“This is an ugly wound,” said the first, noticing the dry blood, “here, take his feet, Hall, let’s get him to the surgeon’s. He stayed behind to beat the drum, didn’t he? Brave little chap, I suppose the devils found and shot him.” Very slowly and tenderly the men bore their burden to the rough field hospital, and the surgeons in attendance, after a hasty examination, said quietly: “The boy is done for; make him comfortable over yonder, there is nothing else to do for him, poor fellow.” Their hands were too full to permit of them wasting time over uncertain cases. So it was that Robert was laid upon a rough cot, covered with a coarse blanket and left to pass out of life as calmly as he might. One of the surgeons, however, did not forget him. He was a young man, full of ambition and was to return in a week to Philadelphia with a record of bravery and courage to cheer him during his furlough of rest. As he went about his duties, Shirtliffe’s white face haunted him, “There might be a chance for the boy,” he thought, “as soon as I can I will take a look at him again.” The opportunity came late at night, and then as quickly as he could he sought the bed upon which Robert lay. A nurse in passing saw him pause, and stopped to say, “Bob’s gone, Doctor Bell.” The surgeon bent over the cot. A smoking lamp shed a yellow light over the fair face on the coarse pillow. Fair it was, but not with death’s pallor. No breath seemed to come through the closed lips, however, and Doctor Bell put his hand over his heart. Then with a start he drew back! The nurse had gone on, he was alone! Again he bent close. A faint flutter stirred against his hand, and _under a bandage bound firmly around the body_! Doctor Bell rose to his feet. “Nurse,” he said sharply, “help me bear this—boy—to my tent, I’m going to save—him!” It was the hardest struggle the young surgeon ever had. He gave up the long looked for furlough, and beside his other duties cared for and watched the boy in whom he had grown so interested. No hand but his operated on the ghastly wound, or touched the suffering body afterward. For two days Shirtliffe knew not what was passing around him, but on the third day at sunset he became conscious. Doctor Bell was beside him, his finger upon the weak pulse. As memory returned a puzzled, then a horrified expression grew upon Robert’s face. His eyes fastened themselves upon the physician’s bowed head, and a tremor shook him like a chill. “What will become of me?” he groaned. “Nothing;” the calm voice filled the quiet place. “Get well now, as soon as you can be moved I am going to take you to my mother!” “But, but—” “It is all right. Trust me.”