"There is the battle of Pea Ridge; you know we have just heard of it."
"Mercy, man! what are you talking about! It must be between one and two hundred miles to where that battle was fought. I do not see how this boy could have ridden ten miles with the wounds he has. He must be a spunky chap, and I will do the best I can for him; but I reckon, Chittenden, you will have a funeral on your hands in a day or two."
But the young soldier did not die, although it was Tilly's careful nursing rather than the skill of the doctor that saved him.
For two days he tossed in delirium, and then the fever left him and he began to mend. Tilly was assiduous in her attentions, and until he was out of danger could hardly be persuaded to leave the bedside, even for rest.
When the wounded soldier became well enough to talk he told his story to Mr. Chittenden. He said his name was Mark Grafton, that his parents were dead, and that he had no living relatives who cared for him. "I am all alone in the world," he said, "and, Mr. Chittenden, if you had let me die there would have been no one to weep."
"Are you as friendless as that?" asked Mr. Chittenden.
"As friendless as that! I am nothing but a poor private soldier," answered Mark.
He then went on and told how he had been with Price from the beginning, how he had fought at Wilson Creek and Lexington and numerous other engagements.
"But at Pea Ridge——" Mark stopped and sighed.
"Pea Ridge!" cried Mr. Chittenden. "Was it at Pea Ridge you received your wounds?"