of work as long as you care to stay.”  He looked as if he wanted to say something more, but didn’t; and I was just as sure as sure could be that it was something about Miss Francesca, probably about her having me out there so much; for his face looked so sad, and his lips trembled so, I knew that must be in his mind.  And when I thought of it, and of such an awful fate as it was for her, so young, and handsome, and happy, like the great baby I am, I just threw my apron over my head, and burst out crying.

“Don’t!” he said,—­“don’t!” in O, such a voice!  It was like a knife going through me; and he went quick out of the room, and downstairs, without even saying good by.

Well, we came out the next day,—­and I have plenty to do, and Frankie is getting real bright and strong.  I can see Mr. Ercildoune likes to have us here, because of the connection with Miss Francesca.  She was so interested in us, and so kind to us, and he knows I loved her so very dearly,—­and if it’s any comfort to him I’m sure I’m glad to be here, without taking Frankie into the account,—­for the poor gentleman looks so bowed and heart-broken that it makes one’s heart ache just to see him.  Mr. Robert isn’t well enough to be about yet, but he sits up for a while every day, and is getting on—­the doctor says—­nicely.  They both talk about you often; and Mr. Ercildoune, I can see, thinks everything of you for that good, kind deed of yours, when you and Mr. Robert were on the transport together.  Dear Jim, he don’t know you as well as I do, or he’d know that you couldn’t help doing such things,—­not if you tried.

I hope you’ll like the box that comes with this.  Mr. Robert had it packed for you in his own room, to see that everything went in that you’d like.  Of course, as he’s been a soldier himself, he knows better what they want than anybody else can.

Dear Jim, do take care of yourself; don’t go and get wounded; and don’t get sick; and, whatever you do, don’t let the rebels take you prisoner, unless you want to drive me frantic.  I think about you pretty much all the time, and pray for you, as well as I know how, every night when I go to bed, and am always

Your own loving

Sallie.

* * * * *

“Wow!” said Jim, as he read, “she’s in a good berth there.”  So she was,—­and so she stayed.  Frankie got quite well once more, and Sallie began to think of going, but Mr. Ercildoune evidently clung to her and to the sunshine which the bright little fellow cast through the house.  Sallie was quite right in her supposition.  Francesca had cared for this girl, had been kind to her and helped her,—­and his heart went out to everything that reminded him of his dear, dead child.  So it happened that autumn passed, and winter, and spring,—­and still they stayed.  In fact, she was domesticated in the house, and, for the first time in years, enjoyed the delightful sense of a home.  Here, then, she set up her rest, and remained; here, when the “cruel war was over,” the armies disbanded, the last regiments discharged, and Jimmy “came marching home,” brown, handsome, and a captain, here he found her,—­and from here he married and carried her away.