“You will write to me, uncle.”

“Yes, when I can.  Your aunt asks me to write often, but not to write about the war, as if—­well, no matter.  But I can write to you.  Good night—­and be brave, dear—­and Ann!  You will watch over her?”

“Yes, surely.”

* * * * *

Ann Penhallow having sorrowfully made up her mind that her husband’s honour required his return to the army saw to it with her usual efficiency that everything he might need was carefully provided.  At bed-time of that Sunday she said quietly, “Good night and good-bye, James.  I do not want to be called to-morrow to say good-bye.  You will be off by six.  Leila will give you your breakfast.  Write often.”  She was to appearance cheerful and even gay, as she paused on the stairs laughing.  “These men,” she cried, “I wonder how they do without women orderlies.  At the last moment I found you had left your razors—­good-night!”

The Colonel’s eyes followed her slight form a little puzzled and not entirely pleased at this easy dismissal of sentiment, when he knew what he himself would have done if she had flown the least signal of distress.  He turned to Leila.  “I am very much relieved, my dear, to see that your aunt is taking my departure quietly.  I was afraid of another breakdown, and I could not have stayed a day longer.”

Leila who had watched this parting with some anxiety said, “I was a little uneasy myself, but really Aunt Ann was great.”  She could have made the well-loved Colonel miserable by translating for him into the tongue of man the language of the actress on the stairs.  “I wonder,” she reflected, “if all men are that blind, or only the heroic or unimaginative.”

* * * * *

Colonel Penhallow was detained by consultations with the Governor and by regimental work until near the close of August, when his command was hurried forward to join McClellan’s army.  He followed it a day later.  He wrote long notes to his wife almost daily and then in September after the battle of Antietam more freely to Leila:—­

“DEAR LEILA:  You will be surprised to hear from me as at Washington on this September 19th.  I overtook my command at noon, in Philadelphia, where the regiment was being well fed in the big building known as the Cooper Shop.  I was pleased with the look of the men, who have been long drilled in camp.  After the meal I went outside and mounted Dixy, who was as rebellious as if he knew he was on the side to which his name did not belong.  A soldier was vainly trying to mount my mare.  He lost his temper and struck her.  I saw a black man interfering, and rode forward seeing there was some trouble.  By George! it was Josiah.  I shook hands with him and said, ’Where did you come from?  He said, ’Saw your name, sir, in the paper and just quit my work.  I’m goin’ along with you—­I’m your servant.  I’ve been thinkin’ this long while I’d go back to Westways, but I’ve been doin’ well here, and I just kep’ a puttin’ it off.  I’m goin’ with you.’  I said, ‘All right, get on that horse.’  He patted the uneasy mare and in a moment was in the saddle and I a well pleased man.  Tell your aunt I am well cared for.