"Jack," you cried, "he shall not tell you first! I hadn’t got to that, General. Please let me tell it all to him, my own self." The General laughed and nodded, enjoying our happiness as if it were his own. "It is all too good, Jack," you went on, "but the President himself has appointed you a Colonel in the regular army. And see—we have saved it till you wakened—our dear old General and I—here is the message President McKinley sent when he heard you had led them from the Indiana’s deck to the rescue of the Regulars." Then you read the message yourself, with tremor and tears: "No more splendid exhibition of patriotism was ever shown than was shown a few days ago in the Philippines. That gallant Tennessee Regiment from our Southern border, that had been absent from home and family and friends for more than a year, and was embarked on the good ship _Indiana_ homeward bound—when the enemy attacked our forces remaining near Cebu, these magnificent soldiers disembarked from their ship, joined their comrades on the firing line and achieved a glorious triumph for American arms. That is an example of patriotism that should be an inspiration to duty to all of us in every part of our common country." "It is good of him," I said, "God bless him—the sweetest, gentlest man who ever sat in that chair. But if I get well I am going home and to my trees." But still the old General stood smiling, and I knew there was more to come. And, seeing it, you came over, smiling funnily yourself, and with little tears, too; and kneeling, you laid your face against mine. "Jack, forgive us, it was a mean thing to do, but you have been married a month to-day and don’t know it! But when we brought you here, you talked all right—though you were a little flighty—and begged so hard for me to marry you then—and—and—somebody had to sleep right here with you, nursing you day and night, for the surgeon said it would all be in the nursing and a mighty poor little chance at that—Jack—for it was a terrible blow, cutting to your brain—and you begged so—and—I didn’t want ever to leave you again while you lived, and after the Chaplain married us holding your hands in mine and kneeling here just as I am now—it looked as if marrying had killed you, Jack—you went down so quickly and deeply into the valley—and now to see you well—" You were crying in my arms. I could only kiss you, calling you wife. Then your old fun came back as of old. "It wasn’t a square deal, Jack—to take advantage of a sick man like that, and so, well—well, if you are willing we will call it all off and wait till we get back home where we will have a grand wedding at The Home Stretch; for I have been cheated out of my _trousseau_, and my honeymoon, my new shoes and the rice that ought to be in my back." "I have had make-believe enough," I said, kissing you again. "That marriage holds and is good enough for me."