“The papers say there were four killed,” I said; “but I have not seen their names, and I hope they are only missing.  There were a good many wounded.  The regiment’s headquarters are over the river, and I have not seen a man of the company except you.  I am very anxious.”

“So am I,” said the sergeant; “your friend Dr. Khayme told me it will be some days before we learn the whole truth.  He is a queer man, Jones; I believe he knows what I think.  Was that his daughter who came in here last night?”

“Yes,” I answered; “she left me your message this morning.”

“Say, Jones, you remember that poplar log?”

“I don’t think I can ever forget it,” I replied.  The next moment I thought of my bygone mental peculiarity, and wondered if I should ever again be subjected to loss of memory.  I decided to speak to Dr. Khayme once more about this matter.  Although he had advised me in Charleston never to speak of it or think of it, he had only last night, referred to it himself.

“I must go now, Sergeant,” said I; “can I do anything for you?”

“No, I think not.”

“You are able to write your own letters?”

“Oh, yes; the nurse gives me a bed-table.”

“Well, good-by.”

“Say, Jones, you remember them straw stacks?  Good-by, Jones.  I’ll be with the boys again before long.”

In the afternoon I returned to the little camp and found the Doctor and Lydia.  The Doctor was busy—­writing.  I reminded Lydia of her promise to tell me something about her life in the East.

“Where shall I begin?” she asked,

“Begin at the beginning,” I said; “begin at the time I left Charleston.”

“I don’t know,” she said, “that Father had at that time any thought of going.  One morning he surprised me by telling me to get ready for a long journey.”

“When was that?” I asked.

“I am not certain, but I know it was one day in the vacation, and a good while after you left.”

“It must have been in September, then.”

“Yes, I am almost sure it was in September.”

“I suppose you were very glad to go.”

“Yes, I was; but Father’s intention was made known to me so suddenly that I had no time to say good-by to anybody, and that grieved me.”

“You wanted to say good-by to somebody?”

“The Sisters, you know—­and my schoolmates.”

“Yes—­of course; did your old servant go too?”

“Yes; she died while we were in India.”

“I remember her very well.  So you went to India?”

“Not directly; we sailed first to Liverpool; then we went on to Paris—­strange, we went right through London, and were there not more than an hour or two.”

“How long did you stay in Paris?”

“Father had some business there—­I don’t know what—­that kept us for two or three weeks.  Then we went to Havre, and took a ship for Bombay.”