"Pray don't speak about shooting," said Mrs. Frost, with a shudder. "It
makes me feel nervous."

"And to-night we should only admit pleasant thoughts," said her husband.
"Who is going to write me letters when I am gone?"

"I'll write to you, father," said Alice.

"And so will I," said Maggie.

"I, too," chimed in Charlie.

"Then, if you have so many correspondents already engaged, you will
hardly want to hear from Frank and myself," said his wife, smiling.

"The more the better. I suspect I shall find letters more welcome than
anything else. You must also send me papers regularly. I shall have many
hours that will pass heavily unless I have something to read."

"I'll mail you Harper's Weekly regularly, shall I, father?" asked Frank.

"Yes, I shall be glad enough to see it. Then, there is one good thing
about papers--after enjoying them myself, I can pass them round to
others. There are many privations that I must make up my mind to, but I
shall endeavor to make camp-life as pleasant as possible to myself and
others."

"I wish you were going out as an officer," said Mrs. Frost. "You would
have more indulgences."

"Very probably I should. But I don't feel inclined to wish myself better
off than others. I am: willing to serve my country in any capacity in
which I can be of use. Thank Heaven, I am pretty strong and healthy, and
better fitted than many to encounter the fatigues and exposures which
are the lot of the private."

"How early must you start to-morrow, father?" inquired Frank.

"By daylight. I must be in Boston by nine o'clock, and you know it is a
five-mile ride to the depot. I shall want you to carry me over."

"Will there be room for me?" asked Mrs. Frost. "I want to see the last
of you."

"I hope you won't do that for a long time to come," said Mr. Frost,
smiling.

"You know what I mean, Henry."

"Oh, yes, there will be room. At any rate, we will make room for you.
And now it seems to me it is time for these little folks to go to bed.
Charlie finds it hard work to keep his eyes open."

"Oh, papa, papa, not yet, not yet," pleaded the children; and with the
thought that it might be many a long day before he saw their sweet young
faces again, the father suffered them to have their way.

After the children had gone to bed Frank and his father and mother sat
up for a long time. Each felt that there was much to be said, but no
one of them felt like saying much then. Thoughts of the approa