilt of the buried oflBcer. He 
 is not unworthy ; he, too, has led in daring charge, 
 and borne his country's flag through a hell of 
 carnage. They are brothers in arms, though one 
 be gathered already into the innumerable host 
 beyond the grave. They are comrades in spirit, 
 though since college days no word has ever passed 
 between them, and Abbot's eyes fill with emo- 
 tion he cannot repress as he thinks how bitter a 
 
A WAR-TIME wooma. 163 
 
 loss this son and brother has been to the stricken 
 old father and fragile sister. Ah ! could he but 
 have known, that day on the Monocacy ; could 
 he but have read the truth in the old man's eyes, 
 and accepted as a fact his share of that mysteri- 
 ous correspondence rather than have unwillingly 
 dealt so cruel a blow ! His lips move in a short, 
 silent prayer, that seems to well up from his very 
 heart ; and then the housekeeper is at his side, 
 and here is the doctor's letter. It is too meagre 
 of detail for his anxiety. He reads it twice, but 
 it is all too brief and bare. He is recalled to him- 
 self again. The housekeeper begs pardon, but 
 she is sure this must be Mr. Abbot, whose letters 
 were so eagerly watched for all the time before 
 they went away. She had heard in the village 
 he was killed, and she is all a-quiver now, as he 
 can see, with excitement and suppressed feehng 
 at his resurrection. Yes, this is Mr. Abbot, he 
 tells her, and he is going straight to Washington 
 that he may find them. And she shows him pict- 
 ures of Bessie in her girlhood, Bessie at school, 
 Bessie in the bonnie dress she wore at the Sol- 
 diers' Fair. Yes, he remembers having seen that 
 very group before, at Edwards's Ferry, before 
 Ball's Bluff. She prattles about Bessie, and of 
 
164: A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 Eessie's going for his letters, and how she cried 
 over them. He is all S3rmpathy, and bids her say 
 on as he moves about the room, touching little 
 odds-and-ends that he knows must be hers ; and 
 he is loath to go, but eager too, since it is to 
 carry him back to her. He writes a few lines on 
 a card to tell them of his visit and his orders, 
 should they fail to meet ; he begs the doctor to 
 write, and warns him that he must expect fre- 
 quent letters ; and then, with one long look about 
 the sunlit, love-haunted room, with one appeal 
 for brotherly sympathy in his parting gaze at 
 Guthrie "Warren's picture, he strides back to 
 the station, and by sunrise of another day is hur- 
 rying to Washington. In his breast-pocket he 
 carries the compact little wad of letters, all ad- 
 dressed to himself, all written in her own deli- 
 cate and dainty hand, yet sealed from his eyes 
 as securely as though locked in casket of steel. 
 Though he longs inexpressibly to read their 
 pages and to better know the gentle soul that 
 has so suddenly come into his life, they are not 
 his to open. "What would he not give for one 
 moment face to face with the man who had 
 lured and tricked her — and with his name ! 
 They are not at AYillard's, says the clerk, when 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 165 
 
 Major Abbot arrives and makes his inquiries. The 
 doctor paid his bill that morning and they were 
 driven away, but he does not think they left 
 town. Yes, telegrams and letters both had come 
 for the doctor, and the young lady had been con- 
 fined to her room a few days, and was hardly well 
 enough to be journeying now. Abbot's orders 
 require him to report at the War Department on 
 the following day, and he cannot go to rest until 
 he has found their hiding-place. Something tells 
 him that she has at last discovered the fraud of 
 which she has been made the victim, and he 
 longs to find her— longs to tell her that if the 
 real Paul Abbot can only be accepted in heu of 
 the imaginary there need be no break in that 
 strange correspondence ; he is ready to endorse 
 anything his fraudulent double may have writ- 
 ten provided it be only love and loyalty to her. 
 It is late at night before he has succeeded in 
 finding the hack driver who took them aAvay, 
 and by him is driven to the house wherein they 
 have sought refuge. All distressed as he is at 
 thought of their fleeing from him, Paul Abbot 
 finds it sweet to sit in the carriage which less 
 than twelve hours ago bore her over these self- 
 same dusty streets. He bids the hackman rein 
 
166 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 up when he gets to the corner, and wait for him. 
 Then he pushes forward to reconnoitre. Lights 
 are burning in many rooms, but the neighbor- 
 hood is very silent. Far down an intersecting 
 avenue the band of some regiment is serenading 
 a distinguished senator or representative from the 
 state from which they hail, and Abbot can hear 
 the cheers with which the great man is greeted 
 as he comes forth to tender his acknowledgments, 
 and invite the oificers and such of his fellow-citi- 
 zens as may honor him, to step in and "have 
 something." It is a windy night in late October. 
 The leaves are whirling in dusty spirals and shut- 
 ters bang with unmelodious emphasis, and all the 
 world seems dreary ; yet, to him, with love hght- 
 ing the way, with the knowledge that the girl 
 he has learned to worship is here within these 
 dull brick walls, there is a thrill and vigor in 
 every nerve. Xo hght burns in the hallway; 
 none in the lower floor of the number to which 
 he has been directed. He well knows it is too 
 late to call, even to inquire for them, but the 
 army has moved, and at last is pushing south- 
 ward again, feeling its way along the Blue Eidge, 
 and he so well knows that the morrow must 
 send him forward to resume his duties. If he 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 167 
 
