The full, earnest voice stirred a faint memory in Luce’s dull brain. He looked wearily up into the kind face bent anxiously over him. ‘My General!’ he murmured, and closed his eyes again. Stonewall Jackson laid his hand caressingly upon the fair, curly head. ‘Poor fellow!’ he said. ‘Will he pull through, doctor, do you think?’ ‘Oh yes; I trust so,’ replied the surgeon. ‘His ankle is badly shattered, and he will limp for the rest of his days; but I think we shall be able to save the foot.’ ‘And Ephraim?’ asked the General. ‘Ah!’ The mournful sigh smote heavily on Luce’s ear. He was still drowsy and stupid from the combined effect of shock and the chloroform which had been administered to him before the ball had been extracted from his leg; but at the sound of that dreary monosyllable his senses quickened, he opened his eyes again, and looked vacantly round. For an instant the unfamiliar surroundings of the field hospital confused him; but in a flash full consciousness returned, the whole of the terrible scene in which he had lately borne a part rose before him, and with a shriek he struggled up on his mattress, supporting himself upon his hands. ‘Ephraim! Ephraim!’ he wailed. ‘Where are you? You are not dead. You can’t be dead. Oh, and you died for me!’ Then, as his eyes fell upon something stretched beside him, very calm and still, he writhed round, regardless of the pain of his wound, and flung himself upon the quiet form, raining tears and kisses upon the white, pathetic face. Was it a dream? The pale lips parted in a feeble smile, and a weak voice, almost drowned in the groans of the wounded and dying, whispered faintly: ‘Hold up, Luce! Keep up yer sperrits! I’ll git ye thar!’ * * * * * It was the fall of 1862, and the tender light of the exquisite Indian summer lay on the deep Virginian woods and glorified the rolling hills of the Blue Ridge. In a secluded part of the beautiful grounds of Markham Hall, a tall, thin young man, with a white, wasted face, reclined in a comfortable wheel-chair, dreamily enjoying the warm sunshine, and inhaling the fragrance of the ripe, red apples that hung from the laden boughs in the orchard. Presently a fair-haired boy came through the trees. In one hand he bore a bowl of broth, and with the other he supported himself upon a stick as he limped along. ‘Hello, Grizzly!’ cried the new-comer. ‘How do you feel now? Here’s your soup. Aren’t you ready for it?’ ‘I reckon!’ answered Ephraim, smiling in his own old way. ‘Ef this weather holds, I’ll be around agen in no time. My! It’s jest glorious ter be hyar. But what a lot of trouble I’m givin’ ye all, Luce. I ain’t wuth it, ye know.’ Still thinking of others and careless of himself, the grand old Grizzly. Lucius flushed deeply.