“My dear girl,” said the matron, “stay as long as you possibly can. I will see if Martha can’t serve you something to eat after a while. I don’t believe there is any tea left in the house.”
“Bread and butter will be a feast,” said Miss Kittridge.
“And I don’t believe there is much butter either,” smiled the older woman.
“Well, it doesn’t matter,” said the other. “Is – is your son – is there any change?”
“Not for the better,” was the reply. “I am afraid his fever is increasing.”
“And has the surgeon seen him this evening?”
“Not to-night.”
“Why not!” exclaimed Miss Kittridge in great surprise. “Surely his condition is sufficiently critical to demand more than one brief visit in the morning.”
“I can’t ask him to come twice with so many waiting for him,” said Mrs. Varney.
“But they would not refuse you, Mrs. Varney,” said Miss Kittridge quickly. “There’s that man going back to the hospital, he’s in the dining-room yet. I’ll call him and send word that – ”
She started impulsively toward the door, but Mrs. Varney caught her by the arm.
“No,” she said firmly; “I can’t let you.”
“Not for your own son?”
“I am thinking of the sons of other mothers. The surgeon has done all that he can for him. And think how many other sons would have to be neglected if he visited mine twice. He will come again to-morrow.”
The second woman stood looking at her in mingled sympathy and amazement, and there was a touch of pride in her glance, too. She was proud of her sex, and she had a right to be there in Richmond that spring, if ever.
“I understand,” said Miss Kittridge at last. “I suppose you are right.”
They stared at each other, white-faced, a moment, when there entered to them youth and beauty incarnate. There was enough resemblance between the pale, white-haired mother and the girlish figure in the doorway to proclaim their relationship. The girl’s cheek had lost some of its bloom and some of its roundness. There was too much that was appalling and fearful in and about Richmond then not to leave its mark even upon the most youthful and the most buoyant, yet things did not come home to the young as they did to those older. She was still a lovely picture, especially in the soft radiance of the candles. She carried her hat in her hand. The flowers upon it were assuredly those of yester-year, it would not have passed muster as the mode anywhere except in besieged Richmond; and her dress, although it fitted her perfectly, was worn and faded and had been turned and patched and altered until it was quite beyond further change, yet she wore it as airily as if it had been tissue of silver or cloth of gold.
The mother’s face brightened.
“Edith dear,” she exclaimed, “how late you are! It is after eight o’clock. You must be tired out.”
“I am not tired at all,” answered the girl cheerily. “I have not been at the hospital all afternoon; this is my day off. How is Howard?”
“I wish I could say just the same, but he seems a little worse.”
The girl’s face went suddenly grave. She stepped over to her mother, took her hand and patted it softly.
“Is there nothing you can do?”
“My dear,” said her mother, “Howard – we – are all in God’s hands.”
She drew a long breath and lifted her head bravely.
“Miss Kittridge,” said the girl, “I have something very important to tell mother, and – ”
Miss Kittridge smiled back at her.
“I am going right away, honey. There is lots of work for us to do and – ”
“You don’t mind, I hope,” said Edith Varney, calling after her as she went into the hall.
“No, indeed,” was the reply.
Mrs. Varney sat down wearily by the table, and Edith pulled up a low stool and sat at her feet.
“Well, my dear?”
“Mamma – what do you think? What do you think?”
“I think a great many things,” said Mrs. Varney, “but – ”
“Yes, but you wouldn’t ever think of this.”
“Certainly I shall not, unless you tell me.”
“Well, I have been to see the President.”
“The President – Mr. Davis!”
“Yes.”
“And what did you go to see the President for?”
“I asked him for an appointment for Captain Thorne.”
“For Captain Thorne! My dear – ”
“Yes, mother, for the War Department Telegraph Service. And he gave it to me, a special commission. He gave it to me for father’s sake and for Captain Thorne’s sake, – he has met him and likes him, – and for my own.”
“What sort of an appointment?”
“Appointing him to duty here in Richmond, a very important position. He won’t be sent to the front, and he will be doing his duty just the same.”
“But, Edith, you don’t – you can’t – ”
“Yes, it will, mother. The President, – I just love him, – told me they needed a man who understood telegraphing and who was of high enough rank to take charge of the service. As you know, most of the telegraph operators are privates, and Captain Thorne is an expert. Since he’s been here in Richmond he’s helped them in the telegraph office often. Lieutenant Foray told me so.”
Mrs. Varney rose and moved away. Edith followed her.
“Now, mamma!” she exclaimed; “I feel you are going to scold me, and you must not, because it’s all fixed and the commission will be sent over here in a few minutes – just as soon as it can be made out – and when it comes I am going to give it to him myself.”
Mrs. Varney moved over toward the table and lifted a piece of paper, evidently a note.
“He is coming this evening,” she said.
“How do you know?” asked her daughter.
“Well, for one thing,” said her mother, “I can remember very few evenings when he hasn’t been here since he was able to walk out of the hospital.”
“Mamma!”
“And for another thing, this note came about half an hour ago.”
“Is it for me?”
“For me, my dear, else I shouldn’t have opened it. You can read it, if you like.”
“Has it been here all this time?” exclaimed Edith jealously.
“All this time. You will see what he says. This will be his last call; he has his orders to leave.”
“Why, it’s too ridiculous!” said the girl; “just as if the commission from the President wouldn’t supersede everything else. It puts him at the head of the Telegraph Service. He will be in command of the Department. He says it is a good-bye call, does he?” She looked at the note again and laughed, “All the better, it will be that much more of a surprise. Now, mamma, don’t you breathe a word about it, I want to tell him myself.”
“But, Edith dear – I am sorry to criticise you – but I don’t at all