A weary voyage,—­a weary journey thereafter to the Northern hospitals,—­some dying by the way, and lowered through the shifting, restless waves, or buried with hasty yet kindly hands in alien soil,—­accounted strangers and foemen in the land of their birth.  God grant that no tread of rebellion in the years to come, nor thunder of contending armies, may disturb their peace!

Some stopped in the heat and dust of Washington to be nursed and tended in the great barracks of hospitals,—­uncomfortable-looking without, clean and spacious and admirable within; some to their homes, on long-desired and eagerly welcomed furloughs, there to be cured speedily, the body swayed by the mind; some to suffer and die; some to struggle against winds and tides of mortality and conquer,—­yet scarred and maimed; some to go out, as giants refreshed with new wine, to take their places once more in the great conflict, and fight there faithfully to the end.

Among these last was Jim; but not till after many a hard battle, and buffet, and back-set did life triumph and strength prevail.  One thing which sadly retarded his recovery was his incessant anxiety about Sallie, and his longing to see her once more.  He had himself, after his first hurt, written her that he was slightly wounded; but when he reached Washington, and the surgeon, looking at his shattered leg, talked about amputation and death, Jim decided that Sallie should not know a word of all this till something definite was pronounced.

“She oughtn’t to have an ugly, one-legged fellow,” he said, “to drag round with her; and, if she knows how bad it is, she’ll post straight down here, to nurse and look after me,—­I know her! and she’ll have me in the end, out of sheer pity; and I ain’t going to take any such mean advantage of her:  no, sir-ee, not if I know myself.  If I get well, safe and sound, I’ll go to her; and, if I’m going to die, I’ll send for her; so I’ll wait,”—­which he did.

He found, however, that it was a great deal easier making the decision, than keeping it when made.  Sallie, hearing nothing from him,—­supposing him still in the South,—­fearful as she had all along been that she stood on uncertain ground,—­Mrs. Surrey away in New York,—­and Robert Ercildoune, as the papers asserted in their published lists, mortally wounded,—­having no indirect means of communication with him, and fearing to write again without some sign from him,—­was sorrowing in silence at home.

The silence reacted on him; not realizing its cause he grew fretful and impatient, and the fretfulness and impatience told on his leg, intensified his fever, and put the day of recovery—­if recovery it was to be—­farther into the future.

“See here, my man,”—­said the quick little surgeon one day, “you’re worrying about something.  This’ll never do; if you don’t stop it, you’ll die, as sure as fate; and you might as well make up your mind to it at once,—­so, now!”