“You don’t answer me, James.”  There was the old quiet, persistent way he had known in many happy days, reinforced by hysteric incapacity to comprehend the maze of difficulties in which he was caught.

“It is a pity I did not die,” she said, “that would have saved you all this trouble.”

He felt the cruelty of her words as he broke away and left the room.  McGregor had waited, and hearing his story said, “It will pass.  You must not mind it—­she is hardly sane.”

James Penhallow mounted and rode to the village, was duly shaved, and went on to the post-office.  Mrs. Crocker rotund and rosy came out and handed him as he sat in the saddle a sheaf of letters.  “Yes, Mrs. Penhallow is better, thank you.”  As he rode away the reins on Dixy’s neck, he read his letters and stuffed them in his pocket until he came to one, over which he lingered long.  It ran thus: 

“MY DEAR SIR:  Will you not reconsider the offer of the colonelcy of a regiment?  It will not require your presence until July.  There is no need to reply at once.  There is no one else so entirely fit for such a charge, and the Attorney-General, your friend Meredith, unites with me in my appeal to you.  The State and the country need you.

“Yours truly,

“ANDREW CURTIN.”

He reached but one conclusion as he turned the tempting offer over in his mind, and acting on it wrote the Governor from his office that his wife was at present too ill for him to consider the offer of a command.

As day by day he sat with Ann, to his relief she ceased to dwell on the matter which had so disturbed her, and rapidly regaining health, flesh and strength, began to ask about the house and the village people.  It was a happy day when in May he carried her down to a hammock on the porch.  A week later she spoke again, “What conclusion have you reached?” she said.

“About the mills?”

“Yes.”

“Ask me in a week, Ann.  Do you want to read John’s letters?  There are several—­one about a battle at Pittsburgh Landing in Tennessee.”

“I want to hear nothing of the war.  Is he well?”

“Yes, thank God.”  The news of McClellan’s army was anything but satisfactory, and more and more the soldier longed to be in the field.

Early in June, Penhallow on his way to meet his partners paused at McGregor’s house to ask his opinion of his wife.  “How do I find her?  Better every day—­more herself.  But what of you?”

“Of me?  I can stand it no longer, Doctor.  I cannot see this war in Virginia go on to the end without taking part in it.  I must—­do anything—­anything—­make any sacrifice.”

“But your wife—­the mills—­”

“I have but one answer—­my country!  I told you I had refused Governor Curtin’s offer—­what to do about our contract I do not yet know.  They are reorganizing the artillery service.”

“And you would like that best?”