handsomely, and--hang it, I don't know how. Write just as if you were
doing it for yourself. Will you do it?"

The major tried to wash his heart out of his throat with a sip of
coffee, and succeeded but partially; yet the appealing look of his
favorite, added to the unconscious pathos of his tone, restored to him
his self-command, and he replied:

"I'll do it, Fred, right away."

"Don't spoil your breakfast for it; any time this morning will do," said
the lieutenant, as the major arose from the table. But the veteran
needed an excuse for leaving his breakfast untouched, and he rather
abruptly stepped upon, the piazza and indulged in a thoughtful
promenade.

"Write just as if you were doing it for yourself."

The young man's words rang constantly in his ears, and before the major
had thought many moments, he determined to do exactly what he was asked
to do.

This silly performance of the lieutenant's would, of course, put an end
to the acquaintanceship of the major and Mrs. Wittleday, unless that
lady were most unusually gracious. Why should he not say to her, over
the subaltern's name, all that he had for years been hoping for an
opportunity to say? No matter that she would not imagine who was the
real author of the letter--it would still be an unspeakable comfort to
write the words and know that her eyes would read them--that her heart
would perhaps--probably, in fact--pity the writer.