“Come, Mrs. Merwyn,” said Dr. Henderson, kindly, yet firmly, “take the counsel of an old friend.  Distracted as you naturally are with all these unexpected and terrible events, you must recognize the truth that you are in no condition to take upon you the care of your son now.  He would not know you, I fear, yet your voice might agitate him fatally.  I do not forbid you to see him, but I do forbid that you should speak to him now, and I shall not answer for the consequences if you do.”

“Mamma, mamma, you must be patient and do as Dr. Henderson advises,” cried Estelle.  “When you are calm you will see that he is right.  If anything should happen you would never forgive yourself.”

The mother’s bitter protest was passing into a deadlier fear, but she only said, coldly, “Very well; since such are your decrees I shall go to my room and wait till I am summoned;” and she rose and left the apartment, followed by her elder daughter, a silent, reticent girl, whose spirit her mother had apparently quenched.

Estelle lingered until they had gone, and then she turned to Strahan, who said, with an attempt at a smile, “I can scarcely realize that this is the little girl whom I used to play with and tease.”

But she heeded not his words.  Her large, lustrous eyes were dim with tears, as she asked, falteringly, “Tell me the truth, Mr. Strahan; do you think my brother is very ill?”

“Yes,” he replied, sadly; “and I hope I may be permitted to remain as one of his watchers.  He took care of me, last winter, in an almost mortal illness, and I would gladly do him a like service.”

“But you are hurt.  Your arm is in a sling.”

“My wound is healing, and I could sit by your brother’s side as well as elsewhere.”

“You shall remain,” said the girl, emphatically.  “I have some of mamma’s spirit, if not all her prejudices.  Is this Miss Vosburgh such a fright?”

“I regard her as the noblest and most beautiful girl I ever saw.”

“Oh, you do?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I shall go and talk reason to mamma, for sister Berta yields to everything without a word.  You must stay, and I shall do my share of watching as soon as the doctor permits.”

Mrs. Merwyn thought she would remain in her room as she had said, but the fountains of the great deep in her soul were breaking up.  She found that the mother in her heart was stronger than the partisan.  She must see her son.

At last she sent Thomas for Dr. Henderson again, and obtained permission to look upon her child.  Bitter as the physician knew the experience would be, it might be salutary.  With noiseless tread she crossed the threshold, and saw Marian’s pure, pale profile; she drew a few steps nearer; the young girl turned and bowed gravely, then resumed her watch.

For the moment Merwyn was silent, then in a voice all too distinct he said:  “Cruel, unnatural mother, to rob me of my manhood, to chain me like one of her slaves.  Jeff Davis and empire are more to her than husband or son.”