“MY DEAR AND GENTLE FRIEND:—Duty, or what I believe to be such, calls me hence very suddenly. I have no time to bid you farewell in person, even if I could trust myself to such a parting interview. From time to time I will write and let you know where and how I am. I hope that you also will keep me advised of your well-being. For the present, a letter addressed ‘B. C., Baltimore Post Office, till called for,’ will find me. Give my love to Elfie. And, dear and good Erminie, accept my love and my prayers, which are always offered up for you. BRITOMARTE.” When Erminie had finished reading this letter, she dropped again into her chair, covered her face with her hands, and wept. Mrs. Burton brought her a glass of water, saying: “Drink this, my dear; it will revive you.” Erminie drank the water, and returned the tumbler to the landlady, and said: “Dear Mrs. Burton, please tell me all about it. She went away the evening she wrote this letter, or the next morning?” “The same evening, my dear. The evening of the day on which the brigade marched,” said the widow, placing the empty tumbler on the table, and taking the chair nearest her visitor. “Yes?” exclaimed Erminie, in tearful eagerness. “You never heard of anything so sudden in your life! You know, your old negro man, Uncle Bob, had been here in the morning to bring her a note.” “It was from me.” “Well; so she went away with Uncle Bob, and staid away all day.” “She was with me.” “At seven o’clock, while we were at tea—I and my girls—she came in. I jumped up to make fresh tea for her; but she stopped me, saying that she would take nothing then, but might make a cup for herself by and by. And so she hurried through the parlor and up into her own bed-room. She looked very much agitated, and that is the sacred truth. I spoke of her appearance to my girls; and they thought it was because she was grieving after some friends who might have gone with the brigade.” “Yes, that was it,” said Erminie, frankly. “Later in the evening she came down. I and my girls were still at work. I thought she wanted her tea, and again I got up to make her some; but again she stopped me, saying something like this: “‘Mrs. Burton, I am about to leave you—I must do so to-night. Would you mind sending Johnny to call a carriage for me?’ “(Now Johnny is my nephew, on a visit to me at present.) I looked at her in perfect astonishment to hear her talk of leaving me so suddenly at that hour of the night. And when I looked I saw her face was as white as marble and nearly as hard in its expression of settled determination. “‘My dear Miss Conyers,’ I said, ‘I hope you have heard no bad news that takes you away to-night. Hadn’t you better wait till to-morrow? It is very late to leave the house.’ “‘I must go nevertheless. Can you let Johnny call a carriage for me?’ she said.