Yes, she would love him just the same, for, as it was not her fair, sweet face alone which made her so dear to him, so it was not his splendid form which made him dear to her. Annie’s love would not abate, even though he went back to her the veriest cripple that ever crawled the earth. But how different his going home would be from what he had fondly hoped. No papers heralding his arrival; no dense crowd out to meet him; no fife trilling a jubilee; no drum beating a welcome; no bell ringing its merry peal; no carriage, no procession; nothing but the curious gaze of the few who might come out to see how George Graham looked without an arm, and whisper softly to each other, “Poor fellow, how I pity him!” He didn’t want to be pitied; he would almost rather die; and he did not want to die either, when he thought calmly of it. He was not prepared; and forcing back the bitter tears, he turned his white, worn face to William Mather, bending so sadly over him, and whispered: “Tell them they may cut it off, but not till you’ve written to Annie, and I have signed my name. You know how she has begged for a word from me. Tell them to keep away; they shall not intrude on my interview with Annie.” George was growing excited, but he became calm again when he found himself alone with Mr. Mather, who wrote the letter which gave Annie so much joy. There was nothing in it of the expected amputation; nothing but encouragement that he should ere long come home to stay with her always. “There, give me the pen,” he said, when the letter was finished, and the trembling fingers grasped it eagerly, but quickly let it fall as the purple, festered flesh above the elbow throbbed and quivered with the pain the sudden effort caused. “Once more; I’ll do it if it costs my life!” he whispered, nerving himself with might and main, and then, with Mr. Mather guiding his hand, he wrote his name, and the words, “God bless you, darling Annie!” “It’s done, and she must never know the agony it cost me,” he moaned, as his bandaged arm fell heavily at his side, while with his other hand he wiped away the sweat which stood so thickly upon his face. “Bring Annie’s Bible,” he said, “and lay it on my pillow. It will make me bear it better. Oh, Annie, Annie, if you could be here to pray for me! Can’t _you_?” and the dim eyes turned imploringly toward Mr. Mather who shook his head hesitatingly. Man of the world as he had been, he had not yet learned to pray, but he could not resist that touching appeal, and bending down he answered: “I never learned to pray, but while the operation is going on, I’ll do the best I can. Shall I call them now?”