Mr. Mather shuddered as the wild shout rang through the room. It seemed so like a mockery, that dying soldier shouting for liberty, and trying in vain to wave aloft his poor, scarred stump. Anon, however, the patriotic mood was changed, and the voice was very sad which whispered: “But hush! what sounds are these, mingling in the glad notes of victory? ’Tis the widow, the orphan, the mother, weeping over the slain! There’s mourning East and West; there’s weeping North and South, for the dead who will return no more! A crushed rebellion is hardly worth the fearful price. Oh, Annie, pray for the poor soldier,—everybody pray. Honor our memory,—forget our faults,—speak kindly of us when we are gone. We gave our life for freedom! ’Tis all that we can do. Speak kindly of the soldiers slain!” Reason was struggling back again; and bending lower, Mr. Mather said: “George, we _will_ honor the soldiers dead, and care for the soldiers living.” “Yes, yes!” George answered, faintly. “They need it so much,—more than the people guess who stay at home and _read_ about the war. It will be long, and the contest terrible. The North is strong, and the South determined, and both will fight like fiends. But right must conquer at last, and the Star Spangled Banner shall wave again even over misguided Charleston, whose sons and daughters shall weep for joy as they greet the joyful sight. God speed the happy day!” Mr. Mather could only press the hand which lay again in his. He could not speak, for he knew there was a _third presence_ now in the sick-room,—that its dark form was shading the bed whereon he sat, and with that feeling of awe death always inspires, he sat silently watching its progress, and thinking, it may be, of the future time when _William Mather_ would be the dying one instead of George Graham. Slowly the marble pallor and the strange chill crept on, pinching the nose, contracting the lips, touching the forehead and moistening the soft brown hair which William smoothed caressingly, as he bent down to catch the last faint whisperings of a spirit nearly gone. “We fought the battle bravely. Tell them not to be discouraged because of one defeat. Our cause is just. ’Twill triumph at the last. Don’t be too bitter toward the South; there are kind hearts there as well as here, and its daughters weep as sadly as any at the North. God help and pity them all. Annie, darling, I am almost home; so near that I can see the pearly gates which stand open night and day. It is not hard to die,—no pain, no anguish now,—nothing but joy and gladness and everlasting _rest, rest_,—perfect rest for the Redeemed.” * * * * *