“By which you mean to ask why I did not hasten home immediately on being released from prison. The reason was this my Minie. Almost simultaneously with the capture of Charleston, I was seized with typhus fever. I was ill some weeks. A man of my age seldom recovers from typhus fever; and even when he does, he takes a long time to rally. As soon as I was able to travel I set out for home. General Eastworth came with me, to take care of me.” “General Eastworth here—here in Washington!” she exclaimed, slightly starting, flushing and paling. “Yes, my Minie, and only waiting your permission to see him.” “Oh, how shall I meet him? how must I meet him, my father?” “As your true heart dictates, my child.” She bowed her head and covered her face with her hands. “Why do you weep, my Minie?” her father asked, tenderly caressing her. “I do not know. My heart is heavy with its burden of happiness! Oh, my father, lay your hand upon my head and pray for me!—pray for me and bless me! I am weak, and I tremble with my happiness! I am afraid—to be so happy!” And she shivered. He smiled and laid his hand upon her head; he prayed for her and blessed her, then he stooped and kissed her, arose and placed her gently in the chair, and leaving her alone, stole silently from the room. When Erminie looked up her father was gone, and her lover stood in his place. Pale, silent, sorrowful, mutilated, General Eastworth stood there, looking down upon Erminie. Her hands flew out to meet him. “Oh, welcome! welcome! welcome!” she exclaimed, with all her heart’s warmth welling up in the words. “You welcome me, Miss Rosenthal! You welcome _me_?” he whispered, in tones scarcely above his breath. “With all my heart and soul! A thousand, thousand welcomes!” she cried, with almost overpowering emotion. “I come to you, Miss Rosenthal, to hear you confirm, if you will, the gracious words you spoke to me on your bed of illness near death, that night I came to your room at the risk of my life!” “Then that was no dream! you were really beside me there!” she exclaimed, wonderingly. “I was really beside you there. Did you doubt it?” “I was so ill that night, I never could feel certain of what happened. And no one was able to assure me upon all points. But sit down! oh, sit! How pale you are! You are not fit to stand!” she said. “No, I am more fit to _kneel to you_,” he answered mournfully. But she arose from the great arm-chair, and with gentle force, compelled him to seat himself in it. Then she drew an ottoman forward and sat down at his knees, as she had been accustomed to do in the early days of their betrothal. “I am so happy to have you here—oh, so unspeakably happy to have you here! I never hoped to be so happy in this world again!” she fervently exclaimed, as she placed her hand in his.