But oh, who shall tell Isaac’s emotions as name after name was called, and none that sounded like his. Would they never reach it, never say _Isaac Simms?_ Could it be he was not there? Larger and thicker grew the drops of sweat, quivering about his mouth, and standing upon his forehead. Whiter, more death-like grew his face: heavier, sadder, more mournful the eyes, fixed so wistfully upon the caller of that roll, growing less so fast. There could not be many more, and the head drooped upon the heaving bosom, with a discouraged, disheartened feeling, just as the last was read, not _his_, not Isaac Simms. _He was not there_, and with a moan, which smote painfully on Tom’s ear, the disappointed boy turned away, and wept bitterly, while his pale lips moved feebly with the prayer for help he essayed to make. To be left there alone, with no kind Captain Carleton to soothe the weary hours, to be returned, most likely, to the noisy floor above, to die some night when nobody knew or cared,—it was terrible,—and Widow Simms would have shrieked in anguish could she have seen the look of despair settling down on her darling’s face. But though she did not see it, there was one who did, and guessing at the thoughts which prompted it, he walked away to be alone, and gather strength for the sacrifice he must make. Tom Carleton could not desert the boy who had clung so faithfully to him, and as Isaac had once staid by him in the Virginia woods, when he might have gone away, so he now would stay with Isaac. Still it was hard to give up going home, and for a moment he felt as if he could not. There was a fierce struggle between duty and inclination,—a mighty combat between Tom’s selfishness and his better nature,—and then the latter conquered. He must stay. It would not be difficult to find some person to take his place clandestinely, for already were the unfortunate ones seeking to buy such chances, and offering every possible inducement to any who would accept. A young lieutenant about his age and appearance, and whose wife and child were suffering from his absence, was the one selected by Tom as his substitute, and the matter soon arranged. Then, with a forced cheerfulness he did not feel, Tom went back to Isaac, who was still weeping silently on his couch, and whispering to an unseen presence, “_You’ll_ never leave me, will you? and when I die you’ll take me up to Heaven?” Here was a faith, a trust, to which Tom Carleton was a stranger, and wishing himself more like that sick boy, he bent over the cot, and said cheerily, “Isaac, are you asleep?” In the tone of his voice there was something so kind and sympathetic, that Isaac started up, and winding his feeble arms around Tom’s neck, sobbed out,