She was extremely reticent about herself, and took pains to seem indifferent in regard to his life and plans, but she was beginning to chafe under what she characterized as his “inaction.”  Giving to hospitals and military charities and buying United-States bonds counted for little in her eyes.

“He parades his loyalty, and would have me think that he looks upon the right to call on me as a great privilege, but he does not care enough about either me or the country to incur any risk or hardship.”

Thoughts like these were beginning not only to rekindle her old resentment, but also to cause a vague sense of disappointment.  Merwyn had at least accomplished one thing,—­he confirmed her father’s opinion that he was not commonplace.  Travel, residence abroad, association with well-bred people, and a taste for reading, had given him a finish which a girl of Marian’s culture could not fail to appreciate.  Because he satisfied her taste and eye, she was only the more irritated by his failure in what she deemed the essential elements of manhood.  In spite of the passionate words he had once spoken, she was beginning to believe that a cold, calculating persistency was the corner-stone of his character, that even if he were brave enough to fight, he had deliberately decided to take no risks and enjoy his fortune.  If this were true, she assured herself, he might shoulder the national debt if he chose, but he could never become her friend.

Then came the terrible and useless slaughter of Fredericksburg.  With the fatuity that characterized the earlier years of the war, the heroic army of the Potomac, which might have annihilated Lee on previous occasions, was hurled against heights and fortifications that, from the beginning, rendered the attack hopeless.

Marian’s friends were exposed to fearful perils, but passed through the conflict unscathed.  Her heart went out to them in a deeper and stronger sympathy than ever, and Merwyn in contrast lost correspondingly.

During the remaining weeks of December, she saw that her father was almost haggard from care and anxiety, and he was compelled to make trips to Washington and even to the front.

“The end has not come yet,” he had said to her, after one of these flying visits.  “Burnside has made an awful blunder, but he is eager to retrieve himself, and now has plans on foot that promise better.  The disaffection among his commanding officers and troops is what I am most afraid of—­more, indeed, than of the rebel army.  Unlike his predecessor, he is determined to move, to act, and I think we may soon hear of another great battle.”

Letters from her friends confirmed this view, especially a brief note from Lane, in which the writer, fearing that it might be his last, had not wholly veiled his deep affection.  “I am on the eve of participating in an immense cavalry movement,” it began, “and it may be some time before I can write to you again, if ever.”