“I did feel blazin’ mad at you, though, for a spell,” she said, “for I thought you might have brung him up better; but this cured me entirely,” and she handed Isaac’s letter to Rose, bidding her read it aloud. “Noble boy. You must be proud of him,” was Mrs. Carleton’s comment, while Rose, ever impulsive, seized upon a new idea. It would be so nice for the Rockland ladies to fit up a box of things and send to Company R, reserving a corner for Tom and Will. She should do it, anyway, on her own responsibility, if nobody chose to help her, and she whispered to Annie that George should have a large share of the delicacies she would provide. “You may send that candy to Tom, if you choose,” she said to the widow, “though I think cod liver oil would be better. And the ointment too,—only it mustn’t sit near my preserves, for fear the two will get mixed.” Rose had found something to do, and so absorbed was she in a plan which every one approved, that she forgot to cry _all_ the time for _Will_, as she had fully intended doing. Up the streets and down she went, sometimes walking, sometimes riding, but always in a flurry, always excited, now tumbling over dry-goods boxes in quest of one large enough to hold the many articles preparing in Rockland for the then ill-fed, suffering soldiers of the 13th Regiment, now up at the express office, bargaining about the expense, which she meant to bear herself, and now down at the Hall, adroitly smoothing over little bickerings frequently arising among the ladies assembled there, concerning the articles sent in, some declaring the fried apple pies brought by Mrs. Baker should not go, nor yet the round balls of Dutch cheese she had saved sour milk two weeks to make, just because “Billy relished it so much, ’long with apple turnovers.” Poor old Mrs. Baker! It was the best she could do, and when Rose saw how the tears came at the prospect of Billy’s losing the feast she had prepared with so much care, she declared the cheese should go if she had to send it in a separate box. It was just so with the widow’s poke ointment, some of the ladies wondering what next would be brought in and what it could be for. Rose knew exactly what ’twas for; Tom had corns, and the despised salve was for him, so that should go if nothing else. But when Susan Ruggles Simms, her thoughts intent on _John_, brought in a round of roasted veal, which her mother-in-law said would be in a most lively condition by the time it reached Washington, Rose, after suggesting that it be packed in ice and put in a refrigerator, yielded for once, and persuaded the girl-wife to carry home her veal, which would most surely be spoiled ere John came to see it. “You can write him a nice long letter,” she said, when she saw how disappointed Susan looked. “You can tell him your intentions were good until we old experienced married ladies persuaded you out of them.”