“Rouse yourself, Letty dear,” said Betty. “Do not look so sad. I wish we had not started this topic. I know what memories it has stirred, but you are too young to let your thoughts dwell on grief continually. Here, take the boy; he has been fretting to go to you ever since we came out here. I shall be jealous of his love for you after a while.”
Lettice held out her hands for the pretty child who, clutching his mother’s finger, took a step forward, tottered, and then threw himself with a gleeful laugh into Lettice’s arms. “Pretty boy, he will soon toddle about everywhere,” said Lettice, hugging him up close to her. “I am so glad you are not old enough to be a soldier, baby; and I hope there will be no more wars in your lifetime.” She sighed, and laid her cheek against the child’s sunny hair.
“There, Lettice, don’t be so doleful. Let me see, what can we talk about that will be more cheerful? Did you not have a letter from Rhoda yesterday?”
“Yes, I did. She is at home in Boston, and writes that the blockade is exciting them up there; that the cry against the administration is louder than ever, and that they are in a state of fear and dread, continually.”
“And what of Mr. Clinton? That is a subject which I think might interest you.”
“She didn’t mention him,” replied Lettice, shortly.
“Does he know that you have learned of his innocence in the matter of the papers?” Betty asked, after a short silence.
“Yes, I wrote to him as soon as I knew. I thought I could not do less. It was right, wasn’t it, Sister Betty?”
“It certainly was. Well?”
“He never has answered my letter.”