AFTER CHRISTMAS EVE.

Merrily rang the bells next day, the sexton deeming it his duty to send forth a merry peal in honor of the bride whose husband had remembered his boy so liberally. But Helen's heart was very sad as she met the smiling faces of her friends, and Mark had never been prayed for more earnestly than on that Christmas morning, when Helen knelt at the altar rail and received the sacred symbols of a Savior's dying love, asking that God would keep the soldier husband, hastening on to New York, and from thence to Washington. Much the Silvertonians discussed the wedding, nor were these discussions likely to be shortened by the arrival of Mattie Tubbs and Tom, who came by the express from New York, both surprised at what they heard, and both loud in their praises of Captain Ray, "the best and kindest man that ever lived," Tom said, while Mattie told fabulous stories of his wealth. Had Helen been the queen she could hardly have been stared at more curiously than she was that Christmas day, when late in the afternoon she drove through the town with Katy, the villagers looking admiringly after her, noting the tie of her bonnet, the arrangement of her face trimmings, and discovering in both a style and fitness they had never discovered before. As the wife of Mark Ray Helen became suddenly a heroine, in whose presence poor Katy subsided completely, nor was the interest at all diminished when two days later Mrs. Banker came to Silverton and was met at the depot by Helen, whom she hugged affectionately, calling her "my dear daughter," and holding her hand all the way to the covered sleigh waiting there for her. Further than that the curious ones could not follow, and so they did not know how on the road to the farmhouse Mrs. Banker expressed her approbation of what her boy had done, acknowledged her own unjust suspicions, asking pardon for them, and receiving it in the warm kiss Helen pressed upon her offered hand. Mrs. Banker was very fond of Helen, and not even the sight of the farmhouse, with its unpolished inmates, awakened a feeling of regret that her only son had not looked higher for a wife. She was satisfied with her new daughter, and insisted upon taking her back to New York.

"I am very lonely now, lonelier than you can possibly be," she said to Mrs. Lennox, "and you will not refuse her to me for a few weeks at least. It will do us both good, and make the time of Mark's absence so much shorter."

"Yes, mother, let Helen go. I will try to fill her place," Katy said, though while she said it her heart throbbed with pain and dread as she thought how desolate she should be without her sister.

But it was right, and Katy urged Helen's going, thinking how the tables were turned since the day when she had been the happy bride to whom good-bys were said, instead of the wounded, sore-hearted sister left behind, bearing up bravely so long as Helen was in sight, but shedding bitter tears when at last she was gone, tears which were only stayed by kind old Uncle Ephraim offering to take her to the little grave, where, from experience, he knew she always found rest and peace. The winter snows were on it now, but Katy, looking at it from the sleigh in which she sat, knew just where the daisies were, and the blue violets which with the spring would bloom again, feeling comforted as she thought of that eternal spring in the bright world above, where her child had gone. And so that night, when they gathered again around the fire in the pleasant little parlor, the mother and the old people did not miss Helen half so much as they should, for Katy sang her sweetest songs and wore her sunniest smile, while she told them of Helen's new home, and then talked of whatever else she thought would interest and please them.

"Little Sunbeam," Uncle Ephraim called her now, instead of "Katy-did," and in his prayer that first night of Helen's absence he asked, in his touching way, "that God would bless his little Sunbeam, and not let her grow tired of living there alone with folks so odd and old."

Such was the announcement which appeared in several of the New York papers two days after Christmas, and such the announcement which Bell Cameron read at the breakfast table on the morning of the day when Mrs. Banker started for Silverton.

"Here is something which will perhaps interest you," she said, passing the paper to Juno who had come down late, and was looking cross and jaded from the effects of last night's dissipation.

Taking the paper from her sister's hand, Juno glanced carelessly at the paragraph indicated by Bell; then, as she caught Mark's name, she glanced again with a startled, incredulous look, her cheeks and lips turning white as she read that Mark Ray was lost to her forever, and that in spite of the stolen letter Helen Lennox was his wife.

"What is it, Juno?" Mrs. Cameron asked, noticing her daughter's agitation.

Juno told her what it was, handing her the paper and letting her read it for herself.

"Impossible! there is some mistake! How was it brought about?" she continued, darting a curious glance at Bell, whose face betrayed nothing as she leisurely sipped her coffee, and remarked: "I always thought it would come to this, for I knew he liked her. It is a splendid match."

Whatever Juno thought she kept it to herself, just as she kept her room the entire day, suffering from a racking headache, and ordering the curtains to be dropped, as the light hurt her eyes, she said to Bell, who, really pitying her now, never suggested that the darkened room was more to hide her tears than to save her eyes, and who sent away all callers with the message that Juno was sick—all but Sybil Grandon, who insisted so hard upon seeing her dear friend that she was admitted to Juno's room, talking at once of the wedding, and making every one of Juno's nerves quiver with pain as she descanted upon the splendid match it was for Helen, or indeed for any girl.

"I had given you to him," she said, "but I see I was mistaken. It was Helen he preferred, unless you jilted him, as perhaps you did."

Here was a temptation Juno could not resist, and she replied, haughtily:

"I am not one to boast of conquests, but ask Captain Ray himself if you wish to know why I did not marry him."

Sybil Grandon was not deceived, but she good-naturedly suffered that young lady to hope she was, and answered, laughingly: "I can't say I honor your judgment in refusing him, but you know best. However, I trust that will not prevent your friendly advances toward his bride. Mrs. Banker has gone after her, I understand, and I want you to call with me as soon as convenient. Mrs. Mark Ray will be the belle of the season, depend upon it," and gathering up her furs Mrs. Grandon kissed Juno affectionately and then swept from the room.

That Mrs. Cameron had hunted for and failed to find the stolen letter, and that she associated its disappearance with Mark Ray's sudden marriage, Bell was very sure, from the dark, anxious look upon her face when she came from her room, whither she had repaired immediately after breakfast, but whatever her suspicions were they did not find form in words. Mark was lost. It was too late to help that now, and as a politic woman of the world, Mrs. Cameron decided to let the matter rest, and by patronizing the young bride prove that she had never thought of Mark Ray for her son-in-law. Hence it was that the Cameron carriage and the Grandon carriage stood together before Mrs. Banker's door, while the ladies who had come in the carriages paid their respects to Mrs. Ray, rallying her upon the march she had stolen upon them, telling her how delighted they were to have her back again, and hoping they should see a great deal of each other during the coming winter.

"You know we are related," Juno said, holding Helen's hand a long time at parting, ostensibly to show how very friendly she felt, but really to examine and calculate the probable value of the superb diamond which shone on Helen's finger, Mark's first gift, left for her with his mother, who had presented it for him.

