Ann Penhallow heard the letter, and saying merely, “It had to come!” made the bitter forecast that it would be James Penhallow’s turn next.

John wrote again as he had promised, but now to Leila: 

“At last we are in this crowded city.  We get our uniforms in a day or two.  I am a lieutenant of engineers.  We are now in tents.  On arrival we were marched to General Scott’s headquarters, and while drawn up in line Mr. Lincoln came out.  He said a few words to us.  His appearance was strange to me.  A tall stooping figure, in what our village calls ’store clothes,’ but very neat; the face big, homely, with a look of sadness in the eyes.  He shook hands with each of us in turn, saying a word of encouragement.  Why he spoke specially to me, I do not know.  He asked my name.  I said ‘Penhallow.’  ‘Oh,’ he said, ’a Cornish name—­the great iron-works.  Do you know the Cornish rhyme?  It rings right true.’  I said, ‘No, sir.’  ’Well, it is good.  Do your duty.  There is a whole creed in the word—­man needs no other.  God bless you, boys.’  It was great, Leila.  What is the Cornish rhyme?  Ask Uncle Jim.  Write me care of the Engineer Camp.

“I put this on a separate slip for you.  In Baltimore we were delayed and I had an hour’s leave.  I called on your uncle, Charles Grey.  He is Union through and through.  His brother Henry has gone South.  While I was walking with Mr. Charles Grey, a lady went by us, drawing away her skirts with quite unmistakable contempt and staring at your uncle in a way which was so singular that I asked what it all meant.  He replied, ’It is your United States cadet uniform—­and the lady is Mrs. Henry Grey.  I am not of their acquaintance.’  This, Leila, was my first taste of the bitterness of feeling here.  It is the worse for the uprising of union feeling all over Maryland.

“My class-mates are rather jolly about their commissions and the prospect of active war.  I have myself a certain sense of being a mere cipher, a dread too of failure.  I can say so to you and to no one else.  I am going where death is in the air—­and there are things which make me eager to live—­and—­to be able to live to feel that I have done my duty.  Thinking of how intensely you feel and how you grieve over being unable to do more than pray, I mean to pet a little the idea that I am your substitute.”

At this point she sat a while with the letter on her lap.  Then she read on: 

“I hoped for a brief furlough, but got none, and so I shall apply to memory and imagination for frequent leave of absence,—­from duty.

“Yours,

“JOHN PENHALLOW.”

“To pet a little the idea!  That is so like John.  Well, yes—­I don’t mind being petted as a substitute and at a distance.  It’s rather confusing.”

CHAPTER XIX

It was late in October and ten at night, when Leila with her uncle was endeavouring to discover on one of the large maps, then so much in demand, the situation of the many small conflicts which local feeling brought about.