He was just now in one of his best conditions and was clearly enjoying the pipe he used but rarely.  Ann at his feet on the porch-step read aloud to him with indifference to all but the man she now and then looked up to with the loving tenderness his brief betterment fed with illusory hope.

“What’s that, Ann?” he exclaimed; “Grant at Chattanooga!  That’s John’s ideal General.  Didn’t he write about him at—­where was it?  Oh!  Belmont.”

“Yes, after Belmont, James.”

“When does Mark Rivers go back?”

“To-morrow.  He is always so out of spirits here that I am really relieved when he returns to the Sanitary Commission.”  He made no reply, and she continued her reading.

“Isn’t that Leila with Rivers, Ann?”

“Yes.  He likes to walk with her.”

“So would any man.”  A faint smile—­very rare of late—­showed in her pleased upward look at the face—­the changed face—­she loved.

The pair of whom they spoke were lost to view in the forest.

“And you are glad to go?” said Leila to Rivers.

“Yes, I am.  I can hardly say glad, but now that your uncle is, so to speak, lost to me and your aunt absorbed in her one task and the duties she has taken up again, our pleasant Dante lessons are set aside, and what is there left of the old intellectual life which is gone—­gone?”

“But,” said Leila gaily, “you have the church and my humble society.  Why, you are really learning to walk, as you did not until of late.”

Making no reply to her personal remark, he was silent for a moment, and then said with slow articulation and to her surprise, for he rarely spoke of himself, “Nine years ago I came here, a man broken in mind and body.  This life and these dear friends have made me as strong as I can ever hope to be.  But the rest—­the rest.  I know what power God has given me to bring souls to him.  I can influence men—­the lowly and—­well, others, as few can.  I cannot live in cities—­I dare not risk the failure in health; and yet, I want—­I want a larger field.  I found it when your aunt’s liberality sent me to the army.  There in my poor way I can serve my country—­and that is much to me.”  He was silent.

“But,” she said, “is there not work enough here? and the war cannot last much longer.  Don’t think you must ever leave us.”

“I shall—­I must.  There are limitations I cannot talk of even—­above all to you.  Your aunt knows this—­and your uncle did—­long ago.”

“What limitations?” she asked rashly.

“You are the last person, Leila Grey, to whom I could speak of them.  I have said too much, but”—­and he paused—­“I am tired—­I will leave you to finish your walk.”  The great beautiful eyes turned on him for a moment.  “Oh, my God!” he exclaimed, and reproaching his brief human weakness left her abruptly, walking slowly away through the drifting red and gold of leaves rocking in air as they sauntered to earth, and was at last lost to view in the woodland.