An hour passed, and the boy still lay on his face, shuddering and sobbing. The Colonel sat down beside him, striving with word and touch to lay what healing balm he might upon that raw and quivering wound. Gradually the boy’s sobbing grew quiet. He rose from the ground, exhausted, white and trembling. “I think, Uncle Colonel,” he said, making a brave attempt to steady his lips, “I’ll ride home.” The Colonel searched his white face. “Paul, you will come home with me tonight,” he said firmly, “and tomorrow we shall have another talk.” “Uncle Colonel,” said the boy, swallowing, “I think—I want—to—see—Daddy.” The Colonel had handled boys and men in his day, and knew just when kindness was most cruel. “Paul, you will do what I ask,” he said sharply. “Tomorrow we shall make our plans.” The sharp tone pulled the boy together. “Yes, sir,” he replied quietly, “but—but—oh, Uncle Colonel, I know now what Mother meant when she—told me—” The boy’s voice faltered, he drew a deep breath, stood quietly for a few moments, then continued, “when she told me to tell Daddy—about—the ‘seventy times seven.’ Poor Daddy!” The brave little voice trailed off into a whisper. “Come, boy, I want you to be a man, and a brave man. Your father needs you and needs you to be strong and steady.” He could have chosen no better word. The boy’s head went up, his shoulders back. He threw the reins over the pony’s head, mounted and sat waiting for the Colonel. “Right-oh!” cried the Colonel. “Let’s gallop a bit.” They were on the open road and for half a mile the Colonel’s broncho raced Joseph off his feet. “Always thought my bronc was just a shade better than your pinto,” said the Colonel, pulling up. But Paul declined the challenge, allowing the pinto to choose his own gait, which for that matter meant a racing pace should the broncho feel so inclined. Arrived at home they found a household torn with anxiety and a-thrill with the echoes of the battle. Peg must have had a truly blissful hour. But one of the Colonel’s quiet words was all that was needed to suppress all curiosity and all undue exuberance of spirit. Seldom were the conversational powers of the Colonel more brilliantly exercised than through the dinner hour that evening, but with all he could do and with the loyal backing of his wife—for these two never failed to play up to each other’s lead—the haggard face of the boy had the effect upon the little company of a ghost at a feast. “Well, he knows the whole story now,” said the Colonel when the children had said good-night. “He wanted to go home tonight.” “And what’s this about Asa?” enquired Augusta. “As far as I could gather from Peg’s dramatic recital they were all in a general mêlée.” The Colonel’s face brightened. “The boy is a wonder, a perfect wonder, cool as cress and a whirlwind in attack.”