"Good night."

The Colonel picked up the evening paper and opened it mechanically:

"By telegraph!" he read, "War inevitable. Postscript! Fort
Sumter! It is now certain that the Government has decided to
reinforce Major Andersen's command at all hazards----"

The lines in the _Evening Post_ blurred under his eyes; he passed
one broad, bony hand across them, straightened his shoulders, and,
setting the unlighted cigar firmly between his teeth, composed
himself to read. But after a few minutes he had read enough. He
dropped deeper into his arm-chair, groping for the miniature of
Berkley's mother.


As for Berkley, he was at last alone with his letters and his
keepsakes, in the lodgings which he inhabited--and now would
inhabit no more. The letters lay still unopened before him on his
writing table; he stood looking at the miniatures and photographs,
all portraits of his mother, from girlhood onward.

One by one he took them up, examined them--touched them to his
lips, laid each away. The letters he also laid away unopened; he
could not bear to read them now.

The French clock in his bedroom struck eight. He closed and locked
his desk, stood looking at it blankly for a moment; then he squared
his shoulders. An envelope lay open on the desk beside him.