“Poor Bob! how much he must have suffered,” she whispered, and kneeling down beside him, she hid her face in her hands, weeping bitter tears for her armless hero.

The motion awakened Robert, who gazed for a moment in surprise at the kneeling, sobbing maiden; then, when sure it was she, he raised himself in bed, and ere Bell could look up, two arms, one quite as strong as the other, were wound around her neck, and her head was pillowed upon the breast, which heaved with strong emotions as the soldier said: 

“My darling Bell, my promised wife, you don’t know how much good this meeting does me!”

He kissed her many times, and Bell did not prevent it, but gave him kiss after kiss, then, still doubting the evidence of her eyes, she unclasped his clinging arms, and holding both his poor hands in hers, gave vent to a second gush of tears as she said: 

“I am so glad—­oh, so glad!”

Then, as it occurred to her that he might perhaps misjudge her, and put a wrong construction upon her joy, she added: 

“I did not care for myself, Robert.  Don’t think I cared for myself, or was ever sorry a bit on my own account.”

Bob looked a little bewildered as he replied:  “Never were sorry and never cared!  I can scarcely credit that, for surely your tears and present emotions belie your words.”

Bell knew he had not understood her, and she said: 

“Your arm, Robert, your arm.  We heard it was cut off, and that you were otherwise mutilated.”

“Oh, that’s it, then!” and something like his old, mischievous smile glimmered about Bob’s mouth as he added:  “They spared my arms, but, Bell”—­and he tried to look very solemn—­“suppose I tell you that they hacked off both my legs, and if you marry me, as you seem to think you will, you must walk all your life by the side of wooden pins and crutches?”

Bell knew by the curl of his lip that he was teasing her, and she answered, laughingly: 

“Wooden pins and crutches will be all the fashion when the war is over; badges of honor of which any woman might be proud.”

“Well, Bell,” he replied, “I am afraid there is no such honor in store for my wife, for if I ever get back my strength and the flesh upon my bones, she must take me with legs and arms included.  Not even a scratch or wound of any kind with which to awaken sympathy.”

He appeared very bright and cheerful, but when, after a moment, Bell asked for Mark Ray, there came a shadow over his face, and with quivering lips he told a tale which blanched Bell’s cheek, and made her shiver with pain and dread as she thought of Helen, the wife who had never known the sweets of matrimony, and who would never taste them now, for Mark was dead—­shot down as he attempted to escape from the train which took them from one place of torment to another.  He was always devising means of escape, succeeding several times, but was immediately captured and brought