“We were both unconscious when taken from the water, but you were holding fast to my arm, and so really was the means of my being saved, though a fisherman carried me to the shore. You must have been removed at once, for when we inquired for you we could only learn that you were gone. Heaven bless you, Hugh. My mother prayed often for the preserver of her child, and need I tell you that I, too, shall never forget to pray for you? The Lord keep you in all your ways, and lead you safely to your sister, ALICE.” Many times Hugh read this note, then pressing it to his lips thrust it into his bosom, but failed to see what Alice had hoped he might see, that the love he once asked for was his at last. “If she loved me, she would have told me so,” he thought, “for she promised me as much, but she does not, so that ends the drama. Oh, Golden Hair, why _did_ I ever meet her, or why was I suffered to love her so devotedly, if I must lose her at the last!” There were great drops of sweat about Hugh’s lips, and on his forehead, as, burying his face in his hands, he laid both upon the table, and battled manfully with his love for Alice Johnson. “God help me in my sorrow,” was the prayer which fell from the quivering lips, but did not break the silence of that little room, where none, save God, witnessed the conflict, the last Hugh ever fought for Alice Johnson. He _could_ give her up at length; could think, without a shudder, of living all his life without her, and when, late that afternoon, he took the evening train for Cleveland, not one in the crowded car would have guessed how sore was the heart of the young man who plunged so energetically into the spirited war argument in progress between a Northern and Southern politician. It was a splendid escape-valve for his pent up feelings, and Hugh carried everything before him, taking by turns both sides of the question, and effectually silencing the two combatants, who said to each other in parting, “We shall hear from that Kentuckian again, though whether in Rebeldom or Yankee land we cannot tell.” Arrived at New York he wrote a reply to Alice’s note, saying that what he had done for her was no more than he ought to have done for any one who had come to him for help, and that she need not expend her gratitude on him, though he was glad of any thing to keep him in her remembrance. After this he wrote regularly, kind, friendly letters, and Alice was beginning to feel that they in some degree atoned for his absence, when there came one which wrung a wailing cry from Mrs. Worthington, and brought Alice at once to her side. “What is it?” she asked in much alarm, and Mrs. Worthington replied, “Oh, Hugh, my boy! he’s enlisted, joined the army! I shall never see him again!”