Twenty-four hours had passed, and in Hugh’s room it was growing dark again. All the day he had watched anxiously the door through which visitors would enter, asking repeatedly if no one had called for him; but just as the sun was going down he fell away to sleep, dreaming at last that _Golden Hair_ was there—that her soft, white hands were on his brow, her sweet lips pressed to his, while her dear voice murmured softly, “Darling Hugh!” There was a cry of pain from a distant corner, and Hugh awoke to know it was no dream—the soft hands on his brow, the kiss upon his lips—for _Golden Hair was_ there; and by the tears she dropped upon his face, and the caresses she gave him, he knew that Sam had told him truly. For several minutes there was silence between them, while the eyes looked into each other with a deeper meaning than words could have expressed; then smoothing back his damp brown hair, and letting her fingers still rest upon his forehead, Alice whispered to him, “I loved you, Hugh, when you left home, and I hoped that first note would have told you so. I wish it had, for then we need not have been separated so long.” Winding his well arm round her neck, and drawing her nearer to him, Hugh answered, “It was best just as it is. Had I been sure of your love, I should have found it harder to leave home. My country needed me. I am glad I have done what I could to defend it. Glad that I joined the army, for Alice, darling, Golden Hair, in my lonely tent reading that little Bible you gave me so long ago, the Saviour found me, and now, whether I live or not, it is well, for if I die, I am sure you will be mine in Heaven; and if I live——” Alice finished the sentence for him, “If you live, God willing, I shall be your wife. Dear Hugh, I bless the Good Father, first for bringing you to Himself, and then restoring you to me.” CHAPTER XXXIX. GOING HOME. The village hearse was waiting at Snowdon depot, and close beside it stood the carriage from Terrace Hill; the one sent there for Adah, the other for her husband, whose life-blood, so freely shed, had wiped away all stains upon his memory, and enshrined him in the hearts of Snowdon’s people as a martyr. He was the first dead soldier returned to them, his the first soldier’s grave in their churchyard; and so a goodly throng were there, with plaintive fife and muffled drum, to do him honor. His major was coming with him, it was said—Major Stanley, who had himself been found in a half-fainting condition watching by the dead—Major Stanley, who had seen that the body was embalmed, had written to the wife, and had attended to everything, even to coming on himself by way of showing his respect. Death is a great softener of errors; and the village people, who could not remember a time when they had not disliked John Richards, forgot his faults now that he was dead.