"We've done a good deal of damage in six weeks to a fortress that it took thirty years to build," said Archdale to Elizabeth. "There are only three whole houses left in the city." As he spoke they were passing by gaping walls and shattered gun-carriages. They walked through entire streets where the buildings, all more or less demolished, showed at every point the cruelties of war. At one place they heard voices coming from a roofless dwelling, which proved that its inmates still called it home, and clung to the poor shelter that it gave. "Take care!" cried Stephen, drawing her back suddenly. And as he spoke, a stone from the high wall lost the balance it had precariously kept, and fell almost at her feet. "We will walk in the middle of the street," he said, and they went on again, she leaning lightly on the arm he offered her through the ways rough and often obstructed. It all seemed like nothing else that had ever been with them, or ever would be with them again. The city, wrecked by the storm that had raged against it, lay in the stillness of hopelessness, and the moon that rose before the twilight had begun to fade made the calmness appear deeper in sight of the destruction that had brought death. It seemed to Elizabeth like Archdale's own life. "Do you know where Mr. Royal is?" he asked. "I am not anxious about him," she answered, with a smile. "He is well provided for in every way at General Pepperell's banquet." She stopped suddenly, and turned to Stephen. "That is where you ought to be, too," she said; "and you are here on account of my thoughtless speech." "Not so at all," he answered, with decision. "To be walking here with you is what I like best." She understood that her knowledge of his suffering and her sympathy made this very natural. That evening for the first time they spoke of Katie. He said that it seemed strange to him that the thought of her had so little power over him. "It will all come back with the old life," she answered; "that seems broken now, but we shall take it up again." "Where we left it?" he asked. "I think so," she answered him. He said nothing, for he did not himself understand what it was that moved him so, and why he should be so eager to deny what must be true. Only one thing was clear to him: that nothing must break the peace of this evening. This was real in the midst of so much that seemed unreal, and beautiful in the midst of confusion. They went on for a time in a mood that Archdale dreaded to break in upon. But there was something that he must tell her, lest she should learn it in a still harder way. "I have news," he began at last, reluctantly. "News?" she cried. "From home? About any one there? Not bad?" "Yes, bad, but not from home at all. News that I wish you need never hear; but this cannot be helped; and I know all that can be known about the matter. Shall I tell you?" "Yes," she answered, faintly. "It is about Edmonson." "I thought so." "And Harwin." "Yes. They"--