The thought brings me to my feet.
I had been sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree. Far in front stretches the dark valley of the Hedgeman River. Confused noises come from rear and left. The vedettes will be withdrawn at once, no doubt, for the march begins. Where is my father? Where he is there should I be also. Suddenly light comes; I know that the letter was signed Jones Berwick, Sr. From what place was it written? I do not know. But I know that my father is the man in the tent where the Doctor attends me sick.
I make a step forward.
Owens, on my left a hundred yards, shouts, "Jones, come on; the line is moving back; we are ordered back!"
I open my mouth to reply to him, but think better of it.
I understand.
I am going to my father.
A flood of recollection has poured upon me.
I am the happiest--no, the most wretched--man on earth.