The window at which Dorothea sat looked out upon the side porch, but as she heard Corinne come into the house and hurry through it toward the rear, she rose and crossed the room to get a view of the wounded man. He was sitting with his back to her, a forlorn, shabby figure, that seemed shrunken with pain and suffering. Again she had the impulse to go out to him and at least say a word of what was in her heart; but she restrained herself, knowing that Corinne would be displeased to find her there till after she had ministered to the man herself. But, as Dorothea watched, she saw that the stranger’s head suddenly turned sharply right and left as if he looked about him. In a moment he straightened up and then, to her amazement, jumped noiselessly to his feet and, without a trace of lameness, tiptoed to the edge of the porch, evidently looking around to see how the land lay. Instantly the girl realized that this was no ordinary wounded soldier—that, as a matter of fact, the man was not wounded at all—and that all the suffering he seemed to show was a sham. And she grew indignant. He was, in all probability, a deserter, pretending that he was wounded in order to escape the risks his fellows were forced to run, and at the same time trading upon the sympathies of those who might better have saved their charities for more worthy objects. “He doesn’t deserve food that might be given to really suffering soldiers,” she thought, and was about to run out to the kitchen to tell Corinne what she had seen. But before she had taken a step the man turned and faced her through the window. With a catch of her breath she recognized him at once. It was Larry Stanchfield! He was unkempt and none too clean. A two days’ growth of beard would have disguised his features from his friends; but he had been like that when Dorothea had last seen him and there was no doubt in her mind as to who he was. She stopped abruptly and Stanchfield, seeing her through the window and recognizing her, lifted his hand and beckoned her to come out to him. When Dorothea reached the porch, he was back in his chair, once more the crippled Confederate soldier. “What are you doing here?” she asked in a whisper. “I am about to be fed against my will,” he answered, with a grin. “The young lady insisted that I must be taken care of. She met me on the road and would have it that I come here and be stuffed, although I told her I needed nothing.” “Then why did you come?” demanded Dorothea. “Because if I had been too insistent she would have been suspicious,” he answered. “I venture to think that there are not many Rebel soldiers, wounded as badly as I am, who would protest at being taken care of by a charming young lady. And I don’t want to be shot, you know. I’ve more important matters to attend to.” His voice was low but there was a reckless boyishness about it that contrasted strangely with his appearance.