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,--

"I have not acted hastily, sir: I appreciate their kindness, and am not
ungrateful. Five years ago my whole life was changed. From that time to
this I have done without a host of things that used to be indispensable,
and have abjured them one and all for a single luxury that I cannot live
without,--the luxury of utter independence,--the joy of knowing that I
owe no man anything,--the blessing of being beholden to no one on earth
for a single service I cannot pay for. It is the one luxury left me."

VII.

It was a clear winter's evening, sharply cold, about a week after the
fire, when, as Mrs. Rayner came down the stairway equipped for a walk,
and was passing the parlor door without stopping, Miss Travers caught
sight of an