Leila stood still, puzzled and sorrowful, as she watched the tall stooping form.  “How old he looks,” she murmured.  “What did he mean?  I must ask Aunt Ann.”  But she never did, feeling that what he had said was something like a cautiously hinted confession.  In the early morning he was gone again to the field of war.

CHAPTER XXVI

Through the winter of 1863-4 at Grey Pine things remained unaltered, and McGregor concluded that there was no hope for happier change.  Rare letters came from John Penhallow to his aunt, who sent no replies, and to Leila, who wrote impersonal letters, as did John.  Once he wrote that his uncle might like to know, that after that pontoon business in the night at Chattanooga and General Farrar Smith’s brilliant action, he, John Penhallow, was to be addressed as Captain.  As the war went on, he was across the Rapidan with Grant in May.

At Grey Pine after breakfast the windows and both doors of the hall were open to let the western breezes enter.  They lingered in the garden to stir the mothers of unborn flowers and swept through the hall, bearing as they passed some gentle intimation of the ending of a cold spring.

The mail had been given to the colonel, as he insisted it should be.  With some appearance of interest he said, “From Mark, for you, Ann.”

“None for me, Uncle?” asked Leila, as she went around the table.  “Let me help you.  How many there are.”  She captured her own share, and for a moment stood curious as she sorted the mail.  “Army trash, Uncle!  What a lot of paper is needed to carry on war!  Here is one—­I have seen him before—­he is marked ‘Respectfully referred.’”

The colonel released a smile, which stirred Ann like a pleasant memory, and fed one of the little hopes she was ever on the watch to find.  “What is your letter, Ann?” he asked.

Looking up she replied, “It is only to acknowledge receipt of my draft.  He is in Washington.  I gather that he does not mean to come back until the war is over.”  “Over!” she thought; “Lee is not Pemberton, as Grant will learn.”  It was of more moment to her that Penhallow was easier to interest, and ate as he used to do.

“Is your letter from John, Leila?” he said.  “I don’t like concealments.”

“But, I didn’t conceal anything!”

“Don’t contradict me!”

“No, sir.”

Ann’s face grew watchful, fearing one of the outbreaks which left him weak and querulous.

“Well,” said the colonel, “read us John’s letter.  There is as much fuss about it as if it were a love-letter.”

There is no way as yet discovered to victoriously suppress a blush, but time—­a little fraction of time—­is helpful, and there are ways of hiding what cannot be conquered.  The letter fell on the floor, and being recovered was opened and read with a certain something in the voice which caused Ann critically to use her eyes.