field house.
Margaret was in the parlour, reading; and she laid down her book to
ask us pleasantly what kind of an evening we had had. She was the only
one of the family up to receive us, Mr. Faringfield having retired
hours ago, and Tom having come in and gone to bed without an
explanation. The absence of light in Captain Falconer's windows
signified that he too had sought his couch, for had he been still out,
his servant would have kept candles lighted for him.

The next day, as we rode out Northward to our posts, Tom suddenly
broke the silence:

"Curse it!" said he. "There are more mysteries than one. Do you know
what I found when I got home last night?"

"I can't imagine."

"Well, I first looked into the parlour, but no one was there. Instead
of going on to the library, I went up-stairs and knocked at Margaret's
door. I--I wanted to see her a moment. It happened to be unlatched,
and as I knocked rather hard, it swung open. No one was in that room,
either, but I thought she might be in the bedchamber beyond, and so I
crossed to knock at that. But I chanced to look at her writing-table
as I passed; there was a candle burning on it, and devil take me if I
didn't see a letter in a big schoolboy's hand that I couldn't help
knowing at a glance--the hand of my brother Ned!"

"Then I'll engage the letter wasn't to Margaret. You know how much
love is lost between those two."

"But it was to her, though! 'Dear M.,' it began--there's no one else
whose name begins with M in the family. And the writing was fresh--not
the least faded. I saw that much before I thought of what I was doing.
But when I remembered 'twasn't my letter, I looked no more."

"But how could he send a letter from the rebel camp to her in New
York?"[5]

"Why, that's not the strangest part of it. There's no doubt Washington
has spies in the town, and ways of communicating with the rebel
sympathisers here; I've sometimes thought my father--but no matter for
that. The fact is, there the letter was, as certainly from Ned as I'm
looking at you; and we know he's in the rebel army. But the wonder,
the incredible thing, is that he should write to Margaret."

"'Tis a mystery, in truth."

"Well, 'tis none of ours, after all, and of course this will go no
further--but let me tell you, the devil's in it when those two are in
correspondence. There's crookedness of some kind afoot, when such
haters combine together!"

"You didn't ask her, of course?"

"No.