e was in need of.

Then a voice at the door said timidly, yet eagerly,--"Mamma,
come--Charlie wants you."

The ladies vanished, leaving the doctor in charge.

Hervey soon gathered that they were at a farm-house near Columbus, Ohio;
that Charlie had a broken leg, that his mother and sister, along with
the others who had escaped injury, were stopping over to render service
to the wounded.

"Who are they?" he asked, curiosity getting the better of his pain.

"I think the name is Raynor," said the doctor; "Mrs. Raynor, Miss
Eloise, and the youth, whose leg we set this morning. But say, young
man, where are your people? Don't you want some telegrams sent? You are
not likely to get away from here very soon."

Young Leslie groaned as he gave his father's address at Cincinnati, then
exclamed;--"See here, doctor, can't you stop this confounded pain? What
the deuce is the matter, anyway? Do get me out of this."

The doctor gave him a soothing potion and bade him be quiet. He promised
to send a nurse, then went to look after the more slightly injured
patients.

Three weeks later found Hervey Leslie in dressing-gown and slippers,
setting beside Miss Eloise Raynor under a large shade tree, the young
lady reading aloud from Tennyson's tender rhymes. At an open window in
full view lay Charlie, still a prisoner, with his mother in close
attendance.

Mr. Leslie had paid several visits, and assured his son that the only
way in which he could repay him for postponing the wedding till he
should be well enough to witness it, was by becoming reconciled to his
new mother. At which the son smiled, for something had of late come over
the spirit of his dream that predisposed him singularly in favor of
weddings. A sort of low fever hung about him, which made it prudent
for him to remain in the country; and he rather fixed the time of his
departure when Charlie's leg should justify the whole party's leaving.

The young girl and her mother blamed themselves for his hurt and had
paid him every kindly attention. He had gathered the story of the petted
daughter, and in his enfeebled state their acquaintance made rapid
progress. Even now it required no acute observer to surmise the ravages
of the little god. No one interfered, and for once the course of true
love seemed to glide smoothly on.

He had confessed his aversion to to the prospective mother, and
endeavored to elicit sympathy by picturing to young Eloise what it would
be to have