"As diamonds are now, that never cost less than four or five hundred dollars," Juno said, as she was discussing the matter with Bell, and telling her that Helen had the ring they had admired so much at Tiffany's the last time they were there, and then her spiteful, envious nature found vent in the remark: "I wonder at Mark's taste when only shoddy buy diamonds now."

"Why, then, did you torment father into buying that little pin for you the other day?" Bell asked, and Juno replied:

"I have always been accustomed to diamonds and that is a very different thing from Helen Lennox putting them on. Did you notice how red and fat her fingers were, and rough, too? Positively her hand felt like a nutmeg grater."

"You know the fable of the fox and the grapes," Bell said, her gray eyes flashing indignantly upon her sister, who, wisely forbore further remarks upon Helen's hands and contented herself with wondering if people generally would take up Mrs. Ray and honor her as they once did Katy.

"Of course they will," she said. "It's like heaps of them to do it," and in this conclusion she was not wrong, for those who had liked Helen Lennox did not find her less desirable now that she was Helen Ray, and numberless were the attentions bestowed upon her and the invitations she received.

But with few exceptions Helen declined the latter, feeling that, circumstanced as she was, with her husband in so much danger, it was better not to mingle much in gay society. She was very happy with Mrs. Banker, who petted and caressed and loved her almost as much as if she had been an own daughter. Mark's letters, too, which came nearly every day, were bright sun spots in her existence, so full were they of tender love and kind thoughtfulness for her. He was very happy, he wrote, in knowing that at home there was a dear little brown-haired wife, waiting and praying for him, and but for the separation from her was well content now with a soldier's life. Once when he was stationed for a longer time than usual at some point Helen thought seriously of going to him for a week or more, but the project was prevented by the sudden arrival in New York of Katy, who came one night to Mrs. Banker's, her face as white as ashes, and a strange, wild expression in her eyes as she said to Helen:

"I am going to Wilford. He is dying. He has sent for me. I ought to go on to-night, but cannot, my head aches so," and pressing both her hands upon her head Katy sank fainting into Helen's arms.

So read the telegram received by Katy one winter morning, when her eyes were swollen with weeping over Morris' letter, which had come the previous night, telling her how circumstances which seemed providential had led him to the hospital where her husband was, and where, too, was Marian Hazelton.

"I did not think it advisable to visit your husband at first," he wrote, "while Miss Hazelton, who had recently been transferred to this hospital, also kept out of the way. Nor was it necessary that either of us should minister to him there, for he was not thought very ill. 'Only a slight touch of rheumatism, and a low, nervous fever,' said the attending physician, of whom I inquired. Latterly, however, the fever has increased to a fearful extent, seating itself upon the brain, so that he knows neither myself nor Miss Hazelton, both of whom are with him. She, because she would be here where she heard of danger, and I because his case was given into my charge. So I am with him now, writing by his side, while he lies sleeping quietly, and Miss Hazelton bends over him, bathing his burning head. He does not know her, but he talks of Katy, who he says is dead and buried across the sea. Will you come to him, Katy? Your presence may save his life. Telegraph when you leave New York, and I will meet you at the depot."

It is not strange that this letter, followed so soon by the telegram from Marian, should crush one as delicate as Katy, or that for a few minutes she should have been stunned with the shock, so as neither to feel nor think. But the reaction came soon enough, bringing with it only the remembrance of Wilford's love. All the wrong, the harshness, was forgotten, and only the desire remained to fly at once to Wilford, talking of her in his delirium. Bravely she kept up until New York was reached, but once where Helen was, the tension of her nerves gave way, and she fainted, so we have seen.

At Father Cameron's that night there were troubled, anxious faces, for they, too, had heard of Wilford's danger. But the mother could not go to him. A lung difficulty, to which she was subject, had confined her to the house for many days, and so it was the father and Bell who made their hasty preparations for the hurried journey to Georgetown. They heard of Katy's arrival and Bell came at once to see her.

"She will not be able to join us to-morrow," was the report Bell carried home, for she saw more than mere exhaustion from fatigue and fainting in the white face lying so motionless on Helen's pillow, with the dark rings about the eyes, and the quiver of the muscles about the mouth.

The morrow found that Bell was right, for Katy could not rise, but lay like some crushed flower still on Helen's bed, moaning softly:

"It is very hard, but God knows best."

"Yes, darling, God knows best," Helen answered, smoothing the bright hair, and thinking sadly of the young officer sitting by his camp-fire, and waiting so eagerly for the bride who could not go to him now. "God knows what is best, and does all for the best."

Katy said it many times that long, long week, during which she stayed an invalid in Helen's room, living from day to day upon the letters sent by Bell, who had gone on to Georgetown with her father, and who gave but little hope that Wilford would recover. Not a word did she say of Marian, and only twice did she mention Morris, so that when at last Katy was strong enough to venture on the journey, she had but little idea of what had transpired in Wilford's sickroom.

Those were sad, weary days which Wilford first passed upon his hospital cot, and as he was not sick but crippled, he had ample time for reviewing the past, which came up before his mind as vividly as if he had been living again the scenes of bygone days. Of Katy he thought continually, blaming himself much, but so strong was his pride and selfishness, blaming her more for the trouble which had come upon them. Why need she have taken the Genevra matter so to heart, going with it to Morris and so bringing him into his present disagreeable situation. He did not mean to be unjust or unkind toward Katy, but he looked upon her as the direct cause of his being where he was. Had she never been seen in the cars with Morris, he should not have left home as he did, and might anticipate going back without a flush of shame and a dread of meeting old friends, who would think less of him than they used to do. A thousand times Wilford had repented of his rashness, but never by a word had he admitted such repentance to any living being, and when on the dark, rainy afternoon which first saw him in the hospital, he turned his face to the wall and wept, he replied to one who said to him soothingly:

"Don't feel badly, my young friend. We will take as good care of you here as if you were at home."

"It's the pain which brings the tears. I'd as soon be here as at home."

Gradually, however, there came a change, and Wilford grew softer in his feelings, longing for home, or for the sight of a familiar face, and half resolving more than once to send for Katy, who had offered to come, and to whom he had replied: "It is not necessary." But as often as he resolved his evil genius whispered: "She does not care to come here," and so the message was never sent, while the longing for home faces brought on a nervous fever, which made him so irritable that his attendants sometimes turned from him in disgust, thinking him the most unreasonable man they had ever met. Once he dreamed Genevra was there—that she came to him just as she was in her beautiful girlhood—that her fingers threaded his hair as they used to do in their happy days at Brighton—that her hand was on his brow, her breath upon his face, and with a start he awoke just as the rustle of female garments died away in the hall.

