Everything was so changed. Marian often mused over it. She felt like quite an old woman. She was hardly likely to marry now. She had put her candle out, she remembered. But her heart gave a quick gasp when she thought of Ralston. "Evangeline" had not yet been written, but daily she felt moved to enact the romance, to go in search of him. Somehow she felt sure she could find him. And if he was among the dead she would have a right to cherish his memory, and that happy episode, the one brief romance of her life.
Dr. Collaston came in. Yes, his patient was doing nicely. When she could be moved with safety, the air of the old plantation, with its rich autumnal fragrance and ripeness, would do her good. Patty should go with her for a holiday.
Annis was hanging to the doctor's arm.
"Won't you take me out with you?" she said coaxingly. "I like so to go with you, there are so many things to see."
"I am going to take Roger out on a little business, if everybody can spare him. Your turn may come to-morrow."
She nodded good-humoredly.
Carrington followed his friend downstairs. "We have news about Ralston," the doctor said. "There is a messenger here with tidings. There is no time to lose. You can hear the story as we go along."
A pale, large-eyed young fellow with an anxious face was awaiting them; and as they were driving over the old road that had been traversed many a time in pleasure, and was to be historic, Carrington listened to the young man's tale. A British soldier, he had been wounded and left on the field, and someone had paused to give him a drink of water, when the stranger had been struck by a stray shot and wounded in the leg. They had made their way slowly to a deserted negro hut, where he had fainted. His new friend had dressed his wound, which was more painful than serious, but both were weak from exhaustion and loss of blood. The storm coming on, they had been glad of shelter. The next day his new-found friend could not walk, and his leg was terribly swollen. They waited in the hope that someone would find them out. But on the third day the American was ill and delirious. A negro woman had discovered them, and visited them daily with food, and had attended to both their wounds as well as she knew how. Now his companion had come to his right mind, and he was a Lieutenant Ralston. He had begged him, Eustace Stafford, to find his way into the City and hunt up a certain Dr. Collaston and tell him the story.
"He is still very ill," declared Stafford. "And he must be taken out of that wretched hole at once. Still, we have been very glad of the shelter."
"You look ill yourself—"