She heard it distinctly now, and with it came thoughts of Hugh.  It must be he; and her feet scarcely touched the ground in her eagerness to find him.  Over the threshold, across the floor, and behind the hay she bounded; but stood aghast at the spectacle before her.  He had struggled to his knees; and with his sprained limb coiled under him, his ashen lips apart, and his arms stretched out, he was waiting for her.  But Adah did not spring into those trembling arms, as once she would have done.  She would never willingly rest in their embrace again; and utter, overwhelming surprise was the only emotion on her face as she recognized him, not so much by his looks as by the name he gave her.

“George, oh, George, how came you here?” she asked, drawing backward from the arm reached out to touch her.

He felt that he was repulsed, and, with a wail which smote painfully on Adah’s heart, he fell forward on his face, sobbing:  “Oh, Adah, Lily, pity me, pity me, if you can’t forgive!  I have slept for three nights in the woods, without once tasting food!  My ankle is sprained, my strength is gone, and I wish that I were dead!”

She had drawn nearer to him, while he spoke, near enough to recognize her country’s uniform, all soiled and tattered though it was.  He was a soldier, then—­Liberty’s loyal son—­and that fact awoke a throb of pity.

“George,” she said, kneeling down beside him, and laying her hand upon his ragged coat, “tell me how came you here, and where is your company?”

He would not deceive her, though tempted to do so, and he answered her truthfully:  “Lily, I am a deserter.  I am trying to join the enemy!”

He did not see the indignant flash of her eyes, or the look of scorn upon her face, but he felt the reproach her silence implied, and dared not look up.

“George,” she began at last, sternly, very sternly, “but for Him who bade us forgive seventy times seven, I should feel inclined to leave you here to die; but when I remember how much He is tried with one, I feel that I am to be no one’s judge.  Tell me, then, why you have deserted; and tell me, too—­oh, George, in mercy—­tell me if you know aught of Willie?”

The mother had forgotten all the wrongs heaped upon the wife, and Adah drew nearer to him now, so near, indeed, that his arm encircled her at last, and held her close; but the ragged, dirty, fallen creature did not dare to kiss her, and could only press her convulsively to his breast, as he attempted an answer to her question.

“You must be quick,” she said, suddenly remembering herself; “it is growing late, Mrs. Ellsworth will be waiting for her breakfast; and since the stampede of her servants, two old negroes and myself are all there are left to care for the house.  Stay,” she added, as a new thought seemed to strike her; “I must go, or they will look for me; but after breakfast I will return, and do for you what I can.  Lie down again upon the hay.”