“Well they may, but Morgan will yet make them trouble. No prison will hold him long.” “There, there, don’t let us talk about it any more,” said Joyce; “it will worry you back into a fever.” “You have saved my life,” said Calhoun, fervently. “How can I ever repay you for what you have done?” Joyce did not reply. Calhoun lay silent for some time, and then suddenly said: “I am one of Morgan’s hated officers, and yet you are caring for me as for a brother. What makes you do it?” “Why shouldn’t I?” said Joyce; “I have a dear brother in the army. I am only doing by you as I would have him done by, if he should fall wounded. And then—” Joyce stopped; she could not tell him it was her brother who had shot him. A great light came to Calhoun. “Joyce! Joyce!” he cried, “I now understand. It was your brother who shot me.” “Oh! forgive him! forgive him!” cried Joyce. “He told me it was to save his own life that he did it.” “Why, Joyce, there is nothing to forgive. Your brother is a brave, a gallant officer. Then he has been here?” “Yes, and knew you. He bade me nurse you as I would nurse him in like condition.” “Just like a brave soldier; but are there none who find fault with my being here treated like a prince?” “Yes, one. His name is Andrew Harmon. It was his horse you were riding when you came here. He seems to hate you, and is doing all he can to have you taken to Columbus. He says you treated him most brutally when he was captured.” “I did kick him,” answered Calhoun, laughing; “he was on the ground bellowing like a baby. I never saw a more abject coward. I kicked him and told him to get up.” “He has a different story,” said Joyce, smiling; and then she told the wonderful story of Harmon’s capture as related by himself. “His capacity for lying is equalled only by his cowardice,” said Calhoun, indignantly. “Yet he is a man to be feared,” said Joyce, “for he is rich and has influence, although every one knows him to be a coward.” The days that passed were the happiest Calhoun had ever spent. He told Joyce of his Kentucky home, of his cousin Fred, how noble and true he was, and of his own adventures in raiding with Morgan. She never tired of listening. Is it strange that these two hearts were drawn close to each other. They lived in a sweet dream—a dream which did not look to the future. But almost unknown to them Cupid had come and shot his shafts, and they had gone true. The day came when Calhoun was able to be placed in an easy-chair and drawn to an open window. It was a proud day to him, yet it was the beginning of sorrow. The Doctor came and congratulated him on his improvement. “Doctor Hopkins, how can I thank you for your kindness?” he said; “you have done so much for me.” “You need not thank me, thank that young lady there,” replied the Doctor, pointing to Joyce. “She it was who saved your life.” “I know, no reward I could give would ever repay her,” answered Calhoun. “I can only offer to be her slave for life.”