"The new nurse in the second ward has been in here," a comrade said. "She seemed specially interested in you, and if she had not been a stranger I should have said she was crying over you."

With a quick, sudden movement Wilford put his hand to his cheek, where there was a tear, either his own or that of the "new nurse," who had so recently bent over him. Retaining the same proud reserve which had characterized his whole life, he asked no questions, but listened intently to what his sick companions were saying of the beauty and tenderness of the young girl, they called her, who had glided for a few moments into their presence, winning their hearts in that short space of time, and making them wish she would come back again. Wilford wished so too, conjuring up all sorts of conjectures about the unknown nurse, and once going so far as to fancy it was Katy herself. But this idea was soon dismissed. Katy would hardly venture there as a nurse, and if she did she would not keep aloof from him. It was not Katy, and if not, who was it that twice when he was sleeping came and looked at him, his comrades said, rallying him upon the conquest he had made, and so exciting his imagination that the fever which at first was hardly observable began to increase, and the blood throbbed hotly through his veins, while his brows were knit together with thoughts of the mysterious stranger. Then with a great shock it occurred to him that Katy had affirmed:

"Genevra is alive, I have seen her. I recognized the picture at once."

What if it were so, and this nurse was Genevra? The very thought fired Wilford's brain, and when next his physician came he looked with some alarm upon the great change for the worse exhibited by his patient. That surgeon's forte was more in dressing ghastly wounds than in subduing fever, and as he held Wilford's hand, he said:

"You have a fever, my friend, and it is increasing fast. Perhaps you would like to see our new physician, Dr. Grant. He is great on fevers."

"Dr. Grant—Dr. Morris Grant?" Wilford exclaimed, starting up in bed with a fierce energy which surprised the surgeon.

"Yes, Dr. Morris Grant, from Massachusetts," the latter replied, his surprise increasing when Wilford rejoined:

"Send Satan himself sooner than he. I hate him."

The words dropped hissingly from the firmly set teeth, and Wilford fell back upon his pillow, exhausted with excitement and anger that Morris Grant should be there in the same building and offered as his physician.

"Never while my reason lasts," he whispered to himself, with hatred of Morris growing more intense with every beat of his wiry pulse.

Wilford was very sick, and when next the surgeon came around he knew by the bright, restless eyes that reason was tottering.

"Shall I send for your friends?" he asked, and Wilford answered, savagely:

"I have no friends—none, at least, but what will be glad to know I'm dead."

And that was the last, except the wild words of a maniac, which came from Wilford's lips for many a day and night. When they said he was dangerous, Marian Hazelton the "new nurse," sought and obtained permission to attend him, and again the eyes of the other occupants of the room were turned wonderingly toward her as she bent over the sick man, parting his matted hair, smoothing his tumbled pillow, and holding the cooling draught to the parched lips which muttered strange things in her ear, talking of Brighton, of Alnwick and Rome—of the heather on the Scottish moors, and the daisies on Genevra's grave, where Katy once sat down.

"She did not know Genevra was there," he said. "She never guessed there was a Genevra; but I knew, and I felt almost as if the dead were wronged by that act of Katy's. Do you know Katy?" and his black eyes fastened upon Marian, who, with the strange power she possessed over her patients, soothed him into quiet, while she told him she knew Katy, and talked to him of her, telling of her graceful beauty, her loving heart, and the sorrow she would feel when she heard how sick he was.

"Shall I send for her?" she asked, but Wilford answered:

"No, I am satisfied with you," and holding her hand he fell away to sleep.

This was the first day of her being with him, but there were other days when he was not so quiet, when all her strength and that of Morris, who, at her earnest solicitation, came to her aid, was required to keep him on his bed. He was going home, he said, going back to Katy's; he had punished her long enough, and like a giant he writhed under a force superior to his own, and which held him down and controlled him, while his loud outcries filled the buildings, and sent a shudder to the hearts of those who heard them. As the two men, who at first had occupied the room with him, were well enough to leave for home, Marian and Morris both begged that unless absolutely necessary no other one should he sent to that small apartment, where all the air was needed for the patient in their charge. And thus the room was left alone for Wilford, who grew worse so fast that Morris wrote to Katy, while Marian followed the letter with a telegram, bidding her come at once.

Slowly the wintry night was passing, the fifth since Morris' letter was sent to Katy, and Morris sat by Wilford's cot, wondering if the morning would bring her to him, when suddenly he met Wilford's eyes fixed upon him with a look of recognition he could not mistake.

"Do you know me?" he asked, so kindly and with so much of genuine sympathy in his voice that the heavy eyelids quivered for an instant, as Wilford nodded his head, and whispered:

"Dr. Grant."

There had been a momentary flash of resentment when he saw who was the watcher beside him, but Wilford was too weak, too helpless to cherish that feeling long, and besides there were floating through his still bewildered mind visions of some friendly hand, which had ministered to him daily, of a voice and form, distinct from the one he thought an angel's, and which was not there now with him. That voice, that form, he felt sure belonged to Morris Grant, and remembering his past harshness toward him, a chord of gratitude was touched, and when Morris took his hand he did not at once withdraw it, but let his long, white fingers cling around the warm, vigorous ones, which seemed to impart new life and strength.

"You have been very sick," Morris said, anticipating the question Wilford would ask, "You are very sick still, and at the request of your nurse I came to attend you."

A pressure of the hand was Wilford's reply, and then there was silence between them, while Wilford mastered all his pride, and with quivering lips whispered:

"Katy."

"We have sent for her. We expect her every train," Morris replied, and Wilford asked:

"Who is we? Who has been with me—the nurse, I mean? Who is she?"

Morris hesitated a moment, and then said:

"Marian Hazelton—she who took care of baby."

"I know—yes," Wilford said, having no suspicion as to who was the woman standing now just outside his door, and listening, with a throbbing heart, to his rational questions.

In all their vigils held together no sign had ever passed from Dr. Grant to Marian that he knew her, but he had waited anxiously for this moment, knowing well that in his present state Wilford must not be shocked, as a sight of Marian would shock him. He knew she was outside the door, and as Wilford turned his head upon the pillow, he went to her, and leading her to a safe distance, said softly:

"His reason has returned."

"And my services, then, are ended," Marian rejoined, looking him steadily in the face, but not in the least prepared for his affirmative question:

"You are Genevra Lambert?"

There was a low, gasping sound, and Marian staggered forward a step or two, then steadying herself, she said:

"And if I am, it surely is not best for him to see me. You would not advise it?"

