When they were alone, Mrs. Gildersleeve touched on the topic nearest to her brother-in-law's heart. It was done in the light of an apology. She said: "In one of my letters, I am ashamed to say, I spoke censoriously and unjustly of Miss Heath, and I wish to take it all back; but it shows how particular we ought to be not to judge hastily. Miss Heath, I suppose you know, has come into her property, and her first thought and care is to carry out her father's intentions about building those charitable institutions. It will cost ever so much. I believe Mr. Mumbie tried to prevent or rather persuade her not to lay out so much money, but she wouldn't listen to it; and they say is even going to spend more; but that's just like Edna Heath." How intensely the colonel's heart indorsed that opinion. "Where is she now?" he inquired. "She's living in New York, with the Mumbies. You must certainly pay her a visit, and renew your old acquaintance. Mr. Mumbie sold out his paper-mill, and has retired from business." * * * * * An hour or more of such conversation and Mark withdrew, to find himself again in his little bedroom. Nothing was disturbed. There was his bookcase with its narrow desk, where he had passed so many hours in brain-racking devotions to the immortal Nine; and as he glanced over the turgid lines of some uncompleted poem in the portfolio, his smile justified the belief that time brought its own severe criticism to poetasters. There lay in their accustomed places his guitar and zithern, and over his bed-head hung, as of yore, the engraving of Carlo Dolce's _Mater Dolorosa_, whose exquisite mouth and chin were but counterparts of Edna's. It was so natural to lie in the bed where he had slept since childhood; and he seemed to breathe such an atmosphere of peace and quietude, that the tremendous events he had passed through during three years, seemed like a hiatus in his life, or a dream. Did the war exist? Here, all was tranquillity undisturbed by alarms; but away on the banks of the Appomattox, his brethren in arms slept in suspense; the vigilant picket watched the wily foe; the bursting shell tore the limbs of some sleeping soldier, and starving conscripts, in butternut rags, were flying from the rebel trenches to hospitable imprisonment within the Union lines. Such thoughts filled Mark's mind as he tossed uneasily on his downy couch and soft fringed pillow, until, to court slumber, he was obliged to wrap himself in a blanket, and seek repose on the hard floor.