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“If you think it strange,” continued the major, “that, believing as I do, I stand here only to utter moral axioms when my duty calls me to pursue your lover, I beg you to believe that it is only for your sake. I wish to allow a reasonable time between your interview with him, and his escape, that shall save you from any suspicion of complicity. Do not think,” he added with a sad smile, as the girl made an impatient step toward him, “do not think I am running any risk. The man cannot escape. A cordon of pickets surrounds the camp for many miles. He has not the countersign, and his face and crime are known.”

“Yes,” said Thankful eagerly, “but a part of his own regiment guards the Baskingridge road.”

“How know you this?” said the major, seizing her hand.

“He told me.”

Before she could fall on her knees, and beg his forgiveness, he had darted from the room, given an order, and returned with cheeks and eyes blazing.

“Hear me,” he said rapidly, taking the girl’s two hands, “you know not what you’ve done. I forgive you. But this is no longer a matter of duty, but my personal honor. I shall pursue this man alone. I shall return with him, or not at all. Farewell. God bless you!”

But before he reached the door she caught him again. “Only say you have forgiven me once more.”

“I do.”

“Guert!”

There was something in the girl’s voice more than this first utterance of his Christian name, that made him pause.

“I told–a–lie–just–now. There is a fleeter horse in the stable than my mare; ’tis the roan filly in the second stall.”

“God bless you!”

He was gone. She waited to hear the clatter of his horse’s hoofs in the roadway. When Caesar came in a few moments later, to tell the news of Capt. Brewster’s escape, the room was empty; but it was soon filled again by a dozen turbulent troopers.

“Of course she’s gone,” said Sergeant Tibbitts: “the jade flew with the captain.”

“Ay, ’tis plain enough. Two horses are gone from the stable besides the major’s,” said Private Hicks.

Nor was this military criticism entirely a private one. When the courier arrived at headquarters the next morning, it was to bring the report that Mistress Thankful Blossom, after assisting her lover to escape had fled with him. “The renegade is well off our hands,” said Gen. Sullivan gruffly: “he has saved us the public disgrace of a trial. But this is bad news of Major Van Zandt.”

“What news of the major?” asked Washington quickly.

“He pursued the vagabond as far as Springfield, killing his horse, and falling himself insensible before Major Merton’s quarters. Here he became speedily delirious, fever supervened, and the regimental surgeon, after a careful examination, pronounced his case one of small-pox.”

A whisper of horror and pity went around the room. “Another gallant soldier, who should have died leading a charge, laid by the heels by a beggar’s filthy distemper,” growled Sullivan. “Where will it end?”

“God knows,” said Hamilton. “Poor Van Zandt! But whither was he sent,–to the hospital?”

“No: a special permit was granted in his case; and ’tis said he was removed to the Blossom Farm,–it being remote from neighbors,–and the house placed under quarantine. Abner Blossom has prudently absented himself from the chances of infection, and the daughter has fled. The sick man is attended only by a black servant and an ancient crone; so that, if the poor major escapes with his life or without disfigurement, pretty Mistress Bolton of Morristown need not be scandalized or jealous.”

V

The ancient crone alluded to in the last chapter had been standing behind the window-curtains of that bedroom which had been Thankful Blossom’s in the weeks gone by. She did not move her head, but stood looking demurely, after the manner of ancient crones, over the summer landscape. For the summer had come before the tardy spring was scarce gone, and the elms before the window no longer lisped, but were eloquent in the softest zephyrs. There was the flash of birds in among the bushes, the occasional droning of bees in and out the open window, and a perpetually swinging censer of flower incense rising from below. The farm had put on its gayest bridal raiment; and looking at the old farm-house shadowed with foliage and green with creeping vines, it was difficult to conceive that snow had ever lain on its porches, or icicles swung from its mossy eaves.

“Thankful!” said a voice still tremulous with weakness.

The ancient crone turned, drew aside the curtains, and showed the sweet face of Thankful Blossom, more beautiful even in its paleness.

“Come here, darling,” repeated the voice.

Thankful stepped to the sofa whereon lay the convalescent Major Van Zandt.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” said the major, taking her hand in his, “when you married me, as you told the chaplain, that you might have the right to nurse me, did you never think that if death spared me I might be so disfigured that even you, dear love, would have turned from me with loathing?”

“That was why I did it, dear,” said Thankful mischievously. “I knew that the pride, and the sense of honor, and self-devotion of some people, would have kept them from keeping their promises to a poor girl.”

“But, darling,” continued the major, raising her hand to his lips, “suppose the case had been reversed: suppose you had taken the disease, that I had recovered without disfigurement, but that this sweet face–“

“I thought of that too,” interrupted Thankful. “Well, what would you have done, dear?” said the major, with his old mischievous smile.

“I should have died,” said Thankful gravely.

“But how?”

“Somehow. But you are to go to sleep, and not ask impertinent and frivolous questions; for father is coming to-morrow.”

“Thankful, dear, do you know what the trees and the birds said to me as I lay there tossing with fever?”

“No, dear.”

“Thankful Blossom! Thankful Blossom! Thankful Blossom is coming!”

“Do you know what I said, sweetheart, as I lifted your dear head from the ground when you reeled from your horse just as I overtook you at Springfield?”

“No, dear.”

“There are some things in life worth stooping for.”

And she winged this Parthian arrow home with a kiss.