unless devoted to
noble ends. I thank God that I live in this age, for there never has
been so great an opportunity to do good. The heroes of all ages, those
who have toiled and suffered to make the world better, are looking down
from the past to see if I am worthy to be of their number. I can see the
millions yet to come beckoning me to do my duty for their sake. They
will judge me. What answer can I give them if I falter?"

Thus in her sorrow Azalia found some comfort in looking at the faded
flowers, and in reflecting that he had not faltered in the hour of
trial, but had proved himself worthy to be numbered with the heroic
dead.

CHAPTER XIX.

WHAT BECAME OF A TRAITOR.

But Paul was not dead. He was in the hands of the enemy. He had been
taken up from the battle-field while unconscious, put into an ambulance,
and carried with other wounded to a Rebel hospital.

"We can't do anything for this Yankee," said one of the surgeons who
looked at his wound.

"No, he will pop off right soon, I reckon," said another; and Paul was
left to live or die, as it might be.

When he awoke from his stupor he found himself in an old barn, lying on
a pile of straw. He was weak and faint, and suffered excruciating pain.
The Rebel soldier had stolen his coat, and he had no blanket to protect
him from the cold night-winds. He was helpless. His flesh was hot, his
lips were parched. A fever set in, his flesh wasted away, and his eyes
became wild, glassy, and sunken. Week after week he lay powerless to
help himself, often out of his head and talking of home, or imagining
he was in battle. How long the days! how lonesome the nights! But he had
a strong constitution, and instead of "popping off," as the surgeon
predicted, began to get well. Months passed, of pain and agony and weary
longing. It was sweet relief when he was able to creep out and sit in
the warm sunshine.

One day a Rebel lieutenant, wearing a gay uniform trimmed with gold
lace, came past him. Paul saw that he had been drinking liquor, for he
could not walk straight.

"Why don't you salute me, you Yankee villain?" said the fellow,
stopping.

Paul was startled at the voice, looked the lieutenant in the face, and
saw that it was Philip Funk. His face was bloated, and his eyes
bloodshot. When he fled from New Hope after robbing Mr. Bond, he made
his way south, joined the Rebels, and was now a lieutenant. Paul was so
changed by sickness that Philip did not recogn