They stared at each other, white-faced, a moment, when there entered to them youth and beauty incarnate. There was enough resemblance between the pale, white-haired mother and the girlish figure in the doorway to proclaim their relationship. The girl’s cheek had lost some of its bloom and some of its roundness. There was too much that was appalling and fearful in and about Richmond then not to leave its mark even upon the most youthful and the most buoyant, yet things did not come home to the young as they did to those older. She was still a lovely picture, especially in the soft radiance of the candles. She carried her hat in her hand. The flowers upon it were assuredly those of yester-year, it would not have passed muster as the mode anywhere except in besieged Richmond; and her dress, although it fitted her perfectly, was worn and faded and had been turned and patched and altered until it was quite beyond further change, yet she wore it as airily as if it had been tissue of silver or cloth of gold. The mother’s face brightened. “Edith dear,” she exclaimed, “how late you are! It is after eight o’clock. You must be tired out.” “I am not tired at all,” answered the girl cheerily. “I have not been at the hospital all afternoon; this is my day off. How is Howard?” “I wish I could say just the same, but he seems a little worse.” The girl’s face went suddenly grave. She stepped over to her mother, took her hand and patted it softly. “Is there nothing you can do?” “My dear,” said her mother, “Howard—we—are all in God’s hands.” She drew a long breath and lifted her head bravely. “Miss Kittridge,” said the girl, “I have something very important to tell mother, and——” Miss Kittridge smiled back at her. “I am going right away, honey. There is lots of work for us to do and——” “You don’t mind, I hope,” said Edith Varney, calling after her as she went into the hall. “No, indeed,” was the reply. Mrs. Varney sat down wearily by the table, and Edith pulled up a low stool and sat at her feet. “Well, my dear?” “Mamma—what do you think? What do you think?” “I think a great many things,” said Mrs. Varney, “but——” “Yes, but you wouldn’t ever think of this.” “Certainly I shall not, unless you tell me.” “Well, I have been to see the President.” “The President—Mr. Davis!” “Yes.” “And what did you go to see the President for?” “I asked him for an appointment for Captain Thorne.” “For Captain Thorne! My dear——” “Yes, mother, for the War Department Telegraph Service. And he gave it to me, a special commission. He gave it to me for father’s sake and for Captain Thorne’s sake,—he has met him and likes him,—and for my own.” “What sort of an appointment?” “Appointing him to duty here in Richmond, a very important position. He won’t be sent to the front, and he will be doing his duty just the same.” “But, Edith, you don’t—you can’t——”