“No, papa, no,” cried Marian, with suddenly moistening eyes.  “I regret the war beyond all power of expression.  I could not ask, much less urge, any one to go, and my heart trembles and shrinks when I think of danger threatening those I love.  But I honor—­I almost worship—­courage, loyalty, patriotism.  Do you think I can ever love any one as I do you?  Yet I believe you would go to Richmond to-morrow if you were so ordered.  I ask nothing of this Merwyn, or of any one; but he who asks my friendship must at least be brave and loyal enough to go where my father would lead.  Even if I loved a man, even if I were married, I would rather that the one I loved did all a man’s duty, though my heart was broken and my life blighted in consequence, than to have him seeking safety and comfort in some eminently prudent, temporizing course.”

Mr. Vosburgh put his arm around his daughter, as he looked, for a moment, into her tear-dimmed eyes, then kissed her good-night, and said, quietly, “I understand you, Marian.”

“But, papa!” she exclaimed, in sudden remorsefulness, “you won’t take any risks that you can honorably escape?”

“I promise you I won’t go out to-night in search of the nearest recruiting sergeant,” replied her father, with a reassuring laugh.

CHAPTER XIX.

Probation promised.

Merwyn had been in the city some little time when Marian, unknown to him, learned of his presence.  He, also, had seen her more than once, and while her aspect had increased his admiration and a feeling akin to reverence, it had also disheartened him.  To a degree unrecognized by the girl herself, her present motives and stronger character had changed the expression of her face.  He had seen her when unconscious of observation and preoccupied by thoughts which made her appear grave and almost stern, and he was again assured that the advantages on which he had once prided himself were as nothing to her compared with the loyalty of friends now in Virginia.  He could not go there, nor could he explain why he must apparently shun danger and hardship.  He felt that his oath to his mother would be, in her eyes, no extenuation of his conduct.  Indeed, he believed that she would regard the fact that he could give such a pledge as another proof of his unworthiness to be called an American.  How could it be otherwise when he himself could not look back upon the event without a sense of deep personal humiliation?

“I was an idiotic fool when I gave away manhood and its rights,” he groaned.  “My mother took advantage of me.”