orner, and wait for him. Then
he pushes forward to reconnoitre. Lights are burning in many rooms, but
the neighborhood is very silent. Far down an intersecting avenue the
band of some regiment is serenading a distinguished senator or
representative from the state from which they hail, and Abbot can hear
the cheers with which the great man is greeted as he comes forth to
tender his acknowledgments, and invite the officers and such of his
fellow-citizens as may honor him, to step in and "have something." It is
a windy night in late October. The leaves are whirling in dusty spirals
and shutters bang with unmelodious emphasis, and all the world seems
dreary; yet, to him, with love lighting the way, with the knowledge that
the girl he has learned to worship is here within these dull brick
walls, there is a thrill and vigor in every nerve. No light burns in the
hallway; none in the lower floor of the number to which he has been
directed. He well knows it is too late to call, even to inquire for
them, but the army has moved, and at last is pushing southward again,
feeling its way along the Blue Ridge, and he so well knows that the
morrow must send him forward to resume his duties. If he cannot see
_her_, it will be comfort, at least, to see her father. He is half
disposed to ring and ask for him when a figure comes around a
neighboring corner and bears slowly down upon him. The night lamps are
dull and flickering and the stranger is a mere shadow. Where Major Abbot
stands enveloped in the cloak-cape of his army overcoat there is no
light at all. Whoever may be the approaching party he has the
disadvantage of being partially visible to a watcher whose presence he
cannot be aware of until close at hand. When he has come some yards
farther Abbot is in no doubt as to his identity, and steps forward to
greet him.

"Doctor Warren, I am so glad to have found you, for I must hurry after
the army to-morrow, and only reached Washington this evening. Tell me,
how is Miss Bessie?"

The doctor is startled, as a matter of course, but there is something in
the young soldier's directness that pleases him. Perhaps he is pleased,
too, to know that his own views are correct, and that the moment Paul
Abbot reached Washington he has come in search of them. He takes the
proffered hand and holds it--or, rather, finds his firmly held.

"Bessie has been ill, but is better, major; and how did you leave them
all at home? I have just been taking a wal