es the old gentleman steps forward towards
Abbot, who is slowly rising from the bench. He, too, courteously raises
his forage cap. In a moment both the doctor's hands have clasped the
thin, white hand that leans so heavily on the stick.

"My dear young friend!" he says. "My gallant boy! Thank God it is not
what we feared!" and his eyes are filling, his lip is trembling
painfully.

"You are very kind, sir," says Abbot, vaguely, "I am doing quite well."
Then he pauses. There is such yearning and--something he cannot fathom
in the old man's face. He feels that he is expected to say still
more--that this is not the welcome looked for. "I beg a thousand
pardons, sir, perhaps I did not catch the name aright. Did you say
Doctor Warren?"

"Certainly, B--Guthrie Warren's father--you remember?" and the look in
the sad old eyes is one of strange perplexity. "I cannot thank you half
enough for all you have written of my boy."

And still there is no sign of recognition in Abbot's face. He is
courteous, sympathetic, but it is all too evident that there is
something grievously lacking.

"I fear there is some mistake," he gently says; "I have no recollection
of knowing or writing of any one of that name."

"Mistake! Good God! How can there be?" is the gasping response. The
tired old eyes are ablaze with grief, bewilderment, and dread
commingled. "Surely this is Lieutenant Paul Revere Abbot--of the--th
Massachusetts."

"It certainly is, doctor, but--"

"It surely is your photograph we have: surely you wrote to--to us all
this last year--letter after letter about my boy--my Guthrie."

There is an instant of silence that is almost agonizing. The colonel
stands like one in a state of shock. The old doctor, trembling from
head to foot, looks with almost piteous entreaty; with anguish and
incredulity, and half-awakened wrath, into the pale and distressed
features of the young soldier.

"I bitterly grieve to have to tell you, sir," is the sorrowful answer,
"but I know no such name. I have written no such letters."

Another instant, and the old man has dropped heavily upon the bench, and
buried his face in his arms. But for the colonel he might have fallen
prone to earth.

II.

An hour after sundown and the rattling old cabriolet has two occupants
as it drives back to town. Colonel Putnam comes forth with the old
gentleman whom he had so tenderly conducted to the farmhouse but a few
moments after the strange scene out