On the third morning our two wounded friends were very much better. Justin especially, whose hurt was the least severe, felt his strength so much revived, and his wish to see Britomarte so urgent, that in the afternoon he arose and dressed himself and crept out into the cabin. Britomarte was seated with her elbow resting upon the center-table, and her forehead bowed upon her hands in deep thought. Justin came quietly to her side, and resting his hand upon the table, whispered softly: “Britomarte!” Like a deer she sprang up, her hands extended, her whole face beaming with joy, as she exclaimed: “Oh, Justin! I am so glad to see you! I have missed you so much! I wished to go and nurse you, but the doctor would not allow it. How is your wound? And oh! why did you conceal it from me?” “Dear Britomarte, I did not wish to distress you with groundless anxieties. My injury was slight. I am nearly well now; and I am more than repaid for my short confinement by the welcome you give me. But yourself? I hear that you have been a sister of mercy among the wounded. How have you borne the trial?” he inquired, looking down upon her with infinite tenderness and solicitude. “I have borne everything well, except your wound and your concealment of it from me. Oh, Justin!” “Well, well, dear sister, I am all right now—quite right,” he answered, smiling. But even as he spoke she saw his lips grow white, and a film pass over his eyes, but she governed her alarm, and said gently: “Justin, you must lie down—there on the sofa; hush! you must not speak. I will help you there, and I will get a book and sit down by you and read to you, but if you attempt to talk I will leave you.” “Well, I submit myself to you, my gentle nurse,” said Justin, willingly enough obeying her mandate, for he felt that he was not strong enough to sit up, or self-denying enough to leave Britomarte’s company. So she led him to the sofa and eased him gently down upon it, and arranged the cushions under his head and chest. Then she drew a chair to his side, and sat down to read to him. Her right hand held the book on her lap, her left hand lay softly on his forehead. She read purposely in a low, monotonous tone. Presently, as if her touch and tone were mesmeric, his eyes grew heavy, then closed. She shut her book, and continued to watch him until gradually her head drooped lower and lower, until her forehead rested on the arm of the sofa, and her beautiful, heavy, dark hair, slipping from its fastening, fell down and mingled with the auburn curls that shaded his pale forehead. Both were asleep. Judith came in and found them so. She stood contemplating them a few minutes, and then her Irish enthusiasm burst forth.