“My darling, the conditions of the commutation of my sentence from death to imprisonment were that I should hold no communication whatever with my friends across the lines. Even Eastworth, who did all that was in his power to mitigate the severity of my fate, could not aid me in evading these conditions, without a breach of trust. That was why I could not write to you.” “But I should have supposed some one of our men in the hands of the Confederate authorities as prisoners of war, might have heard of your captivity and reported it.” “That was not likely. I was in a solitary cell, and confined under the name in which I had been arrested. No one but Eastworth knew my real name. And at my desire he kept it a secret. You heard me say just now, my dear, that the fame of the little Lutheran Sister of Christ, who ministered to the sick and wounded, whether Loyal or Rebel, had reached me even in my distant Southern prison?” “Yes, dear father.” “I will tell you how that was. I once had a guard that was so very kind to me, so extremely kind to me, that I one day asked him plainly why he was so. He answered that he had been a wounded prisoner in the Douglass Hospital at Washington, and that a young Union lady had saved his life by her constant attentions to him, and by bringing him nice broths, jellies, fruits, wine, tea and coffee, such as, at that time, could not be furnished to the soldiers.” “Yes,” said Erminie, “that must have been before the Sanitary and Christian Commissions got into operation.” “Do you remember this case, Erminie?” “Dear father, there were so many such cases! I don’t remember this particular one.” “He remembers you. As long as he lives he will remember you! He talked to me about you. He described your looks and manners and tone of voice. He told me your name, and said that you had lost your father in the first battle of Bull Run. He said that he should always be kind to the Union prisoners for your sake. I longed to tell him that I was your father; but I could not do so without disclosing my name, which I wished to keep a secret—which _then_ more than ever I determined to keep a secret.” “But why, dear father?” “Why?—For your sake more than for any other reason, my Minie!” “For my sake!” “Ay, ay! listen! You had mourned me as dead. Time and religion had reconciled you to your loss, and softened your sorrow. But suppose you had heard that I was living, and suffering a painful captivity in a Southern prison? Would not all your wounds have been torn open afresh, and kept open? Would not your heart have bled both day and night? Could you have done your daily duty in the hospitals with the image of your old father a captive in a Confederate prison, ever present to your mind?” “Oh no, no, no!” “Therefore you see I was right in keeping the secret, and I kept it religiously until the capture of Charleston.” “That was several weeks ago?” said Erminie, interrogatively.