In a few days Shirtliffe’s splendid constitution regained its tone, and he began to improve rapidly. Then Doctor Bell further surprised those who had time to observe him by giving up his comparatively comfortable quarters to the lad he had saved from death. How Robert appreciated this considerate act, no one but himself could know. To meet the surgeon as seldom as he now did, was torture untold. He knew that he must speak, but day after day he put off the painful task. At the close of the second week, one day, Doctor Bell came in to make his accustomed call; he saw at a glance that Shirtliffe had reached the uttermost bound of endurance and with a courtesy for which his memory should be enshrined, he took the boy’s thin feverish fingers and said simply: “Your bravery and courage must win the respect of all. You have served your country nobly. Why you entered the army under a false name, you best know, I respect your reasons and thank you for the service you have rendered.” Robert bowed his head and wept over the friendly hand. “And now,” the sympathetic voice sank lower, “what may I call you?” “Just Debby Mason!” For a moment not a sound broke the silence but the sobs from the figure now kneeling at the feet of the doctor. Then very calmly the man’s voice went on: “Debby Mason, Washington has sent for you to thank you for what you did at Trenton, He will probably promote you for bravery; of course, you cannot remain in the army, it now is left for you or me to explain why an honorable discharge should be given you. Which one of us shall do it?” Poor Debby could face death, had done so many times; she could bear cold and suffering but the idea of facing her hero and _explain_ to him her awful deceit, was more than she could dare. But Debby was no coward even in this extremity,—availing herself of one of the privileges of her almost forgotten sex, she found a new way out: “Write it for me,” she begged, half smiling through her tears, “write it all, then I will take it and bear my punishment like—a man!” “And afterward?” Doctor Bell questioned, “have you a home? any where to go?” “No.” The one word echoed through the early twilight like a moan. “I had only one on earth to love—I followed him to the war—my father lies in an unknown grave near Boston—he died on my arm—but he never knew!” Something blurred the surgeon’s eyes. “And then,” in Debby’s low voice there was little left of Shirtliffe’s bravado, “there was one other, a young man in the British army—he looked so like me that my own father could not tell one from the other. That boy was looking for—Debby Mason—he died—by—my—bullet”—a dry sob choked the words—“but I have his mother’s address. I think—from bits of an old story—and from his strange likeness—that that mother will have something to tell—me. But”—and a shudder passed over Debby, “how can I break the news to her, that even in self defence—I took her boy’s life?”