 cannot see lier^ it will be comfort, at least, to see 
 her father. He is half disposed to ring and ask 
 for him when a figure comes around a neighbor- 
 ing corner and bears slowly down upon him. 
 The night lamps are dull and flickering and the 
 stranger is a mere shadow. Where Major Abbot 
 stands enveloped in the cloak-cape of his army 
 overcoat there is no light at all. Whoever may 
 be the approaching party he has the disadvan- 
 tage of being partially visible to a watcher whose 
 presence he cannot be aware of until close at 
 hand. When he has come some yards farther 
 Abbot is in no doubt as to his identity, and steps 
 forward to greet him. 
 
 " Doctor Warren, I am so glad to have found 
 you, for I must hurry after the army to-morrow, 
 and only reached Washington this evening. Tell 
 me, how is Miss Bessie V 
 
 The doctor is startled, as a matter of course, 
 but there is something in the young soldier's di- 
 rectness that pleases him. Perha]3s he is pleased, 
 too, to know that his own views are correct, and 
 that the moment Paul Abbot reached Washing- 
 ton he has come in search of them. He takes 
 the proffered hand and holds it — or, rather, finds 
 his firmly held. 
 
168 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 " Bessie has been ill, but is better, major ; and 
 how did you leave them all at home ? I have 
 just been taking a walk of two or three blocks 
 before turning in. Fresh air is something I can- 
 not do without. How did you find us ?" 
 
 ^^ By hunting up your hackman. I was griev- 
 ously disappointed at not finding you at Hast- 
 ings, where I went first, or here at "Willard's. 
 Did you not get my letters and telegrams ?" 
 
 ^' They were forwarded, and came last night." 
 
 ' ■ Then you moved this morning to avoid me, 
 doctor. Does it mean that I am to be punished 
 for another man's crime ? Guthrie's picture had 
 no such unfriendly welcome for me, and I do not 
 beUeve you want to hide her from me. Tell me 
 what it is that makes Bessie avoid me of her own 
 accord. Has she heard the truth about the old 
 letters?" 
 
 Doctor Warren is silent a moment, looking up 
 into the young soldier's face. Then he more firm- 
 ly grasps his hand. 
 
 "I do not want to avoid you. Abbot, but it is 
 only natural that now she should find it hard to 
 meet you. Three days after you left she caught 
 me fairly, and finding that the letter in my hand 
 was yours, she noted instantly the difference be- 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 169 
 
 tween the writing and that of the letters that 
 came to her at home. Something else had roused 
 her suspicions, and I had to tell her that there 
 had been trickery, and she ^vould have no half- 
 way explanation. She probed and questioned 
 with a wit as keen as any lawyer's. She made 
 me confess that that was why I told her Paul 
 Abbot was dead when I got back to her at Fred- 
 erick. He was dead to us. And so, httle by lit- 
 tle, it all came out, and she was simply stunned 
 for a while. It made her too ill to admit of our 
 travelling, and she made me tell her when you 
 were expected back, and bring her here. In a 
 day or two we will start homeward." 
 
 "And meantime I shall have had to start for 
 the front. Doctor Warren, give her this httle 
 package — her own letters. Tell her that I have 
 read no line of one of these, but that, until I can 
 win for myself letters in her dear hand there will 
 be no peace or happiness for me. These are the 
 letters that were sent to you at Frederick, with 
 a few remorseful lines, from the scoundrel who 
 wrought all the trouble. His original motive 
 was simply to injure me, in the hope that he 
 might profit by it. He sought to break an en- 
 gagement of marriage that existed between me 
 
170 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 and Miss Winthrop, of Boston. Before he suc- 
 ceeded in making this breach it is my belief that 
 he had become so touched and charmed b}^ the 
 letters she Avrote that even his craven heart was 
 turned to see its own baseness. He had every 
 opportunity of tampering with our mail. He 
 felt, when I was left wounded at the Monoca- 
 cy, that that would end the play ; and then, in 
 his despair and remorse, he deserted. He was 
 around Frederick a day or two in disguise, and 
 sought to see you and her. Failing in that, he 
 sent you by the landlady the packet that was af- 
 terwards taken from your overcoat by the secret- 
 service men ; and the next thing he came within 
 an ace of being captured by his own colonel. 
 Escaping, he was believed to be a rebel spy, and 
 so implicated you. It was to search for him I 
 was sent to Boston. There Miss Winthrop for- 
 mally broke our engagement, and I would be a 
 free man to-day, doctor, but for your daughter; 
 and now it is not freedom I seek, but a tie that 
 only death can break. You came to Paul Abbot 
 when you thought him sorely wounded, and she 
 came with you. IS'ow that he is sore stricken he 
 comes to you. If it will pain her I will ask no 
 meeting now, but don't you think I owe her a 
 
A -WAK-TniE WOOIKG. 171 
 
 good many letters, doctor? 'VVon-t you let me 
 pay that debt ?" 
 
