of the bitter bygone hovered no longer over the
features, darkening their chiselled perfection; a tranquil half-smile
parted the lips, and unbent the lines between the finely-arched black
brows.

Sinking softly on the floor of the tent, Irene rested her chin on her
folded hands, and calmly watched the deep sleep. So passed three-quarters
of an hour; then, as Dr. Arnold cautiously put his fingers on the pulse,
the sufferer opened his eyes.

Irene was partially in the shade, but as she leaned forward, a sudden,
bewildered smile lighted his countenance; he started up, and extended one
arm.

"Irene! My darling! Do I dream, or are you indeed with me?"

"I have come to nurse you, Russell; but if you do not calm yourself, the
doctor will send me away."

She took the outstretched hand in both of hers, and pressed her lips
repeatedly upon it.

"Come close to me. I am helpless now, and cannot go to you."

She seated herself on the edge of the straw, laid her shawl in her lap, and
lifting his head, rested it on the soft woollen folds. Dr. Arnold removed
the warm cloth soaked with blood, placed a cold, dripping towel on the
gaping wound, and after tightening the bandages to check the haemorrhage,
passed out of the tent, leaving the two alone.

"Oh, Irene! this is a joy I never hoped for. I went at night to the
hospital in Richmond just to get a glimpse of you--to feast my eyes with
another sight of your dear, dear face! I watched you ministering like an
angel to sick and wounded soldiers, and I envied them the touch of your
hand--the sound of your voice. I little expected to die in your arms. This
reconciles me to my fate; this compensates for all."

Her fingers tenderly smoothed the black locks that clung to his temples,
and bending down she kissed his forehead. His uninjured arm stole up
around her neck, drew her face to his, and his lips pressed hers again and
again.

"Dear Russell, you must be quiet, or you will exhaust yourself. Try to
sleep--it will refresh, strengthen you."

"Nothing will strengthen me. I have but a short time to live; shall I sleep
away the opportunity of my last earthly communion with you, my life-long
idol! Oh, Irene! my beautiful treasure! This proof of your love sweetens
death itself. There have been hours (ever since we parted a year ago) when
I reproached you for the sorrow and pain you sternly meted out to me, and
to yourself. When I said bitterly, _if_ she loved as she should, she would