version
had become so marked that he could not conceal it; and finally, after
one of the frequent lapses of which the quartermaster was guilty, there
had come rupture of all social relations, and the only associate left to
Mr. Hollins was the strange character whom he had foisted upon the
regiment at its organization--the quondam quartermaster-sergeant, Rix.

But in all the marching and fighting of the battle summer of '62, these
things were of less account than they had been during the inaction of
the winter and early spring, until, at the Monocacy, Mr. Abbot's
curiosity was excited by the singular language used by Rix when ordered
under guard. What could such a man as he have to do with the affairs,
personal or professional, of the officers of the regiment? It was rabid
nonsense--idle boasting, no doubt; and yet the new-made major found that
melodramatic threat recurring to his mind time and again.

Another thing that perplexed him was the fact already alluded to, that
during the winter Viva's letters, never too frequent or long, had begun
to grow longer as to interval and shorter as to contents. He made
occasional reference to the fact, but was referred to the singular
circumstance that "he began it." Matters were mended for a while, then
drifted into the old channel again. Then came the stirring incidents of
June; the sharp, hard marches of July and August; the thrilling battles
of Cedar Mountain and Second Bull Run; and he felt that his letters were
hardly missed. Then came the dash at Turner's Gap; his wounds, rest,
recovery, and promotion. But there was silence at home. He had not
missed _her_ letters before. Now he felt that they ought to come, and
had written more than once to say so.

And now, alone in his room, he is trying to keep cool and clear-headed;
to fathom the mystery of his predicament before going to his father and
telling him that between Genevieve Winthrop and himself there has arisen
a cloud which at any moment may burst in storm.

Her letter--the first received since Antietam--he has read over time and
again. It must be confessed that there is a good deal therein to anger
an honest man, and Abbot believes he is entitled to that distinction:

"You demand the reason for my silence, and shall have it. I did not
wish to endanger your recovery, and so have kept my trouble to
myself, but now I write to tell you that the farce is ended. You
have utterly broken your promise; I am