e had not shaved since June, and
a beard of four months' growth had covered his face. There are lines in
his forehead, too, that one could not detect a year before. Why should
not the young fellow have a few weeks' leave, thinks the colonel. The
regiment is now in camp over beyond Harper's Ferry, greatly diminished
in numbers and waiting for its promised recruits. It is evident that
McClellan has no intention of attacking Lee again; he is content with
having persuaded him to retire from Maryland. Nothing will be so apt to
build up the strength and spirits of the new captain as to send him home
to be lionized and petted as he deserves to be. Doubtless all the
languor and sadness the colonel has noted in him of late is but the
outward and visible sign of a longing for home which he is ashamed to
confess.

"Abbot," he says again, suddenly and abruptly, "I'm going back to
Frederick this evening as soon as the medical director is ready, and I'm
going to get him to give you a certificate on which to base application
for a month's leave Don't say no. I understand your scruples, but go you
shall. You richly deserve it and will be all the better for it. Now your
people won't have to be importuning the War Department; the leave shall
come from this end of the line."

The lieutenant seems about to turn again as though to thank his
commander when there comes an interruption--the voice of the sergeant of
the guard close at hand. He holds forth a card; salutes, and says:

"A gentleman inquiring for Colonel Putnam."

And the gentleman is but a step or two behind--an aging man with silvery
hair and beard, with lines of sorrow in his refined and scholarly face,
and fatigue and anxiety easily discernible in his bent figure--a
gentleman evidently, and the colonel turns courteously to greet him.

"Doctor Warren!" he says, interrogatively, as he holds forth his hand.

"Yes, colonel, they told me you were about going back to Frederick, and
I desired to see you at once. I am greatly interested in a young
officer of your regiment who is here, wounded; he is a college friend of
my only son's, sir--Guthrie Warren, killed at Seven Pines." The colonel
lifts his forage cap with one hand while the other more tightly clasps
that of the older man. "I hear that the reports were exaggerated and
that he is able to be about. It is Lieutenant Abbot."

"Judge for yourself, doctor," is the smiling reply. "Here he sits."

With an eager light in his ey