and tired, sobbing from the reaction, all life apparently departed from the brain.  I could not realize where I was, or how I got there, and a memory of mother came gliding in to take Billie’s place.  I was in the old room at home, the old room with the oak tree before the window, and father’s picture upon the wall at the foot of the bed.  I thought it was mother when she came in, and it was the touch of mother’s hand that fell so soft and tender upon my temple, soothing the hot pain.  Gradually the mists seemed to drift away, and I saw the gray-blue eyes, and Billie.

She was kneeling there beside me clasping one of my hands, and she looked so happy, the old, girlish smile upon her lips.

“You have been away so long,” I began petulantly, but she interrupted,

“No, dear, scarcely fifteen minutes, and I have had such good news.  I hurried back just to share it with you.  The doctor says you are going to get well, that all you need is nursing, and—­and I have heard from father.”

I looked at her, dimly understanding, and beginning to reflect her own happiness.

“How did you hear?  Is he a prisoner?”

“Oh, no!  Could I be happy under those conditions?  He is unhurt, and has sent for me.  General Johnston despatched an officer through the lines with a flag of truce.  He was brought here, and that was why I left you.  He had a letter for me, and authority to conduct me back to the general’s headquarters.  Was not that thoughtful of them?”

“Yes,” I answered wearily, clinging to her hand, “and—­and you are going now?  You came to say good-bye?”

“You poor boy, do you really think that?  Shall I tell you what message I sent back?”

My face must have answered, for she lowered her head until her cheek rested against mine, her eyes hidden.

“I—­I said I would stay here with my soldier.”

I was still a long while it seemed to me, our hands clasped, our cheeks pressing.  I could feel her soft breath, and the strands of her hair.

“Billie, there is no regret, no doubt any more?” I asked falteringly.  “It is all love for me?”

“All love,” she answered, moving just enough so that our eyes met.  “You are my world forever.”

“And that uniform yonder—­it is no barrier, dear?  I am still a Federal officer.”

She glanced at the rags, and then back into my face.

“Sweetheart,” she whispered gently, “I can be loyal to the South, and to you also—­you must be content with that.”

Content!  It was as though everything else had been forgotten, blotted out.  It was almost dark now, and far away the camp-fires blazed red and yellow among the trees.  I lay there, gazing out through the open window, her rounded arm under my head, her cheek still pressed tightly against mine.  My nerves no longer throbbed, my veins no longer pulsed with fever.  She never moved; just held me there against her, and in the silence I fell asleep.