I won't say a word to keep him
back, no matter how I feel."

The furlough was soon--ah! how soon--out, the days of happiness over;
and Jim, holding her in a last close embrace, said his farewell: "Come,
Sallie, you're not to cry now, and make me a coward. It'll only be for a
little while; the Rebs _can't_ stand it much longer, and then--"

"Ah, Jim! but if you should--"

"Yes, but I sha'n't, you see; not a bit of it; don't you go to think it.
'I bear'--what is it? O--'a charmed life,' as Mr. Macbeth says, and
you'll see me back right and tight, and up to time. One kiss more, dear.
God bless you! good by!" and he was gone.

She leaned out of the window,--she smiled after him, kissed her hand,
waved her handkerchief, so long as he could see them,--till he had
turned a corner way down the street,--and smile, and hand, and
handkerchief were lost to his sight; then flung herself on the floor,
and cried as though her very heart would break. "God send him
home,--send him safe and soon home!" she implored; entreaty made for how
many loved ones, by how many aching hearts, that speedily lost the need
of saying amen to any such petition,--the prayer for the living lost in
mourning for the dead. Heaven grant that no soul that reads this ever
may have the like cause to offer such prayer again!

CHAPTER XXII

"_When we see the dishonor of a thing, then it is time to
renounce it._"

Plutarch

A letter which Sallie wrote to Jim a few weeks after his departure tells
its own story, and hence shall be repeated here.

* * * * *

Philadelphia, October 29, 1863.

Dear Jim:--

I take my pen in hand this morning to write you a letter, and to tell
you the news, though I don't know much of the last except about Frankie
and myself. However, I suppose you will care more to hear that than any
other, so I will begin.

Maybe you will be surprised to hear that Frankie and I are at Mr.
Ercildoune's. Well, we are,--and I will tell you how it came about. Not
long after you went away, Frank began to pine, and look droopy. There
wasn't any use in giving him medicine, for it didn't do him a bit of
good. He couldn't eat, and he didn't sleep, and I was at my wits' ends
to know what to do for him.

One day Mrs. Lee,--that Mr. Ercildoune's housekeeper,--an old English
lady she is, and she's lived with him ever since he was married, and
before he came here,--a real lady, too,--came in with some sewi