"He is about done for," he exclaimed as he ordered him carried in. "Tilly," he called, "here is a patient for you."
The colored woman came running, and with her Grace, who looked at the wan features of the soldier with piteous eyes. "Why, father, he's nothing but a boy," she exclaimed. "Where did he come from?"
"A sorry-looking horse brought him here, is all I know," replied her father.
A hasty examination showed a ball had gone through the muscles of his left arm about half-way between the elbow and shoulder and then torn a great jagged wound in the breast.
Tilly was a born nurse. The first thing she did was to turn to Grace and say, "Now, Missy Grace, yo' jes go 'way an' leave this boy to me. Dis is no place for a youn' lady."
The next time Grace saw the boy he was lying in a clean bed, his wounds neatly dressed. His bloody uniform had disappeared and instead he had on a soft white night-shirt. As Grace looked at him, so thin and pale, her eyes filled with tears, and she murmured, "Poor boy! Poor boy! I wonder if he has a mother." Then she turned to her father and asked, "Will he get well?"
"I'm afraid not," answered Mr. Chittenden. "He is not only badly wounded, but has a raging fever. I have sent for Doctor Hart. He will do all he can for him."
Doctor Hart lived miles away, and it was not until the next day he arrived. After examining the boy he said, "The wounds are bad, very bad. Without the fever, I would say he had a chance, but now I can hold out little hope. Who is he?"
"I know no more than you," replied Mr. Chittenden, and related how the boy came.
"Strange, very strange!" said the Doctor. "These wounds have the appearance of having been inflicted several days ago, and yet I have heard of no fighting near by. Must have been shot in a brawl."