With streaming eyes the mother listened to the story, then opening the bed of coals, she warmed and chafed his half-frozen limbs, handling tenderly the poor, blistered feet, from which the soles of the shoes had dropped, leaving them exposed. But all in vain did she prepare the cup of fragrant tea, sent her that afternoon by Mrs. Mather. Billy could do little more than taste it. He was too tired, he said; he should be better in the morning, after he had slept. So with eager, trembling hands his mother fixed the bed in the little room which had not been used since he went away, bringing her own pillows, and the nice rose blanket given by Mrs. Mather, together with a strip of carpet which she spread upon the floor so as to make it soft for Billy’s wounded, bleeding feet. How sick he was, and how he moaned in his fitful sleep, now talking of _Hal_, now of being shot, and again of the Bible on the stand, and the prayer he heard his mother make. Mrs. Baker was not accustomed to sickness, but she knew this was no ordinary case, and she suggested sending for the doctor; but Billy started up in such dismay, telling her no one must know that he was there unless she wanted him killed, that he succeeded in communicating a part of his terror to her, and she spent the entire Sunday by her child’s bedside, doing what she could to allay the raging fever increasing so fast, and keeping watch to see that no one came near to drag her boy away. The next morning it became absolutely necessary for her to leave him for a time, as she must procure the few necessaries he needed, and taking advantage of the heavy sleep into which he had fallen, she stole noiselessly out, hoping to return ere he should wake. Scarcely, however, had she left the lane and turned into Main Street, when Rose came tripping to the gate, drawn thither by a curiosity to see if her suspicions were correct. She had learned from her husband of Bill’s exit from Washington, and for some days had been expecting to hear of his arrival in town. That he had come she was certain, and telling Annie where she was going, she had started rather early for Mrs. Baker’s. As her knock met with no response she entered without further ceremony, and passing on through the low dark kitchen came to the door of the little room where Bill lay breathing heavily, and muttering about camps, and guard-houses, and deserters. The sight of suffering always awoke a chord of sympathy in Rose Mather’s bosom, and without a thought of danger she bent close to the sick man, and involuntarily laid her soft, cool hand upon his burning forehead. The touch awoke him, but in the wild eyes turned upon her there was no glance of recognition, or look of fear. He evidently fancied himself back in Washington, and asked the name of her regiment.