Dorothy raised her lustrous eyes to Lord Wilton's face, with a look of eager inquiry, as he went on. "Tell Mr. Rushmere that his son behaved most gallantly in that terrible battle. The ---- Regiment was in the very thick of the fight, and suffered tremendously. When my son received the wound that struck him down, young Rushmere bestrode the body, and finally carried it off on his shoulders, under a heavy fire from the enemy. For this noble act he has been promoted to the rank of a sergeant, but his advancement will not end there. "What, in tears, Dorothy?" he added, in a softer tone, and regarding the young girl with an air of melancholy interest. "I thought my news would make you so happy." "So it does--so it does," sobbed Dorothy. "Oh, my lord, there are tears of joy as well as of sorrow. If I did not cry my heart would burst," and covering her face with her apron, Dorothy retreated into the house. "Happy girl," said Lord Wilton, as she disappeared, "how I envy her this honest burst of natural feeling." "How rude Lord Wilton must have thought me," said Dorothy, when she regained her composure. "Never once to inquire after the health of his wounded son. And he so kind, as to take the trouble of riding up himself to bring us Gilbert's letter." She looked wistfully at the precious document she still held in her hand. "How I wish that father and mother were in. How I long to know all that he has written in the letter." Here, she kissed it passionately. "His hand has been just there, when he wrote the direction. What joy to know that he is alive and well--has acted like a brave man, and received a brave man's reward. God has been very good to us, to cover the dear one's head in the day of battle." The old clock struck twelve. Dorothy hurried to cover the table for dinner. Rushmere and his man were in the field sowing barley, the boy following with the harrows; her mother absent at the house of a sick neighbour. She knew that dinner must be ready to a minute. Her mind was in such a flutter of excitement, that she found the every day task very difficult to perform. Every thing seemed to go wrong--the fire would not burn, or the pot boil as quickly as usual, and Dorothy was hot and tired, when Mrs. Rushmere came in. "You are late, my child," she said, throwing her bonnet and shawl upon a side table, "hurry with the dinner. Father is washing his hands at the pump, and the men are coming in. You must have been thinking of something besides your work." "Oh, mother," returned Dorothy, as she placed the large round of boiled beef upon the table. "Lord Wilton has been here, and gave me this letter from Gilbert. I have such good news to tell you. It was that that put me into such fluster, that I hardly knew what I was about. Had I not better wait to read the letter until after the men are gone, and father is comfortably smoking his pipe?"