WILL AND BROTHER TOM.
“A letter from brother Tom,—I am so glad. It’s an age since he wrote,
and I’ve been dying to hear from home. Dear old Tom!” and dropping
parasol in one place, gloves in another, and shawl in another, Rose
Mather, who had just come in from shopping, seized the letter her
husband handed her, and seating herself upon an ottoman near the window,
began to read without observing that it was dated at _Washington_
instead of Boston, as usual.
Gradually, however, there came a shadow over her face, and her husband
saw the tears gathering slowly in her eyes, and dropping upon the letter
she had been “dying to get.”
“What is it, Rose?” Mr. Mather asked, as a sob met his ear.
“Oh, Will,” and Rose cried outright, “I didn’t believe Tom would do
that! I thought people like him never went to the war. I ’most know
he’ll be killed. Oh, dear, dear. What shall I do?” and Rose hid her face
in the lap of her husband, who fondly caressed her chestnut hair as he
replied,
“You’ll bear it like a brave New England woman. We need just such men as
your brother Tom, and I never respected him one half so much as now that
he has shown how truly noble he is. He was greatly opposed to Lincoln,
you know, and worked hard to defeat him; but now that our country is in
danger, he, like a true patriot, has thrown aside all political feeling
and gone to the rescue. I honor him for it, and may success attend him.”
“Yes,” interrupted Rose, as a new idea struck her, “but what will his
Southern friends think of him? and he has got a heap of them. There are
the Birneys and Franklins from New Orleans, the Richardsons in Mobile,
and those nice people in Charleston,—what will they say when they hear
he has taken up arms against them? and he always used to quarrel so with
those stiff Abolitionists in Boston, when they said the Southerners had
no right to their slaves. Tom insisted they had, and that the North was
meddling with what was none of its business, and now he’s turned
abolitionist, and joined too,—dear, dear.”
Mr. Mather smiled at Rose’s reasoning, and after a moment, replied, “I
have no idea that Tom has changed his mind in the least with regard to
the negroes, or that he loves his Southern friends one whit the less
than when defending them from abuse. Negroes and Southern proclivities
have nothing to do with it. A blow has been struck at the very heart of
our Union, and Tom feels it his duty to resent it. It’s just like this:
suppose you, in a pet, were trying to scratch your mother’s eyes out,
and Tom should try to prevent it. Would you think him false to you,
because he took the part of his mother? Would you not rather respect him
far more than if he stood quietly by and saw you fight it out?”
“It is not very likely I should try to scratch out mother’s eyes,” said
Rose, half laughing at her husband’s odd comparison, and adding, after a
moment, “I don’t see how folks can fight and love each other too.”
Mr. Mather didn’t quite see it either, and without directly replying to
Rose, he asked, by way of diverting her mind from the subject of her
brother’s volunteering, if she noticed what Tom said about the Rockland
Company in general, and George Graham and Isaac Simms in particular?
This reminded Rose of Annie, who had been ill most of the time since her
husband’s departure.
“I meant to have called on Mrs. Graham right away,” she said. “The poor
creature has been so sick, they say, but would not let them send for
George, because it was his duty to stay where he was. I’d like to see
duty or anything else make me willing to part with you. I don’t believe
Mrs. Graham loves her husband as I do you, or she would never consent to
be left alone,” and Rose nestled closer to her husband, who could not
find courage to tell her what he meant to do when he handed her Tom’s
letter. It would be too much for her to bear at once, he thought, as he
saw how greatly she was pained because her brother had joined the army,
and was even then in Washington.
To Rose it was some consolation that Tom was captain of his company, and
that his soldiers were taken from the finest families in Boston. This
was far better than if he had gone as a private, which of course he
would not do. He was too proud for that, and she could never have
forgiven him the disgrace. Still, viewed in any light, it was very sad,
for Tom had been to Rose more like a father than a brother. He was the
pride, the head of the Carleton family, upon whom herself and mother had
leaned, the one since the day of her widowhood, and the other since she
could remember. He it was who had petted and caressed, and spoilt her up
to the very hour when, at the altar, he had given her away to Will. He
it was, too, who had been the arbiter of all the childish differences
which had arisen between herself and _Jimmie_, teasing, naughty
_Jimmie_, wandering now no one knew where, if indeed he were alive. And
at the thought of Jimmie, with his saucy eyes and handsome face, her
tears flowed afresh. What if he were living and should join the army,
like Tom? It would be more than she could bear, and for a long time
after her husband left her, Rose sat weeping over the picture she drew
of both her brothers slain on some bloody battle-field. The shadow of
war was beginning to enfold her, and brought with it a new and strange
sympathy for those who, like herself, had brothers in the army.
