“I expect we shall hear from him every day,” said Miss Morton. “He will have no excuse for not writing with all those envelopes stamped and addressed, with blank paper in them, which Grace has given him. You should always have three or four in your coat pocket, Phil.” The young man nodded. “I suppose for the most part we shall learn of you through Grace; but you mustn't forget us entirely, my boy,” said Mr. Morton. “We shall want to hear from you directly now and then.” “Yes; I 'll be sure to write,” Philip replied. “I suppose it will be time enough to see the regiment pass if we are in our places by nine o'clock,” suggested Miss Morton, after a silence. “I think so,” said her brother. “It is a great affair to break camp, and I don't believe the march will begin till after that time.” “James has got us one of the windows of Ray & Seymour's offices, you know, Philip,” resumed Miss Morton; “which one did you say, James?” “The north one.” “Yes, the north one,” she resumed. “They say every window on Main Street along the route of the regiment is rented. Grace will be with us, you know. You must n't forget to look up at us as you go by--as if the young man were likely to!” He was evidently not now listening to her at all. His eyes were fastened upon the girl's opposite him, and they seemed to have quite forgotten the others. Miss Morton and her brother exchanged compassionate glances. Tears were in the lady's eyes. A clock in the sitting-room began to strike: “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven.” Philip started. “What time is that?” he asked, a little huskily. No one replied at once. Then Mr. Morton said: “I am afraid it struck seven, my boy.” “I must leave in ten minutes then,” said the young man, rising from the table. The rest followed his example. “I wonder if the buggy will be in time?” said he. “It is at the gate,” replied Miss Morton. “I heard it drive up some time ago.” Unmindful of the others now, Philip put his arm about Grace's waist and drew her away to the end of the piazza and thence out into the garden. “Poor young things,” murmured Miss Morton, the tears running down her cheeks as she looked after them. “It is pitiful, James, to see how they suffer.” “Yes,” said the minister; “and there are a great many just such scenes to-day. Ah, well, as St. Paul says, we see as yet but in part.” Passing in and out among the shrubbery, and presently disappearing from the sympathetic eyes upon the piazza, the lovers came to a little summer-house, and there they entered. Taking her wrists in his hands, he held her away from him, and his eyes went slowly over her from head to foot, as if he would impress upon his mind an image that absence should not have power to dim.