It was an unfortunate remark.  There was strong sympathy developing for Hayne all through the garrison.  Mrs. Rayner never meant that it should have any such significance, but inside of twenty-four hours, in course of which her language had been repeated some dozens of times and distorted quite as many, the generally accepted version of the story was that Mrs. Rayner, so far from expressing the faintest sympathy or sorrow for Mr. Hayne’s misfortune, so far from expressing the natural gratification which a lady should feel that it was an officer of her regiment who had reached the scene of danger ahead of the cavalry officer of the guard, had said in so many words that Mr. Hayne ought to be thankful that blindness was the worst thing that had come to him.

There was little chance for harmony after that.  Many men and some women, of course, refused to believe it, and said they felt confident that she had been misrepresented.  Still, all knew by this time that Mrs. Rayner was bitter against Hayne, and had heard of her denunciation of the colonel’s action.  So, too, had the colonel heard that she openly declared that she would refuse any invitation extended to her or to her sister which might involve her accepting hospitality at his house.  These things do get around in most astonishing ways.

Then another complication arose:  Hayne, too, was mixing matters.  The major commanding the battalion, a man in no wise connected with his misfortunes, had gone to him and urged, with the doctor’s full consent, that he should be moved over into and become an inmate of his household in garrison.  He had a big, roomy house.  His wife earnestly added her entreaties to the major’s, but all to no purpose:  Mr. Hayne firmly declined.  He thanked the major; he rose and bent over the lady’s hand and thanked her with a voice that was full of gentleness and gratitude; but he said that he had learned to live in solitude.  Sam was accustomed to all his ways, and he had every comfort he needed.  His wants were few and simple.  She would not be content, and urged him further.  He loved reading:  surely he would miss his books and would need some one to read aloud to him, and there were so many ladies in the garrison who would be glad to meet at her house and read to him by turns.  He loved music, she heard, and there was her piano, and she knew several who would be delighted to come and play for him by the hour.  He shook his head, and the bandages hid the tears that came to his smarting eyes.  He had made arrangements to be read aloud to, he said; and as for music, that must wait awhile.  The kind woman retired dismayed,—­she could not understand such obduracy,—­and her husband felt rebuffed.  Stannard of the cavalry, too, came in with his gentle wife.  She was loved throughout the regiment for her kindliness and grace of mind, as well as for her devotion to the sick and suffering in the old days of the Indian wars, and Stannard had made a similar proffer and been similarly refused,