eing himself a homeless man, Blake made his diagnosis
of that form of heart-ache which too often adds a perilously depressing
agency to the more material disasters of war. Pain, fever, the inevitable
ward odours, the easier neighbour in the next bed who was of a mind
to be social, the flies--those Virginia flies more wily than Lee's
troopers--and even trifling annoyances made Penhallow irritable. He
became a burden to hospital stewards and over-worked orderlies, and now
the first look at Leila's letter disturbed him, and as he read he became
indignant:

"DEAR JOHN: Mr. Blake's telegram telling us of your wound caused us some
anxiety, which was made less by Dr. McGregor's somewhat hastily written
letter. Aunt Ann thought it was excusable in so busy a man. Poor Uncle
Jim on hearing it said, 'Yes, yes--why didn't John write--can't be much
the matter.' This shows you his sad failure. He has not mentioned it
since.

"It is a relief to us to know that you were not dangerously hurt. It
seems as if this sad war and its consequences were near to end. Let us
hear soon. Aunt Ann promises to write to you at once.

"Yours truly,

"LEILA GREY."

He threw the letter down, and forgetting that he had asked Blake and the
doctor not to alarm his people, was overcome by the coldness of Leila's
letter. He lay still, and with eyes quite too full felt that life had for
him little of that which once made it sweet with what all men hold most
dear. He would have been relieved if he could have seen Leila when alone
she read and read again McGregor's letter, and read with fear between the
lines of carefully guarded words what he would not say and for days much
feared to say. She sat down and wrote to John a letter of such tender
anxiety as was she felt a confession she was of no mind to make. He was
in no danger. Had he been, she would have written even more frankly. But
her trouble about her uncle was fed from day to day by what her aunt
could not or would not see, and it was a nearer calamity and more and
more distressing. Then she sat thinking what was John like now. She saw
the slight figure, so young and still so thoughtful, as she had smiled in
her larger experience of men when they had sat and played years ago with
violets on the hillside of West Point. No, she was unprepared to commit
herself for life, for would he too be of the same mind? For a moment she
stood still indecisive, then she tore up her too tender letter and wrote
the b