s a farmer in that
sterile region would build for himself; but farmer and family were gone
long since, swept away by the tide of war, and their home was used for
other purposes.

Prescott knocked lightly at the door and Helen Harley opened it.

"Can the Colonel see me?" he asked.

"He will see any one if we let him," she replied.

"Then I am just 'any one'!"

"I did not say that," she replied with a smile.

She stood aside and Prescott entered the room, a bare place, the rude
log walls covered with neither lath nor plaster, yet not wholly lacking
in proof that woman was present. The scanty articles of furniture were
arranged with taste, and against the walls were tacked a few sheets from
last year's New York and London illustrated weeklies. Vincent Harley lay
on a pallet of blankets in the corner, a petulant look on his face.

"I'm glad to see you, Prescott," he said, "and then I'm not, because you
fill my soul with envy. Here I am, tied to these blankets, while you can
walk about and breathe God's air as you will. I wouldn't mind it so much
if I had got that bullet in a big battle, say like Gettysburg, but to be
knocked off one's horse as nice as you please in a beggarly little
skirmish. It's too much, I say."

"You ought to be thankful that the bullet, instead of putting you on the
ground, didn't put you under it," replied Prescott.

"Now, don't you try the pious and thankful dodge on me!" cried Harley.
"Helen does it now and then, but I stop her, even if I have to be
impolite to a lady. I wouldn't mind _your_ feelings at all."

His sister sat down on a camp stool. It was easy to see that she
understood her brother's temper and knew how to receive his outbursts.

"There you are again, Helen," he cried, seeing her look. "A smile like
that indicates a belief in your own superiority. I wish you wouldn't do
it. You hurt my vanity, and you are too good a sister for that."

Prescott laughed.

"I think you are getting well fast, Harley," he said. "You show too much
energy for an invalid."

"I wish the surgeon thought the same," replied Harley, "but that doctor
is feeble-minded; I know he is! Isn't he, Helen?"

"Perhaps he's keeping you here because he doesn't want us to beat the
Yankees too soon," she replied.

"Isn't it true, Prescott, that a man is always appreciated least by his
own family?" he asked.

He spoke as if in jest, but there was a trace of vanity, and Prescott
hesitated for a reply, not wis