La Violette, during her short stay at Fort Meigs, lived in the tent of the refugees. By many gracious acts, she endeared herself to her simple-minded companions. She spent much of her time in caring for Amy’s sick and fretful child; and the heart-broken young mother learned to love and respect the gentle, sweet-faced nurse. The two women exchanged confidences; and each shed tears over the trials that had fallen to the lot of the other. One evening, Ross and his sweetheart were walking up and down in front of the refugees’ tent. The air was balmy; the sky was studded with stars. From the camp-fires, twinkling like fireflies in the sweet dusk, came the sounds of merriment; from the interior of the tent, came the cry of the peevish baby. “I pity her so!” La Violette said softly. “She has very honestly told me all, Ross. She never loved you as I do; but she loved you in her way—I am sure. And she lost you. Yet I am selfish enough to be glad, while I pity her; for had she not done what she did, you would not be mine to-night.” “I don’t know,” he replied, carefully weighing each word. “Perhaps I wouldn’t have married her. I’m beginning to doubt that we ever really loved each other. At any rate, I love _you_ now, darling—you alone! Now let us talk of our future.” They sauntered from the spot; while the stars smiled down upon them, as they have smiled down upon lovers since the race began. John Douglas found a grave just without the wall of the fortification. In an obscure corner by himself, he was laid to rest. An erring son, he had spent the best years of his life in the service of an alien power; but he came home to sleep his last long sleep. In after-years, Ross Douglas returned to Fort Meigs, with the intention of erecting a monument to his father’s memory; but the surroundings had changed so much he could not locate the grave. When General Harrison was informed of the manner of John Douglas’s death, he immediately sent for Ross. Taking the son by the hand, the old soldier said with emotion: “I’m sincerely glad I freed your father—sincerely sorry he’s dead. Yet it is best. His death atones for his life. He died for you. It was a noble self-sacrifice. Your father had in him the elements of a great and noble nature; but his whole life was a failure, because his talents and energies were misdirected. Whatever comes, my young friend, be true to yourself, your country, and your God!”