"What you doin'?" demanded its owner. "Better let glass 'lone; fool' wid him enough." Mary flushed, and, with a smile of resentful apology, was about to reply, when he continued:-- "What you want glass for? Dare Peter' schooner--right dare in bayou. What want glass for? Can't see schooner hundred yard' off 'dout glass?" And he turned away his poor wabbling head in disgust. Mary looked an instant at two bare, rakish, yellow poles showing out against the clump of cypresses, and the trim little white hull and apple-green deck from which they sprang, then clasped her hands and ran into the house. CHAPTER LVIII. A GOLDEN SUNSET. Dr. Sevier came to Richling's room one afternoon, and handed him a sealed letter. The postmark was blurred, but it was easy still to read the abbreviation of the State's name,--Kentucky. It had come by way of New York and the sea. The sick man reached out for it with avidity from the large bed in which he sat bolstered up. He tore it open with unsteady fingers, and sought the signature. "It's from a lawyer." "An old acquaintance?" asked the doctor. "Yes," responded Richling, his eyes glancing eagerly along the lines. "Mary's in the Confederate lines!--Mary and Alice!" The hand that held the letter dropped to his lap. "It doesn't say a word about how she got through!" "But _where_ did she get through?" asked the physician. "Whereabouts is she now?" "She got through away up to the eastward of Corinth, Mississippi. Doctor, she may be within fifty miles of us this very minute! Do you think they'll give her a pass to come in?" "They may, Richling; I hope they will." "I think I'd get well if she'd come," said the invalid. But his friend made no answer. A day or two afterward--it was drawing to the close of a beautiful afternoon in early May--Dr. Sevier came into the room and stood at a window looking out. Madame Zenobie sat by the bedside softly fanning the patient. Richling, with his eyes, motioned her to retire. She smiled and nodded approvingly, as if to say that that was just what she was about to propose, and went out, shutting the door with just sound enough to announce her departure to Dr. Sevier. He came from the window to the bedside and sat down. The sick man looked at him, with a feeble eye, and said, in little more than a whisper:-- "Mary and Alice"-- "Yes," said the Doctor. "If they don't come to-night they'll be too late." "God knows, my dear boy!" "Doctor"-- "What, Richling?" "Did you ever try to guess"-- "Guess what, Richling?" "_His_ use of my life." "Why, yes, my poor boy, I have tried. But I only make out its use to me." The sick man's eye brightened. "Has it been?" The Doctor nodded. He reached out and took the wasted hand in his. It tried to answer his pressure. The invalid spoke. "I'm glad you told me that before--before it was too late." "Are you, my dear boy? Shall I tell you more?" "Yes," the sick man huskily replied; "oh, yes."