Mary was bathing his forehead, and for the first time he saw her.

"I stumbled, Mary," he whispered. "I swear it."

* * * * * *

It was nearly ten o'clock when I left Weston's room. The doctor was
with him and was preparing to bivouac at the patient's side. He was a
young man from the big valley. Luther Warden had driven to the county
town and brought him back to us. The first misgivings I had when I
caught sight of his youthful, beardless face were dispelled by the
business-like way in which he went about his work. He had been in a
volunteer regiment, he told me, as an assistant surgeon, but had never
gone past the fever camps, as this was his first case of a gunshot
wound. He had made a study of gunshot wounds, and deemed himself
fortunate to be in when Mr. Warden called. Truly, said I to myself,
one man's death is another man's practice. But it was best that he was
so confident, and I found my faith in him growing as he worked. The
wound was a bad one, he said, and the ball had narrowly missed the
heart, but with care the man would come around all right. The main
thing was proper nursing. The young doctor smiled as he spoke, for
standing before him in a solemn row were half the women of Six Stars.
Mrs. Bolum was there with a tumbler of jelly; Mrs. Tip Pulsifer had
brought her "paytent gradeated medicent glass," hoping it would be
useful; Mrs. Henry Holmes had no idea what was needed, but just grabbed
a hot-water bottle as she ran. Elmer Spiker's better half was there to
demand her injured boarder at once; he paid for his room at the tavern;
it was but right that he should occupy it and that she should care for
him. When she found that she could not have him entirely, she