“Poor Burny might have spared himself the trouble, for I’ve no one to give it to, and in my eyes it’s nothing but a bit of old metal,” said Fletcher, pushing the parcel away with a half-irritated, half-melancholy look.
“Give it to me as a parting keepsake. I have a fine collection of relics of the brave men I have known; and this shall have a high place in my museum when I go home,” said Christie, taking up the “bit of old metal” with more interest than she had ever felt in the brightest blade.
“Parting keepsake! are you going away?” asked Fletcher, catching at the words in anxious haste, yet looking pleased at her desire to keep the relic.
“Yes, I’m ordered to report in Washington, and start to-morrow.”
“Then I’ll go as escort. The doctor has been wanting me to leave for a week, and now I’ve no desire to stay,” he said eagerly.
But Christie shook her head, and began to fold up paper and string with nervous industry as she answered:
“I am not going directly to Washington: I have a week’s furlough first.”
“And what is to become of me?” asked Mr. Fletcher, as fretfully as a sick child; for he knew where her short holiday would be passed, and his temper got the upper-hand for a minute.
“You should go home and be comfortably nursed: you’ll need care for some time; and your friends will be glad of a chance to give it I’ve no doubt.”
“I have no home, as you know; and I don’t believe I’ve got a friend in the world who cares whether I live or die.”