To Marian every private who had fought in the war was an angel, and every officer an archangel _ex officio_. That she should have been the cause of an attack of rheumatic gout to a wounded hero filled her with remorse, especially as this particular hero was the most delightful man she had ever met. She wept bitterly from a variety of emotions--pity, and shame, too--for what must he think of her? That last misery, at any rate, she could not and would not endure, and before breakfast she had written the following letter: "BURROUGHS STREET, JAMAICA PLAIN. "DEAR COLONEL HAYWARD, "I was very, very sorry to hear that you had taken cold and been ill in consequence of that unfortunate call of mine on Saturday, three weeks ago. I really came on the errand I said I did; but I don't wonder you thought otherwise, after I had behaved so foolishly. I did not know who you were, nor where I had been, and I gave the wrong name because I was frightened. But I cannot let you think so poorly of me, or believe I had the least intention of giving you so much pain and trouble. I can remember the war" [this was a mortifying confession for Marian to make, but she felt that the proper atonement for her fault demanded an unsparing sacrifice of her own feelings], "and I know how much gratitude I, and every other woman in our country, owe to you. Begging your pardon most sincerely, I am, "Yours very truly, "MARIAN R. CARTER. "_May 5th, 1885_." Marian found no time to copy this letter over again before she took it with her on her morning round of errands, to slip into the first post-box, and she would not keep it back for another mail, although she feared by turns that it was improperly forward, and chillingly distant. Posted it was, and she could not get it back. She did not know whether she wanted him to answer it or not. It would be kind and civil in him to do so, but she felt that she could hardly bear the curiosity of the family, as his letter was passed from hand to hand before it was opened to guess whom it could be from, or handed round again to be read. There was no more privacy in the house than there was in an ant-hill. She had not long to speculate, for the very next afternoon, as the family were all sitting in grandmamma's room downstairs, their common rallying-ground, as it was the pleasantest one in the house, and the old lady, who disliked being left alone, rarely went into the drawing-room till evening, the parlour-maid brought in a card, which went the rounds immediately: "MR. ROBERT HAYWARD, "City Point, South Boston." "What can he want?" said Mrs. Dale. "Very likely to see me on business," said Aunt Caroline. "It must be Colonel Hayward," said Isabel, remembering Frederick's tale. "It was Miss Marian he wanted to see," said Katy.