He had left his Young Captain Basil at Old Point Comfort, he said, where the boy, not having had enough of war, had slipped aboard a transport and gone off with the Kentucky Legion for Porto Rico—­the unhappy Legion that had fumed all summer at Chickamauga—­and had hoisted sail for Porto Rico, without daring to look backward for fear it should be wigwagged back to land from Washington.

Was Basil well?

“Yas’m.  Young Cap’n didn’ min’ dat little bullet right through his neck no mo’n a fly-bite.  Nothin’ gwine to keep dat boy back.”

They had let him out of the hospital, or, rather, he had gotten out by dressing himself when his doctor was not there.  An attendant tried to stop him.

“An’ Young Cap’n he jes drew hisself up mighty gran’ an’ says:  ’I’m going to join my regiment,’ he says.  ‘It sails to-morrow.’  But Ole Cap’n done killed,” Bob reckoned; “killed on top of the hill where they druv the Spaniards out of the ditches whar they wus shootin’ from.”

Mrs. Crittenden smiled.

“No, Bob, he’s coming home now,” and Bob’s eyes streamed.  “You’ve been a good boy, Bob.  Come here;” and she led him into the hallway and told him to wait, while she went to the door of her room and called some one.

Molly came out embarrassed, twisting a corner of her apron and putting it in her mouth while she walked forward and awkwardly shook hands.

“I think Molly has got something to say to you, Bob.  You can go, Molly,” she added, smiling.

The two walked toward the cabin, the negroes crowding about Bob and shaking him by the hand and asking a thousand absurd questions; and Bob, while he was affable, was lordly as well, and one or two of Bob’s possible rivals were seen to sniff, as did other young field hands, though Bob’s mammy was, for the first time in her life, grinning openly with pride in her “chile,” and she waved the curious away and took the two in her own cabin, reappearing presently and walking toward the kitchen.

Bob and Molly sat down on opposite sides of the fireplace, Bob triumphant at last, and Molly watching him furtively.

“I believe you has somethin’ to say to me, Miss Johnson,” said Bob, loftily.

“Well, I sut’nly is glad to welcome you home ag’in, Mistuh Crittenden,” said Molly.

“Is you?”

Bob was quite independent now, and Molly began to weaken slightly.

“An’ is dat all you got to say?”

“Ole Miss said I must tell you that I was mighty—­mean—­to—­you—­when you went—­to—­de wah, an’ that—­I’m sorry.”

“Well, is you sorry?”

Molly was silent.

“Quit yo’ foolin’, gal; quit yo’ foolin’.”

In a moment Bob was by her side, and with his arm around her; and Molly rose to her feet with an ineffectual effort to unclasp his hands.

“Quit yo’ foolin’!”

Bob’s strong arms began to tighten, and the girl in a moment turned and gave way into his arms, and with her head on his shoulder, began to cry.  But Bob knew what sort of tears they were, and he was as gentle as though his skin had been as white as was his heart.