The men rapidly dispersed, obeying the commands of the Sergeant, and began a thorough search of the house. Caroline Mitford preceded them up the stairs to Edith’s room. Arrelsford, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped toward the door and went out, followed by his men. Without a word of acknowledgment or even a bow to Mrs. Varney, he and his men presently left the house. As he did so, two of the Sergeant’s men reëntered the room, shoving old Jonas roughly before them. The man’s livery was torn and dirty, his head was bound up, and he showed signs of the rough handling he had undergone. “Where did you get that?” asked the Sergeant contemptuously. “He was locked in a closet, sir.” “What were you doing in there?” He turned to the old negro. “If you don’t answer me, we will shoot the life out of you.” He raised his revolver threateningly. “Belongs to you, I reckon,” he said to Mrs. Varney. “Yes, my butler; they locked him up. Mr. Arrelsford wants him for carrying a message.” “That’s all right,” said the Sergeant. “If he wants him, he can have him. We’re looking for some one else. Put him back in his closet. Here, this room! Be quick now! Cover that door. Sorry to disturb you, ma’am.” “Do what you please,” said Mrs. Varney; “I have nothing on earth to conceal.” As the men hurriedly withdrew to continue their search, the voice of a newcomer was heard on the porch. The words came to them clearly: “Here, lend a hand, somebody, will you?” The next moment General Varney’s orderly entered the room, caught sight of the Sergeant, saluted, and then turned to Mrs. Varney. “I’ve brought back your boy, ma’am,” he said. “Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Varney faintly; “what do you mean——?” “We never got out to General Varney’s. We ran into a Yankee raiding party, cavalry, down here about three miles. Our home-guard was galloping by on the run to head them off, and before I knew what he was about, the boy was in with ’em, riding like mad. There was a bit of a skirmish, and he got a clip across the neck. Nothing at all, ma’am. He rode back all the way, and——” “Oh, my boy! He’s hurt—he’s hurt——” “Nothing serious, ma’am; don’t upset yourself,” returned the orderly reassuringly. “Where did you——” But that moment the object of their solicitude himself appeared on the scene. The boy was very pale, and his neck was bandaged. Two of the Sergeant’s men supported him. “Oh, Wilfred!” cried his mother; “my boy!” “It’s nothing, mother,” said Wilfred, motioning her away. “You don’t understand.” The boy tried to free himself from the men who still held him by the arm. “What do you want to hold me like that for?” he expostulated, as he drew himself away and took a few steps. “You see I can walk,” he protested.