“Please do not. I came here disguised as a fruit peddler, so as to excite no remarks, and I can go back the same way.”
“But you have not told me what you have done with the young man?”
“He has been placed in the hospital. His wound is quite severe, but not fatal. The strangest part of the affair is, that not one of our men fired a shot. He was wounded by some one unknown to us.”
“Who could have done it?”
“I have no idea—possibly he has some enemy; most of us have.”
“I must hurry away. Breakfast will be ready, and my absence will make them wonder. Good-morning, sir, and many thanks for your kindness.”
“Good-morning, Miss—”
“Mason. I live but a half mile away, and I hope, if you are ever near us, you will call and tell us how Walter is. Or, rather, I had better send old Dan, our servant, here every day to inquire.”
“Do not trouble yourself to do that. I will do myself the honor of calling, to inform you how his wound progresses.”
It was strange how long it took Walter to recover, or at least how many calls Lieutenant Gordon was compelled to make, ere he deemed Marie's nerves would endure the shock of seeing him. Helen always had a bright welcome for the Lieutenant, and when she requested him to allow Marie and herself to visit Walter, the officer shook his head wisely and promised to help the wounded soldier over at a very early day. The latter had been chafing at the delay. Lieutenant Gordon had long since received proofs of his innocence as a spy, and was satisfied that his punishment had been severe enough, but his own case perplexed him. Was he pleasing in her sight; could she care for him; and how dared he tell her his own feelings?