Peggy sank obediently into the high-backed chair that the nurse pulled forward, and waited with some trepidation for the summons to go to her cousin. The office was full of business. A large force of storekeepers were busied in giving bedding and other necessaries to what seemed to Peggy an endless stream of nurses; while a number of clerks bent over their books, deep in the accounts of the storekeepers. The song of birds came through the open window near which the girl sat. A bee hummed drowsily over a budding peach tree that stood just outside, and all at once it came to her that she was a long, long way from home. All her light-heartedness had vanished. The sunshine, the budding trees, the journey with its pleasant companionship, and, above all, her own youth, had served to lull into forgetfulness, for the time being, the purpose of the journey. Now, however, the passing to and fro of the nurses, the coming and going of the doctors with their low-toned orders, all brought a vivid realization of her mission, and Peggy felt suddenly faint and weak. “I wish mother were here,” she thought, a great wave of longing sweeping over her. “Oh, I do wish that mother were here, or else that everything was done that must be done so that I could go back.” At this point in her musings Nurse Johnson returned, and it was well that she did so, for Peggy was getting very close to the point of breaking down. “You are tired,” exclaimed the nurse at sight of her face. “Child, give o’er the meeting until to-morrow. You would be more fit then.” “’Tis naught, friend nurse,” said Peggy rousing herself resolutely. “I fear me I was getting just a little homesick. And how is my cousin? Is he—is he——” “He is better,” the nurse hastened to tell her. “Much better, the matron says, and longing for his sister. You are to go to him at once, but he must not do much talking as he is still very weak. With careful nursing he may pull through. And now come, but be careful.” Peggy arose and followed her across the hall into a large room, scrupulously clean, and bare of furniture save the rows of beds, some small tables and a few chairs. On one of the beds in the far corner of the room lay a youth so like her father that Peggy could not repress an exclamation. His eyes were closed; his face very pale, and serene in its repose. His hair was light brown in color, with auburn lights in it that fell low over his forehead. Peggy drew near and looked at him with full heart. “How like he is to father,” she murmured with a quick intake of her breath. “He doth not look like either Cousin William, or Harriet. Oh, he should have been my brother!” The nurse bent over the lad, and touched him gently. “Captain Williams,” she said. “Here is some one to see you.” His eyes opened, and Peggy almost gasped, so like were they to David Owen’s. “Harriet,” whispered the youth making a weak attempt to rise. “Hath she come at last?”