She leaned out of the window,—she smiled after him, kissed her hand, waved her handkerchief, so long as he could see them,—till he had turned a corner way down the street,—and smile, and hand, and handkerchief were lost to his sight; then flung herself on the floor, and cried as though her very heart would break. "God send him home,—send him safe and soon home!" she implored; entreaty made for how many loved ones, by how many aching hearts, that speedily lost the need of saying amen to any such petition,—the prayer for the living lost in mourning for the dead. Heaven grant that no soul that reads this ever may have the like cause to offer such prayer again!
CHAPTER XXII
"When we see the dishonor of a thing, then it is time to
renounce it."
PLUTARCH
A letter which Sallie wrote to Jim a few weeks after his departure tells its own story, and hence shall be repeated here.
Philadelphia, October 29, 1863.
Dear Jim:—
I take my pen in hand this morning to write you a letter, and to tell you the news, though I don't know much of the last except about Frankie and myself. However, I suppose you will care more to hear that than any other, so I will begin.
Maybe you will be surprised to hear that Frankie and I are at Mr. Ercildoune's. Well, we are,—and I will tell you how it came about. Not long after you went away, Frank began to pine, and look droopy. There wasn't any use in giving him medicine, for it didn't do him a bit of good. He couldn't eat, and he didn't sleep, and I was at my wits' ends to know what to do for him.