Gently pushing aside the children who crowded the doorway, he entered the tent. Several families were quartered within. Bedding and cooking utensils were scattered about promiscuously. Near the entrance sat a plethoric matron industriously knitting. She looked up at Douglas’s unannounced entrance and, chuckling asthmatically, remarked by way of greeting: “Come in.—But I don’t see how you got through the swarm o’ young’uns. As the Britishers has quit the’r shootin’, we thought it ’ld be no harm to let the little things go out an’ play. They was pinin’ fer fresh air, you know. Say!—how long do you think it’ll be ’fore we can go back to our cabins?” “I have no idea,” Ross replied, pausing momentarily. “You hain’t?”—in evident surprise.—“Hain’t you got somethin’ to do with managin’ the war?” Douglas shook his head. “Well—well!” she continued. “I knowed you wasn’t an officer, ’xactly, fer you don’t wear no uniform; but I thought you surely was a soldier o’ some kind—such a trim young feller as _you_ be. Then you hain’t got nothin’ to do with runnin’ the war?” Ross smilingly disclaimed the honor. “Oh!” the woman exclaimed suddenly, laughing until her fat sides shook and she threatened to suffocate. “I know you _now_. You’re the feller that fetched the poor young woman here, last night. You’ve got y’r face washed—an’ I didn’t know you. They say you was in the fight ’cross the river. Had a hard time of it, didn’t you? The young woman? She’s over there on that pile o’ beddin’. She ain’t feelin’ re’l peart, this mornin’.” Douglas hurriedly passed onto the spot indicated. Amy lay upon an improvised bed near the center of the tent. At his approach, she arose to a sitting posture and smiled feebly. In the semi-twilight of the interior, she looked wan and haggard. Her clothing was threadbare and shabby; her brown hair, falling about her shoulders, was a tangled mass. The corners of her mouth were sagged. Truly she was a wreck. Little of her girlish beauty remained. Douglas looked upon her, and shuddered at the awful change in her appearance. Near the bedside sat a middle-aged woman, striving vainly to soothe Amy’s fretful child. The emaciated, peevish baby was a miniature of its mother. Its cry was weak and querulous. Apparently it was about six months old; but it had the claw-like hands and mummified features of an old woman. Yet Ross noted its resemblance to its mother. Taking the thin, calloused hand extended toward him, he seated himself and asked kindly: “How are you feeling this morning, Amy?” “Not very well. Baby’s cross—and my head aches.”—Then, after a slight pause, she added gloomily: “But I’m feeling as well as I ever expect to feel.” “Don’t say that,” he remonstrated. “You’ll regain your health and strength—and again be happy.” Sadly shaking her head, she replied: “I’ll regain my health and strength, I hope. I must do so for baby’s sake; she needs my care and protection. But, for me, happiness is a thing of the past.”