In this hour of
parting it had come in a blinding flash as he bent over her hand to say
good-by. It made no difference when he should speak. Love had come into
her own heart full, wonderful, joyous, maddening in its glory. She could
wait in silence until in the fullness of time he must speak. It was
enough to know that she loved.
"May I write to you occasionally, Miss Jennie?" he asked with a timid,
hesitating look.
She laughed.
"Of course, you must write and tell me everything that happens here."
Socola wondered why she laughed. It was disconcerting. He hadn't faced
the question of loving Jennie. She was just a charming, beautiful child
whose acquaintance he could use for great ends. His depression came from
the tremendous nerve strain of his work. The early movement of
McClellan's army had kept him in that darkened attic on Church Hill
continuously every hour of the past night. He was feeling the strain. He
would throw it off when he got a good night's rest.
It was not until twenty-four hours after Jennie's departure that he
waked with a dull ache in his heart that refused to go. And so while he
dragged himself about his task with a sense of sickening loneliness, a
girl was softly singing in the far South.
CHAPTER XXV
THE BOMBARDMENT
Baton Rouge seethed with excitement on the day of Jennie's arrival.
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