In New York Edward Montague mailed a letter to Sara Medway. Before he had been in New Orleans a week her answer came to him. She was better; her cough had entirely left her, and she slept well. Nothing was needed to make her happy but his presence.
"Go, Ned; go, by all means," said Tom Barkesdale.
"But my father—"
"Never mind your father," interposed Tom, whose impetuous southern temperament could hardly brook the cold caution of his friend.
"I promised to write to him at least once a month."
"Do so, then."
"But my letters will betray me."
"Date them at New Orleans, a day or two ahead, and send them to me under cover. I will mail them here, and your father will believe you are in this city all the time."
"That's a mean deception," said Edward, whose impulses were rather above such conduct.
"All is fair in love and war," laughed Tom. "Your letters from home will come here, and I will forward them to you."