He recognized his brother and sister with a faint smile, a murmured word or two, then sank into a state of semi-stupor, from which he roused only when spoken to, relapsing into it again immediately.

Slowly, very slowly, medical skill and tender, careful nursing told upon his exhausted frame till at length he seemed to awake to new life, began to notice what was going on about him, was able to take part in a cheerful chat now and then, and became eager for news from home and of the progress of the war.

Months had passed away.  In the meantime Richard had returned to camp, and Harry Duncan, wounded in a late battle, now occupied his deserted bed in the hospital.

Harry was suffering, but in excellent spirits.

“Cheer up, Allison,” he said; “you and I will never go back to Andersonville; the war can’t last much longer, and we may consider the Union saved.  Ah! this is a vast improvement upon Andersonville fare,” he added gayly, as Lottie and May appeared before them, each bearing a tray with a delicious little lunch upon it.  “Miss Lottie, I’m almost tempted to say it pays to be ill or wounded, that one may be tended by fair ladies’ hands.”

“Ah, that speech should have come from Mr. Allison, for May is fair and her hands are white, while mine are brown,” she answered demurely, as she set her tray within his reach, May doing the same for Harold.

“None the less beautiful, Miss King,” returned Duncan gallantly.  “Many a whiter hand is not half so shapely or so useful.  Now reward me for that pretty compliment by coaxing your father to get me well as fast as possible, that I may have a share in the taking of Richmond.”

“That would be a waste of breath, as he’s doing all he can already; but I’ll do my part with coddling, write all your letters for you—­business, friendship, love—­and do anything else desired; if in my power.”

“You’re very good,” he said, with a furtive glance at May, who seemed to see or hear nothing but her brother, who was asking about the last news from home; “very good indeed, Miss King; especially as regards the love-letters.  I presume it would not be necessary for me even to be at the trouble of dictating them?”

“Oh, no, certainly not!”

“Joking aside, I shall be greatly obliged if you will write to Aunt Wealthy to-day for me.”

“With pleasure; especially as I can tell her your wound is not a dangerous one, and you will not lose a limb.  But do tell me.  What did you poor fellows get to eat at Andersonville?”

“Well, one week’s daily ration consisted of one pint of corn-meal ground up cob and all together, four ounces of mule meat, generally spoiled and emitting anything but an appetizing odor; but then we were not troubled with want of—­the best of sauce for our meals.”

“Hunger?”

“Yes; we’d plenty of that always.  In addition to the corn-meal and meat, we had a half pint of peas full of bugs.”