“You?”

“Yes, certainly.  He knows already that you are unhurt; go to sleep; by the time you awake I promise you a telegram from your father.”

“Doctor, you are an angel; but I don’t believe that I can sleep.”

“Let me feel your pulse.”

Dr. Khayme placed his fingers on my wrist; I was sitting on the side of the bed.

“Lie down,” said he.  Then, still with his fingers on my pulse, he said softly, “Poor boy! you have endured too much; no wonder that you are wrought up.”

He laid his other hand on my head; his fingers strayed through my hair.

V

WITH THE DOCTOR IN CAMP

     “Great lords, wise men ne’er sit and wail their loss,
     But cheerly seek how to redress their harms.”

    —­SHAKESPEARE.

When I awoke in Dr. Khayme’s tent toward four o’clock of the afternoon of July 22, I felt that my mind was clear; I had slept dreamlessly.

On the cover of my bed an envelope was lying—­a telegram.  I hastily tore it open, and read:  “Dr. Khayme tells me you are safe.  Continue to do your duty.”  My heart swelled,

I rose, and dressed, and went out.  The Doctor was standing under a tree, near a fire; a negro was cooking at the fire.  Under an awning, or fly, beneath which a small eating table was dressed, a woman was sitting in a chair, reading.  I thought I had seen her before, and looking more closely I recognized the woman who had given the Doctor a cup of coffee on Pennsylvania Avenue.

The Doctor stepped forward to meet me, “Ah, I see you have rested well,” said he; then, “Lydia, here is Mr. Berwick.”

I was becoming accustomed to surprises from the Doctor, so that I was not greatly astonished, although I had received no intimation of the young lady’s identity.  The feeling that was uppermost was shame that I had not even, once thought of asking the Doctor about her.

“I should, never have recognized you,” I said.  She replied with, a smile, and the Doctor relieved the situation by cheerfully crying out “Dinner!” and leading the way to the table.

“Now, Jones,” said the Doctor, “you are expected to eat; you have had nothing since yesterday afternoon, when you choked yourself while bandaging—­”

“What do you know about that?” I asked.

“You talked about it in your sleep last night on the road.  As for Lydia and me, we have had our breakfast and our luncheon, and you must not expect us to eat like a starving fantassin.  Fall to, my boy.  I know that you have eaten nothing to-day.”

There were fruit, bread and butter, lettuce, rice, and coffee.  I did not wonder at the absence of meat; I remembered some of the talks of my friend.  The Doctor and his daughter seemed to eat merely for the purpose of keeping me in countenance.

“Lydia, would you have known Mr. Berwick?”