It is pretty close packing, but
we don't stand upon ceremony here. My messmates seem to be
pleasant fellows. I have been most attracted to Frank Grover; a
bright young fellow of eighteen. He tells me that he is an only
son, and his mother is a widow.
" 'Wasn't your mother unwilling to have you come out here?' I
asked him one day.
" 'No,' he answered, 'not unwilling. She was only sorry for the
necessity. When I told her that I felt it to be my duty, she told
me at once to go. She said she would never stand between me and
my country.'
" 'You must think of her often,' I said.
" 'All the time,' he answered seriously, a thoughtful expression
stealing over his young face. 'I write to her twice a week
regular, and sometimes oftener. For her sake I hope my life may
be spared to return.'
" 'I hope so, too,' I answered warmly. Then after a minute's
silence, I added from some impulse: 'Will you let me call you
Frank? I have a boy at home, not many years younger than you. His
name is Frank also--it will seem to remind me of him.
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