Her eyes lingered tenderly on that face, so like the one lying on the pillow.  The other portrait was of a beautiful girl whose dark, magnetic eyes challenged Betty.  Was this his sister or—­someone else?  She could not restrain a jealous twinge, and she felt annoyed to find herself comparing that face with her own.  She looked no longer at that portrait, but recommenced her survey of the room.  Upon the door hung a broad-brimmed hat with eagle plumes stuck in the band.  A pair of hightopped riding-boots, a saddle, and a bridle lay on the floor in the corner.  The table was covered with Indian pipes, tobacco pouches, spurs, silk stocks, and other articles.

Suddenly Betty felt that some one was watching her.  She turned timidly toward the bed and became much frightened when she encountered the intense gaze from a pair of steel-blue eyes.  She almost fell from the chair; but presently she recollected that Alfred had been unconscious for days, and that he would not know who was watching by his bedside.

“Mother, is that you?” asked Alfred, in a weak, low voice.

“Yes, I am here,” answered Betty, remembering the old woman’s words about soothing the sufferer.

“But I thought you were ill.”

“I was, but I am better now, and it is you who are ill.”

“My head hurts so.”

“Let me bathe it for you.”

“How long have I been home?”

Betty bathed and cooled his heated brow.  He caught and held her hands, looking wonderingly at her the while.

“Mother, somehow I thought you had died.  I must have dreamed it.  I am very happy; but tell me, did a message come for me to-day?”

Betty shook her head, for she could not speak.  She saw he was living in the past, and he was praying for the letter which she would gladly have written had she but known.

“No message, and it is now so long.”

“It will come to-morrow,” whispered Betty.

“Now, mother, that is what you always say,” said the invalid, as he began to toss his head wearily to and fro.  “Will she never tell me?  It is not like her to keep me in suspense.  She was the sweetest, truest, loveliest girl in all the world.  When I get well, mother, I ant going to find out if she loves me.”

“I am sure she does.  I know she loves you,” answered Betty.

“It is very good of you to say that,” he went on in his rambling talk.  “Some day I’ll bring her to you and we’ll make her a queen here in the old home.  I’ll be a better son now and not run away from home again.  I’ve given the dear old mother many a heartache, but that’s all past now.  The wanderer has come home.  Kiss me good-night, mother.”

Betty looked down with tear-blurred eyes on the haggard face.  Unconsciously she had been running her fingers through the fair hair that lay so damp over his brow.  Her pity and tenderness had carried her far beyond herself, and at the last words she bent her head and kissed him on the lips.