She looked wistfully at Morris, the great desire to be recognized, to be spoken to kindly by the man who once had been her husband overmastering for a moment all her prudence.

"It would not be best, both for his sake and Katy's," Morris said, reading her thoughts aright, and with a moan like the dying out of her last hope, Marian turned away, her eyes dim with tears and her heart heavy with a sense of something lost, as in the gray dawn of the morning she went back to her former patients, who hailed her coming with childish joy, one fair young boy from the Granite hills kissing the hand which bandaged his poor crushed arm so tenderly, and thanking her that she had returned to him again.

She had not asked Dr. Grant how much he knew of her story, or where he had learned it. She was satisfied that he did know it, and she left her case in his hands, wondering if at any time Wilford had been conscious of her presence as a nurse, and if he would miss her any. He did miss her, but he made no comment, and when, as the morning advanced, another nurse appeared, he said to himself:

"Surely this cannot be Miss Hazelton," but asked no questions of any kind, and Marian's heart grew heavier when in answer to her inquiry, Morris said: "He has not mentioned you."

"Mr. J. Cameron, Miss Bell Cameron," were the names on the cards sent to Dr. Grant late that afternoon, and in a few moments he was with the father and sister asking so anxiously for Wilford and explaining why Katy was not with them.

Wilford was sleeping when they entered his room, his face looking so worn and thin, and his hands folded so helplessly upon his breast, that with a gush of tears Bell knelt beside him and laying her warm cheek against his bony one, woke him with her sobs. For a moment he seemed bewildered, then recognising her, he raised his feeble arm and winding it about her neck, kissed her more tenderly than he had ever done before. He had not been demonstrative of his affection for his sisters. But Bell was his favorite, and he held her close to him while his eyes moved past his father, whom he did not see, on to the door as if in quest of some one. It was Katy, and, guessing his thoughts, Bell said:

"She is not here. She could not come now. She is sick in New York, but will join us in a few days."

There was a look of intense disappointment in Wilford's face, which even his father's warm greeting could not dissipate, and Morris saw the great tears as they dropped upon the pillow, the proud man trying hard to repress them, and asking no questions concerning any one at home. He was too weak to talk, but he held Bell's hand firmly in his as if afraid that she would leave him, while his eyes rested alternately upon her face and that of his father, who, wholly unmanned at the fearful change in his son, laid his head upon the bed and cried aloud.

Next morning Bell was very white and her voice trembled as she sought her brother's side and asked how he had rested. She had come from a conference with Dr. Morris, who had told her that her brother would die.

"He may live a week and he may not," he said, adding solemnly: "As his sister you will tell him of his danger while there is time to seek the refuge without which death is terrible."

"Oh, if I could only pray with and for him," Bell thought, as she went next to her brother, mourning her misspent days, and feeling her courage giving way when at last she stood in his presence and met his kindly smile.

"I dreamed it was all a dream," he said, "and that you were not here after all. I am so glad to find it real. How long before I can go home, do you suppose?"

He had stumbled upon the very thing Bell was there to talk about, his question indicating that he had no suspicion of the truth. Nor had he, and it came like a thunderbolt, when Bell, forgetting all her prudence, said impetuously:

"Oh, Wilford, maybe you'll never go home. Maybe you'll—"

"Not die!" Wilford exclaimed, clasping his hands with sudden emotion. "Not die, you don't mean that. Who told you so? Who said I was near to death?"

"Dr. Grant," was Bell's reply, which brought a fierce frown to Wilford's face, and awoke all the angry passions of his heart.

"Dr. Grant," he repeated. "He says so because he wishes it. He would like me removed from his path, but it shall not be. I will not die. Tell him that. I will not die," and Wilford's voice was hoarse with passion as he raised his clinched fists in the air.

He was terribly excited, and in her fright Bell ran for Dr. Grant. But Wilford motioned him back, hurling after him words which kept him from the room the entire day, while the sick man rolled, and tossed, and raved in the delirium, which had returned, and which wore him out so fast. No one had the least influence over him except Marian Hazelton, who, without a glance at Mr. Cameron or Bell, glided to his side, and with her presence and gentle words soothed him into comparative quiet, so that the bitter denunciations against the saint who wanted him to die, ceased, and he fell into a troubled sleep.

Smoothing his pillow, and arranging the bedclothes tidily about him, Marian turned to meet the eyes of both Mr. Cameron and Bell fixed curiously upon her. With a strange feeling of interest they had watched her, both feeling an aversion to addressing her, and both wondering if she were indeed Genevra, as Katy had affirmed. They would not ask her, and both breathed more freely when, with a bow in acknowledgment of Mr. Cameron's compliment to her skill in quieting his son, she left the room.

Neither said what they thought of her, nor was her name once mentioned, but she was not for a moment absent from their minds as they from choice sat that night with Wilford, who slept off his delirium, and lay with his face turned from them, so that they could not guess by its expression what was passing in his mind.

All the next day he maintained the most frigid silence, answering only in monosyllables, while Bell kept wiping away the great drops of sweat constantly oozing out upon his forehead and about the pallid lips.

Just at nightfall he startled Bell by asking that Dr. Grant be sent for.

"Please leave me alone with him," he said, when Dr. Morris came; then turning to Morris, as the door closed upon his father and his sister, he said, abruptly:

"Pray for me, if you can pray for one who yesterday hated you so for saying he must die."

Earnestly, fervently, Morris prayed, as for a dear brother, and when he finished Wilford's faint "amen" sounded through the room.

"I am not right yet," the pale lips whispered, as Morris sat down beside him. "Not right with God, I mean. I've sometimes said there was no God, but I did not believe it, and now I know there is. He has been moving upon me all the day, driving out my bitterness toward you, and causing me to send for you at last. Do you think there is hope for me? I have much to be forgiven."

"Though your sins be as scarlet they shall be white as snow," Morris replied; and then, oh, how earnestly he tried to point that erring man to the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sins of the world, convincing him that there was hope even for him, and leaving him with the conviction that God would surely finish the good work begun, nor suffer this soul to be lost which had turned to Him even at the eleventh hour.

Wilford knew his days were numbered, and he talked freely of it to his father and sister the next morning when they came to him. He did not say that he was ready or willing to die, only that he must, and he asked them to forget, when he was gone, all that had ever been amiss in him as a son and brother.

