than
once. Then he stayed behind when we marched through Washington--a thing
he never satisfactorily explained to me--and I had serious thoughts of
relieving him at Frederick and appointing you to act in his stead. Now
the fortune of war has settled both questions. Hollins is missing, and
you are a captain or will be within the month. Have you heard from
Wendell?"

"His arm is gone, sir; amputated above the elbow; and he has decided to
resign. Foster commands the company, but I shall go forward just as soon
as the doctor will let me."

"We'll go together. He says I can stand the ride in ten days or two
weeks, but neither of your wounds has healed yet. How's the leg? That
must have been a narrow squeak."

"No bones were touched, sir. It was only that I lost so much blood from
the two. It was the major who reported me to you as dangerously wounded,
was it not?"

"Yes; but when he left you there seemed to be very little chance. You
were senseless and exhausted, and with two rifle bullets through you
what was to be expected? He couldn't tell that they happened to graze no
artery, and the surgeon was too busy elsewhere."

"It gave them a scare at home," said Abbot, smiling; "and my father and
sister were on the point of starting for Washington when I managed to
send word to them that the wounds were slight. I want to get back to the
regiment before they find out that they were comparatively serious,
because the family will be importuning the Secretary of War to send me
home on leave."

"And any man of your age, with such a home, and a sweetheart, ought to
be eager to go. Why not go, Abbot? There will be no more fighting for
months now; McClellan has let them slip. You could have a fortnight in
Boston as well as not, and wear your captain's bars for the first time.
I fancy I know how proud Miss Winthrop would be to sew them on for you."

The colonel is leaning against the trunk of a spreading oak-tree as he
speaks. The sun is down, and twilight closing around them. Mr. Abbot,
who had somewhat wearily reseated himself on the rude wooden bench a
moment before, has turned gradually away from the speaker during these
words, and is gazing down the beautiful valley. Lights are beginning to
twinkle here and there in the distance, and the gleam of one or two tiny
fires tells of other camps not far away. A dim mist of dust is rising
from the highroad close to the stream, and a quaint old Maryland
cabriolet, drawn by a venera