“Why not get Dr. McGregor?”

“No—­no,” she returned with decision.  “I shall know best how to tell—­it wants a woman.”

The ruddy, stout post-mistress looked at the tall young woman with sudden appreciation of her self-command and mental growth.  “Maybe you’re about right, but I thought—­well, fact is, I’ve seen of late so many people just tear open a letter—­and go all to pieces.”

Leila smiled.  “You don’t know my aunt.  Now I must go.  Oh, this war—­this war!  To-morrow will scatter joy and grief over all the land.”

“Yes, I’ve been near about mobbed to-day.  Good-bye.”

The messenger of evil news went straight from the garden path, where the roses were in unusual abundance.  To her surprise she saw her aunt on the back porch.  As Leila hesitated, she said, “I saw Mrs. Crocker from my window, Leila.  She gave you something—­a letter—­or a telegram.  What is it?  I suppose after what I have heard of the Confederates at York and Carlisle, they may be in Harrisburg by this time and the railroad to the west cut off.  It may be well to know.”  She spoke rapidly as she came down the steps to meet her niece.  “It is as well James Penhallow is not in it.”

The two women stood facing one another in one of those immeasurably brief silences which are to timeless thought as are ages.  Her husband safe, General Lee victorious—­some slight look of satisfaction could be seen in her face—­a faint smile, too easily read—­and then—­

“Well, dear, your news?”

Anger, tenderness, love, pity—­all dictated answers.  “Aunt Ann, I have bad news.”

“Of course, dear.  It was to be expected.  You won’t believe me, but I am sorry for you and for James.”

The face of the tall young woman flushed hot.  She had meant to spare her—­to be tender.  She said, “General Lee is retreating after losing a great battle at Gettysburg.”

Her aunt said quickly, “But James Penhallow—­he is in Washington?”

“No, he was in the army—­he is wounded—­not seriously—­and he is coming home.”

“I might have known it.”  A great illumination came over her face not understood by Leila.  She was strangely glad for him that he had been in the field and not in peaceful safety at Washington.  With abrupt change of expression, she added, “Wounded?  Not seriously.  That isn’t like him to come home for a slight wound.  You or Mark Rivers are hiding something.”

“Not I, aunt; but any wound that kept him off duty would be better cared for here.  Lee’s defeat leaves him free for a time—­I mean at ease—­”

“Don’t talk nonsense!” she cried.  “What do I care for Lee—­or Meade—­or battles!  James Penhallow is all the world to me.  Victory!”—­she flamed with mounting colour—­“it is I am the victor!  He comes back with honour—­I have no duties—­no country—­I have only my love.  Oh, my God! if he had died—­if—­if—­I should have hated!—­” She spoke with