“I sent it to its rightful owner, Helen Lennox. I posted it myself. But why don’t you thank me, Captain Ray?” she asked, as Mark’s face was overshadowed with anxiety. “I was wondering whether it were well to send it—wondering how it might be received,” he said, and Bell replied. “She will not answer no. As one woman knows another, I know Helen Lennox. I have sounded her on that point. I told her of the rumor there was afloat, and she denied it, seeming greatly distressed, but showing plainly that had such offer been received she would not have refused it. You should have seen her last summer, Captain Ray, when we waited so anxiously for news from the Potomac. Her face was a study as her eyes ran over the list of casualties, searching _not_ for her amiable _brother-in-law_, nor yet for _Willard Braxton_, their hired man. It was plain to me as daylight, and all you have to do is to follow up that letter with another, or go yourself, if you have time,” Bell said, as she rose to go, leaving Mark in a state of bewilderment as to what he had heard. Who withheld that letter? and why? were questions which troubled him greatly, nor did his mother’s assurance that it did not matter so long as it all came right at last, tend wholly to reassure him. One thing, however, was certain. He would see Helen before he returned to his regiment. He would telegraph in the morning to Washington, and then run the risk of being a day behind the time appointed for his return to duty. “Suppose you have three children when I return, instead of two, is there room in your heart for the third?” he asked his mother when next morning he was about starting for Silverton. “Yes, always room for Helen,” was the reply, as with a kiss of benediction Mrs. Banker sent her boy away. CHAPTER XLI. CHRISTMAS EVE AT SILVERTON.