"Yes." Then she burst into a hurried torrent of words. "He didn’t want me to know. He was shot in the face—his nose was shot off—it’s awful—some of the men told me about it. Bill was ashamed to have me see him—he tried to make me think he wasn’t in love with me any more, so I’d go away. But I knew better. Bill’s so proud, Mr. Granthope, you don’t know how proud he is! He’d rather leave me than make me suffer. But what do I care for his nose being gone? Why, Bill’s a hero! He had more nerve than Hobson, anyway! Just because he was the only man in his company that dared to go through a swamp, under fire, to save his lieutenant—and he brought him in on his back, Bill did! Why, Bill’s father was killed at Antietam, but Bill’s luck was a heap worse than that! He has to live without a face and be despised and sneered at because he did his duty! Oh, if I can only find him, I’ll give him something that will make him forget. Don’t I love him all the more for it? He’s tried to sacrifice his whole life and happiness only for me—just to save me from suffering when I look at him. D’you know many men who’d do that for a girl? I don’t!" She broke down and sobbed convulsively. The story seemed to Granthope like a scene from a play, and his inability to comfort her smote him while she fought to restrain her tears. "And you can’t find out where he is?" "No. The company was mustered out, and Bill just naturally disappeared. Nobody knows where he is. I’ve asked all his officers, and all the men I could find." He took her hand and looked at it soberly for a moment. "It will all come out right, my dear. You trust me. There’s your line of fate as clean as a string. I see trouble in it, but only for a little while. You’ll be married, too. You must have patience and wait, that’s all. Suppose you come back and see me in a week or so, and tell me if you’ve heard any news of him. Meanwhile, I’ll see what I can find out myself. There’s a cross in your hand—that’s a good sign. Bill still loves you, and he won’t let you suffer long." He felt the pitiful emptiness of his words, but he had been too affected by her narrative to give her the smooth banalities that were always ready to his tongue. She got up and looked at him through her tears. "You have helped me, Mr. Granthope. Somehow I knew you could. I’ll be in again sometime. How much is it, please?" "My dear girl, when you come again, you can thank the young lady whom you saw here before. Don’t thank me." She looked at him silently, then she took his hand and shook it very hard. "You mean that lady with red hair who sits at the desk?" "Yes." "I liked her when I saw her. She was nice to me. Is—is she Mrs. Granthope?" Granthope shook his head and smiled.