eon in hand,
stands snarling at us in Mexico; her ministers glare at us from
every war port; her press mocks in infamous caricature our unhappy
President; only her poor are with us--the poor of England whom our
war is starving. Again and again we have forgiven her. But now,
standing on our blood-wet battle-fields, can we ever again forgive?

"You have heard from your family and from Celia, so what news I
write may be no news. Yet I know how it is with soldiers; they
never tire of such repetitions.

"Your father is slowly recovering. But he will never sit his
saddle again, dear. Don't expect it; the war is over as far as he
is concerned. But never have my eyes beheld such happiness, such
gratitude, such adoration as I see in his eyes when your letters
come. I think the burden of his conversation is you. I never hear
him speak of anything else. Your father walks now; and by the time
you are here he will be able to drive on Fifth Avenue and in the
new Central Park. But he is not the man who left this city at the
head of his regiment. His hair and moustache are white as snow;
there are a thousand tiny wrinkles on his hands and features. All
that heavy colour is gone; only a slight flush remains on his thin
face. He is very handsome, Phil. Once, never dreaming of what was
true, I thought he resembled you. Do you recollect my saying so
once? Even you would recognise the likeness now. He is absorbed,
wrapped up in you. . . . I can see, now, that he always has been.
How blind we are! How blind!

"Celia, the darling, has not changed one particle. She is the
prettiest thing you ever saw, cheerful, clever, courageous,
self-possessed, devoted to Stephen, whose leave has been extended
and who plays the role of a pale and interesting invalid hero with
placid satisfaction to himself, adored and hovered over by Paige
and Marye and all their girl friends. But when poor little
Camilla, in her deep mourning, appears at the door, he clears out
the others with a tyranny characteristic of young men; and I'm
somewhat sorry for his mother and sisters. But it's the
inevitable; and Camilla is the sweetest thing.

"Celia hears often from Curt, Poor Major Lent! It seems too hard
that Camilla should be left so utterly alone in the world. The
Major died as he would have wished to die, Curt writes. It was at
that terrible Stone Bridge--where God was merciful to me when your
squadron galloped across.

"He was found, s