t as white as Helen's, while her eyes acquired that restless,
watchful, anxious look which has crept into the eyes of so many
sorrowing women, looking away to the southward, where the dear ones were
languishing in the filthy rebel holes, unworthy the name of prison.

CHAPTER LI.

DR. GRANT.

Morris had served out his time as surgeon in the army, had added to it
an extra six months, and by his humanity, his skill and Christian
kindness, made for himself a name which would be long remembered by the
living to whom he had ministered so carefully, while many a dying
soldier had blessed him for pointing out the way which leadeth to the
life everlasting, and in many a mourning family his name was a household
word for the good he had done to a dying son and brother. But Morris'
hospital work was over. He had gone a little too far, incurring too much
risk, until his own strength had failed from long-continued toil, and
now in the month of June, when Linwood was bright with the early summer
blossoms, he was coming back, with health greatly impaired and a dark
cloud before his vision, so that he could not see how beautiful his home
was looking, or gaze into the faces of those who waited so anxiously to
welcome again their beloved physician. Blind, some said he was, but the
few lines sent to Helen announcing the day of his arrival contradicted
that report. His eyes were very much diseased, his amanuensis wrote, but
he trusted that the pure air of his native hills and the influence of
old scenes and associations would soon effect a cure. If not too much
trouble, he added, please see that the house is made comfortable, and
have John meet me on Friday at the station.

Helen had just returned from New York, where she could not remain any
longer, for the scenes of gayety in which she was sometimes compelled to
mingle were utterly distasteful to her, and she longed for the seclusion
of the farmhouse and the quiet there is among the hills. She was glad
Morris was coming home, for he always did her good; he could comfort her
better than any other, unless it were Katy, whose loving, gentle words
of hope were very soothing to her.

"Poor Morris!" she sighed, as she finished his letter, and then took it
to the family sitting upon the pleasant piazza, which, at Katy's expense
and her own, had been added to the house, overlooking Fairy Pond and the
pleasant hills beyond.

"Morris is coming home," she said, as Aunt Betsy asked: "Wh