“The noble soldiers! they cherish no feelings of bitter malignity against our brave foes. It is only we, miserable, mean, little non-combatants, who never risked our lives in the cause, who are as venemous as reptiles! I will follow the example of our dear Union boy there,” thought Elfie, as she hurried to the side of the young soldier of whom she had spoken, and said, with emotion:
“You are better than I am! You are a brave, good, generous fellow, and I hope I shall know more of you.”
The young soldier smiled and said, a little obscurely:
“You see, Miss, we must save the Union at any cost; but we don’t all hate each other for all that.”
“No,” replied Elfie, humbly. And she passed on to Goldsborough’s bed and said:
“Albert, I didn’t mean it—indeed I didn’t! Take the orange again, dear—do! It isn’t you that I am angry with. It is treason. And my feelings are so contradictory—pull so violently opposite ways—that I feel as if my very soul was being drawn asunder by wild horses! Oh, if you had been true to your country! Oh, if you had only been true!” she exclaimed, dropping on her knees and hiding her face on the edge of his bed while she sobbed convulsively.
She felt his hand laid softly on her head, and presently afterwards she heard him groan—a low, deep, irrepressible groan, that seemed to have been wrung from him by extreme agony.
Elfie lifted her tearful face and took his hand in hers. That hand was burning with fever.
“Are you wounded, Albert? Are you wounded badly? Tell me, dear.”
“Yes, Elfie, badly.”