yed him to the nearest settlement, which chanced
to be that of his own residence.

Dorcas, in the simplicity of the olden time, watched by the bedside of
her wounded lover, and administered all those comforts that are in the
sole gift of woman's heart and hand. During several days Reuben's
recollection strayed drowsily among the perils and hardships through
which he had passed, and he was incapable of returning definite answers
to the inquiries with which many were eager to harass him. No authentic
particulars of the battle had yet been circulated; nor could mothers,
wives, and children tell whether their loved ones were detained by
captivity or by the stronger chain of death. Dorcas nourished her
apprehensions in silence till one afternoon when Reuben awoke from an
unquiet sleep, and seemed to recognize her more perfectly than at any
previous time. She saw that his intellect had become composed, and she
could no longer restrain her filial anxiety.

"My father, Reuben?" she began; but the change in her lover's
countenance made her pause.

The youth shrank as if with a bitter pain, and the blood gushed vividly
into his wan and hollow cheeks. His first impulse was to cover his
face; but, apparently with a desperate effort, he half raised himself
and spoke vehemently, defending himself against an imaginary accusation.

"Your father was sore wounded in the battle, Dorcas; and he bade me not
burden myself with him, but only to lead him to the lakeside, that he
might quench his thirst and die. But I would not desert the old man in
his extremity, and, though bleeding myself, I supported him; I gave him
half my strength, and led him away with me. For three days we journeyed
on together, and your father was sustained beyond my hopes, but,
awaking at sunrise on the fourth day, I found him faint and exhausted;
he was unable to proceed; his life had ebbed away fast; and--"

"He died!" exclaimed Dorcas, faintly.

Reuben felt it impossible to acknowledge that his selfish love of life
had hurried him away before her father's fate was decided. He spoke
not; he only bowed his head; and, between shame and exhaustion, sank
back and hid his face in the pillow. Dorcas wept when her fears were
thus confirmed; but the shock, as it had been long anticipated, was on
that account the less violent.

"You dug a grave for my poor father in the wilderness, Reuben?" was the
question by which her filial piety manifested itself.

"My hands wer