“Better.”

“Is he going to get well?”

Dr. Benton thought a moment.

“He was struck by a conoidal ball, which entered just above the interclavicular notch of the sternum and lodged near the superior angle of the scapula.  Assistant Surgeon Jenning, U. S. V., removed the bullet and applied simple dressings.  There was a longitudinal groove on the bullet which may have been caused by contact with the bone, but there are no symptoms of injury to the osseous tissue.  I hope he will recover entirely.  Miss Lent, his affianced, is expected to-night.  Arrangements have been made to convey him aboard a Sanitary Commission boat this evening.  The sooner he starts North the better.  His mother and Miss Lent go with him as nurses.”

Berkley drew a quiet breath of relief.  “I am glad,” he said simply.  “There is fever in the air here.”

“There is worse, Phil.  They’re fine people, the Craigs.  That mother of his stood the brutal shock of the news wonderfully—­not a tear, not a tremor.  She is a fine woman; she obeyed me, not implicitly, but intelligently.  I don’t like that kind of obedience as a rule; but it happened to be all right in her case.  She has voluntarily turned Paigecourt and all the barns, quarters, farms, and out-buildings into a base hospital for the wounded of either army.  She need not have done it; there were plenty of other places.  But she offered that beautiful old place merely because it was more comfortable and luxurious.  The medical corps have already ruined the interior of the house; the garden with its handsome box hedges nearly two centuries old is a wreck.  She has given all the farm horses to the ambulances; all her linen to the medical director; all cattle, sheep, swine, poultry to the hospital authorities; all her cellared stores, wines, luxuries to the wounded.  I repeat that she is a fine specimen of American woman—­and the staunchest little rebel I ever met.”

Berkley smiled, then his bronzed face grew serious in the nickering lantern light.

“Colonel Arran is badly hurt.  Did you know it?”

“I do,” said the doctor quietly.  “I saw him just before I came over here to find you.”

“Would you care to tell me what you think of his chances?”

“I—­don’t—­know.  He is in considerable pain.  The wound continues healthy.  They give him a great deal of morphia.”

“Do you—­believe——­”

“I can’t yet form an opinion worth giving you.  Dillon, the assistant surgeon, is an old pupil of mine.  He asked me to look in to-morrow; and I shall do so.”

“I’m very glad.  I was going to ask you.  But—­there’s a good deal of professional etiquette in these hospitals——­”

“It’s everywhere,” said the doctor, smiling.  Then his pleasant, alert face changed subtly; he lifted the lantern absently, softly replaced it on the veranda beside him, and gazed at it.  Presently he said: