A familiar step drew near, and Dr. King laid his hand on the young man's
shoulder.
"Cheer up, my dear boy," he said, "we are trying to get you leave to go
home for thirty days, and the war will be over before the time expires; so
that you will not have to come back."
"Home!" and Harold's eye brightened for a moment; "yes, I should like to
die at home, with mother and father, brothers and sisters about me."
"But you are not going to die just yet," returned the doctor, with assumed
gayety; "and home and mother will do wonders for you."
"Dr. King," and the blue eyes looked up calmly and steadily into the
physician's face, "please tell me exactly what you think of my case. Is
there any hope of recovery?"
"You may improve very much: I think you will when you get home; and,
though there is little hope of the entire recovery of your former health
and strength, you may live for years."
"But it is likely I shall not live another year? do not be afraid to say
so: I should rather welcome the news. Am I not right?"
"Yes; I--I think you are nearing home, my dear boy; the land where 'the
inhabitant shall not say, I am sick.'"
There was genuine feeling in the doctor's tone.
A moment's silence, and Harold said, "Thank you. It is what I have
suspected for some time; and it causes me no regret, save for the sake of
those who love me and will grieve over my early death.
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