Again remembering Annie Graham, she sprang up, exclaiming to herself,
“I’ll go this very afternoon. She’ll be so glad to know what Tom thinks
of George!” and ere long Rose was picking her way daintily through the
narrow street which led to the cottage in the Hollow. It was superior to
most of the dwellings upon that street, and Rose was struck at once with
the air of neatness and thrift apparent in everything around it, from
the nicely painted fence to the little garden with its plats of flowers
just budding into beauty.
“They have seen better days, I am sure, or else Mrs. Graham’s social
position was above her husband’s,” was Rose’s mental comment, as she
lifted the gate latch and passed up the narrow walk, catching a glimpse,
through the open window, of a sweet, pale face, and of a thick stout
figure, flying through the opposite door, as if anxious to avoid being
seen.
Poor Annie had been very sick, and more than once the physician who
attended her had suggested sending for her husband, but Annie, though
missing him sadly, and longing for him more than any one could guess,
always opposed it, begging of Widow Simms, who of her own accord went to
nurse her, not to write anything which would alarm him in the least. So
George, ever hopeful, ever looking on the sunny side, thought of his
blue-eyed wife as a little bit sick, and nervous it might be, but not
dangerous at all, and wrote to her kind, loving, cheering letters, which
did much to keep her courage from dying within her. Annie was better
now,—was just in that state of convalescence when she found it very hard
to lie all day long, watching Widow Simms as she bustled out and in,
setting the chairs in a row with their six backs square against the
wall, and their six fronts opposite the table, stand and bureau, also in
a row. She was just wishing some one would come, when the swinging of
the gate and the widow’s exclamation, “Oh, the land, if that stuck up
thing ain’t comin’,” announced the approach of Rose Mather.
“I’ll make myself missin’, for mercy knows I don’t wan’t to hear none of
your _secession_ stuff. It fairly makes my blood bile!” was the widow’s
next comment; and gathering up her knitting she hurried into the
kitchen, leaving Annie to receive her visitor alone.
Not waiting for her knock to be answered, Rose entered at the open door,
and advanced at once into the room where Annie was, her fair hair pushed
back from her forehead, her blue eyes unusually brilliant, and her face
scarcely less white than the pillow on which it lay.
Rose had an eye for the beautiful, and after the first words of greeting
were over, she broke out in her impulsive way—
“Why, Mrs. Graham, how handsome you are looking! just like the apple
blossoms. I wish your husband could see you now. I’m sure he wouldn’t
stay there another hour. I think it’s cruel in him, don’t you?”
The tears came at once to Annie’s eyes, and her voice was very low as
she replied:
“George does not know how sick I have been, neither do I wish to have
him. It would only make his burden heavier to bear, and I try to care
more for his comfort than my own.”
This was a phase of unselfishness wholly new to Rose, and for an instant
she was silent, then remembering Tom’s letter, she seated herself upon
the foot of the bed, and throwing aside her bonnet, took the letter from
her pocket, telling Annie as she did so that she, too, was now
interested in the war, and in every one whose friends had gone.
“I never knew how it felt before,” she said; “and I’ve made a heap of
silly speeches, I know. Don’t you remember that time in the Hall, when I
talked about your husband being shot? I am sorry, but I _do_ think he’s
more likely to be picked off than Tom, who is not nearly as tall. You
are faint, ain’t you?” she added, as she saw how deathly pale Annie
grew, while the drops of perspiration stood thickly about her lips.
“Simpleton, simpleton!” muttered Widow Simms, listening through the
keyhole in the kitchen, while Annie whispered:
“Please don’t talk that way, Mrs. Mather. I know George is very tall,
but unless God wills it otherwise, the bullets will pass by him as well
as others.”
Rose saw she had done mischief again, by her thoughtless way of
speaking, and eager to repair the wrong, she bent over Annie and said:
“I am sorry. I’m always doing something foolish. You are faint; shan’t I
tell the servant to bring you some water? She’s in the kitchen, I
suppose,” and ere Annie could explain, Rose had darted into the neat
little kitchen where Widow Simms was stooping over the stove and
kindling a fire, with which to make the evening tea.
