Colonel Clay had liberally supplied Mark with money for the journey; in fact, the Colonel seemed to have plenty of money.
"Clay, I don't like it. You should never have sent him," said Mr. Chittenden. "I am afraid he never will live to see St. Louis, and I have grown fond of the boy. We raised him, as it were, from the dead."
"Never fear," replied the Colonel. "The same grit that brought him here will take him to St. Louis. If he dies after he gets there—well, it won't matter much. His mission will be done, and it may mean the redemption of the State. What is one life to that?"
Grace overheard the heartless remark, and a fierce anger seized her. It was well the Colonel left the next day, for she resolutely refused to serve him or sit at the same table with him.
The days passed. Two weeks passed, and then three, and Mark had not returned. Grace grew restless, her father anxious, and Tilly kept asking, "Whar is mah boy?"
But one day Mark appeared. He was riding slowly, so slowly, and his face was flushed. It was seen the fever had him again.
"Help me off." His voice was almost a whisper.
He was helped off, and almost carried into the house, and it was some weeks before he was able to leave it. "I do not regret the journey," he said to Mr. Chittenden. "I was entirely successful in my mission, and I rejoice that I was able to do something for my country, wounded as I am."
During his convalescence this time, Grace was with him a good deal. She sang and read to him, and Mark thought he never had heard a voice so sweet. Even the hand of Tilly was not so gentle and soothing on his fevered brow as was the hand of Grace.
By the first of August he had nearly recovered, but with August came Colonel Clay, returning to the South. He was in a towering rage, for all his planning had come to naught. The defeat of Porter at Moore's Mill, and then his complete overthrow at Kirksville, the dispersion of Poindexter's army, and his capture, ended all his hopes of capturing Missouri by a partisan uprising.