“I am not going to faint,” said Caroline desperately. She took Mrs. Varney’s handkerchief from the latter’s hand, and dipped it in the water. “I can take care of him,” she continued, kneeling down by her boyish lover. “I don’t need anybody down here at all. The men are going all over the house and——” “But, Caroline——” began Mrs. Varney. “Mrs. Varney,” returned the girl, strangely quiet, “there’s a heap of soldiers upstairs, looking in all the rooms. I reckon you’d better go and attend to them. They will be in Edith’s room, or Howard’s, in a minute.” “Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Varney, “and Howard so ill. I must go for a few minutes, anyway. You know what to do?” “Oh, yes,” answered the girl confidently. “Bathe his forehead. He isn’t badly hurt, dear. I won’t be long, and he will soon come to, I am sure,” said Mrs. Varney, hastening away. Presently Wilfred opened his eyes. He stared about him unmeaningly and uncomprehendingly for the moment. “Wilfred, dear Wilfred,” began the girl in soft, low, caressing tones, “you are not hurt much, are you? Oh, not much! There, you will feel better in just a moment, dear Wilfred.” [Illustration: “You are not hurt much, are you?”] “Is there—are you——?” questioned Wilfred, striving to concentrate his mind on the problem of his whereabouts and her presence. “Oh, Wilfred, don’t you know me?” “What are you talking about?” said Wilfred more strongly. “Of course I know you. Where am I?” And as full consciousness came back to him, “What am I doing, anyway? Taking a bath?” “No, no, Wilfred; you see I am bathing your head. You fainted a little, and——” “Fainted!” exclaimed Wilfred in deep disgust. “I fainted!” He made a feeble attempt to rise, but sank back weakly. “Yes, of course, I was in a fight with the Yankees and got wounded somewhere.” He stopped, puzzled, staring strangely, almost afraid, at Caroline. “What is it?” asked the girl. “See here,” he began seriously; “I will tell you one thing right now. I am not going to load you up with a cripple, not much.” His resignation was wonderful. “Cripple!” exclaimed Caroline, bewildered. “I reckon I’ve got an arm knocked off, haven’t I?” “No, you haven’t, Wilfred; they are both on all right.” “Perhaps it was a hand that they shot away?” “Not a single one,” said Caroline. “Are my—my ears on all right?” “Yes,” answered the girl. “You needn’t bother about them for a moment.” Wilfred staked all on the last question. “How many legs have I got left?” “All of them,” answered Caroline; “every one.” “Then, if there’s enough of me left to—to amount to anything—you’ll take charge of it, just the same? How about that?” “That’s all right,” said the girl, burying her face on his shoulder. Wilfred got hold of her hand and kissed it passionately. He seemed quite strong enough for that. “I tried to send you a telegram but they wouldn’t let me,” whispered Caroline suddenly, raising her head and looking at him. “You did?” “Yes.” “What did you say in it?”