A DESPERATE MAN.
The army to which Ernest belonged was encamped on the banks of the historical river ——. The year was drawing to a close. To Ernest the days dragged heavily by, as there are few amusements in military camps that are sufficient to divert one’s mind from introspectional processes. It was this prolonged subjectivity—this constant brooding over one’s own thoughts, inseparable from camp life, that produced ennui, or more frequently, that exquisite nostalgia, which often terminated in death. Ernest had kept up a regular correspondence with Mildred, which occupied much of his time, and made his own thoughts pleasant companions. She had not written a word in regard to her visits to Washington, and he, of course, supposed that she was at home.
One morning a letter was delivered to him, post-marked from Mildred’s office, but directed in a chirography which was not hers. This circumstance at once aroused, in his mind, the most fearful apprehensions. He thought of a hundred calamities, in a few moments, that might have overtaken her—probably she had suddenly died—she might be sick—she had married someone—the enemy had made a raid and carried off the whole family, and this thought made him clench his hand and grind his teeth. Why did he not open the epistle at once, and end his suspense? Because he was endeavoring to prepare his mind for the reception of distressing news, like a man who sees the avalanche coming, and braces himself against the nearest rock that promises to offer successful resistance against the coming shock. The first Lieutenant of his company was in the tent, to whom Ernest, holding up the letter, said:
“I fear this will put an end to all my fondly cherished hopes.”
“Is it from her?” inquired the Lieutenant.
“No, not from her,” said Ernest, “but it bears the post-mark of her office.”
“Well, why don’t you open it?”
“Because it appears to me like a Pandora’s box, and I dread the evils it contains.”