“Mrs. Whately,” said Captain Maynard, “I reckon more than one of us begin to regret already that we were not so desperately wounded as to need your attention and that of Miss Baron.  We must remember, however, that she is not accustomed to these scenes, and I think we must try to make her forget them at the table.  I suppose in the kindness of her heart she is now crying in her room over that Yankee.”  Whately shot a savage glance at the speaker which plainly implied, “It’s none of your business where she is.”  Suddenly rising, he departed also, his mother’s eyes following him anxiously.

Miss Lou was not crying in her room.  As the level rays of the sun shone into the wide old barn, making the straw in a mow doubly golden, and transforming even the dusty cobwebs into fairy lacework, she crossed the threshold and paused for the first time in her impulsive haste to find and thank the dying man of whom she had been told.  All eyes turned wonderingly toward her as she stood for a moment in the sunshine, as unconscious of herself, of the marvellous touch of beauty bestowed by the light and her expression, as if she had flown from the skies.

“Is there a soldier here named Yarry?” she began, then uttered a little inarticulate cry as she saw Captain Hanfield kneeling beside a man to whom all eyes directed her.  “Oh, it’s he,” she sobbed, kneeling beside him also.  “As soon as I heard I felt it was he who told me not to worry about him.  Is—­is he really dying?”

“Yes, I hope so, Miss Baron,” replied the captain gravely.  “He couldn’t live and it’s time he had rest.”

The girl bent over the man, her hot tears falling on his face.  He opened his eyes and looked vacantly at her for a moment or two, then smiled in recognition.  It was the most pathetic smile she had ever imagined.  “Don’t worry,” he whispered, “I’m just dozin’ off.”

“Oh, my poor, brave hero!” she said brokenly, “I know, I know it all.  God reward you, I can’t.”

“Don’t want no reward.  I be—­say, miss, don’t wear—­yourself—­out fer us.”

She took his cold hand and bowed her forehead upon it, sobbing aloud in the overpowering sense of his self-forgetfulness.  “O God!” she cried, “do for this brave, unselfish man what I cannot.  When, when can I forget such a thing as this!  Oh, live, please live; we will take such good care of you.”

“There, there, little one, don’t—­take on—­so about—­me.  Ain’t wuth it.  I be—­Say, I feel better—­easier.  Glad—­you spoke—­good word to God—­for me.  I be—­I mean, I think—­He’ll hear—­sech as you.  I’m—­ off now.  Don’t—­wear—­yourself—­”

Even in her inexperience she saw that he was dying, and when his gasping utterance ceased she had so supported his head that it fell back on her bosom.  For a few moments she just cried helplessly, blinded with tears.  Then she felt the burden of his head removed and herself lifted gently.

“I suspected something like this when you left the table, Miss Baron,” said Dr. Borden.