This silly performance of the lieutenant’s would, of course, put an end to the acquaintanceship of the major and Mrs. Wittleday, unless that lady were most unusually gracious.  Why should he not say to her, over the subaltern’s name, all that he had for years been hoping for an opportunity to say?  No matter that she would not imagine who was the real author of the letter—­it would still be an unspeakable comfort to write the words and know that her eyes would read them—­that her heart would perhaps—­probably, in fact—­pity the writer.

The major seated himself, wrote, erased, interlined, rewrote, and finally handed to the lieutenant a sheet of letter-paper, of which nearly a page was covered with the major’s very characteristic chirography.

“By gracious, major!” exclaimed the lieutenant, his face having lightened perceptibly during the perusal of the letter, “that’s magnificent!  I declare, it puts hope into me; and yet, confound it, it’s plaguy like marching under some one else’s colors.”

“Never mind, my boy, copy it, sign it, and send it over, and don’t hope too much.”

The romantic young brave copied the letter carefully, line for line; he spoilt several envelopes in addressing one to suit him, and then dispatched the missive by the major’s servant, laying the rough draft away for future (and probably sorrowful) perusal.

The morning hours lagged dreadfully.  Both warriors smoked innumerable cigars, but only to find fault with the flavor thereof.

The lieutenant tried to keep his heart up by relating two or three stories, at the points of each of which the major forced a boisterous laugh, but the mirth upon both sides was visibly hollow.  Dinner was set at noon, the usual military dinner-hour, but little was consumed, except a bottle of claret, which the major, who seldom drank, seemed to consider it advisable to produce.

The after-dinner cigar lasted only until one o’clock; newspapers by the noon-day mail occupied their time for but a scant hour more, and an attempted game of cribbage speedily dropped by unspoken but mutual consent.

Suddenly the garden gate creaked.  The lieutenant sprang to his feet, looked out of the window, and exclaimed: 

“It’s her darkey—­he’s got an answer—­oh, major!”

“Steady, boy, steady!” said the major, arising hastily and laying his hand on the young man’s shoulder, as that excited person was hastening to the door. “‘Officer and gentleman,’ you know.  Let Sam open the door.”

The bell rang, the door was opened, a word or two passed between the two servants, and Mrs. Wittleday’s coachman appeared in the dining-room, holding the letter.  The lieutenant eagerly reached for it, but the sable carrier grinned politely, said: 

“It’s for de major, sar—­wuz told to give it right into his han’s, and nobody else,” fulfilled his instructions, and departed with many bows and smiles, while the two soldiers dropped into their respective chairs.