“Yes.”  She was silent until they sat on the bank above the little river.  Then she said, “You are keeping something from me, James.  No news can trouble me as much as—­as to be sure that I am kept in the dark about your affairs.”

“I meant to be frank, Ann, but I have felt so alarmed about your health—­”

“You need not be—­I can bear anything but not to know—­”

“That is why I brought you here, my dear.  You are aware that I took out of the business the money you loaned to us.”

“Yes—­yes—­I know.”

“I have given up my partnership and withdrawn my capital.  The business will go on without me.”

“Was this because—­I?—­but no matter.  Go on, please.”

He was incapable of concealing the truth from her, however much he might have disguised it from others.  “You had your share in causing me to give up, but for a year since this war has gone on from one disaster to another, I have known that as a soldier I must be in it.”

She was perfectly calm.  “I have long known it would come, James.  To have you and John and my brother Henry—­all in it, is a hard fate.”

“My dear, Charles writes me that Henry has left the army and gone to Europe on business for the Confederates.”

“Indeed.”  Some feeling of annoyance troubled her.  “Then he at least is in no danger.”

“None, my dear.”

“When do you go?”

“I am to command the 129th Infantry, and I shall leave about August 1st.”

“So soon!” She sat still, thinking over what Grey Pine would be without him.  He explained as she sat that all details of his affairs would be put for her clearly on paper.  He ended by saying, “Ask me any questions you want answered.”

“Then, James, there will be no income from the mills—­from—­from that contract?”

“None, except my rental.  With that you may do as you please.  There will be also, of course, at your disposal the income from my re-invested capital.”

“Thank you, James.”  She was by far the less moved of the two.

“Have I greatly troubled you?” he asked.  He was distressed for her.

“No, James.  I knew it would come.”  As the shadows darkened on the forest floor and gathered overhead, she rose to her feet.  “Whatever happens, James—­whoever wins—­I am the loser.  I want you to be sorry for me.”

“And, my dear Ann, whichever way this contest ends, I too lose.”

She returned with tender sadness, “Yes, I did not think of that.  Give me your arm, James—­I am—­tired.”

He wondered that she had said nothing of the immense sacrifice few men would have made; nor did she seem to have realized what urgency of added motives she had contributed to bring about his decision.

CHAPTER XXI

Through the great heat of July, 1862, the war went on its inconclusive way.  In Westways, as elsewhere, the call of the people’s President for three hundred thousand men was felt the more thoughtfully because now it was, of course, known that Penhallow was Colonel of the 129th Infantry; that he had made a great sacrifice of money was also known, but not understood, and Ann Penhallow’s half-forgotten politics were again discussed when the village evening parliament met in front of the post-office.