“Girl, girl, Mrs. Graham wants some water. Hurry and bring it quick,
will you?”
Rose called out a little peremptorily, for there was something rather
suggestive of defiance in the square, straight back which never moved a
particle in answer to the command.
“Deaf or hateful,” was Rose’s mental comment, and as it might possibly
be the former, she wished she knew the girl’s name, as that would be
more apt to attract her. “Most every Irish girl is Bridget,” she thought
to herself, “and I guess this one is. Any way she acts like the girl
that used to order mother out doors, so I’ll venture upon that name.”
“Bridget, Bridget!” and this time the voice was decidedly authoritative
in its tone, but what more Rose might have added was cut short by the
widow, who dropped the griddle with a bang, and turning sharply round,
replied:
“There’s no Bridget here, and if it’s me you mean, I am _Mrs. Joseph
Simms_!”
Rose had good reason for remembering Mrs. Simms, and coloring crimson,
she tried to apologize:
“I beg your pardon; I did not see your face. I supposed everybody kept a
girl; and your back looked like——”
“Don’t make the matter any worse,” interrupted the widow, smiling in
spite of herself at Rose’s attempt to excuse her blunder. “You thought
from my dress that I was a hired girl, and so I was in my younger days,
and I don’t feel none the wus for it neither. Miss Graham’s faint, is
she? She’s had time to get over it, I think. Here’s the water,” and
filling a gourd shell she handed it to Rose, who, in her admiration of
the (to her) novel drinking cup, came near forgetting Annie.
But Annie did not care, for the rencounter between the widow and Rose
had done her quite as much good as the water could, and Rose found her
laughing the first really hearty laugh she had enjoyed since George went
away.
“It’s just like me,” Rose said, as she resumed her seat by Annie,
listening intently while she told how kind the Widow Simms had been,
coming every day to stay with her, and only leaving her at night because
Annie insisted that she should.
“I like Mrs. Simms!” was Rose’s vehement exclamation, “and I am glad Tom
said what he did about Isaac, who used to saw our wood. I did not tell
you, did I? And there’s something real nice about your husband, too. I
mean to call her in while I read it,” and Rose ran out to the wood-shed,
where the widow was now splitting a pine board for kindling, the
newspaper she at first had used, having burned entirely out.
Rose’s manner and voice were very conciliatory as she said:
“Please, Mrs. Simms, come in and listen while I read what brother Tom
has written about Mr. Graham and your Isaac,—something perfectly
splendid. Tom has volunteered and gone to Washington, you know.”
It was strange how those few words changed the widow’s opinion of Rose.
The fact that Thomas Carleton, whom the Rockland people fancied was a
Secessionist, had joined the Federal army, did much toward effecting
this change, but not so much as the fact that he had actually noticed
her boy, and spoken of him in a letter.
“Miss Mather ain’t so bad after all,” she thought, and striking her axe
into the log, she followed Rose to the sitting-room, listening eagerly
while she read the few sentences pertaining to George and Isaac. They
were as follows:
“By the way, Will, I find there’s a company here from Rockland. Fine
appearing fellows, too, most of them are, and under good discipline. I
am especially pleased with the second lieutenant. He’s a magnificent
looking man, and attracts attention wherever he goes.”
“That’s George, you know,” and Rose, quite as much pleased as Annie
herself, nodded toward the latter, whose pale cheek flushed with pride
at hearing her husband thus spoken of by Rose Mather’s brother.
“Yes, but Isaac,” interrupted the widow. “Whereabouts does he come in?”
“Oh, pretty soon I’ll get to him. There’s more about George yet,”
answered Rose, as she resumed her reading.
“I had the pleasure of talking with him yesterday, and found him very
intelligent and sensible. If we had more men like him, success would be
sure and speedy. He has about him a great deal of fun and humor, which
go far toward keeping up the spirits of his company, and some of the
poor fellows need it sadly. There’s a young boy in the ranks, Isaac
Simms, who interests me greatly.”
“Oh-h!” and the widow drew a long sigh as Rose continued:
“I wonder he was ever suffered to come, he seems so young, so girl-like
and so gentle. Still he does a great deal of good, Lieut. Graham tells
me, by visiting the sick and sharing with them any delicacy he happens
to have. He’s rather homesick, I imagine, for when I asked him if he had
a mother, his chin quivered in a moment, and I saw the tears standing in
his eyes. Poor boy, I can’t account for the interest I feel in him.
