“I wish to goodness you would have a little pity on yourself,” grumbled Elfie. Erminie smiled. “There is not the slightest danger of any one of us failing in pity for ourselves, Elfie,” she said. “Then give yourself a holiday once in a way, and go with us on our picnic excursion. Now, do—now, do, Minie—that’s a darling!” “I would like to oblige you, Elfie dear, and I should not dislike the trip up the river this beautiful Indian summer weather, but I cannot go with you this time.” “Well, upon my word, you ‘sainted girls’—as I have heard more than one white-cravated and blue-spectacled young parson call you, are the most stubborn and ‘stiffnecked generation’ that ever was! I do believe you refuse just out of opposition to me.” “No, Elfie. Listen, dear: During the three days that I was prevented from going to the hospital, one of my poor boys died. And he wanted to see me, and kept asking for me and looking for me—poor, helpless boy!—as long as he lingered in life. I shall never cease to be sorry for my absence then; and _now_, as long as there shall remain a wounded and bed-ridden soldier in these hospitals, whom my presence can comfort or cheer, I will never leave the city for a party of pleasure. No dying eyes shall ever again strain themselves to look for me in vain!” said Erminie, gravely and earnestly. “Oh! Erminie, dear, you _are_ a saint, and I fear—I very much fear, that you will be a martyr, too!” said Elfie, more seriously than she had yet spoken; for she was at length really and deeply touched by the words of Erminie. But the Lutheran’s orphan daughter slowly shook her head, gravely answering: “Don’t misapply such terms of praise to me, dear Elfie. ‘Saint’ and ‘martyr’ are holy names that few in this age of the world deserve to bear, and I least of all.” “Oh! you mean, I suppose, that the only way to be a saint is to abjure the world and cleanliness and live alone, in sackcloth and ashes; and to be a martyr, is to set up some new doctrine and die for it,” said Elfie. “No, you mocker—you know that I mean no such thing,” laughed Erminie. “I’m glad you don’t; for I hold that the man or woman who devotes him or herself to the service of their suffering fellow-creatures, is as good a saint as ever preferred his own company to other people’s—filthy sackcloth to clean linen; and he or she who dies in such a service, I hold to be as good a martyr as ever offered up his life for a difference of opinion in politics or theology!” “So do I, Elfie,” said Erminie. And here the talk stopped. This conversation occurred on the Wednesday of that week. And the picnic excursion—that most disastrous picnic excursion—was fixed for the following Saturday. CHAPTER IX. AN UNEXPECTED GUEST AT A PICNIC.