"But
it's tied up my hand, so that I have to get you to say all this for me.
I'll be well pretty soon; and, if I can get a furlough, I'll be up in
Philadelphia in a jiffy,--so she can just prepare for the infliction,
&c. Comprendy? And'll you do it?"
"Of course I will, if you don't want the truth told, and the fib'll do
you any good; and, upon my word, the way you're looking I really think
it will. So now for it."
Thus the letter was written, and read, and re-read, to make sure that
there was nothing in it to alarm Sallie; and, being satisfactory on that
head, was finally sent away, to rejoice the poor girl who had waited,
and watched, and hoped for it through such a weary time. When she
answered it, her letter was so full of happiness and solicitude, and a
love that, in spite of herself, spoke out in every line, that Jim
furtively kissed it, and read it into tatters in the first few hours of
its possession; then tucking it away in his hospital shirt, over his
heart, proceeded to get well as fast as fast could be.
"Well," said the doctor, a few weeks afterwards, as Jim was going home
on his coveted sick-leave, "Mr. Thomas Carlyle calls fibs wind-bags. If
that singular remedy would work to such a charm with all my men, I'd
tell lies with impunity. Good by, Jim, and the best of good luck to
you."
"The same to you, Doctor, and I hope you may always find a friend in
need, to lie for you.
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