Two pistol shots had been discharged from the enemy, Washington now recollected, immediately after Albert had fired. On examination, one ball was found in the arm of our hero. The other had perforated the coat, immediately over the heart. “He is dead,” cried the leader, “that second shot has touched a vital part.” He tore away the garments as he spoke, but uttered a cry of joy when he exposed the chest, for there, right over the heart, lay a miniature, which had stopped the ball. Washington looked at the picture, and muttered, “Ha! I have heard of this—and now I will see if I cannot serve my young friend a good turn.” CHAPTER III. Marry never for houses, nor marry for lands, Nor marry for nothing but only love. FAMILY QUARRELS. When our hero, after a long interval of unconsciousness, opened his eyes, he found himself, to his surprise, in a large and elegantly furnished apartment, entirely strange to him. He pulled aside the curtains of his bed with his uninjured arm, and looked out. An aged female servant sat watching him. “What massa want?” she said. “How did I get here?” he asked. “Captain Washington heself left you here, massa, after de great battle. De surgeon staid to dress your arm, and den follow arter de troops, who had lick de red-coats, dey say, all to pieces.” “Yes! I know—then the army has pursued its march to the Catawba.” “It hab, massa; and you be to stay here till you well.” “But where am I?” The old negro woman smiled till she showed all her teeth. “You no know, massa?” “I do not.” “You forgit me, Massa Albert—me, Missus Ellen’s maman?” “Good God!” cried our hero, scarcely believing his senses, and scrutinizing her features, “can it be? You are indeed she. And this is Mr. Thorndike’s house.” He had started up in bed, and was now confronted by the figure of the owner of the mansion himself, who entered at an opposite door; but who, instead of wearing the angry air which Albert had last seen upon him, smiled kindly upon him. “I was passing along the corridor,” he said, seating himself on the bedside familiarly, and taking the hand of his wounded guest, “and hearing your voice, learned for the first time that you were awake. Accordingly I made bold to enter, in order to assure you of a welcome. When we last parted, Mr. Scott,” he said, noticing our hero’s look of astonishment, “it was with ill-feeling on both sides. Let all that be forgotten. Whatever I may have said then I now recall. In saving the life of Capt. Washington, who is my dearest friend, you have laid me under infinite obligations, and at his request I have consented to overlook the past, and to give you my daughter. I only make a single stipulation, which is that you will not ask her hand until this war is over, which,” he added, lowering his voice, “can not be long, now that things have begun to go so auspiciously.”