“It is worth it,” said Caroline, “it is the best thing you have written. Your father is a General in the army, he’ll understand that kind of language. What’s next? I know there’s something now.” “‘Tom Kittridge has gone. He was killed yesterday at Cold Harbor.’” “Leave out that about”—she caught her breath, and her eyes fixed themselves once more on that little round hole in the breast of his jacket—“about his being killed.” “But he was killed and so was Johnny Sheldon—I have his uniform, you know.” “I know he was, but you don’t have to tell your father,” said Caroline, choking up, “you don’t have to telegraph him the news, do you?” “No, of course not, but——” “That’s all there is to the letter except the end.” “Why, that leaves it just the same except the part about——” “Yes,” said Caroline in despair, “and after all the work we have done.” “Let’s try it again,” said Wilfred. “No,” said Caroline, “there is no use. Everything else has got to stay.” “Well, then we can’t telegraph it. It would cost hundreds of dollars.” “Yes, we can telegraph it,” said Caroline determinedly, “you give it to me. I’ll get it sent.” “But how are you going to send it?” asked Wilfred, extending the letter. “Never you mind,” answered the girl. “See here!” the boy cried. “I am not going to have you spend your money, and——” “There’s no danger of that, I haven’t any to spend.” She took the letter from his hand. “I reckon Douglass Foray’ll send it for me. He’s in the telegraph office and he’ll do most anything for me.” “No,” said Wilfred sternly. “What’s the reason he won’t?” asked the girl. “Because he won’t.” “What do you care so long as he sends it?” “Well, I do care and that’s enough. I’m not going to have you making eyes at Dug Foray on my account.” “Oh, well,” said the girl, blushing. “Of course if you feel that way about it, I——” “That’s the way I feel all right. But you won’t give up the idea of helping me, will you, because I—feel like that?” “No,” answered Caroline softly, “I’ll help you all I can—about that letter, do you mean?” “Yes, about that letter and about other things, too.” “Give it to me,” said the girl, “I will go over it again.” She sat down at the desk, and as she scanned it, Wilfred watched her anxiously. To them Mrs. Varney entered. She had an open letter in one hand and a cap and belt in the other. She stopped in the doorway and motioned for some one in the hall to follow her, and an orderly entered the room. His uniform was covered with dust, his sunburned, grim face was covered with sweat and dust also. He stood in the doorway with the ease of a veteran soldier, that is without the painful effort to be precise or formal which marks the young aspirant for military honours. “Wilfred,” said Mrs. Varney, quickly approaching him, “here is a letter from your father.” She extended the paper. “He sent it by his orderly.”