"Thank you, James." She was by far the less moved of the two.
"Have I greatly troubled you?" he asked. He was distressed for her.
"No, James. I knew it would come." As the shadows darkened on the forest floor and gathered overhead, she rose to her feet. "Whatever happens, James—whoever wins—I am the loser. I want you to be sorry for me."
"And, my dear Ann, whichever way this contest ends, I too lose."
She returned with tender sadness, "Yes, I did not think of that. Give me your arm, James—I am—tired."
He wondered that she had said nothing of the immense sacrifice few men would have made; nor did she seem to have realized what urgency of added motives she had contributed to bring about his decision.
CHAPTER XXI
Through the great heat of July, 1862, the war went on its inconclusive way. In Westways, as elsewhere, the call of the people's President for three hundred thousand men was felt the more thoughtfully because now it was, of course, known that Penhallow was Colonel of the 129th Infantry; that he had made a great sacrifice of money was also known, but not understood, and Ann Penhallow's half-forgotten politics were again discussed when the village evening parliament met in front of the post-office.
Mrs. Crocker, off duty, stood framed in the door, cooling her round face with a palmetto fan and listening with interest to the talk or taking part in the discussion in so positive a way as was felt to be indiscreetly feminine, but respected on account of her official representation of a husband too deaf to fulfil his duties.
The Doctor got out of his gig. "Any letters from my boy?"