"You did, my boy. God bless you!" responded the major, promptly.
"Well, now I want to ask a favor on the strength of that act. I'll never ask another. It's no use for me to try to write to her—the harder I try the more contemptible my words appear. Now, what I ask, is this: you write me a rough draft of what's fit to send to such an incomparable being, and I'll copy it and send it over. I don't expect any answer—all I want to do is to throw myself away on her, but I want to do it handsomely, and—hang it, I don't know how. Write just as if you were doing it for yourself. Will you do it?"
The major tried to wash his heart out of his throat with a sip of coffee, and succeeded but partially; yet the appealing look of his favorite, added to the unconscious pathos of his tone, restored to him his self-command, and he replied:
"I'll do it, Fred, right away."
"Don't spoil your breakfast for it; any time this morning will do," said the lieutenant, as the major arose from the table. But the veteran needed an excuse for leaving his breakfast untouched, and he rather abruptly stepped upon, the piazza and indulged in a thoughtful promenade.
"Write just as if you were doing it for yourself."
The young man's words rang constantly in his ears, and before the major had thought many moments, he determined to do exactly what he was asked to do.
This silly performance of the lieutenant's would, of course, put an end to the acquaintanceship of the major and Mrs. Wittleday, unless that lady were most unusually gracious. Why should he not say to her, over the subaltern's name, all that he had for years been hoping for an opportunity to say? No matter that she would not imagine who was the real author of the letter—it would still be an unspeakable comfort to write the words and know that her eyes would read them—that her heart would perhaps—probably, in fact—pity the writer.
The major seated himself, wrote, erased, interlined, rewrote, and finally handed to the lieutenant a sheet of letter-paper, of which nearly a page was covered with the major's very characteristic chirography.
"By gracious, major!" exclaimed the lieutenant, his face having lightened perceptibly during the perusal of the letter, "that's magnificent! I declare, it puts hope into me; and yet, confound it, it's plaguy like marching under some one else's colors."