Heaven grant that if we come to open fight he may not fall a victim.”
“Yes, yes, my boy, my darling boy,” and burying her face in her hard
hands, the widow sobbed aloud. “I thank you, Miss Mather, for reading me
that,” she said, “and I thank your brother for writing it. Tell him so
will you. Tell him I’m nothing but a cross, sour-grained, snappish old
woman, but I have a mother’s heart, and I bless him for speaking so
kindly of my boy.”
Rose’s tears fell fast as she folded up the letter, and Annie’s kept
company with them. There was a bond of sympathy now between the three,
as they talked together of the soldiers, Mrs. Simms and Annie devising
various methods by which they might be benefited, and Rose wishing she,
too, could do something for them.
“But I can’t,” she said, despairingly. “I never did anybody any real
good in all my life,—only bothered them,” and Rose sighed as she thought
how useless and aimless was her present mode of life.
“You’ll learn by and by,” said the widow, in a tone unusually soft for
her; then, as if the sock she held in her lap had suggested the idea,
she continued, “Can you knit?”
Rose shook her head.
“Nor your mother, neither?”
Again Rose shook her head, feeling quite ashamed that she should lack
this accomplishment.
“Well,” the widow went on, “’taint much use to learn now. ’Twould take a
year to git one stocking done, but if when winter comes, that brother of
yours wants socks and mittens, or the like of that, tell him I’ll knit
’em for him.”
“Oh, you are so kind!” cried Rose, thinking to herself how she’d send
Widow Simms some pineapple preserves, such as she had with dessert that
day.
They grew to liking each other very fast after this, and Rose staid
until the little round table was arranged for tea and rolled to Annie’s
bedside. There was no plate for Rose, the widow having deemed it
preposterous that she should stay, but the table looked so cosy, with
its tiny black teapot, and its nicely buttered toast, that Rose invited
herself, with such a pretty, patronizing way, that the widow failed to
see the condescension it implied. It did not, however, escape Annie’s
observation, but she could not feel angry with the little lady, touching
her bone-handled knife as if she were afraid of it, and looking round in
quest of the napkin she failed to find, for Widow Simms had banished
napkins from the table as superfluous articles, which answered no
earthly purpose, save the putting an extra four cents into the pocket of
the washerwoman, Harry Baker’s mother.
It was growing late, and the sunset shadows were already creeping into
the Hollow when Rose bade Annie good-bye, promising to come again ere
long, and wondering, as she took her homeward way, whence came the calm,
quiet peace which made Annie Graham so happy, even though her husband
were far away in the midst of danger and death. Rose had heard that
Annie was a Christian, and so were many others whom she knew, but they
were much like herself,—good, well-meaning people, amiable, and
submissive when everything went to suit them, but let their husbands
once join the army and they would make quite as much fuss as she, who
did not profess to be anything. And then, for the first time in her
life, Rose wished she, too, could learn from Annie’s teacher, and so
have something to sustain her in case her husband should go. But he
wouldn’t go,—and if he did, all the religion in the world could not make
her resigned,—and the tears sprang to Rose’s eyes as she hurried up the
handsome walk to the piazza, where _Will_ sat smoking his cigar in the
hazy twilight. She told him where she had been, and then sitting upon
his knee told him of Annie, wishing she could be like her, and asking if
he did not wish so too.
Will made no direct reply. His thoughts were evidently elsewhere, and
after a few minutes he said, hesitatingly:
“Would it break my darling’s heart if I should join Tom at Washington?”
There was a cry of horror, and Rose hid her face in her husband’s bosom.
“Oh, Will, Will, you shan’t, you can’t, you mustn’t and won’t! I didn’t
know you ever thought of such a cruel thing. Don’t you love me any more?
I’ll try to do better, I certainly will!” and Rose nestled closer to
him, holding his hands just as Annie Graham had once held her husband’s.
“You could not be much better, neither could I love you more than I do
now, Rosa, darling,” Mr. Mather replied, kissing her childish brow.
“But, Rosa, be reasonable once, and listen while I tell you how, ever
since the fall of Sumter, I have thought the time would come, when I
should be needed, resolving, too, that when it came, it should not find
me a second _Sardanapalus_!”
