“I have no home, as you know; and I don’t
believe I’ve got a friend in the world who cares
whether I live or die.”
“This looks as if you were mistaken;”
and Christie glanced about the little room, which
was full of comforts and luxuries accumulated during
his stay.
His face changed instantly, and he answered with the
honest look and tone never given to any one but her.
“I beg your pardon: I’m an ungrateful
brute. But you see I’d just made up my
mind to do something worth the doing, and now it is
made impossible in a way that renders it hard to bear.
You are very patient with me, and I owe my life to
your care: I never can thank you for it; but
I will take myself out of your way as soon as I can,
and leave you free to enjoy your happy holiday.
Heaven knows you have earned it!”
He said those last words so heartily that all the
bitterness went out of his voice, and Christie found
it easy to reply with a cordial smile:
“I shall stay and see you comfortably off before
I go myself. As for thanks and reward I have
had both; for you have done something worth the doing,
and you give me this.”
She took up the broken blade as she spoke, and carried
it away, looking proud of her new trophy.
Fletcher left next day, saying, while he pressed her
hand as warmly as if the vigor of two had gone into
his one:
“You will let me come and see you by and by
when you too get your discharge: won’t
you?”
“So gladly that you shall never again say you
have no home. But you must take care of yourself,
or you will get the long discharge, and we can’t
spare you yet,” she answered warmly.
“No danger of that: the worthless ones
are too often left to cumber the earth; it is the
precious ones who are taken,” he said, thinking
of her as he looked into her tired face, and remembered
all she had done for him.
Christie shivered involuntarily at those ominous words,
but only said, “Good-by, Philip,” as he
went feebly away, leaning on his servant’s arm,
while all the men touched their caps and wished the
Colonel a pleasant journey.
Sunrise.
Three months later the war seemed drawing toward
an end, and Christie was dreaming happy dreams of
home and rest with David, when, as she sat one day
writing a letter full of good news to the wife of
a patient, a telegram was handed to her, and tearing
it open she read:
“Captain Sterling dangerously wounded.
Tell his wife to come at once. E. Wilkins.”
“No bad news I hope, ma’am?” said
the young fellow anxiously, as his half-written letter
fluttered to the ground, and Christie sat looking
at that fateful strip of paper with all the strength
and color stricken out of her face by the fear that
fell upon her.
“It might be worse. They told me he was
dying once, and when I got to him he met me at the
door. I’ll hope for the best now as I did
then, but I never felt like this before,” and
she hid her face as if daunted by ominous forebodings
too strong to be controlled.
