“Just look at my pap!” Elfie would sometimes say, “sitting there sulking and distilling bile! If he goes on this way much longer, he’ll make himself so sick I shall have to give him a dose of calomel and jalap!—Pap! you may sulk as long as you please, and make yourself as yellow as saffron, _but_—if you don’t buy me a substitute I’ll ’list! I will, as sure as I’m the daughter of a hero!” So at length by coaxing, threatening, wheedling, and bantering, Elfie brought her indulgent old father out of his anger, and so far into her way of thinking that he actually did buy her a substitute. He gave five hundred dollars to a fine young foreigner to represent Elfie in the field. CHAPTER V. THE LOVERS’ PARTING. She weeps the weary day. The war upon her native soil, Her lover’s risk in battle broil.—SCOTT. Britomarte boarded with a widow of the name of Burton, who had three grown daughters. They lived in a small white cottage, in a large, shady garden, in the northeastern suburbs of the city, and not very far from the parsonage. The mother and daughters supported themselves by taking in plain sewing from the quartermaster’s department. As Britomarte was their only boarder, and was contented to share their own simple and frugal meals, her living was inexpensive, and she paid for it by needle work. Every hour of the day that she did not devote to visiting the hospitals with Erminie, was employed in this work, and the stroke of midnight often found her still at her needle. And yet, with all this industry, Britomarte could scarcely make enough to pay her small expenses. Justin and Erminie guessed all this, and felt great but vain regret; for so long as Miss Conyers remained so obstinately proud and independent, they could do nothing on earth to assist her. “It seems to me,” complained Erminie, “that if I were in Britomarte’s place, I would allow those who love me to improve my condition.” “You cannot understand her, and I do not blame her,” answered Justin. Once, while the two girls were on their way to the Douglass Hospital, Erminie said: “Britomarte, dearest, if you _will_ be so independent, why can you not be so in a more agreeable way—agreeable to yourself, I mean? Instead of delving over those coarse garments for the quartermaster’s department, why do you not give music lessons?” “Because, my dear, I only want transient work, something that I can give up at any moment without wronging any one.” “But what do you mean by that, Britomarte?” “My stay in Washington is short and uncertain.” “Oh, pray don’t say that. Where will you go?” “I do not know, dear,” answered Miss Conyers, in that grave tone that forbade farther cross-questioning. So Erminie sighed and fell into silence.