ot happen.

Raising his head in her arms, she rested it upon her knee, moistening
his lips with water that she carried in a flask. She was a strong woman,
both physically and mentally, far beyond the average of her sex, and now
she would not yield to any emotion. No; she would do what it was
necessary to do, and not until then would she even put her finger upon
his wrist to find if the pulse were still beating.

The wound was on the side of the head, under the hair, and she
remembered afterward how glad she was that the scar would always be
hidden by the hair. Strong enough to examine the nature of the injury,
she judged that it had been done by a fragment of shell, and she
believed that the concussion and loss of blood, rather than any fatal
wound, had caused Prescott's fall.

As she drew away the hair, washed the wound and bound it up with a strip
from her own dress, she was filled with a divine gladness. Not only was
she doing that which she wished most to do, but she was making
repayment. He would have died there had she not found him, and no one
else would have found him in that lone spot.

Not yet did she seek to move him or to bring help. She would have him to
herself for awhile--would watch over him like a mother, and she could do
as much as any surgeon. She was glad Helen and the other woman had
turned aside, for she alone had found him. No one else could claim a
share in saving him. He was for the time hers and hers alone, and in
this she rejoiced.

As his pulse was growing stronger she knew that he would live. No doubt
of it now occurred to her mind, and she was still happy. The battle of
the day that was gone and of the day that was to come, and all the
thousands, the living and the fallen, were alike forgotten. She
remembered only him.

Again came the tramp of riderless horses, and for a moment she was in
dread--not for herself, but for him--but again they turned and passed
her by. When the low, threatening note of the cannon shot came once more
she trembled lest the battle be renewed in the darkness and surge over
this spot; but silence only followed the report. Misty forms filed past
in the thicket. They were in blue, a regiment of her own people passing
in the darkness. She crouched low in the grass, holding his head upon
her knees, hiding again, not for herself, but for him. She would not
have him a prisoner, but preferred to become one herself, and cared
nothing for it. This was repayment. His p