“England behaves badly.  It was her God-given opportunity to stand by us.  She has had chance after chance since the last patriot died from lack of food and air in this sad old city of New York. . . .  The Prince Consort is kind; his wife is inclined to be what he is.  Napoleon is the sinister shape behind the arras; and the Tory government licks his patent-leather boots.  Vile is the attitude of England, vile her threats, her sneers, her wicked contempt of a great people in agony.  Her murderous government, bludgeon in hand, stands snarling at us in Mexico; her ministers glare at us from every war port; her press mocks in infamous caricature our unhappy President; only her poor are with us—­the poor of England whom our war is starving.  Again and again we have forgiven her.  But now, standing on our blood-wet battle-fields, can we ever again forgive?

“You have heard from your family and from Celia, so what news I write may be no news.  Yet I know how it is with soldiers; they never tire of such repetitions.

“Your father is slowly recovering.  But he will never sit his saddle again, dear.  Don’t expect it; the war is over as far as he is concerned.  But never have my eyes beheld such happiness, such gratitude, such adoration as I see in his eyes when your letters come.  I think the burden of his conversation is you.  I never hear him speak of anything else.  Your father walks now; and by the time you are here he will be able to drive on Fifth Avenue and in the new Central Park.  But he is not the man who left this city at the head of his regiment.  His hair and moustache are white as snow; there are a thousand tiny wrinkles on his hands and features.  All that heavy colour is gone; only a slight flush remains on his thin face.  He is very handsome, Phil.  Once, never dreaming of what was true, I thought he resembled you.  Do you recollect my saying so once?  Even you would recognise the likeness now.  He is absorbed, wrapped up in you. . . .  I can see, now, that he always has been.  How blind we are!  How blind!

“Celia, the darling, has not changed one particle.  She is the prettiest thing you ever saw, cheerful, clever, courageous, self-possessed, devoted to Stephen, whose leave has been extended and who plays the role of a pale and interesting invalid hero with placid satisfaction to himself, adored and hovered over by Paige and Marye and all their girl friends.  But when poor little Camilla, in her deep mourning, appears at the door, he clears out the others with a tyranny characteristic of young men; and I’m somewhat sorry for his mother and sisters.  But it’s the inevitable; and Camilla is the sweetest thing.

“Celia hears often from Curt, Poor Major Lent!  It seems too hard that Camilla should be left so utterly alone in the world.  The Major died as he would have wished to die, Curt writes.  It was at that terrible Stone Bridge—­where God was merciful to me when your squadron galloped across.