"I was too proud, too selfish, to make others happy," he said. "I thought it all over yesterday, and the past came back again so vividly, especially the part connected with Katy. Oh, Katy, I did abuse her!" and a bitter sob attested the genuineness of Wilford's grief for his treatment of Katy. "I thought because I took her from a lower walk of life than mine, that she was bound by every tie of gratitude to do just what I said, and I set myself at work to crush her every feeling and impulse which savored of her early home. I despised her family, I treated them with contempt. I broke Katy's heart, and now I must die without telling her I am sorry. But you'll tell her, father, and you, too, Bell, how, dying, I tried to pray, but could not for thought of my sin to her. She will not be glad that I am dead. I know her better than to think that; and I believe she loves me. But, after I am gone, and the duties of the world have closed up the gap I shall leave, I see a brighter future for her than her past has been; and you may tell her I am—" He could not then say "I am willing."

Few husbands could have done so then, and he was not an exception.

Wholly exhausted he lay quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again it was of Genevra. Even here he did not try to screen himself. He was the one to blame, he said. Genevra was true, was innocent, as he ascertained too late.

"Would you like to see her if she were living?" came to Bell's lips, but the fear that it would be too great a shock prevented their utterance.

He had no suspicion of her presence, and it was best he should not. Katy was the one uppermost in his mind, and in the letter Bell sent to her the next day, he tried to write: "Good-by, my darling," but the words were scarcely legible, and his nerveless hand fell helpless at his side as he said:

"She will never know the effort it cost me, nor hear me say that I hope I am forgiven. It came to me last night, the peace for which I've sought so long, and Dr. Grant has prayed, and now the way is not so dark, but Katy will not know."

LAST HOURS.

Katy would know, for she was coming to him on the morrow, as a brief telegram announced, and Wilford's face grew brighter with thoughts of seeing her. He knew when the train was due, and with nervous restlessness he asked repeatedly what time it was, reducing the hours to minutes, and counting his own pulses to see if he would last so long.

"Save me, doctor," he whispered to Morris. "Keep me alive till Katy comes. I must see Katy again."

And Morris, tenderer than a brother, did all he could to keep the feeble breath from going out ere Katy came.

"I must have clean linen on my bed and on my person, too," Wilford said, "for Katy is coming, and I must not look repulsive."

The clean white linen was brought, and when it was arranged a smile of childish satisfaction crept around the lips, as Wilford said:

"Katy can kiss me now. She is not accustomed to hospital fare, you know."

His mind seemed slightly to wander; but when the hour came for the arrival of the train he knew it, asking, eagerly:

"Do you suppose she's come?" and straining his ear to catch the sound of the distant whistle. Dr, Morris had gone to meet her, and the time fled on apace until at last his step was heard, and Wilford, lifting up his head, listened for that other step, which, alas! was not there.

"The train is behind time several hours," was Morris' report, and with a moan Wilford turned away and wept, thinking by some strange chance of that day when at the farmhouse others had waited for Katy as he was doing, and waited, too, in vain.

Truly, they of the farmhouse were avenged, for never had they felt so bitter a pang as Wilford did when he knew Katy had not come.

"It's right," he said, when he could trust himself to speak; "but I did want to see her. Tell her I am willing."

The last seemed wrung from him almost against his will, and drops of sweat stood thickly upon his brow. Only Bell and her father guessed what he meant by being willing. Morris had no idea, but he wiped the death-sweat away, and said, soothingly:

"Be quiet, and you may see her yet. She will surely come by and by."

Thus reassured, Wilford grew calm and fell asleep, while the watchers by his side waited anxiously for the first sound which should herald the arrival of the train.

It was dark in the hospital, and from every window a light was shining, when Morris carried rather than led a quivering figure up the stairs and through the hall, where, in a corner, Marian Hazelton's white face looked out upon him, her hands clasped over her heart, and working nervously as she watched Katy going where she must not go—going to the room where the Camerons were, the father standing at the foot of Wilford's bed, and Bell bending over his pillow, administering the stimulants which kept her brother alive. When Katy came in, she moved away, as did her father, while Morris, too, stepped back into the hall, and thus the husband and wife were left alone in this their first meeting since the parting at Yonkers nearly one year ago.

"Katy, precious Katy, you have forgiven me?" he whispered, and the rain of tears and kisses on his face was Katy's answer as she hung over him.

She had forgiven him like a true, faithful wife, and she told him so, when she found voice to talk, wondering to find him so changed from the proud, exacting, self-worshiping man, to the humble, repentant and self-accusing person, who took all blame of the past to himself, and exonerated her from every fault. But when he drew her close to him, and whispered something in her ear, she knew whence came the change, and a reverent "Thank the Good Father," dropped from her lips.

"The way was dark and thorny," Wilford said, making her sit down where he could see her as he talked, "and only for God's goodness I should have lost the path. But he sent one Morris Grant to point the road, and I trust I am in it now. I wanted to see you before I died, to tell you with my own lips how sorry I am for what I have made you suffer; but sorriest of all for sending Baby away. Oh, Katy, you do not know how that rested upon my conscience, or how often in my sleep upon the tented plain or hillside I have felt again the touch of Baby's arms and Baby's cheek against my own as I felt it that day when I came home and took her from you. Forgive me, Katy, that I robbed you of your child."

He was growing very weak, and he looked so white and ghastly that Katy called for Bell, who came at once, as did her father, and the three stood together around the bedside of the dying, Katy with his cold hand in hers, and occasionally bending down to hear his whispered words of love and deep contrition.

"You will remember me, Katy," he said, "but you cannot mourn for me always, and some time in the future you will cease to be my widow, and, Katy, I am willing. I wanted to tell you this so that no thought of me should keep you from a life where you will be happier than I have made you."

Wholly bewildered, Katy made no reply, and Wilford was silent a few moments, in which he seemed partially asleep. Then rousing up, he said:

"You wrote me once that Genevra was not dead. Did you mean it, Katy?"

Frightened and bewildered, Katy turned appealingly to her father-in-law, who answered for her; "She meant it—Genevra is not dead," while a blood-red flush stained Wilford's face, and his thin fingers beat the bedspread thoughtfully.

"I fancied once that she was here—that she was the nurse the boys praise so much. But that was a delusion," he said, and without a thought of the result, Katy asked, impetuously: "If she were here would you care to see her?"

There was a startled look on Wilford's face, and he grasped Katy's hand nervously, his frame trembling with a dread of the great shock which he felt impending over him.

"Is she here? Was the nurse Genevra?" he asked, then as his mind went back to the past, he answered his own question by asserting: "Marian Hazelton is Genevra."

They did not contradict him, nor did he ask to see her. With Katy there, he felt he had better not, but after a moment he continued: "It is all so strange; I do not comprehend how it can be. She has been kind to me. Tell her I thank her for it. I was unjust to her. I have much to answer for."

