Waterbury evening Democrat., 1903-03-09
yuApTHR xxx

running the full length of the room. At the head of the table sat Kimber- ly, the executive officer Near him was Watson, Farragut's gallant flag lieutenant, while Peyton sat about. midway down. Pens, ink and paper were strewn over the table, and every man was busy writing every one but iPeyton, that is.
 It was remarkably still in the ward room. Scarcely a sound was heardi above the deep breathing of the men but the steady scratching of the pens, Ipunctuated by an infrequent and SUD- pressed sigh at intervals. They were writing to their wives, their children, their mothers, their sweethearts, their friends. Once in awhile suspicious sniff might be heard or one of those violent blasts of the nose with which men shamefacedly seek to disguise their finer emotions. Sometimes the back of hand or the tip of finger went furtively to the corner of an eye. To use a handkerchief would have been a betrayal. Everybody saw or divined these motions, but nobody paid any attention.
 They could enter into each others feelings, and there was much sympa- thy in the silence. There would be time on the morrow to think of little but the battle. They were giving their thoughts to home now. They were writing those last precious words which, whether they lived or died, rwould stand for so much to those for whom they were destined: for they would be expressions of the heart in the face of possible or impending death, when all that is true in man speaks forth to those he loves.
 l They were all writing, I have said. but Peyton. To whom should he write? he thought bitterly, as he held the pen idly in his fingers and stared at the white paper, from which the noble and beautiful face of Mary Amman, en- bodied in the flesh almost, such was the reality of his vision, seemed to smile up at him.
 They were separated as widely as the east is from the west; nay, why use the ancient simile-why not write. as Mar as the north was from the south? Between them yawned a great chasm of war and carnage. The blood of slain armies, the cries of women and children, the antagonisms of four blast ing years of terrible conflict inter- Tened. Yes, something more. He had deceived her, had broken faith with her, gained her affection--ah, had he gained it, after all?-under false pre- lenses.
 It had come to him in 8 roundabout way, while he had been on the block Rde during the past year, that she had engaged herself to his rival and for mer friend, Bob Darrow. He had heard nothing of the fate of the latter. He. knew little of what had happened In Mobile during those four years. Not a direct word had ever come to him from any one who had loved him. She might be dead, she might be welded, for aught he knew. Oh, rather the for mer than the latter, he thought fierce Hyi If not in his arms, then in no others, for he loved her still with a passion that surpassed her own.
 He did not believe that she was dead. Some word, some warning of it, would have been dragged from the unknown Boy the compelling character of his feelings. He could not believe that she was married either. She was so much his own in his mind that the thought of marriage to another was aI- most like proclamation. She must love him! The war must end some time. IF he survived it and she still lived, he might find her again, persuade her to love him. They might be together once more and for life!
 She had rejected him, of course. She had heaped scorn and contempt upon him. We'll, from her point of view he had deserved it. She had looked at him on the porch as if she could have
 killed him. Had her eyes been arrows he might have been slain. so hate en- Venomed had been their glance. Yet be remembered that when Darrow, in- spired by her mordant words, had moved forward to strike him unresist- ingly she had blindly interfered. Why that?
 He sat there still with his pen idle In his hand while his shipmates wrote. Should he write to herr Would she care? Would she read what he had written? If he were alive, no; if he were dead, yes, perhaps. We'll, If he survived the action matters would be as they had been before, and if he fell she might some day care for letter from his hand. He would write to her, after all.
 He drew sheet Of paper before him, lifted the pen again and found himself facing another question. What should he say to her? Should he explain, should he appeal should he justify himself? Nay, to attempt these things
 would be useless. Thinking deeply, he resolved what he would do.
 ''Take," he wrote, whatever may be gour future, dear, the memory of an affection such as comes to few women. Ut can neither hurt nor harm you now. And remember"--he could not avoid this enc sentence of exculpation that If had not been true to my duty, if I had not followed the path where honor 1ed, the affection which ask you not Ito forget would have been an insult, not an honor, to any honest woman