light it
was possible to admit; else he would never gain strength, for so long
had he lived in the open air, in rain and sun, that he had need now of
every help nature could give.

A bullet had struck him in the hip and glanced off at a peculiar
angle, rendering his recovery precarious and long delayed, and causing
the old doctor to shake his head with the fear that he must pass the
rest of his life a cripple. Still, normal youth is buoyant and
vigorous and mocks at physicians' fears, and after a time, what with
heart at rest, with loving and unceasing care on his mother's part,
and rigorous supervision on his father's, Peter Junior did at length
recover sufficiently to be taken out to drive, and began to get back
the good red blood in his veins.

During this long period of convalescence, Peter Junior's one anxiety
was for his cousin Richard. Rumors had reached him that his comrade
had been wounded and taken prisoner, yet nothing definite had been
heard, until at last, after much writing, he learned Richard's
whereabouts, and later that he had been exchanged. Then, too ill and
prison-worn to go back to his regiment, he appeared one day, slowly
walking up the village street toward the banker's house.

There he was welcomed and made much of, and the two young men spent a
while together happily, the best of friends and comrades, still filled
with enthusiasm, but with a wider knowledge of life and the meaning of
war. These weeks were few and short, and soon Richard was back in the
army. Peter Junior, envying him, still lay convalescing and only able
with much difficulty to crawl to the carriage for his daily drive.

His mother always accompanied him on these drives, and the very first
of them was to the home of the Ballards. It was early spring, the air
was biting and cool, and Peter was unable to alight, but Mary and her
husband came to them where they waited at the gate and stood long,
talking happily. Jamie and Bobby followed at their heels and peered up
curiously at the wounded soldier, but Betty was seized with a rare
moment of shyness that held her back.

Dear little Betty! She had grown taller since Peter Junior had taken
that last tea at the Ballards. No longer care free, the oldest but
one, she had taken many of her mother's burdens upon her young
shoulders, albeit not knowing that they were burdens, since they were
wholly acts of love and joyously done. She was fully conscious of her
advancing years, and too