“Harold, when——­” her voice faltered, but with an effort she completed her sentence—­“when did this begin?”

“At Andersonville; I was in perfect health when I entered the army,” he answered quickly, divining the fear that prompted the question; “but bad air, foul water, wretched and insufficient food, rapidly and completely undermined my constitution.  Yet it is sweet to die for one’s country!  I do not grudge the price I pay to secure her liberties.”

Elsie’s eyes sparkled through her tears.  “True patriotism still lives!” she said.  “Harold, I am proud of you and your brothers.  Of dear Walter, too; for his heart was right, however mistaken his head may have been.”

“Walter? oh, yes, and I——­”

But the sentence was interrupted by the entrance of his mother and sisters, May and Daisy, Mr. Dinsmore, and his son and daughter.  Fresh greetings, of course, had to be exchanged all round, and were scarcely finished when Mr. Travilla came in with his three children.

Elsie called them to her, and presented them to Harold with all a mother’s fond pride in her darlings.

“I have taught them to call you Uncle Harold.  Do you object?”

“Object? far from it; I am proud to claim them as my nephew and nieces.”

He gazed with tender admiration upon each dear little face; then, drawing the eldest to him and putting an arm about her, said, “She is just what you must have been at her age, Elsie; a little younger than when you first came to Elmgrove.  And she bears your name?”

“Yes; her papa and mine would hear of no other for her.”

“I like to have mamma’s name,” said the child, in a pretty, modest way, looking up into his face.  “Grandpa and papa call mamma Elsie, and me wee Elsie and little Elsie, and sometimes daughter.  Grandpa calls mamma daughter too, but papa calls her wife.  Mamma, has Uncle Harold seen baby?”

“My namesake! ah, I should like to see him.”

“There is mammy on the porch now, with him in her arms,” cried the child.

“Go, and tell her to bring him here, daughter,” Elsie said; and the little girl hastened to obey.

It was a very fine babe, and Harold looked at it with interest.

“I am proud of my name-child,” he said, turning to the mother with a gratified smile.  “You and Mr. Travilla were very kind to remember me.”

The latter, who had been engaged in the exchange of salutations with the others, hearing his name, now came up and took the hand of the invalid in his.  He was much moved by the sad alteration in the young man, who, when last seen by him, was in high health and spirits—­the full flush of early manhood’s prime.

Taking a seat by his side, he inquired with kindly interest how he was, who was his physician, and if there had been any improvement in the case of late.

“Thank you, no; rather the reverse,” Harold said, in answer to the last inquiry.  “I am weaker than when I left the hospital.”