“Yes,” said Ainseley, “and I am sorry.  Think it over.”

“I have done my thinking.  It will take the lawyers and you at least two months to settle it and make out the papers.  After July 1st I shall not come to the mills.  I mean to leave no occasion for unpleasant comment when I re-enter the service.  Of course, you will advertise your new partnership and make plain my position.  I am sorry to leave you, but most glad to leave you prosperous.  I will put it all on paper, with a condition that at the close of the war—­I give it three years—­I shall be free to replace Austin—­that is, if the Rebs don’t kill me.”

As he mounted at evening to ride home, he was aware of Leila.  “Halloa, Uncle Jim!  As Mr. Rivers was reading Dante to Aunt Ann, I begged off, and so here I am—­thought I would catch you.  I haven’t been on a horse for a week.  The mare knows it and enjoyed the holiday.  She kicked Pole’s bull terrier into the middle of next week.”

“A notable feat.  I wish some one would kick me into the middle of August.”

“What’s wrong, Uncle Jim?  Aunt Ann is every day better; John is well; you don’t look unhappy.  Oh, I know when anything really is the matter.”

“No, I am happier than I have been for many a day.  You know what Rivers says, ’In the Inn of Decision there is rest,’—­some oriental nonsense.  Well, I am a guest in the Inn of Decision, but I’ve got to pay the bill.”

“Please not to talk riddles, uncle.  I have gone through so much this spring—­what with aunt and this terrible war—­and where John is we don’t know.  I heard from Aunt Margaret.  She says that we escape the endless reminders of war—­the extras called at night, heard in church, great battle on the Potomac, lists of killed and wounded.  It must be awful.  You buy a paper—­and find there was no battle.”

“Yes, we escape that at least.  I have made arrangements to close my partnership on July 1st.”

“Oh, Uncle Jim!”

“The President, I hear, will call for three hundred thousand men—­I can stand it no longer—­I am eating my heart out.  I refused a regiment some time ago; now I shall ask for one.  I wrote at once to the Governor.”

She leaned over, laid a hand on his arm and said, “Is not one dear life enough?”

“My child, John had to go.  I could, of course, find some excuse for not going.  I set myself free to-day.  But now I am to settle with Ann.  Except for that I would be supremely contented.  You would not keep me here if you had the power, nor would you bring home John if you could, dear.”

“No,” she said faintly.  Some quickly dismissed suspicion rose to consciousness as he stole a glance at her face.  “I understand,” she added, “it is a question of honour—­you must go.”

“It is a question of duty, dear; but what Ann will say I do not know—­but I shall go.”

She turned.  “Uncle Jim, if you did not go and the war went on to—­God alone knows what end—­she would be sick with shame.  I know.  You see I am a woman and I know.  She will suffer, but she will not break down again and she will not try to hold you back.  But this house without you and John will be rather lonely.  How did you get out of the mills, uncle?”