The sudden lifting of Rose’s head, and her look of perplexed inquiry,
showed that notwithstanding the fanciful ornament styled a _Diploma_
lying in her writing-desk, Sardanapalus had not the honor of being
numbered among her acquaintances. But her heart was too full to ask an
explanation, and her husband continued:
“Besides that, there was a mutual understanding between Tom and myself,
that if one went the other would, and he has gone,—nobly laying aside
all the party prejudice which for a time influenced his conduct. Our
country needs more men.”
“Yes, yes,” gasped Rose; “but more have gone. There’s scarcely a boy
left in town, and it’s just so every where.”
Mr. Mather smiled as he replied:
“I know the boys have gone,—boys whose fair, beardless faces should put
to shame a strong, full-grown man like me. And another class, too, have
gone, our laboring young men, leaving behind them poverty and little
helpless children, whereas I have nothing of that kind for an excuse.”
“Oh, I wish I had a dozen children, if that would keep you!” cried Rose,
the insane idea flashing upon her that she would at once adopt a score
or more of those she had seen playing in the muddy Hollow that
afternoon.
Mr. Mather smiled, and continued:
“Suppose you try and accustom yourself to the idea of living a while
without me. I shall not die until my appointed time, and shall
undoubtedly come back again. Don’t you see?”
No, Rose didn’t. Her heart was too full of pain to see how going to war
was just as sure a method of prolonging one’s life as staying at home,
and she sobbed passionately, one moment accusing her husband of not
loving her as he used to, and the next begging of him to abandon his
wild project.
Mr. Mather was a man of firm decision, and long before he broached the
subject to his wife, his mind had been made up that his country called
for _him_,—not for somebody else,—but for _him_ personally; that if the
rebellion were to be crushed out, men of wealth and influence must help
to crush it, not alone by remaining at home and urging others on, though
this were an important part, but by actually joining in the combat, and
by their presence cheering and inspiring others. And Mr. Mather was
going, too,—had, in fact, already made arrangements to that effect, and
neither the tears nor entreaties of his young wife could avail to change
his purpose. But he did not tell her so that night; he would rather come
to it gradually, taking a different course from that which George Graham
had pursued, for where George had left the decision wholly to his wife,
Mr. Mather had taken it wholly upon himself, making it first and telling
Rose afterwards. It was better so, he thought, and having said all to
her that he wished to say on that occasion, he tried to divert her mind
into another channel. But Rose was not to be diverted. It had come upon
her like a thunderbolt,—the thing she so much dreaded,—and she wept
bitterly, seeing in the future, which only a few hours before looked so
bright and joyous, nothing but impenetrable gloom, for she could read
her husband tolerably well, and she intuitively felt that she had lost
him,—that he was going from her, never to come back, she knew. She
should be a widow before she was nineteen, and the host of summer
dresses she meant to buy when she went back to Boston, changed into a
widow’s sombre weeds, as Rose saw herself arrayed in the habiliments of
mourning. What a fright she looked to herself in the widow’s cap, with
which her vivid imagination disfigured her chestnut hair, and she
shuddered afresh as she thought how hideous she was in black.
Poor, simple little Rose! And yet we say again Rose was not a _fool_,
nor yet an unnatural character. There are many, many like her, some who
will recognize themselves in this story and more who will not. Gay,
impulsive, pleasure-seeking creatures, whom fashionable education and
too indulgent parents have done their utmost to spoil, but who still
possess many traits of excellence, needing only adverse circumstances to
mould and hammer them into the genuine coin of true-hearted womanhood.
Such an one was Rose. Reared by a fond mother, petted by an older
brother, and teased by a younger, flattered by friend and foe, and
latterly caressed and worshiped by a husband, Rose had come to think far
too much of her own importance as Mrs. Rose Mather,—_née_ Miss Rose
Carleton, of Boston, an acknowledged belle, and leader of the _ton_.
There was a wide difference between Rose and Annie Graham, for while the
latter, in her sweet unselfishness, thought only of her husband’s
welfare, both here and hereafter, Rose’s first impulse was a dread
shrinking from being alone, and her second a terror lest the years of
her youth, now spread out so invitingly before her, should be passed in
secluded widowhood, with nothing from the gay world without wherewith to
feed her vanity and love for admiration. Still, beneath Rose’s light
exterior there was hidden a mine of tenderness and love, a heart which,
when roused to action, was capable of greater, more heroic deeds, than
would at first seem possible. And that heart was rousing, too,—was
gradually waking into life; but not all at once, and the tears which
Rose shed the whole night through were wrung out more from selfishness,
perhaps, than from any higher feeling. It would be so stupid living
there alone in Rockland. If she could only go to Washington with Will it
would not be half so bad, but she could not, for she waked Will up from
a sound sleep to ask him if she might, and he had answered “_No_,”
falling away again to sleep, and leaving Rose to wakefulness and tears,
unmingled with any prayer that the cloud gathering so fast around her
might sometime break in blessings on her head.
