"There is no use; I can't talk to-night. I am out of sorts. I think I will go home."
"No, no, Charlie," she replied, trying hard to keep the pain out of her voice: "don't go yet! It's too early, and we have not had a visit for two weeks. Please sit down and tell me all about it. Can't you trust me?"
He remained standing and looking earnestly into her upturned face and pleading eyes for a few moments in silence; then he said:
"Yes, I can trust you, Liddy, and I am not afraid to, either! I am not afraid to trust you with every thought and impulse that ever came to me, but I can't bring myself to hurt you," and then he turned away.
His words almost brought the tears to her eyes, but she kept them back. When he had his coat on and was at the door, she made one more effort. She clasped his arm with both hands, as if to hold him, and said:
"You have made me very wretched, Charlie! Don't leave me in suspense! I do not deserve it. No matter what it is, please tell me!"
He remained silent, but with one hand he softly caressed the two little ones that clasped his arm. Then as her face sank slowly upon them he stooped suddenly and kissed her hair. "When I come again you shall know all," he whispered; "good-night!" and he tore himself away.
The meadows were growing green and the first spring violets were in bloom ere he called again.
To explain his strange mood a little history must be inserted here.
The summer and fall of '61 and the winter and spring of '62 were momentous in the annals of Southton. Fort Sumter had been fired upon, and the war for the preservation of the Union had begun. The President's first call for volunteers had been issued; the Bull Run retreat had occurred, and the seven days' horror of the Chickahominy swamp, followed by the battle of Fair Oaks and the siege of Fredericksburg, had startled the country. Secession was rampant, and Washington was threatened. The second call for volunteers had come and the entire North was alarmed.