which will never come into print. Among these officers there was one
young captain whom I especially liked. He was quiet and reserved, and
although he never talked with me as his companions sometimes did,
although he told me nothing of his life and history, I still felt
that, he was a Christian at heart, probably one of those who have
never been drawn out of themselves, or taught the pleasure of
sympathetic fellowship. Captain Worthington often came to the Sunday
service, when I was able to hold one, and his voice joined in the
hymns, which gave the greatest charm to those military prayer-meetings;
but beyond this I could not pass. He was reserved and silent; I could
not force myself upon him. Sensitive natures abhor an intruder.

"One evening in September, while passing through the camp, I met
Captain Worthington walking up and down under the trees; he spoke to
me with unusual cordiality, and we continued the walk together,
strolling through the forest at, random, and talking upon any subject
which happened to suggest itself. The week had been hard and annoying.
The brigade had been marching and counter-marching in an apparently
purposeless way, although, no doubt, there was a concealed motive in
every movement; the ground was stony, and broken by deep ravines, the
forage wretched, and rain had been falling almost continuously, so
that deep mud alternated with sharp stones, making every mile seem
two. There had, also, been no enemy in sight to keep up the ardor of
the soldiers, and make them forget their discomfort; it had been, as
I said before, a wretched week, and Allan Worthington, always grave,
seemed this evening almost sad. We sat down upon a fallen tree, and in
the still gloom of that night he first spoke of his home.

"'I have been thinking about my mother,' he said; 'I cannot explain
it, but home seems very near to me to-night. I can see the house as