“I’ve brought back your boy, ma’am,” he said.
“Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Varney faintly; “what do you mean——?”
“We never got out to General Varney’s. We ran into a Yankee raiding party, cavalry, down here about three miles. Our home-guard was galloping by on the run to head them off, and before I knew what he was about, the boy was in with ’em, riding like mad. There was a bit of a skirmish, and he got a clip across the neck. Nothing at all, ma’am. He rode back all the way, and——”
“Oh, my boy! He’s hurt—he’s hurt——”
“Nothing serious, ma’am; don’t upset yourself,” returned the orderly reassuringly.
“Where did you——”
But that moment the object of their solicitude himself appeared on the scene. The boy was very pale, and his neck was bandaged. Two of the Sergeant’s men supported him.
“Oh, Wilfred!” cried his mother; “my boy!”
“It’s nothing, mother,” said Wilfred, motioning her away. “You don’t understand.” The boy tried to free himself from the men who still held him by the arm. “What do you want to hold me like that for?” he expostulated, as he drew himself away and took a few steps. “You see I can walk,” he protested.
His words were brave, but his performance was weak. His mother came close to him and extended her arms toward him. But Wilfred was a soldier now, and he did not want any scenes. Therefore, with a great effort, he took her hand in as casual a manner as possible, quite like a stranger paying an afternoon call.