One evening, when the mail for the division came in, looking over the pile of letters, his eye was caught by one addressed to James Given.  The name was familiar,—­that of his father’s old foreman, whom he knew to be somewhere in the army; doubtless the same man.  Unquestionably, he thought, that was the reason he was so attracted to it; but why he should take up the delicate little missive, scan it again and again, hold it in his hand with the same touch with which he would have pressed a rare flower, and lay it down as reluctantly as he would have yielded a known and visible treasure,—­that was the mystery.  He had never seen Francesca’s writing, but he stood possessed, almost assured, of the belief that this letter was penned by her hand; and at last parted with it slowly and unwillingly, as though it were the dear hand of which he mused; then took himself to task for this boyish weakness and folly.  Nevertheless, he went in pursuit of Jim, not to question him,—­he was too thorough a gentleman for that,—­but led on partly by his desire to see a familiar face, partly by this folly, as he called it with a sort of amused disdain.

Folly, however, it was not, save in such measure as the subtle telegraphings between spirit and spirit can be thus called.  Unjustly so called they are, constantly; it being the habit of most people to denounce as heresy or ridicule as madness things too high for their sight or too deep for their comprehension.  As these people would say, “oddly enough,” or “by an extraordinary coincidence,” this very letter was from Miss Ercildoune,—­a letter which she wrote as she purposed, and as she well knew how to write, in behalf of Sallie.  It was ostensibly on quite another theme; asking some information in regard to a comrade, but so cunningly devised and executed as to tell him in few words, and unsuspiciously, some news of Sallie,—­news which she knew would delight his heart, and overthrow the little barrier which had stood between them, making both miserable, but which he would not, and she could not, clamber over or destroy.  It did its work effectually, and made two hearts thoroughly happy,—­this letter which had so strangely bewitched Surrey; which, in his heart, spite of the ridicule of his reason, he was so sure was hers; and which, indeed, was hers, though he knew not that till long afterward.

“So,” he thought, as he went through the camp, “Given is here, and near.  I shall be glad to see a face from home, whatever kind of a face it may be, and Given’s is a good one; it will be a pleasant rememberance.”

“Whither away?” called a voice behind him.

“To the 29th,” he answered the questioner, one of his officers and friends, who, coming up, took his arm,—­“in pursuit of a man.”

“What’s his name?”

“Given,—­christened James.  What are you laughing at? do you know him?”

“No, I don’t know him, but I’ve heard some funny stories about him; he’s a queer stick, I should think.”