“Not a vestige of remembrance,” murmured the captain to himself, “this is, indeed, sad.” Then nerving himself for the occasion, he said aloud and with marked firmness, “Lieutenant Stanton, dress yourself; put on your clothes, citizen’s though they be, and I will undertake to clear up the mystery.” The wounded man stared vacantly at the captain for a moment, and then began mechanically to dress himself in silence, and, before Captain Osborn could intercept him, he approached a large French plate mirror. “Hold on,” cried the captain, but it was too late. The wounded man, with his bandaged head, had seen his reflection in the glass. “Great God! What is this?” he exclaimed, starting back in amazement. “This beard streaked with gray. My God! What am I? Where am I?” and he sank back into a chair, overcome with confusion and mystery. Captain Osborn hastily opened a drawer of a desk and took from it an old daguerreotype, and, approaching him, said, “Do you recognize this?” “Oh, yes,” said he, after a moment’s scrutiny, “indeed, this is my captain, Captain Osborn of the Twenty-ninth, the warmest friend of my boyhood, and as brave a man as ever wore the blue.” “My dear Stanton,” said the captain, “you are right in saying that it is a likeness of Captain Osborn; you are correct also in saying that he was your warmest friend; not only was, but is to this day. I am Captain Lyman Osborn.” “What!” shouted the wounded man, starting up. “No, no; impossible! You may be the captain’s father or grandfather, but you’re not the captain of my company.” “Yes, my dear friend,” said Captain Osborn, laying a hand gently on either shoulder of the patient, who had risen from his chair, “the war has been over a long time—over twenty years. I am now an old man, and so are you.” The captain’s gentle embrace seemed to soothe and subdue the listener. “More than twenty-five years have intervened since that engagement at Bethel Church, when you received that terrible wound on your head. You were captured by the enemy and nursed back to life among strangers, but the unnatural pressure of a misplaced bone disturbed your memory, leaving your previous life a blank. Your friends supposed you were dead, but I thank God you are not. You had forgotten your name, and in some way substituted the name of John B. Horton.” The rich cattle owner gazed speechlessly into the captain’s face as he made this wonderful revelation. He glanced hastily over his shoulder at the mirror, and seemed to realize the truth of all that he had heard, and his hand unconsciously stole into the captain’s. “But my wife, Captain, my wife and little Hugh?” The captain was silent. “Come, Captain Osborn, if it is really true as you state, don’t trifle with me, don’t keep me in suspense. My darling wife, my little boy,—tell me of them.” He clasped the captain’s hand in both his own, as if he were beginning to believe and trust him.