She rose heart-broken, and pressed her wan face against the window pane.
“He will die soon,” she murmured, “and I shall be alone. Tait has Annie, but Ervin is so far away! Oh, if he could only come!”
She looked, as always, from the window that faced the southwest, where the ivy-covered cabin crouched, only her eyes now wandered on over the green wheat fields to the blue range of the Wa-haws. Beyond them Ervin was, Ervin who loved her, and would come back some day, and claim his highland lassie.
The twilight was falling gently in the Silver Creek valley, the cooing of the dove came softly from the piny woods. She closed her eyes—and—
The fighting is ended, the tears are over and gone. Of a glad day he comes back stronger, nobler, manlier. The little red church in under the oaks is garlanded with roses. Annie is playing the wedding march, and Dr. Allerton—
“Miss Helen,” called a happy old voice.
“Why, Ben—you—I was asleep surely! What are you grinning at?” Helen asked dazedly.
“I’se got some good news for de young mistis! Ole Ben’s shorely got some good news. De white pigeon what was lost is come home!”
In her anguish she saw him wounded—a great hole, perhaps, in his breast. Pathetically crowning him with her own motives, she hears him tell them to loose the dragoon, reads the one thought of his soul, that Helen should know and come to him.