Penhallow worked hard up to the time set by Stanton, and meanwhile made his arrangements to leave for the field.  “Now that you are going away,” said Stanton, “I wish to express my warm thanks for admirable service.  I may say to you that Hooker has been removed and Meade put in command.”

“That is good news, indeed, sir.  Now the Potomac army will be handled by a soldier.”

The Secretary had risen to say his parting words, and Penhallow as he held his hand saw how reluctant he was to let him go.  They had long been friends, and now the Colonel observing his worn face felt for him the utmost anxiety.  A stern, grave man, passionately devoted to his country, he was the impatient slave of duty.  Sometimes hasty, unjust, or even ungenerous, he was indifferent to the enemies he too needlessly created, and was hated by many and not loved even by those who respected his devotion and competence.  He spared neither his subordinates nor, least of all, Edwin Stanton, and spendthrift of vital force and energy went his way, one of the great war ministers like Carnot and Pitt.  Now, as they stood about to part, he showed feeling with which few would have given him credit, and for which Penhallow was unprepared.

“Well,” he said, “you are going.  I shall miss your help in a life sometimes lonely, and overcrowded with work.  You have been far more useful here than you could have been in the field.  Living and working as you have done, you have made enemies.  The more enemies an honest gentleman collects the richer he is.  You are glad to go—­well, don’t think this town a mere great gambling place.  It is a focal point—­all that is bad in war seems to be represented here—­spies, cheating contractors, political generals, generals as meek as missionaries.  You have seen the worst of it—­the worst.  But my dear Penhallow, there is one comfort, Richmond is just as foul with thieving contractors, extravagance, intrigue, and spies who report to us with almost the regularity of the post; and, as with us, there is also honour, honesty, religion, belief in their cause.”  The Secretary had spoken at unusual length and in an unusual mood.  When once, before the war, he had spent a few happy days at Grey Pine, Mrs. Crocker characterized him as “a yes-and-no kind of man.”  Now as he walked with his friend to the door, he said, “Does Mrs. Penhallow know of your change of duty?  I am aware of her feeling about this unhappy strife.”

“No.  There will be a battle—­time enough—­soon enough to write afterwards, if there should be any earthly afterwards.”

“You are quite right,” said the Secretary.  “Good-bye.  I envy you your active share in this game.”

Penhallow, as for the last time he went down the outer steps, looked back at the old brick war-office on Seventeenth Street.  He felt the satisfaction of disagreeable duty well done.  Then he recalled with some sense of it as being rather ridiculous his adventure with Henry Grey.  In a far distant day he would tell Ann.  As he halted at the foot of the steps, he thought of his only interview with Lincoln.  The tall figure with the sombre face left in his memory that haunting sense of the unusual of which others had spoken and which was apt to disappear upon more familiar acquaintance.