“I do not have to come to you to learn what my business is,” answered Joyce, haughtily, and turned to leave the room. Mr. Harmon saw that he had made a mistake. “Joyce! Joyce! don’t go, hear me,” he exclaimed. “You will find your horse in the stable,” was all she said, as she passed out. He left the house vowing vengeance, and lost no time in informing the Federal authorities that the wounded officer at Crawford’s was shamming, and would give them the slip if not taken away. Two deputy marshals came to investigate, and went away satisfied when Doctor Hopkins promised to report as soon as his patient was well enough to be removed. In due time Joyce received a letter from her father. He had not heard that Morgan had come as far north as Columbiana County, until after he was captured. As all danger was now over, he would not be home for some time. The thousands who had been wounded in the great battle of Gettysburg were occupying his attention. He also had to make a visit to Washington and Fortress Monroe, and might go as far south as Hilton Head. As for the wounded Rebel at his house, Joyce had done right in not letting him die in the road, but that he should be turned over to the military authorities at the earliest possible moment. Little did Mr. Crawford think what the outcome of the affair would be. Contrary to her aunt’s protest, Joyce insisted on taking most of the care of Calhoun during the day. Margaret Goodsen was all the help she needed. She had engaged a competent man to care for him nights. Had not Mark told her to save the life of the man he had shot, if possible? CHAPTER XX. CALHOUN AWAKES TO LIFE. For two weeks Calhoun hovered between life and death; but at last his rugged constitution conquered. During this time Joyce was unremitting in her attention. “I must save him for the sake of Mark,” she would say, “I cannot bear to have his blood on Mark’s hands.” In speaking to Joyce’s aunt, Matilda Goodsen said: “The poor child will hardly let me do anything; she wants to do it all.” Miss Crawford fretted and fumed, but it did no good. In this Joyce would have her way. Calhoun’s fever had been growing less day by day, and the time came when it left him, and he lay in a quiet and restful slumber. But his breathing was so faint, Joyce was almost afraid it was the sleep which precedes death. It was near the close of an August day. The weather had been warm and sultry, but a thunder shower had cooled and cleared the atmosphere, and the earth was rejoicing in the baptism it had received. The trees seemed to ripple with laughter, as the breeze shook the raindrops from their leaves. The grass was greener, the flowers brighter on account of that same baptism. The birds sang a sweeter song. What is more beautiful than nature after a summer shower!