The commodore got out with us, lifted me bodily off the train, and then, as we stood together, while the sergeant explained, supported me with his arm. I was too weak and ill to hear their talk. I think I was very nearly in a faint while I stood, or tried to stand upright beside him. He told me afterward that I had been arrested by mistake for some famous political spy in petticoats. He answered for me, made himself responsible in every way, lifted me into a carriage, and told the driver where to take us. I was too nearly dead to listen to what he said. As the carriage whirled along I tried to sit up, to lift my head, but every time I attempted it I grew blind and sick. “I would not try to sit up just yet, Mrs. Norman,” he said very kindly. “In a few minutes, perhaps, you can do so without risk, but I’d be very quiet now. In a little while I will hand you over to my wife--she is a wonderful nurse.” “My little boy is looking out of the window for me, waiting for me; he has been by himself all day,” I sobbed. “Ah! I am so sorry you have had this annoyance and detention. I wish I had boarded the car earlier; you should have gone on if I had. I was outside talking with some friends, and I did not jump on the train until she was about to move off, but I can telegraph to your friends, and you can go on to-morrow.” The ride in the open air had revived me, and I found now that I could sit up without fainting. “_You_ were going to Baltimore to-night,” I said. “I am putting you to so much trouble.” “None at all. And if you were”--with a tremor in his voice--“I should be glad of it. _Can_ you sit up? Ah! I am so glad you are better. When I first took you into this carriage I was afraid I would have to stop with you at the first doctor’s office. We are nearly home now.” “You are very good,” I said, still too weak not to speak with tears in my voice. “I am fortunate--but too much at your expense, I am afraid. You forget how large my debt is. I shall never forget the old days in Norfolk and the kindness that was shown me by you and yours. I owe you a great deal, Mrs. Norman, as yourself and as your father’s daughter. I shall never forget his charming hospitality. I am sorry you can’t go on to Baltimore, but I am glad of my opportunity.” “That is a nice way to put it, commodore.” “A true way to put it, Mrs. Norman. Please don’t be too sorry. Where is Nell?--Mrs. Grey, I suppose I should say. I can’t think of the saucy little fairy who used to sit on my knee as a madam.” “I don’t know just where Nell is, or how. The fortunes of war have separated me from her, and mother as well.” “And you are alone, without kindred, in Baltimore?” “Yes, except my baby. I wish you could see Bobby--he is so sweet!” “He must be.” “He has Nell’s eyes and her golden curls--you remember?” “Too well!”