 It is a long speech for Abbot, but his heart is 
 full. The old gentleman's sad face seems to thaw 
 and beam under the influence of his frank avow- 
 al and that winning plea. Abbot has held forth 
 his other hand, and there the two men stand, 
 both trembhng a little, under the influence of 
 a deep and holy emotion, clasping each others 
 hands and looking into each other's face. They 
 are at the very door-step of the old-fashioned 
 boarding-house which was so characteristic a 
 feature of the capital in the war -days. The 
 door itself is but a few arms' -lengths away, and 
 all of a sudden it softly opens, and, with a hght 
 mantle thrown over her shoulders, a tall, slen- 
 der, graceful girl comes forth upon the narrow 
 porch. 
 
 " Is that you, papa ? I heard your step, and 
 wondered why you remained outside. Was the 
 door locked ?" 
 
 There is an instant of silence. Then a young 
 soldier, in his staff uniform, takes three quick, 
 springing steps, and is at her side. The doctor 
 seems bent on further search for fresh air, for he 
 turns away with a murmured word to his trem- 
 
172 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 bling companion, and Bessie "Warren finds it im- 
 possible to retreat. Major Abbot has seized her 
 hand, and is saying— she hardl}^ hears, she hard- 
 ly knows, what. But it is all so sudden ; it is all 
 so sweet. 
 
" Then a young soldier in his staff uniform takes three 
 springing steps, and is at her side.'' 
 
XI. 
 
 Cold and gray in the mist of the morning the 
 long cokimns have filed down from the heights, 
 and are massed at the water's edge. It is chill 
 December, and the frost has eaten deep into the 
 ruddj^ soil of Virginia, but the Eappahannock 
 flows swiftly along, uncrusted by the ice that 
 fetters IS'orthern streams, yet steaming in the bit- 
 ing air. Fog-wreaths rise from the ripphng sur- 
 face, and all along the crowded shore the clouds 
 hang dense and heavy. Xowhere can one see in 
 any direction more than a dozen yards away ; 
 all beyond is wrapped in swirling, eddying fog- 
 bank. Here in the thronging ranks, close at 
 hand, men speak in low tones as they stamp 
 upon the frozen ground or whip their mittened 
 hands across the broad blue chests to restore cir- 
 culation and drive the ache and numbness away. 
 Here and there are some who have turned their 
 light blue capes up over their heads, and take no 
 part in the low-toned chat. Leaning on their 
 
174: A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 muskets, they let their thoughts go wandering 
 far away, for all men know that bloody work is 
 coming. The engineers are hammering at their 
 bulky pontoons now, and down at the water's 
 edge the clumsy boats are moored, waiting for 
 chess and balk carriers to be told off, and the 
 crews to man the heavy sweeps. Up on the 
 heights to the rear, planted thickly on every 
 knoll and ridge, are the black - mouthed guns, 
 and around them are grouped the squads of 
 ghostly, grisly, fog-dripping cannoneers. One 
 may walk along that line of heights for mile after 
 mile, and find there only grim ranges of batteries 
 and waiting groups of men. All is silence ; all 
 is alertness ; all is fog. Back of the lines of un- 
 limbered cannon, sheltered as far as possible from 
 returning fire, the drivers and horses and the 
 heavy-laden caissons are shrouded in the mist- 
 veil, and the staff officers, groping to and fro, 
 have to ask their way from battery to battery, 
 or go yards beyond their real objective point. 
 Little fires are burning here and there, and bat- 
 tery-lanterns are flickering in the gloom. Out 
 on the face of the stream, too, one can see from 
 the northern shore weird, dancing lights, like 
 will-o'-the-wisps, go twinkling through the fog ; 
 
A "WAR-TIME WOOING. 175 
 
 and far across the waters, from time to time, 
 there is heard the sudden crack of rifle. The 
 Southern pickets are beginning to catch faint 
 glimpses of those lights, and are opening fire, for 
 vigilant officers are there to interpret every sound 
 and sight, and with the first break of the wintry 
 dawn they grasp the meaning of the murmur 
 that has come for hours from the upper shore. 
 "The Yanks are laying bridges" is the word 
 that goes from mouth to mouth, and long before 
 the day is fairly opened the nearing sounds and 
 the will-o'-the-wisp lights out there in the fog 
 tell the shivering pickets that the foe is more 
 than half-way across. Daybreak brings strong 
 forces into line along the southern bank, all eyes 
 straining through the fog. Out to the front the 
 ping ! ping ! of the rifles has become rapid and 
 incessant, and by broad daylight all the river 
 bank and the walls of the buildings that com- 
 mand a view of it are packed with gray riflemen 
 ready for work the instant those bridge-heads 
 loom into view. "When seven o'clock comes, 
 and the fog thins just a little, there are the bridge- 
 ends, sure enough, poking drearily into space, but 
 the only signs of the builders are the motionless 
 forms in blue that are stretched here and there 
 
