“I know,” she said, “that only our Saviour can atone to God for our sins. But sometimes we may atone to man. I will do all I can for the suffering soldiers until the war is over. And then if I really do come into the widow’s share of poor Albert’s fortune, I will not appropriate one dollar’s worth of it to myself. I will give it all to the orphans of the war, to the orphans of both sides, for the children are not accountable for the actions of their fathers, and far be from us the presumption of arrogating to ourselves the divine prerogative of visiting the sins of the fathers upon the children,” she would add. And Erminie always approved her plans, and encouraged her to hope for their successful operation. So the winter and the spring months had passed, and the early summer found the youthful widow serene and cheerful in the discharge of her duties. There was very little to vary the monotony of this domestic life. Major Fielding had not been home since the notable occasion upon which his daughter had given him such a surprise. Justin was with his regiment at C. Captain Ethel was in command of the gunboat Fire-King, on the Potomac. And Britomarte was in parts unknown. Yet letters from every one of these came very often. On one especial morning a whole budget of news arrived. There was one from Major Fielding to his daughter, announcing his speedy arrival on a short leave. There was one from Justin to his sister, filled with good news of his military success and his personal well-being. There was one from Lieutenant Ethel, promising a short visit to the city, and a call upon his fair friends at the parsonage. And lastly there was one from Britomarte, postmarked Baltimore, and filled with the warmest expressions of affection for Erminie, and the most satisfactory statements concerning her own health and success. But where she was living, or what she was doing, remained unrevealed secrets. Elfie, to whom Erminie read the letter, screwed up her mouth, and looked like “she _could_ an’ if she would” “a tale unfold,” but she didn’t. And besides, Elfie was interested in the other letters, and preferred to talk of them and their subjects—her father’s promised visit, Justin’s encouraging successes, and even young Ethel’s prospective call. “It is likely that pap and Ethel will both be here to-day or to-morrow, Erminie, don’t you think?” she inquired. Erminie coincided with her in opinion. That morning the young ladies lingered so long over their breakfast table and their delightful letters, that it was rather later than usual when they set off for the hospitals. “The morning is so delicious that we will walk, I think, Elfie,” said Miss Rosenthal, as they emerged from the front door. “All right. I would rather walk,” agreed Elfie. And they set out at a brisk pace.