"Was it very hot?" she said. "Were you tired? Why did you not go away?" "I did not want to go away," he answered. "But you ought to have gone away," she said. "You were not used to the heat, and--Let the light fall on your face so that I can see it!" He came a little nearer to her, and as she looked at him the wistfulness in her eyes changed to something else. "Oh," she cried, "it has done you harm. Your face is quite changed. Why didn't I see it before? What have you been doing?" "Nothing," he answered. He did not stir, or want to stir, but sat almost breathlessly still, watching her, the sudden soft anxiousness in her eyes setting every pulse in his body throbbing. "Oh," she said, "you are ill--you are ill! How could you be so careless? Why did not papa"-- She faltered--her voice fell and broke. She even drew back a little, though her eyes still rested upon his. "You were angry with me when you thought I did not take care of myself," she said; "and you have been as bad as I was, and worse. You had not so many temptations. And she turned away, and he found himself looking only at her cheek again, and the soft side-curve of her mouth. "There is less reason why I should take care of myself," he said. "You mean"--she asked, without moving--"that there are fewer people who would miss you?" "I do not know of any one who would miss me." Her hands stirred slightly, as they lay in her lap. "That is underrating your friends," she said, slowly. "But"--altering her tone--"it is true, I have the children and Richard." "Where is Richard?" he asked. "I don't know." "When you heard from him last," he began. "He is a bad correspondent," she said. "He always finds so much to fill his time when he is away. There is an understanding between us that he shall write very few letters. I am responsible for it myself, because I know it spoils everything for him when he has an unwritten letter on his conscience. I haven't heard from him first yet since he went West." She arose from her seat on the step. "I will go in now," she said. "I must speak to Mrs. Lucas about giving you a room, and then I will go to Janey. She is sleeping very well." He arose, too, and stood below her, looking up. "You must promise not to think of me," he said. "I did not come here to be considered. Do you think an old soldier, who has slept under the open sky many a night, cannot provide for himself?" "Have you slept so often?" she asked, the very triviality of the question giving it a strange sweetness to his ears. "Yes," he answered. "And often with no surety of wakening with my scalp on." "Oh!" she exclaimed, and made an involuntary movement toward him. He barely restrained his impulse to put out his hands, but hers fell at her sides the next instant. "I am a great coward," she said. "It fills me with terror to hear of things like that. Is it at all likely that you will be ordered back?"