paused at intervals, as if the comer were weary, or else in quest of some one, but which at last came on with rapid bounds as an opening among the trees showed where Helen sat.  It was a tall young man who came, a young man sunburned and scarred, with uniform soiled and worn, but with the fire in his brown eyes unquenched, the love in his true heart unchanged, save as it was deeper, more intense for the years of separation, and the long, cruel suspense which was all over now.  The grave had given up its dead, the captive was released, and through incredible suffering and danger had reached his Northern home, had sought and found his girl-wife of a few hours, for it was Mark Ray speeding up the path, and holding back his breath as he came close to the bowed form on the rock, feeling a strange throb of awe when he saw the mourning dress, and knew it was worn for him.  A moment more, and she lay in his arms, white and insensible, for with the sudden winding of his arms around her neck, the pressure of his lips upon her cheek, the calling of her name, and the knowing it was really her husband, she had uttered a wild, impassioned cry, half of terror, half of joy, and fainted entirely away, just as she did when told that he was dead!  There was no water near, but with loving words and soft caresses, Mark brought her back to life, raining both tears and kisses upon the dear face which had grown so white and thin since the Christmas Eve when the wintry starlight had looked down upon their parting.  For several moments neither could speak for the great choking joy which wholly precluded the utterance of a word.  Helen was the first to rally, and lying in Mark’s lap, with her head pillowed on Mark’s arm, she whispered: 

“Let us thank God together.  You, too, have learned to pray.”

Reverently Mark bent his face to hers, and the pine boughs overhead heard, instead of mourning notes, a prayer of praise, as the reunited wife and husband fervently thanked God, who had brought them together again.

Not until nearly half an hour was gone, and Helen had begun to realize that the arm which held her so tightly was genuine flesh and blood, and not a mere delusion, did she look up into the face, glowing with so much of happiness and love.  Upon the forehead, and just beneath the hair, there was a savage scar, and the flesh about it was red and angry still, showing how sore and painful it must have been, and making Helen shudder as she touched it with her lips, and said: 

“Poor, darling Mark! that’s where the cruel ball entered; but where is the other scar—­the one made by the man who went to you in the fields, and who also fired, they said.  I have tried so hard to hate him for firing at a fallen foe.”

“Rather, pray for him, darling.  Bless him as the savior of your husband’s life, the noble fellow but for whom I should not have been here now, for he was a Unionist, as true to the old flag as Abraham himself,” Mark Ray replied; and then, as Helen looked wonderingly at him, he laid her head in an easier position upon his shoulder, and told her a story so strange in its details that but for the frequent occurrence of similar incidents it would be pronounced wholly unreal and false.