e--that's all. A day's nussin' will bring him
into camp again."

The trooper staggered upstairs with his burden, leaving a trail of dark,
wet spots along the stairs, even up to the girl's bed, where he placed
the wounded man.

The bandmaster became conscious when they laid him on the bed, but the
concussion troubled his eyes so that he was not certain that she was
there until she bent close over him, looking down at him in silence.

"I thought of you--when _I_ was falling," he explained vaguely--"only of
you."

The color came into her face; but her eyes were steady. She set the
flaring dip on the bureau and came back to the bed. "We thought of you,
too," she said.

His restless hand, fumbling the quilt, closed on hers; his eyes were
shut, but his lips moved, and she bent nearer to catch his words:

"We noncombatants get into heaps of trouble--don't we?"

"Yes," she whispered, smiling; "but the worst is over now."

"There is worse coming."

"What?"

"We march--to-morrow. I shall never see you again."

After a silence she strove gently to release her hand; but his held it;
and after a long while, as he seemed to be asleep, she sat down on the
bed's edge, moving very softly lest he awaken. All the tenderness of
innocence was in her gaze, as she laid her other hand over his and left
it there, even after he stirred and his unclosing eyes met hers.

"Celia!" called the boy, from the darkened stairway, "there's a medical
officer here."

"Bring him," she said. She rose, her lingering fingers still in his,
looking down at him all the while; their hands parted, and she moved
backward slowly, her young eyes always on his.

The medical officer passed her, stepping quickly to the bedside, stopped
short, hesitated, and bending, opened the clotted shirt, placing a
steady hand over the heart.

The next moment he straightened up, pulled the sheet over the
bandmaster's face, and turned on his heel, nodding curtly to the girl
as he passed out.

When he had gone, she walked slowly to the bed and drew the sheet from
the bandmaster's face.

And as she stood there, dry-eyed, mute, from the dusky garden came the
whispering cry of the widow bird, calling, calling to the dead that
answer never more.

PART TWO

WHAT SHE BECAME

II

SPECIAL MESSENGER

On the third day the pursuit had become so hot, so unerring, that she
dared no longer follow the rutty cart road. Toward sundown she wheeled
her big bony roan