ht
be far finer than Maria. How would he himself compare with her, when he
dared not even raise his eyes to Maria?

He had not written her since the Tullahoma campaign. That seemed an age
away, so many things had happened in the meanwhile.

He blamed himself for his neglect, and resolved to write at once, to
tell her where he was, what had happened to him, and that he was going
to try to visit her before returning to the field. But difficult as
writing had always been, it was incomparably more so now. He found that
where he thought of Jerusha once, he was thinking of Maria a hundred
times. Not that he would admit to himself there was any likeness in
his thoughts about the two girls. He did not recognize that there
was anything sentimental in those about Maria. She was simply some
infinitely bright, superior sort of a being, whose voice was sweeter
than a bird's, and whose presence seemed to brighten the room. He found
himself uncomfortable when she was out of sight. The company of Si or
his father was not as all-sufficient and interesting as it used to be.
When Maria went out of the room they became strangely dull and almost
tiresome, unless they talked of her.

Worse yet. As he grew stronger and better able to take care of himself
Maria dropped the familiarity of the nurse, and began putting him on the
footing of a young gentleman and a guest of the house. She came no more
into the room with the basin of warm water, and got him ready for
his breakfast. She toned down carefully with every improvement in his
strength. First, she merely brought him the basin and towel, and then as
he grew able to go about she would rap on his door and tell him to come
out and get ready for breakfast. Shorty began to feel that he was losing
much by getting well, and that his convalescence had been entirely too
rapid.

Then he would go off and try to compose his thoughts for a letter to
Jerusha Briggs, but before he knew it he would find himself in the
kitchen watching, with dumb admiration, Maria knead bread, with her
sleeves rolled to her shoulders, and her white, plump arms and bright
face streaked with flour. There would be little conversation, for Maria
would sing with a lark's voice, as she worked, some of the sweet old
hymns, chording with Amanda, busy in another part of the house. Shorty
did not want to talk. It was enough for him to feast his eyes and ears.

They were sitting down to supper one evening when little Sammy Woggle