some time, and then suddenly said: "I am one of
Morgan's hated officers, and yet you are caring for me as for a brother.
What makes you do it?"

"Why shouldn't I?" said Joyce; "I have a dear brother in the army. I am
only doing by you as I would have him done by, if he should fall wounded.
And then--" Joyce stopped; she could not tell him it was her brother who
had shot him.

A great light came to Calhoun. "Joyce! Joyce!" he cried, "I now
understand. It was your brother who shot me."

"Oh! forgive him! forgive him!" cried Joyce. "He told me it was to save
his own life that he did it."

"Why, Joyce, there is nothing to forgive. Your brother is a brave, a
gallant officer. Then he has been here?"

"Yes, and knew you. He bade me nurse you as I would nurse him in like
condition."

"Just like a brave soldier; but are there none who find fault with my
being here treated like a prince?"

"Yes, one. His name is Andrew Harmon. It was his horse you were riding
when you came here. He seems to hate you, and is doing all he can to have
you taken to Columbus. He says you treated him most brutally when he was
captured."

"I did kick him," answered Calhoun, laughing; "he was on the ground
bellowing like a baby. I never saw a more abject coward. I kicked him and
told him to get up."

"He has a different story," said Joyce, smiling; and then she told the
wonderful story of Harmon's capture as related by himself.

"His capacity for lying is equalled only by his cowardice," said Calhoun,
indignantly.

"Yet he is a man to be feared," said Joyce, "for he is rich and has
influence, although every one knows him to be a coward."

The days that passed were the happiest Calhoun had ever spent. He told
Joyce of his Kentucky home, of his cousin Fred, how noble and true he was,
and of his own adventures in raiding with Morgan. She never tired of
listening. Is it strange that these two hearts were drawn close to each
other. They lived in a sweet dream--a dream which did not look to the
future. But almost unknown to them Cupid had come and shot his shafts, and
they had gone true.

The day came when Calhoun was able to be placed in an easy-chair and drawn
to an open window. It was a proud day to him, yet it was the beginning of
sorrow. The Doctor came and congratulated him on his improvement.

"Doctor Hopkins, how can I thank you for your kindness?" he said; "you
have done so much for me."

"You need not thank me, thank that young la