time has been long enough to
show me that I love you with my whole soul. I offer my hand and heart to
you. May I not hope that you will sometimes think of the soldier--that
I may carry your heart with me?'

'I think you may hope,' she replied, gently; 'but this is very sudden. I
will give you a final answer to-morrow morning.'

When we got home, we went into the dining room, and I helped her to a
glass of ice water, and hoped she would linger there a moment; but she
was shy, and bade me a kind good night. I didn't know till the next
morning what she was about the rest of the evening; when she met me on
the stairs, placed a small parcel in my hands, saying:

'My answer, Mr. Armstrong,' and was off like a fawn.

I opened it, and saw the stockings, blue, and warm and soft. A note was
stitched in the toe of one of them:

MY DEAR FRIEND: I said I was knitting the stockings for a soldier.
I began them, with a patriotic impulse, for no one in particular. I
finished them last night, and knit loving thoughts of you in with
every stitch, I have always liked you, but I do not think I should
have given you my hand if you had not enlisted. I love you, but I
love my country more. I give you the stockings. When you wear them,
I hope you will sometimes think of her who fashioned them, and who
gives herself to you with them. Yours, KATE.

I reverently folded the tiny note, after having committed it to memory,
and repeated its contents to myself all the way to my office, beginning
with 'Mr. Armstrong,' and ending with 'Yours, Kate.' I was in a state of
extreme beatification. Kate was mine, noble girl! She loved me, and yet
was willing to give me up for her country's cause. And I began to repeat
the note to myself again, when, on a crossing, I was accosted by a
biped, commonly known as a small boy:

'Mister, yer stocking is sticking out of yer pocket.'

I turned calmly around, and addressed him:

'Boy, I glory in those stockings. I am willing that the universe should
behold them. My destiny is interwoven with them. Every stitch is
instinct with life and love.'

'Don't see it, mister! Glory, hallelujah!' and he ended his speech by
making an exclamation point of himself, by standing on his head--a very
bad practice for small boys. I advise all precocious youngsters, who may
read this article, to avoid such positions.

We broke camp, and started off in high spirits. I paraded through the