and he had gone away indignant.  He thought Mr. Hayne too bumptious to live; but he bore no malice, and his wrath was soon over.  Many of the cavalry officers called in person and tendered their services, and were very civilly received, but all offers were positively declined.  Just what the infantry officers should do was a momentous question.  That they could no longer hold aloof was a matter that was quickly settled, and three of their number went through the chill gloaming of the wintry eve and sent in their cards by Sam, who ushered them into the cheerless front room, while one of their number followed to the door-way which led to the room in rear, in which, still confined to his bed by the doctor’s advice, the injured officer was lying.  It was Mr. Ross who went to the door and cleared his throat and stood in the presence of the man to whom, more than five years before, he had refused his hand.  The others listened anxiously: 

“Mr. Hayne, this is Ross.  I come with Foster and Graham to say how deeply we regret your injuries, and to tender our sympathy and our services.”

There was a dead silence for a moment.  Foster and Graham stood with hearts that beat unaccountably hard, looking at each other in perplexity.  Would he never reply?

The answer came at last,—­a question: 

“To what injuries do you allude, Mr. Ross?”

Even in the twilight they could see the sudden flush of the Scotchman’s cheek.  He was a blunt fellow, but, as the senior, had been chosen spokesman for the three.  The abrupt question staggered him.  It was a second or two before he could collect himself.

“I mean the injuries at the fire,” he replied.

This time, no answer whatever.  It was growing too painful.  Ross looked in bewilderment at the bandaged face, and again broke the silence: 

“We hope you won’t deny us the right to be of service, Mr. Hayne.  If there is anything we can do that you need, or would like—­” hesitatingly.

“You have nothing further to say?” asked the calm voice from the pillow.

“I—­don’t know what else we can say,” faltered Ross, after an instant’s pause.

The answer came, firm and prompt, but icily cool: 

“Then there is nothing that you can do.”

And the three took their departure, sore at heart.

There were others of the infantry who had purposed going to see Hayne that evening, but the story of Ross’s experience put an end to it all.  It was plain that even now Mr. Hayne made the condition of the faintest advance from his regimental comrades a full confession of error.  He would have no less.

That evening the colonel sat by his bedside and had an earnest talk.  He ventured to expostulate with the invalid on his refusal to go to the major’s or to Stannard’s.  He could have so many comforts and delicacies there that would be impossible here.  He did not refer to edibles and drinkables alone, he said, with a smile; but Hayne’s patient face gave no sign of relenting.  He heard the colonel through, and then said, slowly and firmly,—­