A War-Time Wooing | Page 7

how handsome and distinguished a woman she looked.
The Common was thronged with Boston's "oldest and best" that day,
and Colonel Raymond's speech of acceptance made eloquent reference
to the fact that of all the grand old names that had been prominent in
the colonial history of the commonwealth not one was absent from the
muster-roll of the regiment it was his high honor to command. The
Abbots and Winthrops had a history coeval with that of the colony, and
were long and intimately acquainted. When, therefore, it was rumored
that Genevieve Winthrop was to marry Paul Abbot "as soon as the war

was over," people simply took it as a matter of course--they had been
engaged ever since they were trundled side by side in the primitive
baby-carriages of the earliest forties. This reflection leads the colonel to
the realization of the fact that they must be very much of an age. Indeed,
had he not heard it whispered that Miss Winthrop was the senior by
nearly a year? Abbot looked young, almost boyish, when he was first
commissioned in May of '61, but he had aged rapidly, and was greatly
changed. He had not shaved since June, and a beard of four months'
growth had covered his face. There are lines in his forehead, too, that
one could not detect a year before. Why should not the young fellow
have a few weeks' leave, thinks the colonel. The regiment is now in
camp over beyond Harper's Ferry, greatly diminished in numbers and
waiting for its promised recruits. It is evident that McClellan has no
intention of attacking Lee again; he is content with having persuaded
him to retire from Maryland. Nothing will be so apt to build up the
strength and spirits of the new captain as to send him home to be
lionized and petted as he deserves to be. Doubtless all the languor and
sadness the colonel has noted in him of late is but the outward and
visible sign of a longing for home which he is ashamed to confess.
"Abbot," he says again, suddenly and abruptly, "I'm going back to
Frederick this evening as soon as the medical director is ready, and I'm
going to get him to give you a certificate on which to base application
for a month's leave Don't say no. I understand your scruples, but go you
shall. You richly deserve it and will be all the better for it. Now your
people won't have to be importuning the War Department; the leave
shall come from this end of the line."
The lieutenant seems about to turn again as though to thank his
commander when there comes an interruption--the voice of the sergeant
of the guard close at hand. He holds forth a card; salutes, and says:
"A gentleman inquiring for Colonel Putnam."
And the gentleman is but a step or two behind--an aging man with
silvery hair and beard, with lines of sorrow in his refined and scholarly
face, and fatigue and anxiety easily discernible in his bent figure--a
gentleman evidently, and the colonel turns courteously to greet him.

"Doctor Warren!" he says, interrogatively, as he holds forth his hand.
"Yes, colonel, they told me you were about going back to Frederick,
and I desired to see you at once. I am greatly interested in a young
officer of your regiment who is here, wounded; he is a college friend of
my only son's, sir--Guthrie Warren, killed at Seven Pines." The colonel
lifts his forage cap with one hand while the other more tightly clasps
that of the older man. "I hear that the reports were exaggerated and that
he is able to be about. It is Lieutenant Abbot."
"Judge for yourself, doctor," is the smiling reply. "Here he sits."
With an eager light in his eyes the old gentleman steps forward towards
Abbot, who is slowly rising from the bench. He, too, courteously raises
his forage cap. In a moment both the doctor's hands have clasped the
thin, white hand that leans so heavily on the stick.
"My dear young friend!" he says. "My gallant boy! Thank God it is not
what we feared!" and his eyes are filling, his lip is trembling painfully.
"You are very kind, sir," says Abbot, vaguely, "I am doing quite well."
Then he pauses. There is such yearning and--something he cannot
fathom in the old man's face. He feels that he is expected to say still
more--that this is not the welcome looked for. "I beg a thousand
pardons, sir, perhaps I did not catch the name aright. Did you say
Doctor Warren?"
"Certainly, B--Guthrie Warren's father--you remember?" and the look
in the sad old eyes is one of strange perplexity. "I cannot thank you half
enough for all you have written of my