myself. If I get well, safe
and sound, I'll go to her; and, if I'm going to die, I'll send for her;
so I'll wait,"--which he did.

He found, however, that it was a great deal easier making the decision,
than keeping it when made. Sallie, hearing nothing from him,--supposing
him still in the South,--fearful as she had all along been that she
stood on uncertain ground,--Mrs. Surrey away in New York,--and Robert
Ercildoune, as the papers asserted in their published lists, mortally
wounded,--having no indirect means of communication with him, and
fearing to write again without some sign from him,--was sorrowing in
silence at home.

The silence reacted on him; not realizing its cause he grew fretful and
impatient, and the fretfulness and impatience told on his leg,
intensified his fever, and put the day of recovery--if recovery it was
to be--farther into the future.

"See here, my man,"--said the quick little surgeon one day, "you're
worrying about something. This'll never do; if you don't stop it, you'll
die, as sure as fate; and you might as well make up your mind to it at
once,--so, now!"

"Well, sir," answered Jim, "it's as good a time to die now, I reckon, as
often happens; but I ain't dead yet, not by a long shot; and I ain't
going to die neither; so, now, yourself!"

The doctor laughed. "All right; if you'll get up that spirit, and keep
it, I'll bet my pile on your recovery,--but you'll have to stop
fretting. You've got something on your mind that's troubling you; and
the sooner you get rid of it, if you can, the better. That's all I've
got to say." And he marched off.

"Get rid of it," mused Jim, "how in thunder'll I get rid of it if I
don't hear from Sallie? Let me see--ah! I have it!" and looking more
cheerful on the instant he lay still, watching for the doctor to come
down the ward once more. "Helloa!" he called, then. "Helloa!" responded
the doctor, coming over to him, "what's the go now? you're improved
already."

"Got any objection to telling a lie?"--this might be called coming to
the point.

"That depends--" said the doctor.

"Well, all's fair in love and war, they say. This is for love. Help a
fellow?"

"Of course,--if I can,--and the fellow's a good one, like Jim Given.
What is it you want?"

"Well, I want a letter written, and I can't do it myself, you
know,"--looking down at his still bandaged arm,--"likewise I want a lie
told in it, and these ladies here are all angels, and of course yo