“You have lived in this rough camp all that time and nursed me. You have endured privation and provided me with comforts—I know no hospital in the world has snowier sheets than these. Ah, Helen, what do I not owe to your precious hands and your loving heart? If you knew, if you only knew, little girl, how you bring home to me my utter unworthiness—fill my inmost soul with burning remorse—” “Hush, darling, do not excite yourself.” She wiped away the tears that trickled down the white cheeks and took his head on her breast as a mother takes her child to rest. “My darling boy,” she crooned. “I know you have been in the world and have lived as a man lives, while I have been sheltered in my little nook, loving as a woman loves, and trusting as a woman must. I have fretted sometimes, Ervin—I would not have you believe me more patient than I deserve. But, dearest, I have seen more of your heart and mind since I have been here than I ever knew before. In your delirium—” “My delirium?” he interrupted. “What did I rave about?” “About me, you precious silly, and about your work. You told me more about your inventions than my poor little head could ever understand, but it showed me your feeling, dear. Sometimes,” she went on, chidingly, “you were harsh to your poor Helen and denounced her as a heartless coquette, and you wouldn’t be soothed. But of course it was only delirium—I had found the portrait in your pocket, and I _knew_, dear.” The sick man groaned and Helen hastened to lay him back upon his pillow. She bade him be quiet and close his eyes. “Helen,” he persisted, “how did you know I was sick?” “The dragoon came home—do you remember our compact? I don’t know what happy chance freed it, but I took its return as a message from you and sought until I found you.” “You have always been my guardian angel, haven’t you, dear? Even when we were little you always shielded me from the consequences of my own folly and loved me through all my meanness. And then that trial—oh, I can never, never make it up to you! My love and devotion the rest of my life is yours, sweetheart, but it can never repay you.” “I am repaid now, Ervin,” she responded, the quick tears dropping on his forehead, as his thin hand drew her face to his own. * * * * * The next morning Ervin woke to find a twisted note in the rude arm chair which had formerly held the slim figure. “Dear Ervin,” it ran. “Doctor Gray says you are out of danger now, and I must go back to my father. I have just had a note from your mother and she says he grows feebler every day. Your mother will be in Charleston by the time you can be moved, and so I know my dear boy’s recovery is assured. “I am slipping away to spare you the pain of parting, but I shall carry away the memory of our sweet talk of last night and my prayers for you will go up night and day. Always your loving HELEN.”