"I decided that _this was what the Civil War cost_," he replied; "not battles and loss of limb or life only, but misunderstandings and loss of friends. To have all we say and do reported to those we love best through those who think the worst of us, and to have no power of saying a word in justification or explanation. To be identified with the worst men and the most violent acts on our side, and, in loyalty to the principles of our party, not to be able to disown them. To see often the people we love best estranged more and more from the principles we hold dearest; and to watch a great gulf widening between us which no voice of man can reach across." "I feel sure nothing and no one could make Lettice think harshly of us, Roger," I exclaimed; "I feel as sure as if I had been speaking to her yesterday." "How can it be otherwise, Olive?" said he, "especially when I am under Colonel Cromwell. You should have seen the little start and scornful look she gave when I mentioned his name. 'Colonel!' said she, almost under her breath, as if she were talking only to that poodle. But I heard her There is no one the Cavaliers hate like him." "It seems almost a pity you must be with him!" I said, thinking only of Roger and Lettice. "A pity, Olive!" said he, flashing up. "The Cavaliers hate Colonel Cromwell, because wherever he is there is doing instead of debating. And for what better reason can we hold to him? If we fight at all, it is because we believe there is something worth fighting for to be lost or won; and where Colonel Cromwell is, it is won. The country he defends is defended; the city he holds is held; the men he trains fight; and, thank God, my lot is with him, to defend the old liberties under him, Olive, or, if he fails, to find new liberty in the New England across the seas." The next day Roger went off to join his regiment at Cambridge, where Colonel Cromwell was. How silent and languid the old house seemed when he left us, without his firm, soldier-like tread clearing the stairs at a few bounds, and his whistle to the dogs, and his voice singing with a firm precision, like the tramp of a regiment, snatches of the grave, grand old psalm tunes which the Ironsides loved to march to! A fortnight afterwards, Job Forster followed him. And then came again months of listening and waiting, and of contradictory rumours, ending too often in ill-tidings worse than the worst we had feared. For that whole year brought little but disaster to the Parliament troops. Day after day in that yellow old Diary of mine is marked with black tidings of defeat and death. First comes--