Lizzie gave a little scream of merriment.
"Mr. Littlefield, how can you? I 've a reticule, Sir. But I really don't want you to stay."
"Well, I confess," said her companion.—"Hullo! there 's your Scottish chief! I 'll get him to stay with you till the train leaves. He may be going. Bruce!"
"Oh, Mr. Littlefield, don't!" cries Lizzie. "Perhaps Mr. Bruce is engaged."
Bruce's tall figure came striding towards them. He was astounded to find that Miss Crowe was going by this train. Delightful! He had come to meet a friend who had not arrived.
"Littlefield," said he, "you can't be spared from your business. I will see Miss Crowe off."
When the elder gentleman had departed, Mr. Bruce conducted his companion into the car, and found her a comfortable seat, equidistant from the torrid stove and the frigid door. Then he stowed away her shawls, umbrella, and reticule. She would keep her muff? She did well. What a pretty fur!
"It 's just like your collar," said Lizzie. "I wish I had a muff for my feet," she pursued, tapping on the floor.
"Why not use some of those shawls?" said Bruce; "let 's see what we can make of them."
And he stooped down and arranged them as a rug, very neatly and kindly. And then he called himself a fool for not having used the next seat, which was empty; and the wrapping was done over again.
"I 'm so afraid you 'll be carried off!" said Lizzie. "What would you do?"
"I think I should make the best of it. And you?"
"I would tell you to sit down there"; and she indicated the seat facing her. He took it. "Now you 'll be sure to," said Elizabeth.
"I 'm afraid I shall, unless I put the newspaper between us." And he took it out of his pocket. "Have you seen the news?"
"No," says Lizzie, elongating her bonnet-ribbons. "What is it? Just look at that party."
"There 's not much news. There 's been a scrimmage on the Rappahannock. Two of our regiments engaged, — the Fifteenth and the Twenty-Eighth. Did n't you tell me you had a cousin or something in the Fifteenth?"
"Not a cousin, no relation, but an intimate friend, — my guardian's son. What does the paper say, please?" inquires Lizzie, very pale.
Bruce cast his eye over the report. "It does n't seem to have amounted to much; we drove back the enemy, and recrossed the river at our ease. Our loss only fifty. There are no names," he added, catching a glimpse of Lizzie's pallor, — "none in this paper at least."
In a few moments appeared a newsboy crying the New York journals.
"Do you think the New York papers would have any names?" asked Lizzie.
"We can try," said Bruce. And he bought a "Herald," and unfolded it. "Yes, there is a list," he continued, some time after he had opened out the sheet. "What 's your friend's name?" he asked, from behind the paper.
"Ford, — John Ford, second lieutenant," said Lizzie. There was a long pause. At last Bruce lowered the sheet, and showed a face in which Lizzie's pallor seemed faintly reflected.
"There is such a name among the wounded," he said; and, folding the paper down, he held it out, and gently crossed to the seat beside her.
Lizzie took the paper, and held it close to her eyes. But Bruce could not help seeing that her temples had turned from white to crimson.
"Do you see it?" he asked; "I sincerely hope it 's nothing very bad."
"Severely," whispered Lizzie.
"Yes, but that proves nothing. Those things are most unreliable. Do hope for the best."
Lizzie made no answer. Meanwhile passengers had been brushing in, and the car was full. The engine began to
