Tom's father, and mother, and sister, and gran'ther Greene, said ever so many pretty things, and every body was as happy as happy could be, except that John was not at home to share in the festivities.

Letters occasionally came from the sailor boy, and they went to him from the soldier boy.
Mrs.Somers was not a little surprised, the next day, to hear her son announce his intention to take the first train for the city; but Tom could not postpone his visit to No -- -- Rutland Street any longer, for he was afraid his uniform would lose its gloss, and the shoulder-straps their dazzling brilliancy.
Tom's courage had nearly forsaken him when he desperately rang the bell at the home of Lilian Ashford; and he almost hoped the servant would inform him that she was not at home.

Lilian was at home, and quaking like a condemned criminal before the gallows, he was ushered into the presence of the author of his socks.
Stammering out his name he drew from his pocket the battered photograph and the shattered letter, and proceeded at once to business.

Lilian Ashford blushed, and Tom blushed--that is to say, they both blushed.

When he had presented his relics, he ventured to look in her face.