clung in graceful
folds around her. Her beautifully rounded arm and shapely shoulders were
bare. Her luxuriant hair, the color of sun-beams, fell in a wavy mass to
her waist. Her eyes, blue as the sky, were now troubled, and a teardrop
trembled and then fell from the long lashes.

As she looked, the sound of battle became fainter, and then ceased
altogether. But down the road, a mile away, a little cloud of dust arose.
It grew larger and larger, and at last she saw it was caused by a single
horseman who was coming at a furious pace. Was the rider a bearer of ill
tidings? No, there was no rider on the horse. He who rode must have been
killed. It might be her brother's horse; she grew sick and faint, but
still she gazed. The horse came nearer; he was slackening his speed. Yes,
there was some one on the horse--a man--but he had fallen over on the
saddle, and his arms were around the horse's neck.

It must be her brother, wounded unto death, coming home to die, and she
gave a great convulsive sob. Then like a bird she flew to the middle of
the road. She saw that the horse's mane and shoulders were dripping with
blood, that the rider's hair was clotted with it.

As the horse came to her it stopped, and the rider rolled heavily from the
saddle. With a cry she sprang forward and received the falling man; but
the weight of Calhoun, for it was he, bore her to the earth. She arose,
screaming for help. There was no one in the house except a colored
servant, who came rushing out, and nearly fainted when she saw her
mistress. No wonder, for the girl's dress and arms were dripping with
blood.

"Oh! Missy Joyce! Missy Joyce!" wailed the colored woman, "what's de
mattah? Be yo' killed?"

"No, no, this soldier--he is dead or dying. Oh, Mary, what can we do?"

But help was near. A couple of neighbors had also heard the sound of
battle, and were riding nearer that they might learn the result.

"Great heavens! what is this?" exclaimed one, as they rode up. "As I live,
that is Andrew Harmon's horse. Well, I never thought Andrew would get near
enough to a battle to get shot."

By this time they had dismounted. Going to Calhoun they looked at him, and
one exclaimed, "This is not Harmon; it's one of Morgan's men. Got it good
and heavy. Served him right."

"Is he dead?" asked the girl, in a trembling voice.

The man put his hand on Calhoun's heart. "No, marm," he answered, "but I
think he might as well be."

"Carry him into the hou