His eyes fastened themselves upon the physician’s bowed head, and a tremor shook him like a chill.
“What will become of me?” he groaned.
“Nothing;” the calm voice filled the quiet place.
“Get well now, as soon as you can be moved I am going to take you to my mother!”
“But, but—”
“It is all right. Trust me.”
In a few days Shirtliffe’s splendid constitution regained its tone, and he began to improve rapidly. Then Doctor Bell further surprised those who had time to observe him by giving up his comparatively comfortable quarters to the lad he had saved from death. How Robert appreciated this considerate act, no one but himself could know. To meet the surgeon as seldom as he now did, was torture untold. He knew that he must speak, but day after day he put off the painful task. At the close of the second week, one day, Doctor Bell came in to make his accustomed call; he saw at a glance that Shirtliffe had reached the uttermost bound of endurance and with a courtesy for which his memory should be enshrined, he took the boy’s thin feverish fingers and said simply:
“Your bravery and courage must win the respect of all. You have served your country nobly. Why you entered the army under a false name, you best know, I respect your reasons and thank you for the service you have rendered.”
Robert bowed his head and wept over the friendly hand.
“And now,” the sympathetic voice sank lower, “what may I call you?”