he subject of many hours of the most earnest consideration possible.
I am certain that it si due to you and to the confession that you
have made of your feelings, that I should in turn confess that I am
deeply--what shall I say--INTERESTED in you? No; that is too prim and
prudish a term. There is in you for me more than a mere attraction; I
feel for you something deeper than even warm friendship. That you would
make such a husband as I should cherish and honor, of whom I should
be proud, and whose strong, kindly arms would be my secure support and
protection until death claimed us, I have not the slightest doubt. But
when I ask myself whether this is really love--the sacred, all-pervading
passion which a woman should feel for the man to whom she gives herself,
body and soul, I encounter the strongest doubts. These doubts have
no reference to you--only to myself. I feel that it would be a
degradation--a deep profanation--for me to give myself to you, without
feeling in its entirety such a love as I have attempted to define. I
have gone away from you because I want to consider this question and
decide it with more calmness and impartiality than I can where I meet
you daily, and daily receive some kindness from your hands. These and
the magnetism of your presence are temptations which I fear might swerve
me from my ideal, and possibly lead to a mistake which we both might
ever afterward have reason to regret.

I have, as you will be informed, accepted a detail to one of the
hospitals at Nashville. Do not write me, except to tell me of a
change in your postoffice address. I will not write you, unless I
have something of special moment to tell you. Believe me, whatever may
betide, at least your very sincere friend,

Rachel Bond.

Chapter XVIII. Secret Service.

The flags of war like storm-birds fly,
The charging trumpets blow,
Yet rolls no thunder in the sky,
No earthquake strives below.

And calm and patient Nature keeps
Her ancient promise well,
Though o'er her bloom and greenness sweeps
The battle's breath of hell.

Ah! eyes may well be full of tears,
And hearts with hate are hot,
But even-paced come round the years,
And Nature changes not.

She meets with smiles out bitter grief,
With songs our groans of pain;
She mocks with tint of flower and leaf
The war-field's crimson stain.