“Why—­child—­I didn’t mind,” faltered Ailsa, flushing in response to Letty’s swift emotion.  “See what this very kind officer has brought us for dinner, dear!  Isn’t it delicious?”

They were as hungry as two school children and ate everything; and by and by the Major of heavy artillery came back and reversed the seat he had been occupying, and arranged it so he could sit facing them.  He was fat, red-faced, with a pair of terrific moustaches, and a closely clipped head showing two scars.

“I’ve daughters older than you, ma’am,” he said, in part explanation of his friendliness.  “One’s got a new baby.  He’s a devil!”

“W-what?” asked Ailsa.

“The right kind of devil, ma’am.  I’ve been to see him!  He wanted my sword; he tried to chew off my shoulder straps; he almost impaled himself on my spurs.  By heaven, ma’am, that’s a boy for you!”

Ailsa smiled.  She knew about babies; implanted in her had always been a perfect madness to possess one.

She and the red-faced Major talked babies.  Letty, knowing nothing about babies and not deeply interested, lay back in her seat, watching Ailsa in the dim light of the ceiling lamps.  She seemed never to have enough of Ailsa.  It had been so from the first.

In Baltimore dawn was breaking when Ailsa awoke at the summons of the major; and he remained devoted to the two nurses of Sainte Ursula, attending to their baggage and transfer across the city, finding seats in the waiting-room already invaded by the officers of several regiments in transit, and finally saw them safely aboard the cars again.

“Good-bye, little ladies,” he said cheerily.  “If I’m hit, God send one of you to wash my face for me.  My card, ladies—­if I may be permitted the honour.  I’m to be at Fortress Monroe as soon as my command leaves Baltimore.”

After he had gone away, Ailsa looked at his card: 

      A. J. DENISLOW
   MAJOR, ART., U. S. A.

“I thought he was a regular,” she said, smiling at Letty.  “He’s a perfect old dear.  Shall we open the parcel and see what he has left us for breakfast?”

There was more milk, more peaches and pears, more bread and butter, and a cold roast chicken; and they made very merry over it, doing the best they could without knife and fork.

They were nearing Washington now.  Every little while they passed bodies of troops marching or encamped along the roads; and once they saw a line of army waggons, drab coloured, with yellow canvas tops, moving slowly in clouds of dust.

In the limpid morning light buzzards were already soaring over the green fields; the fresh odour of wild flowers came blowing in at the open car window; butterflies fluttered, wind-driven, helpless.

And now they were passing mounds of freshly turned red earth—­long stretches of hillocks banked high and squared at the ends.  Hundreds of negroes were at work sodding them; here and there a flag fluttered and a bayonet gleamed.