Not till then had Isaac observed the tall figure standing near, but at the sound of the well-remembered voice he looked quickly up, and putting gently from him the head of his comrade, sprang to his feet with a scream of joy, and threw himself into the open arms of Tom, who held and soothed him, while he sobbed out his delight. “Oh, Captain Carleton!” he cried, his body quivering with emotion, “I am so glad! I thought you had,—I didn’t know,—Oh, _why_ haven’t you come before, I’m so sick, so sick and tired, that I almost want to die! Will we ever be exchanged; have they forgotten us at Washington? Shall we never go home again?” These were questions which more than one poor captive had asked, and which none could answer. Tom, however, did the best he could, and hushing Isaac as he would have hushed and quieted a grieving child, he spoke to him many a word of comfort, promising to care for him as for a younger brother, and speaking of various ways in which his forlorn condition should be bettered, now that he was an inmate of the same prison. It was a blissful interview, and its good effects were seen in the brightness of Isaac’s face, and the cheerful smile which played around his mouth, even after Tom had gone to his quarters below. Softer than downy pillow seemed the hard bare floor, that night, as with his arm thrown round his invalid friend, Isaac lay dreaming of the frost-tipped trees at home, and the brown nuts ripening on the hill, where he, perhaps, might pick them yet, for Tom had given some encouragement that an exchange would ere long be effected, and as each believed his own name would be upon the list, so Isaac hoped his would, and in slumber’s fitful fancy he was at home again, and saw his mother come softly in to tuck the bed-clothes round him, or see if he were sleeping, just as she used to do. How still he lay to make her think he _was_ asleep! How real seemed the vision, how life-like the kiss pressed upon his lips, and the tear-drop that came with it! In a corner of the room there were groans and imprecations, and with a nervous start the dreamer woke to find it all a horrid delusion. That stifling, fetid atmosphere had in it no odor of Rockland’s healthful breezes, and the star, shining on him through the iron bars, though familiar to him, was not the same which he used to watch from the window beneath the eaves, facing to the north. No home, no mother, no soft feathery pillow for his head, or blanket for his body—nothing but that feverish hand still upon his forehead, and that tear on his cheek, for _these_ were real, and the sick soldier at his side, who gave the kiss and tear, was whispering in his ear, that the way so tearfully sought was found at last; that the gloomy, desolate prison was like the gates of Paradise, and death disarmed of all its terror.