“Carolyn, write to him. The detachment under his command does not march from Winchester for nine days yet. Write, Carolyn—there is abundant time for him to get your letter and answer it before he goes. Then you will be reconciled and happy. Everything will be restored, and you will comfort yourself by remembering that he would have had to have gone, any way, and that he is gone reconciled!” Miss Clifton shook her head. “No, Zuleime! I cannot! I should not know _how_ to write such a letter! What could I say to him?” “Say! _I_ should know what to say! If you have banished him, revoke your sentence of exile. If you have ascertained that you have done him injustice, tell him so. If you are sorry that you parted in anger, let him know it. If you wish to hear from him before he goes, ask him to write to you.” “I could not!—I could not! I never could write such a letter! My heart-strings would crack in the attempt.” “And are you _so_ proud? And will you let him go forth to that ghastly Indian war—oh, God! my flesh creeps only to think of it!” said Zuleime, shuddering. “And will you not retract your false accusation, and revoke your cruel sentence of banishment, and express kind feelings and kind wishes for him about to be exposed to such horrors?” “I can’t! I can’t! I _cannot_! My heart-strings would snap with the effort! I can bear sorrow, but not humiliation! I can die, but I cannot be humbled!” “You cannot be humbled by an act of justice, sister. That letter would be only an act of justice. And, oh! it would give him such happiness, and bring you such sweet peace, in place of all this heart-burning. Think of it, dear Carolyn!” While Zuleime spoke, a rap was heard at the door, and a servant appeared, and said that “Marster wished to see Miss Zuleime in the parlor.” “Think of it, dear Carolyn,” said Zuleime, in a cheerful voice, kissing her sister’s forehead, and then hastening out of the room.