It was scarcely light next morning when Rose, determining to prevail,
redoubled her entreaties for her husband to abandon the decision be now
candidly acknowledged, but she could not. He was going to the war, and
going as a private. Rose almost fainted when he told her this, and for a
time refused to be comforted. She might learn to bear it, she said, if
he were an officer, but to go as a common soldier, like those she worked
for at the Hall, was more than she could bear.
It was in vain that Mr. Mather told her how only a few could be
officers, and that he was content to serve his country in any capacity,
leaving the more lucrative situations to those who needed them more. He
did not tell her he had declined a post of honor, for the sake of one
who seemed to him more worthy of it. He would rather this should reach
her from some other source, and ere the day was over it did, for in a
small town like Rockland it did not take long for every other one to
know that William Mather had enlisted as a private soldier, when he
might have been _Colonel_ of a regiment, had he not given place to
another because that other had depending on him a bed-ridden mother, a
crazy wife, and six little helpless children.
How fast William Mather rose in the estimation of those who, never
having known him intimately, had looked upon him as a cold, haughty man,
whose loyalty was somewhat doubtful, and how proud Rose felt, even in
the midst of her tears, as she heard on every side her husband’s praise.
Even the Widow Simms ventured to the Mather mansion, telling her how
glad she was, and offering to do what she could for the volunteer, while
Annie, unable to do anything for herself, could only pray that God would
bring Mr. Mather back safely to the child-wife, who was so bowed down
with grief. How Annie longed to see her,—and, if possible, impart to her
some portion of the hopeful trust which kept her own soul from fainting
beneath its burden of anxious uncertainty. But the days passed on, and
Rose came no more to the cottage in the Hollow. Love for her husband had
triumphed over every other feeling, and rousing from her state of
inertness, she busied herself in doing, or rather trying to do, a
thousand little things which she fancied might add to _Willie’s_
comfort. She called him _Willie_ now, as if that name were dearer,
tenderer than _Will_, and the strong man, every time he heard it, felt a
sore pang,—there was something so plaintive in the tone, as if she were
speaking of the dead.
It was a most beautiful summer day, when at last he left her, and Rose’s
heart was well nigh bursting with its load of pain. It was all in vain
that she said her usual form of prayer, never more meaningless than now
when her thoughts were so wholly absorbed with something else. She did
not pray in faith, but because it was a habit of her childhood, a
something she rarely omitted, unless in too great a hurry. No wonder
then that she rose up from her devotion quite as grief-stricken as when
she first knelt down. God does not often answer what is mere lip
service, and Rose was yet a stranger to the prayer which stirs the heart
and carries power with it. The parting was terrible, and Mr. Mather more
than half repented when he saw how tightly she clung to his neck,
begging him to take her with him, or at least to send for her very soon.
“What shall I do when you are gone? What can I do?” she sobbed, and her
husband answered:
“You can work for me, darling,—work for all the soldiers. It will help
divert your mind.”
“I can’t I can’t,” was Rose’s answer. “I don’t know how to work. Oh,
Willie, Willie! I wish there wasn’t any war.
Willie wished so too, but there was no time now for regrets, for a
rumbling in the distance and a rising wreath of smoke on the western
plain warned him not to tarry longer if he would go that day. One more
burning kiss,—one more fond pressure of the wife he loved so much,—a few
more whispered words of hope, and then another Rockland volunteer had
gone. Gone without daring to look backward to the little form lying just
the same as he had put it from him, and yet not just the same. He had
felt it quivering with anguish when he took his arms away, but the
trembling, quivering motion was over now, and the form he had caressed
lay motionless and still, all unconscious of the dreary pain throbbing
in the heart, and all unmindful of the loud hurrah which greeted William
Mather, as he stepped upon the platform of the car and waved his hat to
those assembled there to see him off. Rose, who had meant at the very
last to be so heroic, so brave, so worthy the wife of a soldier, had
fainted.