"As to my dismissal, may I not ask you to reconsider your words, and, in the light of my assurance that I am innocent of the sin with which you have charged me, permit me to sign myself, as ever, lovingly and faithfully yours? PAUL." It is no easy letter to write. He wants to be calm and just, and that makes it sound cold and utterly unimpassioned. Beyond doubt she would be far happier with a fury of reproaches, cutting sarcasm, and page after page of indignant denial. He also wants to be tender when he thinks of what he has not had to lavish on her in the past, and that prompts him to the little touch of sentiment at the close--a touch that is perhaps unwarranted by the facts in the case. There is a third matter, one that he does not want to mention at all, a name he hates to put on any page addressed to her; but he knows that it is due her she should be told the truth, and at last, just as sunset is coming, he adds a postscript: "I feel that I must tell you that Mr. Hollins has been missing ever since Antietam, under circumstances that cloud his name with grave suspicion. It is no longer concealed that his conduct and character have left him practically friendless in the regiment, and that he could not long have retained his position. He is not worthy the friendship you felt for him, Viva; of that I am certain." He is still pondering over this when his father comes in for a word or two. "I am going over to call at Doctor Warren's room and ask how he is. Possibly he may be able to see me. Have you written to--" And he stops. He does not feel like saying "Viva" to or of the girl who has so misjudged his boy. Abbot holds up the letter and its addressed envelope. "Yes, and it must go at once or miss the mail." "I'll post it for you, then, as I have to go to the office a moment," is the answer, and the elder stands looking at his son, while the latter quickly scans the last page, then folds and encloses it. Paul smiles into his father's eyes as he hands it, and the letter-bearer goes briskly away. His footsteps have hardly become inaudible when there is a tap at the door, and behold! the nurse. "You told me you would like to know when Miss Warren came out, major. She is on the veranda now." VIII.