s, seeking to identify them in the feeble
light.

This was Aurora Griffiths, and she was seeking Jim Done, cherishing an
agonized hope that she might not find him. One wounded man dragged
himself to a puddle to satisfy his craving for drink, and died with his
face in the thick water; another, a mere boy, was sitting with his back
to a log, staring with a puzzled expression at the gory fingers he had
dipped in his wound. Presently, coming to a man lying face downward where
the soldiers had broken through, Aurora uttered a sharp cry. The figure
was familiar. Quickly she turned the face to, the light. It was pale and
bloodless; the only disfigurement was a small purple wound in a slight
depression near the temple, but the man was dead.

'It's Mike!' murmured Aurora. She knelt in the mud; her trembling hand
sought his heart. 'Dead!' she cried. She looked about her in terror,
then, rising to her feet, she ran to others lying near. They were
strangers. 'Thank God!' she cried--' thank God!' Aurora returned to
Mike's side, and, kneeling there, gazed upon him with streaming eyes.
Burton's face had assumed a Spartan dignity in death. 'Poor, poor boy!'
she said, and with her fingers upon his eyelids she whispered a prayer
for his soul. It was long since she had minded to pray for her own, but
the dead are so helpless. They invite even the intercession of the
faithless.

A soldier touched her on the shoulder.

'You'll have to get out of this, miss,' he said. Glancing at the dead
face, he corrected himself, and called her Mrs.

Aurora went with him. She looked closely at the prisoners as they passed,
but Jim Done was not amongst them. Beyond the cordon of troopers she was
liberated, and returned wearily to Mrs. Kyley's tent, for the Kyleys had
shifted their prosperous business to the vicinity of Bakery Hill a month
before. At the tent-door she was met by Mary.

'He is not amongst the dead, thank God!' said Aurora, 'and he's not with
the prisoners. Jim is safe, but poor Mike Burton--'

'Wounded, is he?'

'Dead. Shot through the head.'

Mrs. Kyley threw up her hands. 'My God!' she said. 'The poor lad! Oh,
Aurora, my dear girl, it's a bad, bad business!' The tears were trickling
down Mrs. Ben's plump cheeks.

'Why, Mary, what else has happened?'

Mrs. Kyley had set her large bulk before the girl, barring the door.

'You'd better not go in yet awhile, Joy darling.'

'What is it--is it Ben?'

'No, no, it's not Ben, but