So they marched away to the tune of “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” and the little mother went home to wait. It was very lonely from the first hour, and she willingly took up her work again. They scolded her when she wept, so she tried not to weep. They told her she ought not only to be willing to let them go, but be glad. She tried to think that she was glad. But in her heart she rebelled dismally. “We are coming, Father Abraham!” had been the cry—and her boys, too, had said, with a new light in their faces, which she, a woman, did not, could not, would not, understand, that they were going to fight for their country! Go and fight for their country when they might work for _her_—when they might have those Sunday feasts—when she could darn their stockings—mend their clothes—have her arms about them—theirs about her—give them warm beds—plenty of food—while the country would give them poor food—poor clothes—the ground to sleep on—and no Sundays at home! She could not understand it. No woman who is a mother can. She thought of possible wounds on their splendid bodies—of them lying stark in the night upon some shot-torn battle-field—of burial unknown in some vast trench—of fever—and terrors—of hospitals—and even of the coming home—no more her boys—no more! Soldiers, then, soldiers with rough beards and rough voices. She never once thought of them coming home dead. Alas! _her_ country was bounded by the Rhine. This was _their_ country! But still, as they went, she prayed blindly: “God bless you and keep you, my boys, and send you back to me as you go—_good_ boys. Father Abraham, they are my all—everything on earth I love. Send them back as you receive them.” V WE GO OUT TO FIGHT UNDER THE FLAG; WE RETURN—UNDER IT It seemed cruel—it was cruel—that her prayer should be so utterly denied her—that they should all be killed. But so it fell out. One by one they came home to her and were laid away in the churchyard of Saint Michael’s, in their pine coffins and faded uniforms, with the honors of war. It was heart-breaking to have to follow them, one by one, to their graves—to the same Dead March in Saul—to the same muffled drums—to the cadenced tramp of soldiers—with the Stars and Stripes for shroud—with all the solemn pomp of war. She thought only of the beautiful thing in the coffin to which she had given life. And each time she prayed dizzily—iterating it—so that God might perhaps the better hear: “Our Father, who art in heaven—keep the rest—keep the rest—keep John.” The last of them died at Gettysburg—in the first day’s fight. It was only a few miles away, and on the third of July he came home. On the fourth, while cannons were bursting for joy, she was following once more the soldiers to the tune of the Dead March. It was the last. She had grown afraid to pray. But once more, at the open grave, she raised her hands: “Our Father, who art in heaven—keep John,” she begged, in whispers.