It was the night after the terrible battle of Cold Harbor. Both armies had fallen back. The dead and wounded lay where they had dropped. Among the latter was Colonel Rosenthal, who had been struck down while charging in front of his regiment. Young Wing, at the hazard of life and even of dearer honor, went in search of his colonel. Wandering in the darkness over that field of blood, he came suddenly upon a fallen horse and rider, and knew by the instinct of affection that he had found whom he sought. “Is that you, Wing?” hoarsely whispered a feeble voice, as the young officer threw himself down on the ground. “Yes, yes, my colonel, it is I,” sobbed Wing. “How did you find me, my boy, on this chaotic field, under this dark sky?” “How? Oh, how does the faithful dog find his fallen master amid such confusion? I saw you when you fell. I noticed where you lay. I could not come to you in the hurly-burly of that charge—” —“Ah! a gallant charge, Wing! a glorious charge! It was fine to fall in such a charge as that!” “Yes, my Colonel. But I have come to help you now. How can I do so? Where are you hurt?” said Wing, groping about, and feeling man and horse under his hands. “I do not know where I am hurt, Wing. But the horse has fallen on me, partly,” groaned the colonel. “Stay! if I can find a musket or a carbine—and there must be many scattered over this field—I can use it as a lever and raise the weight from you, my Colonel,” said Wing, moving about in search of the instruments required. In his motions he touched with his feet what he supposed to be the dead body of a soldier. And he elicited a deep prolonged groan. “Ah! I am so sorry! did I hurt you?” tenderly inquired Wing, stooping to address this new claimant of his sympathy. “Oh, no—only roused me,” moaned the wounded boy. “Can I do anything for you?” asked Wing. “Water! water!” Wing had a canteen filled with water, and he took the stopper off and put it to the mouth of the boy, who drank greedily. “That was good! Now I can die comfortably. Friend, are you Yank. or Secesh?” “Yank.,” said Wing. “Well, never mind. What are we fighting for, I wonder? I’m Secesh. Put your hand—in my bosom, Yank. Take out a powder-flask cover that you will find there. My sister worked it and gave it to me before I left home to join the army. Keep it, Yank.——” “I will keep it for your sister and send it to her if you will tell me where she lives,” said Wing. “Her name is Ellen Jenkins. She lives—” And here the speaker’s voice failed. “She lives—?” said Wing, listening attentively. —“In Rich—in Rich—” panted the dying boy. Wing snatched a flask of brandy from his bosom and placed it to the lips of the young soldier. Too late! There was but the gurgling death rattle in his throat. He could neither swallow nor articulate. “Do you mean to say that she lives in Richmond?” gently inquired Wing, taking the hand of the boy, who closed his fingers upon the hand of Wing and nodded earnestly.