Between each word he uttered now there was a gasp for breath, and Father Cameron opened the window wide to admit the cool night air. But nothing had power to revive him. He was going very fast, Morris said, as he took his stand by the bedside and watched the approach of death. There were no convulsive struggles, only heavy breathings, which grew farther and farther apart, until at last Wilford drew Katy close to him, and winding his arm around her neck, whispered:

"I am almost home, my darling, and all is well. Be kind to Genevra for my sake. I loved her once, but not as I love you."

He never spoke again, and a few minutes later Morris led Katy from the room, and then went out to give his orders for the embalming of the body.

In the little room she called her own, Marian Hazelton sat, her beautiful hair disordered, and her eyes dim with the tears she had shed. She knew that Wilford was dead, for Morris had told her so, and as if his dying had brought back all her olden love, she wept bitterly for the man who had so darkened her life. She did not know that at the last he knew she was so near. She had not expected to see him with Katy present; but now that it was over, she might go to him. There could be no harm in that. No one but Morris would know who she was, she thought, and she was making up her mind to go, when there came a timid knock upon the door, and Katy entered, her face very pale, her manner very calm, as she came to Marian, and kneeling down beside her, laid her head in her lap with the air of a weary child who has sought its mother for rest.

"Poor little Katy!" Marian said, caressing her golden hair. "Your husband, they tell me, is dead."

"Yes," and Katy lifted up her head, and fixing her eves earnestly upon Marian, continued: "Wilford is dead, but before he died he left a message for Genevra Lambert. Will she hear it now?"

With a sudden start, Marian sprang to her feet, and holding Katy from her, demanded: "Who told you of Genevra Lambert, and when?"

"Wilford told me months ago, showing me her picture, which I readily recognized," was Katy's answer, and a flush of fear and shame came to Marian's cheek as she continued:

"Did he tell you all? And do you hate me as a vile, polluted creature?"

"Hate you, Marian? No. I have pitied you so much, knowing you were innocent. Wilford told me all, but he thought you were dead," Katy said, flinching a little before Marian's burning gaze, which fascinated even, while it startled her.

It is not often two women meet bearing to each other the relations these two bore, and it is not strange that both felt constrained and embarrassed as they stood looking at each other. As Marian's was the stronger nature, so she was the first to rally, and with the tears swimming in her eyes she drew Katy closely to her, and said:

"Now that he is gone I am glad you know it. Mine has been a sad, sad life, but God has helped me bear it. You say he believed me dead. Some time I will tell you how that came about; but now, his message—he left one, you say?"

Carefully Katy repeated every word Wilford had said, and with a gasping cry Marian wound her arms around her neck, exclaiming:

"And you will love me, not because he did once, but because I have suffered so much? You will let me call you Katy when we are alone? It brings you nearer to me."

Marian was now the weaker of the two, and it was Katy's task to comfort her, as, sinking back in her chair, she sobbed:

"He did love me once. He acknowledged it at the last, before them all, his wife, his father and his sister. Do they know?" she suddenly asked, and when assured that they did, she relapsed into a silent mood, while Katy stole quietly out and left her there alone.

Half an hour later a female form passed hurriedly through the hall and across the threshold into the chamber where the dead man lay. There was no one with him now, and Marian was free to weep out the pent-up sorrow of her life, which she did with choking sobs and passionate words poured into the ear deaf now to every human sound. A step upon the floor startled her, and turning around she stood face to face with Wilford's father, who was regarding her with a look which she mistook for one of reproof and displeasure that she should be there thus.

"Forgive me," she said, wringing her hands together. "I know how you despise me, but he was my husband once, and surely now that he is dead you will not begrudge me a few last moments with him for the sake of the days when he loved me."

There were many tender chords in the heart of Father Cameron, and offering Marian his hand, he said:

"Far be it from me to refuse you this privilege. I pity you, Genevra, for I believe he dealt unjustly by you—but I will not censure him now that he is gone. He was my only boy. Oh, Wilford, Wilford. You have left me very lonely."

He released her hand, and Marian fled away, meeting next with Bell, who felt that she must speak to her, but was puzzled what to say. Bell could not define her feelings toward Marian, or why she shrank from approaching her. It was not pride, but rather a feeling of prejudice, as if Marian were in some way to blame for all the trouble which had come to them, while her peculiar position as the divorced wife of her brother made it the more embarrassing. But she could not resist the mute pleading of the eyes lifted so tearfully to her, as if asking for a nod of recognition, and stopping before her she said, softly:

"Genevra."

That was all, but it made Genevra's tears flow in torrents, and she involuntarily held her hand out to Bell, who took it, and holding it between her own, said:

"You were very kind to my brother. I thank you for it, and will tell my mother, who will feel so grateful to you."

This was a good deal for Bell to say, and after it was said, she hastened away, while Marian went on her daily round of duties, speaking softer, if possible, to her patients that day, and causing them to wonder what had come over that sweet face to make it so white and tear-stained. That night in Marian's room Katy sat and listened to what she did not before know of the strange story kept from her so long. Candidly Marian confirmed all Wilford had told, breathing no word of blame against him now that he was dead, only stating facts, and leaving Katy to draw her own conclusions. Herself she censured much for fostering that fondness for admiration so irritating to a jealous man like Wilford.

"I knew that I was handsome," she said, "and I liked to test my power; but for that weakness I have been sorely punished. I had not at first any intention of making him believe that I was dead, and when I sent the paper containing the announcement of father's death I was not aware that it also contained the death of my cousin, a beautiful girl just my age, who bore our grandmother's name of Genevra, and about whom and a young English lord, who had hunted one season in her father's neighborhood, there were some scandalous reports. Afterward it occurred to me that Wilford would see that notice and naturally think it referred to me, inasmuch as he knew nothing of my Cousin Genevra, she having spent much of her time in the northern part of Scotland, and he never inquired particularly about my relatives.

"It was just as well, I said, I was dead to him, and I took a strange satisfaction in wondering if he would care. Incidentally I heard that the postmaster at Alnwick had been written to by an American gentleman, who asked if such a person as Genevra Lambert was buried at St. Mary's; and then I knew he believed me dead, even though the name appended to the letter was not Wilford Cameron, nor was the writing his, for, as the cousin of the dead Genevra. I asked to see the letter, and my request was granted. It was Mrs. Cameron who wrote it, I am sure, at the instigation, probably, of her son, signing a feigned name and bidding the postmaster answer to that address. He did so, assuring the inquirer that Genevra Lambert was buried there, and wondering to me if the young American who seemed interested in her could have been a lover of the unfortunate girl.