176 A WAR-TIME WOOING. 
 
 about the boats or planks, only faintly visible 
 through the mist ; the working parties have been 
 forced to give it up. Back they come, what is 
 left of them, and tell their tale among the sym- 
 pathizing blue overcoats in the wearying ranks, 
 and officers ride away up the slopes, and there 
 are moments of suspense and question, and then 
 the thud of sponge-staff and rammer among the 
 batteries, and a sudden flash and roar, tearing 
 the mists asunder ; another, another ; and then, 
 up and down along the line of heights, the order 
 goes, and gun after gun belches forth its charge 
 of shot and shell, and back from the walls of 
 Fredericksburg comes the direful echo and the 
 crash of falling roof or gable. " Depress those 
 muzzles!" is the growling order. ''The whole 
 bank is alive with rebs, and we must shell 'em 
 out before those bridges can be finished." The 
 elevating screws are spun in their beds, the shell 
 fuzes cut down to the very edge. Some guns 
 are so near the river that they are rammed with 
 grape and canister ; and so, for an hour, the thun- 
 dering cannonade goes on, and the infantry crouch 
 below, and swear and shiver, and once in a while 
 set up a cheer when occasion seems to warrant 
 it. And then, covered by this furious fog-bom- 
 
A WAK-TDIE WOOING. 177 
 
 bardment, the engineers again push forward their 
 bridge-builders, and cram their pontoons, and 
 launch them forth upon the stream. It is all use- 
 less. ]^o sooner do they reach the bridge-end 
 when down they go by the dozens before the hot 
 fire of a thousand Southern rifles. So dense is 
 the fog that the gunners cannot aim. Shot, shell, 
 and canister go shrieking through roof and wall, 
 and ripping up streets and crossings; but the 
 plucky riflemen hug the shore in stern determi- 
 nation, and again the bridges are abandoned. 
 
 And so a cold and cheerless morning ebbs 
 away ; and at last, towards noon, there comes 
 relief. The sun bursts through the clouds, and 
 licks up the fog-bank. The mist-veil is with- 
 drawn, and there stands Fredericksburg, with 
 shattered roof and spire, backed by a long line 
 of gun-bristling heights, and there are the unfin- 
 ished bridges jutting helplessly out two thirds 
 across the water. A number of the heavy pon- 
 toons are still moored close to shore, and while 
 all along under the bank the regiments are rang- 
 ino; into battle order, two or three of them are 
 tumbling into those clumsy arks, cramming them 
 with armed men, and then pushing off into the 
 stream. Failing in working across a narrow 
 12 
 
178 A WAE-TIME -WOOING. 
 
 causeway, the "Yanks" are taldng to their boats 
 and sending over a flotilla. It is a daring, des- 
 perate feat, but it tells. Despite the fierce re- 
 sistance, despite the heavy loss that befalls them, 
 animated by the cheers of their comrades, they 
 push ahead, answering the fire as well as they 
 can, and at last, one after another, the boats are 
 grounded on the southern shore, and, though sad- 
 ly diminished in numbers, the men leap forth 
 and go swarming up the bank, driving the gray 
 pickets to cover. Others hurry across and rein- 
 force them ; then more and more, until they are 
 strong enough to seize the nearest buildings and 
 hold the approaches, and then the working par- 
 ties leap forward ; the bridge is finished with a 
 will, and the comrades of their brigade come 
 tramping cheerily across. Three splendid regi- 
 ments are they which made that daring venture, 
 mere companies in numbers as compared with 
 their early strength, and one of them is the — th 
 Massachusetts, now led by a captain. Colonel 
 Putnam stands at his side at this moment of tri- 
 umph and partial rest. He commands the bri- 
 gade that has done this brilliant work, and now 
 is receiving the thanks sent over from cor23s head- 
 quarters ; and the mounted officer, the first one 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 179 
 
 across the bridge, who bears the general's con- 
 gratulations, is his young chief -of -staff, Major 
 Abbot. 
 
 There has been fierce fighting through the 
 streets, stubborn resistance on part of the occu- 
 pants of the town, and determined effort on part 
 of the thronging force of Union men who are 
 constantly gaining accessions as the brigades 
 come marching over. Just at sunset, with the 
 town fully in their possession, there is sudden 
 turmoil and excitement among the blue-coats 
 gathered around an old brick building near the 
 western edge. There is rushing to and fro ; 
 then savage exclamations, shouts of " Kill him !" 
 " Hang him !" " Eun him down to the creek and 
 duck him !" and the brigade commander, with 
 Major Abbot and one or two other mounted offi- 
 cers, has quite as much as he can do to rescue 
 from the hands of an infuriated horde of soldiers 
 a bruised, battered, slouching hulk of a man in a 
 dingy Confederate uniform. He implores their 
 protection, and it is only when they see the pit- 
 eous, haggard, upturned face, and hear the wail 
 of his voice, that Putnam and Abbot recognize 
 the deserter, Eix. Abbot is off his horse and by 
 his side in an instant. Sternly ordering back the 
 
180 A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 men who had grappled and were dragging him, 
 the major holds Kix by the coat-collar and gazes 
 at him in silent amaze. 
 
