The letters were being given out at various points, but where Harry stood a major was calling them in a loud, clear voice.
"John Escombe, Field's brigade." Escombe, deeply tanned and twenty-two, ran forward and received a thick letter addressed in a woman's handwriting, that of his mother, and, amid cheering at his luck, disappeared in the crowd.
"Thomas Anderson, Gregg's brigade.

Girl's handwriting, too.

Lucky boy, Tom." "Hey, Tom, open it and show it to us! Maybe her picture's inside it! I'll bet she's got red hair!" But Tom fled, blushing, and opened his letter when he was at a safe distance.
"Carlton Ives, Thomas' brigade." "In hospital, Major, but I'll take the letter to him.

He's in my company." "Stephen Brayton, Lane's brigade." There was a silence for a moment, and then some one said: "Dead, at Antietam, sir." The major put the letter on one side, and called: "Thomas Langdon, the Invincibles." Langdon darted forward and seized his letter.
"It's from my father," he said as he glanced at the superscription, although it was half hidden from him by a mist that suddenly appeared before his eyes.
"Here, Tom, stand behind us and read it," said Harry, who was waiting in an anxiety that was positively painful for a letter to himself.
"Henry Lawton, Pender's brigade," called the major.

"This is from a girl, too, and there is a photograph inside.