u will not lose the
arm."

"Thank you--but what of the army? I am a bit confused as to time. Parke
attacked on the second of April, I think. What day is this?"

"Oh, they got out of Petersburg that night--out of Richmond too. Lee is
done for--a day or two will end it."

"Thank God," murmured John, "but I am so sorry for Lee."

"Can't say I am."

"Oh, that blessed morphia!"

"Well, go to sleep--I will see you again shortly. I have other fellows to
look after. In a few minutes you will be easy. Draw the fly-nets,
orderly."

Of all that followed John Penhallow in later years remembered most
distinctly the half hour of astonishing relief from pain. As his senses
one by one went off guard, he seemed to himself to be watching with
increase of ease the departure of some material tormentor. In after years
he recalled with far less readiness the days of varied torment which
required more and more morphia. Why I know not, the remembrance of pain
as time goes by is far less permanent than that of relief or of an hour
of radiant happiness. Long days of suffering followed as the tortured
nerves recorded their far-spread effects in the waste of the body and
that failure of emotional control which even the most courageous feel
when long under the tyranny of continuous pain. McGregor watched him
with anxiety and such help as was possible. On the tenth of April John
awakened after a night of assisted sleep to find himself nearly free
from pain. Tom came early into the ward.

"Good news, John," he said. "Lee has surrendered. You look better. Your
resignation will be accepted, and I have a leave of absence. Economy is
the rule. We are sending the wounded north in ship-loads. Home! Home! old
fellow, in a week."

The man on the cot looked up. "You have a letter, I see," and as he spoke
broke into childlike tears, for so did long suffering deal with the most
self-controlled in those terrible years, which we do well to forgive, and
to remember with pride not for ourselves alone. The child-man on the bed
murmured, "Home was too much for me."

The surgeon who loved him well said, "Read your letter--you are not the
only man in this ward whom pain has made a baby. Home will complete your
cure--home!"

"Thank you, Tom." He turned to the letter and using the one half-useful
hand opened it with difficulty. What he first felt was disappointment at
the brevity of the letter. He was what Blake called home-hungry. With
acute perception, b