“They’ll let you up to Washington on your parole, I should think. Of course, I can say a word for you.”
“Well, then, do say it. I’d have done as much for you, though I don’t like your Yankee politics.”
“Never mind my politics now, Tom.”
“I never did mind them. But at any rate, you see I can’t run away.”
It should have been mentioned a little way back in this story that the poor old major had been gathered to his fathers during the past year. As he had said himself, it would be better for him that he should die. He had lived to see the glory of his country, and had gloried in it. If further glory, or even further gain, were to come out of this terrible war,—as great gains to men and nations do come from contests which are very terrible while they last,—he at least would not live to see it. So when he was left by his sons, he turned his face to the wall and died. There had of course been much said on this subject between the two brothers when they were together, and Frank had declared how special orders had been given to protect the house of the widow, if the waves of the war in Kentucky should surge up around Frankfort. Land very near to Frankfort had become debateable between the two armies, and the question of flying from their house had more than once been mooted between the aunt and her niece; but, so far, that evil day had been staved off, and as yet Frankfort, the little capital of the state, was Northern territory.
“I suppose you will get home,” said Frank, after musing awhile, “and look after my mother and Ada?”
“If I can I shall, of course. What else can I do with one leg?”
“Nothing in this war, Tom, of course.”
Then there was another pause between them.
“What will Ada do?” said Frank.