“It was here that I first met Dorothy”--he liked now the sound of her name in his ears--“on that glorious June morning when the hickory leaves that now strew the ground were in the full vigor of their first maturity. How confidently she whistled to her hounds, and how promptly they obeyed her call! What a queen she seemed as she disciplined them, and with what stately grace she passed me by without recognition save that implied in a sweeping inclination of her person! That was a bare five months ago! It seems five years, or fifty! How much I have lived since then! And how large a part of my living Dorothy has been!” Presently he turned and set off at a gallop on his return to the fever camp, his mien that of a strong man who has made up his mind. His plan of action was formed, and he was hastening to carry it out. It was growing dark when he arrived at the camp, and Dorothy met him with her report as to the condition of the sick. She took his hand as he dismounted, and held it between her own, as was her custom, quite unconscious of the nature of her own impulses. “I’m very tired, Cousin Arthur,” she said after her report was made. “The journey to Court and all the rest of it have wearied me; and I sat up with Sally last night. You’re glad she’s better, aren’t you?” “I certainly am,” he replied. “I feared yesterday for her life, but your nursing has saved her, just as it has saved so many others. Sally has passed the crisis now, and has nothing to do but obey you and get well.” He said this in a tone of perplexity and sadness, which Dorothy’s ears were quick to catch. “You’re tired too, Cousin Arthur?” she half said, half asked. “Oh, no. I’m never tired. I--” “Then you are troubled. You are unhappy, and you must never be that. You never deserve it. Tell me what it is! I won’t have you troubled or unhappy.” “I’m troubled about you, Dorothy. You’ve been over-straining your strength. There are dark shadows under your eyes, and your cheeks are wan and pale. You must rest and make up your lost sleep. Here, Dick! Go over to the great house and bring Chestnut for your Miss Dorothy, do you hear?” “No, no, no!” Dorothy answered quickly. “Don’t go, Dick. I do not want the mare. No, Cousin Arthur, I’m not going to quit my post. I only want to sleep now for an hour or two,--just to rest a little. The sick people can’t spare me now.” “But they must, Dorothy. I will not have you make yourself ill. You must go back to the great house tonight and get a good night’s rest. I’ll look after your sick people.” Dorothy loosened her hold of his hand, and retreated a step, looking reproachfully at him as she said: “Don’t you want me here, Cousin Arthur? Don’t you care?”