 " In God's name, how came yon here, and in 
 this garb ?" he finally asks. 
 
 "Weak with sickness, suffering, and the horrible 
 fright he has undergone, the bully of former days 
 simply shudders and cringes now. He crouches 
 at Abbot's feet, gazing fearfully around him at 
 the circle of vengeful, powder-blackened faces. 
 
 '^ Don't let them touch me, Mr. Abbot ! Oh, 
 for God's sake help me. I'm 'most dead, any- 
 how. I can't talk now. We're 'most starved, 
 too, and Mr. Hollins is dying." 
 
 " HoUins !" exclaims Abbot, almost losing his 
 hold on the collar and dropping the limp creat- 
 ure to earth. "What do you mean? where?" 
 
 " In there ; in the bedroom up-stairs. Oh, ma- 
 jor, don't leave me here ; these men wiU murder 
 me !" he implores, clutching the skirts of Abbot's 
 heavy overcoat ; but Colonel Putnam signals "Go 
 on," and, leaving his abject prisoner. Abbot has- 
 tens up the stairs of the old brick house, and there, 
 in a low-ceilinged room, stretched upon the bed, 
 with wild, wandering eyes and fevered lips, with 
 features drawn and ghastly, lies the man who 
 
A WAR-TIME WOOING. 181 
 
 has so bitterly sinned against him, and whom he 
 has so often longed to meet eye to eye — but not 
 this way. 
 
 And it is an awful look of recognition that 
 greets him, too. Shot through and through as 
 he is, tortured with thirst and suffering, praying 
 for help and longing for the sight of some friend- 
 ly face, it seems a retribution ahnost too cruel 
 that, in his extreme hour, the man sent by Heav- 
 en to minister to his needs should be the one he 
 has so foully wronged, the one of whom he lives 
 in dread. He covers his eyes with a gesture of 
 dismay, and turns fearfully to the wall. There 
 is a moment of silence, broken only by the rattle 
 of the window in its casing as it shudders to the 
 distant boom of the guns far down the hne. 
 Then Abbot steps to the bedside and places his 
 gauntleted hand upon the shoulder of the strick- 
 en man. 
 
 "Hollins! How are you wounded? Have 
 you seen a surgeon ?" 
 
 ISTo answer for a moment, and the question is 
 gently repeated. 
 
 "Shot through the body — rifle-ball. There 
 was a surgeon here last night, but he's gone." 
 
 " Lie still then until I get one. I would bring 
 
182 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 Doctor Thorn, but he has too much to do with — 
 too much to do just now." He comes near say- 
 ing " with our own men," but checks himself in 
 time. He cannot "kick the man that is down " 
 with such a speech as that, and it is not long be- 
 fore he reappears, and brings with him a surgeon 
 from one of the arriving regiments. Colonel Put- 
 nam, too, comes up the stairs, but merely to take 
 a look at the situation, and place a guard over 
 both the wounded man and his strange, shiver- 
 ing companion, Eix. Some of the soldiers are 
 sent for water, and others start a fire in the little 
 stove in the adjoining room. The doctor makes 
 his examination, and does what he can for his 
 sinking patient, but when he comes out he tells 
 Abbot that Hollins has not many hours to live, 
 " and he wants to see you," he adds. " Did you 
 know him ?" 
 
 There is a strange scene in the cramped little 
 room of the quaint old house that night. By 
 the light of two or three commissary candles 
 and the flickering glare from the fire one can 
 see the features of the watchers and of the fast- 
 dying man. Abbot sits by the bedside ; Colonel 
 Putnam is standing at the foot, and the adjutant 
 of the — th Massachusetts has been reading aloud 
 
A WAK-TIME WOOING. 183 
 
 from his notes the statement he has taken down 
 from the lips of the former quartermaster. One 
 part of it needs verification from authority not 
 now available. Mr. Ilollins avers that he is not 
 a deserter to the enemy as appearances would in- 
 dicate, but a prisoner paroled by them. 
 
