“Elfie,” he said, sadly and frankly, “if I were conscious of having done wrong, I should be sorry for it now, or never. ‘A death-bed’s a detector of the heart,’ ’tis said. If the course you blame so bitterly had been a career of crime, I should know it now, if ever, and I should atone for it by a death-bed repentance. And you, and all who think with you, would unite in approving and consoling the penitent. But when I speak my next words, Elfie, you and yours may harden your hearts against me. I cannot help that. For, Elfie, not to secure the good will of the people around me—not even to secure your sweet presence, which is the only earthly consolation I have now left in life—will I deceive myself, or you, or them. Listen, Elfie, and then leave me if you must. Here lying in the hospital, wounded and dying, and surrounded by the enemies of my country, and in danger of losing your love, I tell you I am _not_ sorry for what I have done. I do _not_ repent the course I have pursued. I know now, as I knew then, that I was and am right. There, Elfie! That is the faith in which I shall live and die. You, Elfie, think differently. And I do not blame you. The freedom of opinion that I claim for myself I give to all others. Now then, my dearest, if your conscience commands you to leave me, leave me. And if you go, I shall not reproach you, even in my thoughts. I shall thank you from the bottom of my heart for all past kindness; I shall love you as long as I live, and I shall bless you with my dying breath. Now go, my beloved, if indeed you must.” “Oh, Albert!” exclaimed Elfie, struggling to suppress her tears, “you know I will never leave you while you live! never, Albert, never! I cannot convert you, but I cannot help loving you!” she added, stooping and pressing her lips to his. “My poor, dear girl, I wish we could think alike!” he murmured, feebly caressing her head, that lay so near his bosom. “And now let us talk no more of this horrible war. Let us forget for a while the madness of the rebellion,” said Elfie. “Not just yet, my Elfie. I must justify myself in your eyes, for your sake, if possible,” he murmured. “Oh! do not—do not! Oh! say no more. You are already too much excited. I was very wrong to have started the subject. I have raised your fever; and the doctor would serve me right to turn me out of the hospital,” said Elfie. “My dear girl, you have not excited me. Don’t you see that I am past all that, Elfie? Besides, I _must_ say more in self-justification. Only to _you_, Elfie. I would not stoop to justify myself to another,” he proudly added. “Go on, then, but don’t—don’t fatigue yourself.” “Listen, then, my darling girl: You and I are diametrically opposed to each other on the subject of this civil war, are we not?” “Yes, yes; more’s the pity.” “So say I, ‘More’s the pity.’ And yet, diametrically opposed as we are, we are each of us true to our firmest convictions of duty, are we not?” “I truly believe so,” admitted Elfie.