CHAPTER XX

Leila Grey never forgot the month which followed.  Penhallow was mercifully spared the sight of the drama of hysteria, and when not at the mills went about the house and farm like a lost dog; or, if Leila was busy, took refuge with Rivers.  Even the war maps claimed no present interest until a letter came from John after the capture of Port Donaldson.  At evening they found the place on the map.

“Well, now let’s hear it.  Ann is better, McGregor says,” He was as readily elated as depressed.  “Does she ask for me?”

“No,” said Leila, “at first she did, but not now.”

“Read the letter, my dear.”

“DEAR LEILA:  I wrote to Aunt Ann and Uncle Jim a fortnight ago—­”

“Never came,” said Penhallow.

“I am called an engineer, but there is no engineering required, so I am any General’s nigger.  I have been frozen and thawed over and over.  No camp fires allowed, and our frozen 15,000 besieged 21,000 men.  General S.T.  Smith picked me up as an aide, and on the 15th personally led a charge on the Rebel lines, walking quietly in front of our men to keep them from firing.  It did not prevent the Rebs from abusing our neutrality.  It was not very agreeable, but we stormed their lines and I got off with a bit out of my left shoulder—­nothing of moment.  Now we have them.  If this war goes on, Grant will be the man who will end it.  I am too cold to write more.  Love to all.

“General Smith desires to be remembered to Uncle Jim, and told me he was more than satisfied with

“Yours,

“JOHN PENHALLOW.”

“Isn’t that delightful, Uncle Jim?  But every night I think of it—­this facing of death.  I see battles and storming parties.  Don’t you see things before you fall asleep?  I can see whatever I want to see—­or don’t want to.”

“Never saw anything of the kind—­I just go to sleep.”

“I thought everybody could see things as I do.”

“See John too, Leila?  Wish I could.”

“Yes,” she said, “sometimes.”  In fact, she could see at will the man who was so near and so dear and a friend to-day—­and in that very lonely time when the house was still and the mind going off guard, the something indefinitely more.

The Squire, who had been studying the map, was now standing before the fire looking up where hung over the mantel his sword and the heavy army pistols.  He turned away as he said, “Life is pretty hard, Leila.  I ought to be here—­here making guns.  I want to be where my class-mates are in the field.  I can’t see my way, Leila.  When I see a duty clearly, I can do it.  Now here I have to decide what is my duty.  There is no devil like indecision.  What would you do?”

“It is a question as to what you will do, not I—­and—­oh, dear Uncle Jim, it is, you know, what we call in that horrid algebra the X of the equation.”

“I must see your Aunt Ann.  Is she”—­and he hesitated—­“is she herself?”—­he would not say, quite, sane.