 The statement, so far as it bears upon his offi- 
 cial connection with the regiment, is about as 
 follows : 
 
 " I had personal reasons for going back to the 
 Monocacy — reasons that could not be explained 
 to the satisfaction of a commanding officer. I 
 had to see Mr. Abbot to explain a wrong I had 
 done him, and avert, if possible, the consequences. 
 I left without permission, and rode back, but 
 found all the roads picketed, and I was compelled 
 to hide with a farmer near Boonsboro until Eix 
 reached me. He had been my clerk, and was an 
 expert penman. He fixed the necessary papers 
 for me, and, with the aid of certain disguises I 
 had, it was not so hard to get around. I meant 
 to resign, but feared that, if offered through the 
 regular channels, it would be refused, and I be 
 brought to trial because of the condition of my 
 accounts. Then I found that I was too late to 
 undo the wrong I had done, and it was while 
 
1S4: A WAK-TIME WOOING. 
 
 trying to make partial amends that I came so 
 near being captured by Colonel Putnam at Fred- 
 erick. It made me desperate. That night I took 
 the first horse I could find, and rode down the 
 valley, beUeving all was lost, and that I must get 
 away from that part of the country. Money 
 found me a hiding-place when my papers would 
 no longer serve. Then money bribed a messen- 
 ger to carry word of my condition to Eix, who 
 had been sent to the regiment at Harper's Ferry. 
 He got away and joined me, and made out some 
 more papers for me, and then started, by night 
 and alone, to get home, where he said he had 
 money. Mine was about gone by that time, and 
 here I lay in hiding until Stuart came sweeping 
 down the Monocacy on his way back to Virginia, 
 and I was glad to be captured and carried along. 
 I gave him my proper name and rank, and when 
 Eix came back the army had left that part of 
 the country, and he followed me into Virginia. 
 He said he would be shot, anyway, if captured ; 
 and the next I heard of him — I being then a 
 prisoner in Richmond — was that he had enlisted 
 in a Virginia regiment, and was dying here in 
 Fredericksburg. He had been devoted to me, 
 and needed me. I gave my parole, and was 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 185 
 
 allowed to come here to nurse him. He was 
 recovering and able to be about when the bom- 
 bardment opened, and I was shot at the river 
 bank, whither I had gone to bid him good-bye, and 
 was carried here. The rest that I have to say is 
 for Major Abbot alone to hear." 
 
 Putnam and the adjutant, after a few ques- 
 tions, withdraw ; and at last, with even the sol- 
 dier nurse excluded, the dying man is alone with 
 the one officer of his regiment w^ho had striven 
 to befriend him, and whom he has so basely re- 
 warded. 
 
 " There is no time for lamenting or empty talk 
 of forgiveness and remorse. It is time you heard 
 the truth, Abbot. I alwavs envied vou at col- 
 lege. I envied every man who had birth or 
 wealth or position. I had some brains, but was 
 poor, burdened with the care of a vagabond 
 brother who was well-nigh a jail-bird, and whose 
 only talent was penmanship. He would have 
 been a forger then if it hadn't been for me. For 
 me he afterwards became one. You know who 
 I mean now — Eix. Mr. "AVinthrop gave me op- 
 portunities, and I worked. I had little money, 
 though, but time and again I was called to his 
 house, saw his daughter, and I was ambitious. 
 
186 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 "When she went abroad I followed ; was as dis- 
 creetly attentive as my wit could make me — and 
 when I failed to make the impression I hoped, 
 and we returned, I learned the reason — she was 
 engaged to you. It made me determine that I 
 would undermine it. You did not love her, nor 
 she you. It was a family match, and not one 
 that would make either of you happy. My life 
 in the regiment was a heU, because they seemed 
 to — seemed to know me for what I was. And 
 you simply tolerated me. It made a devil of me. 
 Abbot, and I vowed that proud girl should love 
 me and turn from you if I had to hang for the 
 means that brought it about. I was quartermas- 
 ter at Edwards's Ferry, and Eix was the man who 
 fetched and carried the mails. 'Twas easy enough 
 to abstract her letters or yours from time to time, 
 but the case needed something more than that, 
 l^eglect would not rouse her; jealousy might. 
 One day there came the picture of those girls 
 at Hastings (Abbot's hands begin to clinch ; he 
 has listened coldly up to this point), and I saw 
 the group that was sent to them, and the pretty 
 letter written by their secretary. Miss "Warren. 
 Then came her letter saying she was Guthrie 
 Warren's sister. I knew him well at coUege, 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 187 
 
 and an idea occurred to me. I took your pict- 
 ure, wrote a note, and had Eix copy it, and sent 
 it in your name. When the answer came Eix 
 and I were on the lookout for it, and got it, and 
 wrote again and again. I had matter enough to 
 work on with my knowledge of "Warren, and 
 then his death intensified the interest. I don't 
 care to look in your face now. Abbot, for I'm 
 not a fearless man ; nothing but a beaten, broken, 
 cowardly scoundrel ; but I began trying on that 
 sweet and innocent country girl the arts against 
 which J oviV fiancee^ my highbred kinswoman, had 
 been proof; I was bound to punish her pride. 
 But I found my pretty correspondent as shy, as 
 maidenly and reserved, with all her sister-love 
 and pride, as the other was superior. It was 
 game worth bringing down, by Heaven ! and I 
 grew desperate. I was drinking then, and get- 
 ting snarled up in my accounts, and you had 
 turned a cold shoulder on me; and then came 
 the campaign and Eix's break and more difficul- 
 ties, and I was at my wit's end to keep the let- 
 ters from you ; and just before Second BuU Eun 
 came Miss Winthrop's letters challenging me to 
 prove that you did not care for her, and I sent 
 her three of Miss Warren's letters. But, worse 
 
188 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 than that, I had been wooing another in your 
 name ; and, because she would not betray an un- 
 due interest, I became more engrossed ; became 
 more warmly interested ; and soon it was not for 
 the sake of showing jown fiancee a love-letter from 
 another woman, but to satisfy the cravings of my 
 own heart. I began more and more to strive to 
 win this dainty, innocent, pure-minded girl. Aye, 
 sir, I was wooing over your name ; but 'twas I 
 who loved ; yes, loved her. Abbot. jS'oio^ what 
 think you of me and what I suffered ?" 
 
