With a tremendous effort Mr. Chittenden recovered his composure. "Nothing now, Grace, but your words were so terrible. Don't say them again, Grace. I--I would die if I lost my daughter's love." "You never will, father. You are too good, too noble," and she drew his head down and kissed him again and again. Oh! the past! the past! How it stung that father as he felt his daughter's pure kisses on his brow! "Father, you are not angry with me, are you?" asked Grace, wondering at his silence. "No, darling; only, for my sake, keep your belief to yourself." "For your sake I will be just as little a Yankee as possible," answered Grace, smiling. CHAPTER XVI A WOUNDED CONFEDERATE A few days after the battle of Pea Ridge there came riding into the valley of La Belle a wounded Confederate soldier. He was mounted on a raw-boned, emaciated horse that staggered as it walked. The rider seemed as weak as the horse, for he swayed in the saddle as he rode, and the bridle reins hung limp in his hands. The soldier's left arm was supported by a dirty sling, and the front of his uniform, if uniform it could be called, showed it had been soaked in blood. The deep-set eyes of the soldier glowed with an unnatural fire, and he was muttering to himself, as if in delirium. Of his own accord, the horse turned up to the door of Mr. Chittenden's house, and that gentleman came out just in time to catch the rider as he reeled from the saddle. [Illustration: To catch the rider as he reeled from the saddle.] "He is about done for," he exclaimed as he ordered him carried in. "Tilly," he called, "here is a patient for you." The colored woman came running, and with her Grace, who looked at the wan features of the soldier with piteous eyes. "Why, father, he's nothing but a boy," she exclaimed. "Where did he come from?" "A sorry-looking horse brought him here, is all I know," replied her father. A hasty examination showed a ball had gone through the muscles of his left arm about half-way between the elbow and shoulder and then torn a great jagged wound in the breast. Tilly was a born nurse. The first thing she did was to turn to Grace and say, "Now, Missy Grace, yo' jes go 'way an' leave this boy to me. Dis is no place for a youn' lady." The next time Grace saw the boy he was lying in a clean bed, his wounds neatly dressed. His bloody uniform had disappeared and instead he had on a soft white night-shirt. As Grace looked at him, so thin and pale, her eyes filled with tears, and she murmured, "Poor boy! Poor boy! I wonder if he has a mother." Then she turned to her father and asked, "Will he get well?" "I'm afraid not," answered Mr. Chittenden. "He is not only badly wounded, but has a raging fever. I have sent for Doctor Hart. He will do all he can for him."