"I was now alone in the world, for the aunt with whom my childhood was passed died soon after my father, and so I went at last to learn a trade on the Isle of Wight, emigrating from thence to New York, with the determination in my rebellious heart that some time, when it would cut the deepest, I would show myself to the proud Camerons, whom I so cordially hated. This was before God had found me, or rather before I had listened to the still, small voice which took the hard, vindictive feelings away, and made me feel kindly toward the mother and sisters when I saw them, as I often used to do, driving gayly by. Wilford was sometimes with them, and the sight of him always sent the hot blood surging through my heart. But the greatest shock I ever had came to me when I heard from your sister of his approaching marriage with you. Those were terrible days that I passed at the farmhouse, working on your bridal _trousseau_; and sometimes I thought it more than I could bear. Had you been other than the little, loving, confiding, trustful girl you were, I must at some time have disclosed the whole, and told that you would not be the first who had stood at the altar with Wilford. But pity for you, whom I knew loved him so much, kept me silent, and you became his wife.

"Of what has happened since you know—except, indeed, how hard it was sometimes for poor, weak human nature to see you as happy as you were at first, and then contrast my lot with yours. I loved your baby almost as much as if it had been my own, and when it died there was nothing to bind me to the North, and so I came here, where I hope I have done some good; at least, I was here to care for Wilford, and that is a sufficient reward for all the toil which falls to the lot of a hospital nurse. I shall stay until the war is ended, and then go I know not where. It will not be best for us to meet very often, for though we may and do respect each other, neither can forget the past, or that one was the lawful, the other the divorced, wife of the same man. I have loved you, Katy Cameron, for your uniform kindness shown to the poor dressmaker. I shall always love you, but our paths lie widely apart. Your future I can predict, but mine God only knows."

Marian had said all she meant to say, and all Katy came to hear. The latter was to leave in the morning, and when they would meet again neither could tell. Few were the parting words they spoke, for the great common sorrow welling up from their hearts; but when at last they said good-by, the bond of friendship between them was more strongly cemented than ever, and Katy long remembered Marian's parting words:

"God bless you, Katy Cameron! You have been a bright sun spot in my existence since I first knew you, even though you have stirred some of the worst impulses of my nature. I am a better woman for having known you. God bless you, Katy Cameron!"

MOURNING.

The grand funeral which Mrs. Cameron once had planned for Katy was a reality at last, but the breathless form lying so cold and still in the darkened rooms at No. —— Fifth Avenue was not Katy's, but that of a soldier embalmed—an only son brought back to his father's house amid sadness and tears. They had taken him there rather than to his own house, because it was the wish of his mother, who, however hard and selfish she might be to others, had loved and idolized her son, mourning for him truly, and forgetting in her grief to care how grand the funeral was, and feeling only a passing twinge when told that Mrs. Lennox had come from Silverton to pay the last tribute of respect to her late son-in-law. Some little comfort it was to have her boy lauded as a faithful soldier and to hear the commendations lavished upon him during the time he lay in state, with his uniform around him; but when the whole was over, and in the gray of the wintry afternoon her husband returned from burying his son, there came over her a feeling of such desolation as she had never known—a feeling which drove her at last to the little room upstairs, where sat a lonely man, his head bowed upon his hands, and his tears dropping silently upon the hearthstone as he, too, thought of the vacant parlor below and the new-made grave at Greenwood.

"Oh, husband, comfort me, for our only boy is dead," fell from her lips as she tottered to her husband, who opened his arms to receive her, forgetting all the years which had made her the cold, proud woman, who needed no sympathy, and remembering only that bright, green summer when she was first his bride, and came to him for comfort in every little grievance, just as now she came in this great, crushing sorrow.

He did not tell her she was reaping what she had sown, that but for her pride and deception concerning Genevra, Wilford might never have gone to the war, or they been without a son. He did not reproach her at all, but soothed her tenderly, calling her even by her maiden name, and awkwardly smoothing her hair, silvered now with gray, feeling for a moment that Wilford had not died in vain, if by his dying he gave back to his father the wife so lost during the many years since fashion and folly had been the idols she worshiped. But the habits of years could not be lightly broken, and Mrs. Cameron's mind soon became absorbed in the richness of her mourning, and the strict etiquette of her mourning days. To Katy she was very kind, caressing her with unwonted affection, and scarcely suffering her to leave her sight, much less to stay even for a day at Mrs. Banker's, where Katy secretly preferred to be. Of Genevra, too, she talked with Katy, and at her instigation wrote a friendly letter, thanking Miss Lambert for all her kindness to her son, expressing her sorrow that she had ever been so unjust to her, and sending her a handsome locket, containing on one side a lock of Wilford's hair, and on the other his picture, taken from a large-sized photograph. Mrs. Cameron felt herself a very good woman after she had done all this, together with receiving Mrs. Lennox at her own house, and entertaining her for one whole day; but at heart there was no real change, and as time passed on she gradually fell back into her old ways of thinking, and went no more for comfort to her husband as she had on that first night after the burial.

With Mr. Cameron the blow struck deeper, and his Wall Street friends talked together of the old man he had grown since Wilford died, while Katy often found him bending over his long-neglected Bible, as he sat alone in his room at night. And when at last she ventured to speak to him upon the all-important subject, like a little child, he put his hand in hers, and bade her teach him the narrow way which she had found, and wherein Wilford, too, had walked at the very last, they hoped.

For many weeks Katy lingered in New York, and the June roses were blooming when she went back to Silverton, a widow and the rightful owner of all Wilford's ample fortune. They had found among his papers a will, drawn up and executed not long before his illness, and in which Katy was made his heiress, without condition or stipulation. All was hers to do with as she pleased, and the bitterest tears she ever shed were those which fell like rain when she heard how generous Wilford had been. Then, as she thought of Marian, and the life of poverty before her, she crept to Father Cameron's side, and said to him, pleadingly:

"Let Genevra share it with me. She needs it quite as much."

Father Cameron would not permit Katy to divide equally with Marian. It was not just, he said; but he did not object to a few thousand going to her, and before Katy left New York for Silverton, she wrote a long, kind letter to Marian, presenting her with ten thousand dollars, which she begged her to accept, not so much as a gift, but as her rightful due. There was a moment's hesitancy on the part of Marian when she read the letter, a feeling that she could not take so much from Katy; but when she looked at the pale sufferers around her, and remembered how many wretched hearts that money would help to cheer, she said:

"I will keep it."

PRISONERS OF WAR.