 He pauses a moment, choked and quivering. 
 He motions with his hand to the cup of stimu- 
 lant the doctor has left him. Abbot coldly hands 
 it to him, and finds that he must raise him from 
 the pillow before he can swallow. He is stirred 
 to his inmost soul with wrath and indignation 
 against this ruthless traitor, even when the fates 
 have laid him low. It is hard to touch him gen- 
 tly, but he steps to his side and does what he 
 can, bidding him use no exertion and be calm as 
 possible. A few painful, hurried breaths, and 
 then HoUins goes on again. 
 
 " Though not once had she confessed her love, 
 I felt I was gaining. She sent me her photo- 
 graph. It is here, on my breast ; I have carried 
 
A WAE-TIME TVOOmG. 189 
 
 it day and night." Abbot's muscles grew rigid 
 again and bis stern face sets with a sterner look. 
 *' But I was in constant worry about my affairs 
 and the coming of those letters. Then when you 
 were wounded and left behind at South Mountain 
 I felt that the crisis had come. I had to get back 
 there. Something told me she would hasten to 
 you. They came, and I had the agony of seeing 
 him — her father — returning from his visit to you ; 
 Eix told me of it afterwards. Then I strove 
 madly to see her ; to tell her the truth, though I 
 knew she would only despise and spurn me. I 
 scrawled a note confessing my crime, but sending 
 no name; gave it to the woman to give to the 
 doctor, and then tore myself away. I was the 
 rebel spy the colonel nearly caught, and from 
 that time I have been a fugitive ; and now — a 
 chance shot ends it all. Eix has been faithful to 
 me, poor devil, and I came here to do what I 
 could for him. Voila tout! Abbot, don't let 
 them shoot him. He isn't worth it. Give me 
 more of that brandy." 
 
 He lies back on the grimy pillow, breathing 
 fast and painfully. Abbot stands in silence a 
 moment. Then his voice, stern and constrained, 
 is heard in question : 
 
190 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 " Have you any messages, Hollins ? Is there 
 any way in which I can serve you ?" 
 
 "It seems tough — but the only friend I have 
 to close my eyes is the man I plotted against 
 and nearly despoiled of his lady-love," mutters 
 HoUins. Either he is wandering a little bit or 
 the brandy is potent enough to blur his sense of 
 the nearness of death. " I wanted to tell you the 
 truth — not that I look for forgiveness. I know 
 your race well enough. You'll see fair play, but 
 love and hate are things you don't change in 
 much. I've no right to ask anything of you, 
 but — who is there? My God! I believe your 
 wife that is to be was about the only friend I had 
 in the world — except Eix. He brought me back 
 the letters, and says she was so good to him. I 
 hope he didn't ask her for money. He swears he 
 didn't, but he's such a bar ! We both are, for that 
 matter. I'm glad, though, now, that my lies 
 didn't hurt you. They didn't, did they, Abbot ? 
 You're stiU engaged ?" 
 
 " I — am eno^ao^ed." 
 
 '' Oh, well ; if I only hadn't brought that dam- 
 nable sorrow to that poor child, and if I could 
 only feel that they wouldn't shoot Eix, it wouldn't 
 
A WAE-TDIE WOOING. 191 
 
 be so bad — my going now. What will they do 
 withEixT 
 
 ^'He must stand trial for desertion, I fancy. 
 The men nearly lynched him as it was." 
 
 "I know, and you saved him. Isn't it all 
 strange ?" Here for over a year we two have 
 been i^lotting against you, and now, at the last, 
 you're the only friend we have. "Where is 
 he?" 
 
 "Down below, under guard. You shall see 
 him whenever you feel like it. Is there any 
 one else you want to see, Hollins ?" 
 
 " Any one— any one ? Ah, God ! Yes, with a 
 longing that burns. It is her face. It is she — 
 Bessie !" His hand steals feebly into his breast, 
 and he drags slowly forth a little packet of oiled 
 silk. This he hugs close to his fluttering heart, 
 and his eyes seek those of the young soldier 
 standing there so strong, so self-rehant and 
 erect. His glance seems envious, even now, 
 with the fast - approaching angel's death -seal 
 dimming their light, and the clammy dew gath- 
 ering on his brow. 
 
 " It was your picture I sent her, just as you 
 seem to stand there now. It was I who won 
 her, but she thinks I looked like you." 
 
