As for the lieutenant, he sat at the major’s desk for many sorrowful hours each day, the general result being a large number of closely written and finely torn scraps in the waste-basket.  Then coatless, collarless, with open vest and hair disarranged in the manner traditional among love-sick youths, he would pour mournful airs from a flute.

The major complained—­rather frequently for a man who had spent years on the Plains—­of drafts from the front windows, which windows he finally kept closed most of the time, thus saving Mrs. Wittleday the annoyance which would certainly have resulted from the noise made by the earnest but unskilled amateur.

For the major himself, however, neither windows nor doors could afford relief; and when, one day, the sergeant accidentally overturned a heavy table, which fell upon the flute and crushed it, the major enjoyed the only happy moments that were his during the week.

The week drew very near its close.  The major had, with a heavy but desperate heart, told stories, sung songs, brought up tactical points for discussion—­he even waxed enthusiastic in favor of a run through Europe, he, of course, to bear all the expenses; but the subaltern remained faithful and obdurate.

Finally, the morning of the last day arrived, and the lieutenant, to the major’s surprise and delight, appeared at the table with a very resigned air.

“Major,” said he, “I wouldn’t mention it under any other circumstances, but—­I saved your life once?”

“You did, my boy.  God bless you!” responded the major, promptly.

“Well, now I want to ask a favor on the strength of that act.  I’ll never ask another.  It’s no use for me to try to write to her—­the harder I try the more contemptible my words appear.  Now, what I ask, is this:  you write me a rough draft of what’s fit to send to such an incomparable being, and I’ll copy it and send it over.  I don’t expect any answer—­all I want to do is to throw myself away on her, but I want to do it handsomely, and—­hang it, I don’t know how.  Write just as if you were doing it for yourself.  Will you do it?”

The major tried to wash his heart out of his throat with a sip of coffee, and succeeded but partially; yet the appealing look of his favorite, added to the unconscious pathos of his tone, restored to him his self-command, and he replied: 

“I’ll do it, Fred, right away.”

“Don’t spoil your breakfast for it; any time this morning will do,” said the lieutenant, as the major arose from the table.  But the veteran needed an excuse for leaving his breakfast untouched, and he rather abruptly stepped upon, the piazza and indulged in a thoughtful promenade.

“Write just as if you were doing it for yourself.”

The young man’s words rang constantly in his ears, and before the major had thought many moments, he determined to do exactly what he was asked to do.