The man knelt beside Quincy and gazed at him earnestly. He looked up at Tom. “I could bless the man who fired that shot. My name is Quincy Adams Sawyer and this young man is my son!” Tom's surmise had been correct. Alice did not improve and a long stay at the Hospital became necessary before the return to England would be possible. “What's that noise, Babette?” asked Alice. “There must be a riot somewhere,” was the reply. “The soldiers are marching past. They are fighting in a street nearby.” Alice said no more. What had she to do with fighting and bloodshed? Her suffering was greater than any bullet could inflict. She fell into a doze from which she was awakened by a loud cry from Babette. “Oh, Madame, a carriage has just stopped here, and they are bringing a wounded man into the Hospital. There are two men with him--one looks like an Englishman or American.” “Go down, Babette, and see if you can find out who they are. I should be glad if I could be of help to one of my own countrymen.” It seemed a very long time before the maid returned. When she did, the usually self-confident Babette seemed dazed. She did not speak until her mistress asked: “Did you find out anything?” “Yes, Madame.” “What?” “They are all Americans, Madame. A young man and his friend; the older man is the father.” “The companion's?” “No, the young man's.” “Did you learn their names or where they are from?” Babette sank upon her knees by the bedside. “Oh, Madame, I am so happy.” Alice regarded her with astonishment. “Happy! Happy because a young man has been shot. You must have a bloodthirsty nature, Babette.” “It isn't the shooting, Madame. It's the name.” “The name? What name? You are nervous, Babette. You must lie down and rest. I keep you up too late nights reading and writing.” “Oh, Madame, how can I say it? Can you bear it?” “I have borne suspense for twenty-three years. I can bear much. What is it you would tell me?” “You know, Madame, I said the older man was the young man's father. They both have the same name.” “That's not uncommon, especially in America. The young man is called Junior. Sometimes when they are very proud of a family name they number them. Supposing my husband were living, and my son had a son, named after himself, the little boy would be Quincy Adams Sawyer 3rd.” “Madame, I must tell you. The father and the son bear the name of Quincy Adams Sawyer!” Alice regarded her as if affrighted. Then she leaped from the bed and cried: “Bring me my clothes, Babette. My husband and son! We three, brought together by the hand of God once more.” The revulsion was too great. The pent-up agony of twenty-three years dissolved in a moment. Alice fainted and fell into Babette's arms. CHAPTER XXV A PERIOD OF TWENTY-THREE YEARS