192 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 " Pardon me, Hollins," breaks in Abbot, with a 
 voice that trembles despite every effort at self- 
 control, and trembles, too, through the very cold- 
 ness of the tone. " Colonel Putnam is not far 
 off. There are others whom you might like to 
 see ; and shall I send Eix to you ?" 
 
 "J^To — not now — no use. Promise me this, 
 Abbot. 1^0 matter where or how I'm buried — 
 never mind coffin, or the flag, or the volleys, or 
 the prayers ; I don't deserve — They won't help 
 me. You see to it, will you, that this is buried 
 on my heart ? It's her picture, and some letters. 
 Promise." 
 
 Abbot slowly bows his head. 
 
 " I promise, HoUins, if it will comfort you." 
 
 "If there were only some way — some way 
 to teU her. I loved her so. She might forgive 
 when she knew how I died. You may see her, 
 Abbot. Stop ! take these three letters ; they're 
 addressed to you, anyway. Take them to her, 
 by and by, and tell her, will you ? but let the 
 picture go with me." 
 
 The clutching fingers of one hand clasp about 
 the slim envelope that contains the little photo- 
 graph ; the fingers of the other hand are pluck- 
 ing nervously at the blanket that is thrown over 
 
A WAE-TIME WOOING. 193 
 
 the dying man. There is another moment of 
 silence, and then Abbot again asks him if he will 
 have his brother brought to him. Ilollins nods, 
 and Abbot goes to the door and whispers a few 
 words to the orderly. "When he returns a feeble 
 hand gropes its way towards him, and Ilollins 
 looks up appealingly. 
 
 " I'm so much weaker. I'm going fast. Would 
 you shake hands. Abbot? What! Then you 
 bear me no ill-will ?" 
 
 "Idonot,Hollins." 
 
 The clouding eyes seem to seek his wistfully, 
 wonderingly. 
 
 " And yet — I wronged you so." 
 
 " Do not think of me. That — all came right." 
 
 " I know — I know. It is her heart I may have 
 broken — Bessie's. My God! AYhat could she 
 have thought when he came back to her — after 
 seeing you ?" 
 
 "He told her her lover was dead. I made 
 inquiries." 
 
 " Thank God for that ! But all the same — she 
 is sorrowing — suffering — and it's all my doing. 
 I believe I could die content, almost happy, if I 
 knew she had not — if I knew — I had not — 
 brought her misery." 
 13 
 
194 A WAE-TIME WOOING. 
 
 " Are you sure, Hollins ?" 
 
 "Sure! Heaven, yes! Why, Abbot? Do 
 you — do you know ?" 
 
 "She seems happy, Hollins. She is to be 
 married in the spring ; I don't know just 
 when." 
 
 There is another moment of intense silence in 
 the little room. Outside the muffled tramp of 
 the night patrols and the gruff challenge of sen- 
 tries fall faintly on the ear. Within there is 
 only the quick breathing of the sinking man. 
 There is a long, long look from the dying eyes ; 
 a slow movement towards the well-nigh pulse- 
 less heart. Then comes the sound of heavy feet 
 upon the stair, and presently the uncouth form 
 of Eix is at the threshold, a piteous look in his 
 haggard face. Abbot raises a hand in warn- 
 ing, and glances quickly from the prisoner at 
 the door to the frame whence fast is ebbing the 
 imprisoned soul. The hand that had faintly 
 clasped his is slowly creeping up to the broad 
 and brawny chest, so feeble now. Far across 
 the rippling waters of the Eappahannock the 
 notes of a bugle, prolonged and distant, soft and 
 solemn, float upon the still night air. 'Tis the 
 soldiers' signal " Lights Out !"— the soldiers' rude 
 
Draws forth lier precions picture and lays it at a riml's 
 feet." 
 
A WAK-TIME WOOING. 195 
 
 yet never-forgotten lullaby. An instant gleam 
 as of recognition hovers in the glazing eyes. 
 Then follow a few faint gasps ; then — one last 
 gesture as the arm falls limp and nerveless ; but 
 it draws forth her precious picture and lays it 
 at a rival's feet. 
 
 THE END. 
 
By AMELIE EIYES. 
 
 A BROTHER TO DRAGONS, and Other Old-time 
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 VIRGINIA OF VIRGINIA. A Story. Illustrated. 
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 One is permitted to discover qualities of mind and a proficiency and 
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 reveal his name.— Washington Post. 
 
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NAEKA, THE MHILIST. 
 By Kathleen O'^Ieara. 16mo, Cloth, $1 09. 
 
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 sian, and the time is the present period of which Tolstoi treats. Nat- 
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 real men und women he draws. His dramatis personce make his plots, 
 while Miss O'Meara's plots, on the other hand, make her men and 
 women. . . . Narka Larik, a low-born Russian Jewess, is a peculiar 
 product of Russian soil and of autocratic Russian rule. She is pos- 
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 Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 
 
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H. EIDER HAGGAED'S STOEIES. 
 
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 that it can be made to do duty for an entire volume; a man of re- 
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8/5 
 
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