That led him to talk, and among other things he
told me that Lee had no sense of humour and I gathered was a man rather
difficult of approach."
"He might apply to Grant for the rest of his qualities," said Blake. "He
would get it; but what made you ask about sense of the humorous? I have
too little, Francis too much."
"Oh," laughed Penhallow, "from saint to sinner it is a good
medicine--even for home-sickness."
"And the desperate malady of love," returned Blake. "I shall not venture
to diagnose your need. How is that?"
"I?--nonsense," laughed the engineer. "But seriously, Blake, about
home-sickness; one of my best men has it badly--not the mild malady
you and I may have."
"You are quite right. It accounts for some desertions--not to the enemy,
of course. I talked lately of this condition to a Dr. McGregor--"
"McGregor!" returned Penhallow, sitting up. "Where is he? I'd like to see
him--an old comrade."
"He is with our brigade."
"Tell him to look me up. The engineers are easily found just now. He was
an old schoolmate."
"I'll tell him. By the way, Penhallow, when asking for my mail to-day, I
persuaded the post-master to give me your letters. Don't mind me--you
will want to read them--quite a batch of them."
"Oh, they can wait. Don't go.
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