She pushed her way into the crowd. They were looking at the bulletin board of the _Daily Republican_, reading the first list of the dead and wounded. Her heart suddenly began to pound. John Vaughan had not reported his return. He might be lying stark and cold with the rain beating down on his mangled body. She read each name in the list of the dead, and drew a sigh of relief. But the last bulletin was not cheering. It promised additional names for a later edition. Besides, the War Department might not be relied on for reports of non-combatants. A newspaper correspondent was not enrolled as a soldier. His death might remain unrecorded for days. On a sudden impulse she started to enter the office and ask if he had returned, stopped, blushed, turned and hurried home with a new fear mingled with a strange joy beating in her heart. CHAPTER X THE AWAKENING John Vaughan had secured a loose horse on emerging from his friendly swamp. The shadows of night had given him the chance to escape. His horse was fresh, the rain had begun to fall, the heat had abated and he made good time. He reached the office before midnight, took his seat at his desk, pale and determined to tell the truth. He wrote an account of the battle and the panic in which it had ended so vivid, so accurate, so terrible in its confession of riot and dismay, the editor refused to print it. "Why not?" John sternly demanded. "It won't do." "It's true!" "Then the less said about it the better. Let's hush it up." John smiled: "I'm sorry. I would like to see that thing in type just as I saw and felt and lived it. It's a good story and it's my last--it's a pity to kill it----" "Your last? What do you mean?" the chief broke in. "That I'm going into the ranks, and see if I am a coward--" he paused and scowled--"it looked like it yesterday for a while, and my curiosity's aroused. Besides, the country happens to need me." "Rubbish," the editor cried, "the country will get all the men it needs without you. You're a trained newspaper man. We need you here." "Thanks. My mind's made up. I'm going to Missouri and raise a company." The chief laid a hand on John's shoulder. "Don't be a fool. Stand by the ship. I'll put your damned story in just as you wrote it if that's what hurts." John flushed and shook his head: "But it isn't. You may be right about the stuff. If I were editor I'd kill it myself. No. My dander's up. I want a little taste of the real thing. I saw enough yesterday to interest me. The country's calling and I've got to go." The boys crowded around him and shook hands. From the door he waved his good-bye and they shouted in chorus: "Good luck!" Arrived at his room, he wrote a note to Betty Winter. He read it over and it seemed foolishly cold and formal. He tore it up and wrote a simpler one. It was flippant and a little presumptuous. He destroyed that and decided on a single line: "MY DEAR MISS BETTY: