Surgeon McAllister was loud in his praises of her general goodness and her courtesy at the table, to which he was admitted; and Lane, already predisposed toward a favorable opinion, entertained for her the deepest respect and gratitude, inspired more by her kindness to his men than by favors to himself.  Yet these were not few, for she often prepared delicacies with her own hands and brought them to his door, while nearly every morning she arranged flowers and sent them to his table.

Thus a week passed away.  The little gathering of prostrate men, left in war’s trail, was apparently forgotten except as people from the surrounding region came to gratify their curiosity.

Lane’s feverish symptoms had passed away, but he was exceedingly weak, and the wound in his shoulder was of a nature to require almost absolute quiet.  One evening, after the surgeon had told him of Suwanee’s ministrations beside a dying Union soldier, he said, “I must see her and tell her of my gratitude.”

On receiving his message she hesitated a single instant, then came to his bedside.  The rays of the setting sun illumined her reddish-brown hair as she stood before him, and enhanced her beauty in her simple muslin dress.  Her expression towards him, her enemy, was gentle and sympathetic.

He looked at her a moment in silence, almost as if she were a vision, then began, slowly and gravely:  “Miss Barkdale, what can I say to you?  I’m not strong enough to say very much, yet I could not rest till you knew.  The surgeon here has told me all,—­no, not all.  Deeds like yours can be told adequately only in heaven.  You are fanning the spark of life in my own breast.  I doubt whether I should have lived but for your kindness.  Still more to me has been your kindness to my men, the poor fellows that are too often neglected, even by their friends.  You have been like a good angel to them.  These flowers, fragrant and beautiful, interpret you to me.  You can’t know what reverence—­”

“Please stop, Captain Lane,” said Suwanee, beginning to laugh, while tears stood in her eyes.  “Why, I’m only acting as any good-hearted Southern girl would act.  I shall not permit you to think me a saint when I am not one.  I’ve a little temper of my own, which isn’t always sweet.  I like attention and don’t mind how many bestow it—­in brief, I am just like other girls, only more so, and if I became what you say I shouldn’t know myself.  Now you must not talk any more.  You are still a little out of your head.  You can only answer one question.  Is there anything you would like,—­anything we can do for you to help you get well?”

“No; I should be overwhelmed with gratitude if you did anything more.  I am grieved enough now when I think of all the trouble and loss we have caused you.”

“Oh, that’s the fortune of war,” she said, with a light, deprecatory gesture.  “You couldn’t help it any more than we could.”

“You are a generous enemy, Miss Barkdale.”