“Where was he buried?”
Aunt Naomi paused to wag her foot and to nibble at the corner of her green veil in a way common to her in moments of excitement. She looked around in evident enjoyment of the situation.
“He was n’t buried anywhere,” she said, with a grin.
“Why not?” demanded Mrs. Wright excitedly.
“Because he was n’t dead.”
“Was n’t dead?”
“No; only taken prisoner. He was wounded, and he’s been in Libby.”
“How is he now?”
“Oh, he’s all right now. He’s coming over here to show himself, and see his friends.”
The words were hardly spoken when in the doorway appeared the well-known figure of Archie Lovell. He wore the uniform of a lieutenant, he was pale and worn, but handsomer than ever. On his arm was a blushing damsel in a hat with a white feather, her face all smiles and dimples. An exclamation went up from all over the room.