“Wounded?”

“Yes, he had his right arm smashed by a revolver bullet.  Then rheumatic fever set in, and the trouble went to the heart, and he was very ill for a long time.  I don’t suppose he ever has been so strong as he was before.  What made it so sad was the splendid way he had just distinguished himself,” Laura continued.  She gave a little sketch of the rescue of Dale, far more vivid than Val had ever given to his family.  “Perhaps you can imagine what a fuss Chilmark made over its solitary hero!  We’re still proud of him.  Val is always in request at local shows:  he appears on the platform looking very shy and bored.  Poor boy!  I believe he sometimes wishes he had never won that embarrassing decoration.”

“What’s his name?”

“Val Stafford.  Why—­do you remember him?”

“Er—­yes, I do,” said Lawrence.  He took out his cigar case and turned from Laura to light a cigar.  “I knew a lot of the Dorchesters. . .  Amiable-looking, fair boy, wasn’t he?”

“Middle height, and rather sunburnt.  But that description fits such dozens!  However, I’m taking you up to tea there this afternoon, if the prospect doesn’t bore you, so you’ll be able to judge for yourself.  He has a young sister who threatens to be very pretty.  Are you still interested in pretty girls, M. le capitaine?”

“Immensely.”  Hyde lay back on one arm, smoking rather fast.  “I see no immediate prospect of my being bored, thanks.  Rather fun running into Stafford again after all these years!  I shall love a chat over old times.”  He raised his black eyes, and Laura started.  Was it her fancy, or a trick of the sunlight, that conjured up in them that sparkle of smiling cruelty, gone before she could fix it?  “You say he doesn’t care to talk about his military exploits?  He always was a modest youth, I should love to see him on a recruiting platform.  Wait till I get him to myself, he won’t be shy with me.  Did you tell him I was coming?”

“I told his sister Isabel, who probably told him.  I haven’t seen him since, he hasn’t happened to come in; I suppose the hay harvest has kept him extra busy—­Dear me! why, there he is!”

In the field across the stream a young man on horseback had come into view.  Catching sight of Laura he slipped across a low boundary wall, his brown mare, a thoroughbred, changing her feet in a ladylike way on the worn stones, and trotted down to the riverbank, raising his cap.

“Coming in to lunch, Val?” Laura called across the water.

“Thank you very much, I’m afraid I shan’t have time.”

“But you haven’t been in since Sunday!” Laura’s accent was reproachful.  “Why are you forsaking us?  We need you more than the farm does!”