“I'll mail you Harper's Weekly regularly, shall I, father?” asked Frank.
“Yes, I shall be glad enough to see it. Then, there is one good thing about papers—after enjoying them myself, I can pass them round to others. There are many privations that I must make up my mind to, but I shall endeavor to make camp-life as pleasant as possible to myself and others.”
“I wish you were going out as an officer,” said Mrs. Frost. “You would have more indulgences.”
“Very probably I should. But I don't feel inclined to wish myself better off than others. I am: willing to serve my country in any capacity in which I can be of use. Thank Heaven, I am pretty strong and healthy, and better fitted than many to encounter the fatigues and exposures which are the lot of the private.”
“How early must you start to-morrow, father?” inquired Frank.
“By daylight. I must be in Boston by nine o'clock, and you know it is a five-mile ride to the depot. I shall want you to carry me over.”
“Will there be room for me?” asked Mrs. Frost. “I want to see the last of you.”
“I hope you won't do that for a long time to come,” said Mr. Frost, smiling.
“You know what I mean, Henry.”
“Oh, yes, there will be room. At any rate, we will make room for you. And now it seems to me it is time for these little folks to go to bed. Charlie finds it hard work to keep his eyes open.”