Mildred tried hard to restrain her tears, but it was in vain. They were tears of joy mingled with tears of sadness. The train was heard rumbling in the distance, and Mildred said: “I hope you will not regard me as a Cassandra, if I prophesy that you will at last return to us in safety?”
“You shall be as a Deborah to me,” replied Ernest. “You must write to me every day.”
“Every day?”
“What I mean is, keep a sort of daily journal, and send it to me once a week, if possible. I will do the same, and it will be a source of pleasure to us.”
The foregoing is no fancy-sketch, but an actual occurrence, and shows how the dearest friends separated during the terrible, uncertain days of the Great Rebellion.
Presently the train came dashing in, and Ernest stepped on the platform, waved his hand to Mildred, and entered the coach. The conductor shouted “All aboard.” The bell rang: sizz—sizz—click—click—and a moment after, a young lady with a solemn face was seen in a buggy, driving slowly and thoughtfully from the depot. Her thoughts followed the train whose roaring she could hear in the distance. When she reached home, how sad all nature appeared! She went to her room, locked the door, fell upon her knees, and prayed God, with all the earnestness of her soul, to shield and protect him upon whom her temporal happiness depended. Hers was a sacred love which God sanctioned.
Ernest, as the train went dashing along through forest and fields, sank down into a seat, and without effort directed his imagination to the residence of the good Doctor Arrington. He thanked God in his heart for sending him to that house. Suppose he had not been wounded, he thought, or suppose he had fallen upon some other part of the field, the probability was, Dr. Arrington would not have found him. How could he fail to recognize the hand of God in all these little circumstances? Then, he prayed the Lord still to be with him, and direct all his footsteps.
In connection with such thoughts as these, his memory revived scenes which had transpired the previous year. He recalled the agony of his unrequited love for Clara Vanclure. He had thought that he never could recover from the wound which she had so ruthlessly inflicted. Three months, or less, after his rejection, she had married his rival, contrary to the wishes of her father. He became enraged when she informed him that she had discarded Ernest Edgefield.
“You have acted like a—a—simpleton,” he exclaimed, suppressing with difficulty a much harsher appellation. “Whom do you expect to marry, I should like to know?”
“Mr. Comston,” she answered hesitatingly.