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Jim watched Clay as his eye followed the one female figure there, and, observing that he clutched the case still tighter, asked again, “What is that, a charm?”

“Yes, against pain, captivity and shame.”

“Strikes me it a’n’t kep’ you from any one of ’em,” said Jim, with a laugh.

“I haven’t tried it yet.”

“How does it work?” Jim asked more respectfully, being impressed by something in the rebel’s manner.

“You will see when I use it. Now let me alone;” and Clay turned impatiently away.

“You’ve got p’ison, or some deviltry, in that thing. If you don’t let me look, I swear I’ll have it took away from you;” and Jim put his big hand on the slender chain with a resolute air.

Clay smiled a scornful smile, and offered the trinket, saying coolly, “I only fooled you. Look as much as you like; you’ll find nothing dangerous.”

Jim opened the pocket, saw a lock of gray hair, and nothing more.

“Is that your mother’s?”

“Yes; my dead mother’s.”

It was strange to gee the instantaneous change that passed over the two men as each uttered that dearest word in all tongues. Rough Jim gently reclosed and returned the case, saying kindly, “Keep it; I wouldn’t rob you on’t for no money.”

Clay thrust it jealously into his breast, and the first trace of emotion he had shown softened his dark face, as he answered, with a grateful tremor in his voice, “Thank you. I wouldn’t lose it for the world.”

“May I say good-morning, neighbor?” asked a feeble voice, as Murry turned a very wan, but cheerful face toward him, when Jim moved on with his basin and towel.

“If you like,” returned Clay, looking at him with those quick, suspicious eyes of his.

“Well, I do like; so I say it, and hope you are better,” returned the cordial voice.

“Are you?”

“Yes, thank God!”

“Is it sure?”

“Nothing is sure, in a case like mine, till I’m on my legs again; but I’m certainly better. I don’t expect you to be glad, but I hope you don’t regret it very much.”

“I don’t.” The smile that accompanied the words surprised Murry as much as the reply, for both seemed honest, and his kind heart warmed toward his suffering enemy.

“I hope you’ll be exchanged as soon as you are able. Till then, you can go to one of the other hospitals, where there are many reb–I would say, Southerners. If you’d like, I’ll speak to Dr. Fitz Hugh, and he’ll see you moved,” said Murry, in his friendly way.

“I’d rather stay here, thank you.” Clay smiled again as he spoke in the mild tone that surprised Murry as much as it pleased him.

“You like to be in my corner, then?” he said, with a boyish laugh.

“Very much…for a while.”

“I’m very glad. Do you suffer much?”

“I shall suffer more by and by, if I go on; but I’ll risk it,” answered Clay, fixing his feverish eyes on Murry’s placid face.

“You expect to have a hard time with your leg?” said Murry, compassionately.

“With my soul.”

It was an odd answer, and given with such an odd expression, as Clay turned his face away, that Murry said no more, fancying his brain a little touched by the fever evidently coming on.

They spoke but seldom to each other that day, for Clay lay apparently asleep, with a flushed cheek and restless head, and Murry tranquilly dreamed waking dreams of home and little Mary. That night, after all was still, Miss Mercy went up into the organ-loft to get fresh rollers for the morrow, the boxes of old linen, and such matters, being kept there. As she stood looking down on the thirty pale sleepers, she remembered that she had not played a hymn on the little organ for Murry, as she had promised that day. Stealing softly to the front, she peeped over the gallery, to see if he was asleep; if not, she would keep her word, for he was her favorite.

A screen had been drawn before the recess where the two beds stood, shutting their occupants from the sight of the other men. Murry lay sleeping, but Clay was awake, and a quick thrill tingled along the young woman’s nerves as she saw his face. Leaning on one arm, he peered about the place with an eager, watchful air, and glanced up at the dark gallery, but did not see the startled face behind the central pillar. Pausing an instant, he shook his one clenched hand at the unconscious sleeper, and then threw out the locket cautiously. Two white mugs, just alike, stood on the little table between the beds, water in each. With another furtive glance about him, Clay suddenly stretched out his long arm, and dropped something from the locket into Murry’s cup. An instant he remained motionless, with a sinister smile on his face; then, as Jim’s step sounded beyond the screen, he threw his arm over his face, and lay, breathing heavily, as if asleep.