Mr. Lewis settled himself comfortably in his seat. "And now for Maryland, my Maryland!"
"By George!" he exclaimed presently, putting his hand into his pocket, "here is a letter from Mr. Southard. It will serve to amuse us; but I am sorry that the others hadn't seen it."
He opened the letter, and they read it together. Mr. Southard had been ill, he wrote, and was yet only able to dawdle about the wards of the hospital and gossip with the patients. He had been offered private quarters, but had preferred a hospital. It chanced that the Sisters of Charity had charge of the one to which he was sent, and they had given him the best of care.
That was the gist of the letter.
How will that read to his congregation, I wonder?" Margaret said. "I fancy they won't half like it."
"Perhaps not. But I call that a good letter. It is the best we have had; not a word of religion, from first to last."
"But it breathes the very spirit of charity," was the quick reply. "How gently he mentions every one! Not a hard word even for the enemy!"
Mr. Lewis deliberately folded the letter.
"I dare say; and that is the kind of religion I like. When I hear a man continually calling on God to witness everything he says and does, I always think that he stands terribly in need of a backer."
They reached New York the next morning, and learned there that the panic was increasing rather than diminishing. The track was yet open, but no one went South who had not pressing business.