But such a starved and wretched set of ragamuffins they looked, that the conductor of the train, when it came, distrusted them, and refused to take them on until they had told and proved their story. Such was the account of the picnic party given by the old farmer to Elfie. “But there was one of their number who was hurt—a young man—a little man with light hair and blue eyes. Do you know anything about him?” inquired Elfie. “Oh, yes,” answered the old farmer, quickly. “Oh, yes he was very badly hurt, indeed. They brought him here on an old door, two men supporting him in front, and two behind. And they put him on the train, and took him on to the city with them.” “Do you—do you—think that he was dangerously hurt?” breathlessly inquired Elfie. “Well, Miss, I should think he was. His skull was fractured.” “Oh, Heaven of Heavens! I hope not—I earnestly hope not! Did you—did you hear anything of him afterwards?” said Elfie, clasping her hands tightly, as if she were rather entreating a favorable answer than asking for a true one. “No, Miss, I never heard a breath of him afterwards. Was he a relation or friend of yours?” “Oh, no—only an acquaintance of a few weeks. But I _would_ like to know his fate.” “Well, then, Miss, seeing that he is not a relation of yours, nor likewise a very intimate friend, I might as well be frank with you. I don’t think he could have got over that hurt. You see he was very badly hurt. His skull was fractured. And he had laid all night without a doctor’s assistance. And he was quite insensible when he was brought here next morning. You wouldn’t have known he was alive if you hadn’t put your ear down close to his mouth; so faint and low was his breathing. And then, you see, there was that long journey back to Washington. All enough to kill him. Everything against him. And he such a little bit of a fellow. And so I don’t think it possible he could have got over it,” said the farmer. “Oh, Mim! dear Mim! it was all for my sake! And if you really are killed I shall break my heart! I know I shall!” cried Elfie, wringing her hands and weeping. “Miss Fielding,” said Adjutant Wing, “there is good hope to believe that the young man is not killed. While I was a prisoner in Monck’s camp I got hold of a morning paper in which the return of the picnic party was chronicled, and young Mim mentioned as ‘seriously’ injured. ‘Seriously,’ mind; not _dangerously_. And newspaper paragraphs seldom or never _understate_ a thing.” “That is very true, Adjutant, and very hopeful,” said Elfie, wiping her eyes; “very hopeful; but I wish I was assured of his safety.” “You will be so, I trust, in a very few hours. The train will be here at six, and you will be in Washington before ten,” said Wing. The old farmer’s hospitable wife was busy preparing as good an evening meal as her limited means allowed her to get up for her guests.