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“There’s Quite So, now,” said Strong, “when a Minie-ball comes ping! and knocks one of his guns to finders, he merely smiles, and does n’t at all see the degradation of the thing.”

Poor Bladburn! As I watched him day by day going about his duties, in his shy, cheery way, with a smile for every one and not an extra word for anybody, it was hard to believe he was the same man who, that night before we broke camp by the Potomac, had poured out to me the story of his love and sorrow in words that burned in my memory.

While Strong was speaking, Blakely lifted aside the flap of the tent and looked in on us.

Boys, Quite So was hurt last night,” he said, with a white tremor to his lip.

“What!”

“Shot on picket.”

“Why, he was in the pit next to mine,” cried Strong.

“Badly hurt?”

“Badly hurt.”

I knew he was; I need not have asked the question. He never meant to go back to New England!

Bladburn was lying on the stretcher in the hospital-tent. The surgeon had knelt down by him, and was carefully cutting away the bosom of his blouse. The Latin grammar, stained, and torn, slipped, and fell to the floor. Bladburn gave me a quick glance. I picked up the book, and as I placed it in his hand, the icy fingers closed softly over mine. He was sinking fast. In a few minutes the surgeon finished his examination. When he rose to his feet there were tears on the weather-beaten checks. He was a rough outside, but a tender heart.

“My poor lad,” he blurted out,” it’s no use. If you’ve anything to say, say it now, for you’ve nearly done with this world.”

Then Bladburn lifted his eyes slowly to the surgeon, and the old smile flitted over his face as he murmured,

“Quite so.”