Fortunately for Tom, the speech was long, as he was enabled in some measure to recover his self-possession.  In trembling tones he thanked the donors for their gift, and promised to use it in defence of his country as long as a drop of blood was left in his veins—­highly poetical, but it required strong terms to express our hero’s enthusiasm—­whereat the men and boys applauded most vehemently, and the ladies flourished their cambrics with the most commendable zeal.  Tom bowed—­bowed again—­and kept bowing, just as he had seen General McClellan bow when he was cheered by the troops.  As the people would not stop applauding, Tom, his face all aglow with joy and confusion, descended from the platform, and took his seat by the side of his mother.

The magnates of Pinchbrook then made speeches—­except Squire Pemberton—­about the war, patriotism, gunpowder, and eleven-inch shot and shells.  Every body thought it was “a big thing,” and went home to talk about it for the next week.  Tom’s father, and mother, and sister, and gran’ther Greene, said ever so many pretty things, and every body was as happy as happy could be, except that John was not at home to share in the festivities.  Letters occasionally came from the sailor boy, and they went to him from the soldier boy.

Mrs. Somers was not a little surprised, the next day, to hear her son announce his intention to take the first train for the city; but Tom could not postpone his visit to No ——­ Rutland Street any longer, for he was afraid his uniform would lose its gloss, and the shoulder-straps their dazzling brilliancy.

Tom’s courage had nearly forsaken him when he desperately rang the bell at the home of Lilian Ashford; and he almost hoped the servant would inform him that she was not at home.  Lilian was at home, and quaking like a condemned criminal before the gallows, he was ushered into the presence of the author of his socks.

Stammering out his name he drew from his pocket the battered photograph and the shattered letter, and proceeded at once to business.  Lilian Ashford blushed, and Tom blushed—­that is to say, they both blushed.  When he had presented his relics, he ventured to look in her face.  The living Lilian was even more beautiful than the Lilian of the photograph.

“Dear me!  So you are the soldier that wore the socks I knit,” said Lilian; and our hero thought it was the sweetest voice he ever heard.

“I am, Miss Ashford, and I did not run away in them either.”

“I’m glad you did not,” added she, with a musical laugh, which made Tom think of the melody of the spheres, or some such nonsense.

“I have to thank you for my promotion,” said Tom, boldly.

“Thank me!” exclaimed she, her fair blue eyes dilating with astonishment.

“The socks inspired me with courage and fortitude,” replied Tom, in exact accordance with the programme he had laid down for the occasion.  “I am sure the thought of her who knit them, the beautiful letter, and the more beautiful photograph, enabled me to do that which won my promotion.”