The heat, the smoke, the thunder of the battle were over, and the fields of Gettysburg, where the terrible three days' fight had been, were drenched with human blood and covered with the dead and dying. The contest had been fearful, and its results carried sorrow and anguish to many a heart waiting for tidings from the war, and looking so anxiously for the names of the loved ones who, on the anniversary of the day which saw our nation's independence, lay upon the hills and plains of Gettysburg, their white faces upturned to the summer sky, and wet with the raindrops which like tears for the noble dead the pitying clouds had shed upon them. And nowhere, perhaps, was there a whiter face or a more anxious heart than at the farmhouse, where both Helen and her mother-in-law were spending the hot July days. Since the Christmas Eve when Helen had watched her husband going from her across the wintry snow, he had not been back, though several times he had made arrangements to do so. Something, however, had always happened to prevent. Once it was sickness which kept him in bed for a week or more; again his regiment was ordered to advance, and the third time it was sent on with others to repel the invaders from Pennsylvania soil. Bravely through each disappointment Helen bore herself, but her cheek always grew paler and her eye darker in its hue when the evening papers came, and she read what progress our soldiers had made, feeling that a battle was inevitable, and praying so earnestly that Mark Ray might be spared. Then when the battle was over, and up the Northern hills came the dreadful story of thousands and thousands slain, there was a fearful look in her eyes, and her features were rigid as marble, while the quivering lips could scarcely pray for the great fear tugging at her heart. Mark Ray was not with his men when they came from that terrific onslaught. A dozen had seen him fall, struck down by a rebel ball, and that was all she heard for more than a week, when there came another relay of news.

Captain Mark Ray was a prisoner of war, with several of his own company. An inmate of Libby Prison and a sharer from choice of the apartment where his men were confined. As an officer, he was entitled to better quarters than the filthy pen where the poor privates were, but Mark Ray had a large, warm heart, and he would not desert those who had been so faithful to him, and so he took their fare, and by his genial humor and unwavering cheerfulness kept many a heart from fainting and made the prisoners' life more bearable than it could have been without him. To young Tom Tubbs, who had enlisted six months before, he was a ministering angel, and many times the poor, homesick boy crept to the side of his captain, and laying his burning head in his lap, wept himself to sleep and dreamed he was at home again. The horrors of that prison life have never been told, but Mark bore up manfully, suffering less in mind, perhaps, than did the friends at home, who lived, as it were, a thousand years in that one brief summer while he languished in that horrid den whose very name had a power to send a thrill of fear to every heart.

At last, as the frosty days of October came on, they began to hope he might be exchanged, and Helen's face grew bright again, until one day there came a soiled, half-worn letter, in Mark's own handwriting. It was the first word received from him since his capture in July, and with a cry of joy Helen snatched it from Uncle Ephraim, for she was still at the farmhouse, and sitting down upon the doorstep just where she had been standing, read the words which Mark had sent to her. He said nothing of the treatment he received, for he wanted the letter to reach her, and he knew well that if he complained the chances were small for the missive ever to leave the capital of the "chivalry." He was very well, he said, and had been all the time, but he pined for home, longing for the dear girl-wife never so dear as now, when separated by so many miles, with prison walls on every side, and an enemy's line between them.

"But be of good cheer, darling," he wrote. "I shall come back to you some time, and life will he all the brighter for what you suffer now. I am so glad my darling consented to be my wife, even though I could stay with her but a moment. The knowing you are really mine makes me happy even here, for I think of you by day, and in my dreams I always hold you in my arms and press you to my heart."

Far different from this cheerful letter was the one which Tom inclosed in it for his family—a wild, homesick outburst, containing so much of truth that it was strange it was ever permitted to leave the city. Of this letter Helen heard by way of Mattie Tubbs, and hope died within her, especially as Tom spoke of their being sent further South as a probable event.

"If Mark goes I shall never see him again," Helen said, despairingly; and when at last the message came that Mark had been removed, and that, too, just at the time when an exchange was constantly expected, she gave him up as lost, feeling almost as much widowed as Katy in her weeds.

Slowly the winter passed away, and the country was rife with stories of the inhuman treatment of our men, daily dying by hundreds, while those who survived the cruelties were reduced to maniacs and imbeciles. And Helen, as she listened, grew nearly frantic with the sickening suspense. She did not know now where her husband was. He had made several attempts to escape, and with each failure had been removed to safer quarters, so that the chances now of his being exchanged seemed very far away. Week after week, month after month, passed on, until came the memorable battle of the Wilderness, when Lieutenant Bob, as yet unharmed, stood bravely in the thickest of the fight, his tall figure towering above the rest, and his soldier's uniform buttoned over a dark tress of hair, and a face like Bell Cameron's, Lieutenant Bob had taken two or three furloughs, but the one which had left the sweetest, pleasantest memory in his heart was that of the autumn before, when the crimson leaves of the maple and the golden tints of the beech were burning themselves out on the hills of Silverton, where his furlough was mostly passed, and where, with Bell Cameron, he scoured the length and breadth of Uncle Ephraim's farm, now stopping by the shore of Fairy Pond and again sitting for hours on a ledge of rocks far up the hill, where, beneath the softly-whispering pines nodding above their heads, Bell gathered the light brown cones, and said to him the words he had so thirsted to hear:

"I love you, Robert Reynolds."

Much of Bell's time was passed with Katy at the farmhouse, and here Lieutenant Reynolds found her, accepting readily of Uncle Ephraim's hearty invitation to remain; and spending his entire vacation there, with the exception of three days given to his family. Perfectly charmed with quaint Aunt Betsy, whom he remembered so well, he flattered and courted her almost as much as he did Bell, but did not take her with him in his long rambles over the hills, or sit with her at night alone in the parlor until the clock struck twelve—a habit which Aunt Betsy greatly disapproved, but overlooked for this once, seeing, as she said, that:

"The young leftenant was none of her kin, and Isabel only a little."

Those were halcyon days which Robert passed at Silverton, but one stood out prominently before him, whether sitting by his camp-fire or plunging into the battle, and that the one when, casting aside all pride and foolish theories, Bell Cameron freely acknowledged her love for the man to whom she had been so long engaged, and paid him back the kisses she had before refused to give.

"I shall be a better soldier for this," Robert had said, as he guided her down the steep of rocks, and with her hand in his, walked slowly back to the farmhouse, which, on the morrow, he left to take again his place in the army.

There were no more furloughs for him after that, and the winter passed away, bringing the spring again, when came that battle in the Wilderness, and like a hero he fought until, becoming separated from his comrades, he fell into the enemy's hands, and two days after there sped along the telegraphic wires to New York: