“Shust as you like,” he replied, “for I know te monish vill always pe ready in advance.”

“Well, I shall have the lease drawn out to-day and bring it to you to sign,” said Mr. Elder, rising and putting on his gloves.  “Good morning; be here at three o’clock, as I shall call round at that hour,” and with those words he left the room, and the Dutchman resumed the counting of his money.

CHAPTER SEVENTH.

The husband A prisoner—­exile of the soldier’s wife.

Months rolled on, during which time Mrs. Wentworth was cheered by many kind and affectionate letters from her husband, who had not been sick a day since his departure from home.  One of the letters received from him stated that he had been detailed from his regiment to act as clerk in Brigadier General Floyd’s adjutant general’s office, his superior intelligence fitting him admirably for such an office; and the next letter from him was dated at Fort Donelson, whence General Floyd had been ordered with his brigade.

Fort Donelson fell.  We need not record here the heroic defense and stubborn fighting of the Confederate forces, and their unfortunate capture afterwards.  These are matters of history, and should be recorded by the historian, and not the novelist.  Sufficient to say, that in the last day’s fight Alfred Wentworth, having received a severe wound in the arm, was marching to the rear, when an officer, dressed in the garb of a lieutenant, who was lying on the field, called faintly to him, and on his going up, he observed that the lieutenant’s left leg was fearfully mangled by a fragment of shell, and was bleeding so profusely, that, unless medical aid was quickly procured, he would die.  Forgetting his own wound, which was very painful, he lifted the officer on his shoulder and bore him to the hospital, where his leg was immediately attended to, and his life saved.  The severity of his own wound, and the length of time which elapsed before any attention was paid to it, brought on a severe fever, and on the escape of General Floyd, he was delirious and unable to accompany him.  He was, therefore, sent to Chicago, and placed in the same hospital with the lieutenant whose life he had saved.

On their recovery, which was about the same time, Lieutenant Shackleford—­for it was he—­and Alfred Wentworth were both sent to “Camp Douglas,” the military prison near Chicago.

On the receipt of the news in New Orleans, that Fort Donelson and nearly its entire garrison had surrendered, Mrs. Wentworth underwent another long suspense of excitement and anxiety, which was, however, partially allayed by the intelligence that General Floyd and staff had escaped.  But as the weeks rolled on, and she received no letter from her husband, the old fear that he may have been killed came over her again, until relieved by seeing his name as being among the wounded at the Chicago hospital in one of the city papers.