“Well, sir,” answered Jim, “it’s as good a time to die now, I reckon, as often happens; but I ain’t dead yet, not by a long shot; and I ain’t going to die neither; so, now, yourself!”

The doctor laughed.  “All right; if you’ll get up that spirit, and keep it, I’ll bet my pile on your recovery,—­but you’ll have to stop fretting.  You’ve got something on your mind that’s troubling you; and the sooner you get rid of it, if you can, the better.  That’s all I’ve got to say.”  And he marched off.

“Get rid of it,” mused Jim, “how in thunder’ll I get rid of it if I don’t hear from Sallie?  Let me see—­ah!  I have it!” and looking more cheerful on the instant he lay still, watching for the doctor to come down the ward once more.  “Helloa!” he called, then.  “Helloa!” responded the doctor, coming over to him, “what’s the go now? you’re improved already.”

“Got any objection to telling a lie?”—­this might be called coming to the point.

“That depends—­” said the doctor.

“Well, all’s fair in love and war, they say.  This is for love.  Help a fellow?”

“Of course,—­if I can,—­and the fellow’s a good one, like Jim Given.  What is it you want?”

“Well, I want a letter written, and I can’t do it myself, you know,”—­looking down at his still bandaged arm,—­“likewise I want a lie told in it, and these ladies here are all angels, and of course you can’t ask an angel to tell a lie,—­no offence to you; so if you can take the time, and’ll do it, I’ll stand your everlasting debtor, and shoulder the responsibility if you’re afraid of the weight.”

“What sort of a lie?”

“A capital one; listen.  I want a young lady to know that I’m wounded in the arm,—­you see? not bad; nor nothing over which she need worry, and nothing that hurts me much; and I ain’t damaged in any other way; legs not mentioned in this concern,—­you understand?” The doctor nodded.  “But it’s tied up my hand, so that I have to get you to say all this for me.  I’ll be well pretty soon; and, if I can get a furlough, I’ll be up in Philadelphia in a jiffy,—­so she can just prepare for the infliction, &c.  Comprendy?  And’ll you do it?”

“Of course I will, if you don’t want the truth told, and the fib’ll do you any good; and, upon my word, the way you’re looking I really think it will.  So now for it.”

Thus the letter was written, and read, and re-read, to make sure that there was nothing in it to alarm Sallie; and, being satisfactory on that head, was finally sent away, to rejoice the poor girl who had waited, and watched, and hoped for it through such a weary time.  When she answered it, her letter was so full of happiness and solicitude, and a love that, in spite of herself, spoke out in every line, that Jim furtively kissed it, and read it into tatters in the first few hours of its possession; then tucking it away in his hospital shirt, over his heart, proceeded to get well as fast as fast could be.