"Oh," laughed Penhallow, "from saint to sinner it is a good medicine—even for home-sickness."
"And the desperate malady of love," returned Blake. "I shall not venture to diagnose your need. How is that?"
"I?—nonsense," laughed the engineer. "But seriously, Blake, about home-sickness; one of my best men has it badly—not the mild malady you and I may have."
"You are quite right. It accounts for some desertions—not to the enemy, of course. I talked lately of this condition to a Dr. McGregor—"
"McGregor!" returned Penhallow, sitting up. "Where is he? I'd like to see him—an old comrade."
"He is with our brigade."
"Tell him to look me up. The engineers are easily found just now. He was an old schoolmate."
"I'll tell him. By the way, Penhallow, when asking for my mail to-day, I persuaded the post-master to give me your letters. Don't mind me—you will want to read them—quite a batch of them."
"Oh, they can wait. Don't go. Ah! here's Josiah with coffee."
"How it does set a fellow up, Penhallow. Another cup, please. I had to wait a long time for our letters and yours. Really that place was more tragic than a battlefield."