You know already that during the greater part of the summer of that year he was in Washington, ostensibly on a visit to his father’s friend and his own old tutor, the retired Lutheran minister. In September he left the city to return to his home in the South. In October he reappeared in Washington, and took rooms in one of the best hotels most frequented by Southern gentlemen. But while he made Washington his headquarters, he went on frequent journeys to Charleston, Richmond, Annapolis, and other cities. And not even to his betrothed did he ever mention the object of these sudden journeys. Such was his manner of life until the first of December, when, as usual at the meeting of Congress, the city became crowded with visitors. All the boarding-houses and hotels were full of people, and very full of discomfort. Colonel Eastworth, a constitutional sybarite and epicurean, escaped as often as he could from the crowded rooms and scuffling meals of his “best hotel” to the quiet fireside and dainty table of the Lutheran minister’s home. Colonel Eastworth was certainly no petulant fault-finder; yet in his close intimacy with the family of his betrothed, he sometimes let fall half-laughing expressions that betrayed how ludicrously uncomfortable he was when in his quarters at the “best hotel.” Dr. Rosenthal, in his earnest German nature, considered betrothal almost as sacred as marriage, and looked upon the betrothed lover of his daughter as already his own son. And so, one day, when they chanced to meet in the Capitol library, and the colonel was unusually sarcastic on the subject of hotel living, the minister said: “Now, see here, Eastworth. We have a very large house, with four rooms on a floor, and sixteen rooms in all, counting basement and attics, and only myself and my daughter and our two servants to occupy them. Now, as you are to pass the whole winter in Washington, what should hinder you from coming and stopping with us?” “Thanks! Really, you are very kind; but—circumstantial evidence to the contrary notwithstanding—I did not mean to angle for and draw out this invitation,” laughed the colonel. “Don’t I know that you didn’t? But you will come?” “It would be too great a trespass on your kindness.” “Nonsense! not at all! You are one of us! You are my son. And really, now, Eastworth, I want you to come.” “A thousand thanks! I shall be too glad to do so! I accept your kindness as frankly as it is offered.” “That is right. And now I will go home and tell Erminie to have fires lighted in your rooms, to air them comfortably for you against your arrival. She will be glad, I know. But—when shall we expect you? This evening, shall it not be?” Colonel Eastworth hesitated, smiled, and then replied: “This evening? Yes, if you please, if it will be convenient for you. There is really no reason on my part for delay.”