It was in vain that Mr. Mather told her how only a few could be officers, and that he was content to serve his country in any capacity, leaving the more lucrative situations to those who needed them more. He did not tell her he had declined a post of honor, for the sake of one who seemed to him more worthy of it. He would rather this should reach her from some other source, and ere the day was over it did, for in a small town like Rockland it did not take long for every other one to know that William Mather had enlisted as a private soldier, when he might have been _Colonel_ of a regiment, had he not given place to another because that other had depending on him a bed-ridden mother, a crazy wife, and six little helpless children. How fast William Mather rose in the estimation of those who, never having known him intimately, had looked upon him as a cold, haughty man, whose loyalty was somewhat doubtful, and how proud Rose felt, even in the midst of her tears, as she heard on every side her husband’s praise. Even the Widow Simms ventured to the Mather mansion, telling her how glad she was, and offering to do what she could for the volunteer, while Annie, unable to do anything for herself, could only pray that God would bring Mr. Mather back safely to the child-wife, who was so bowed down with grief. How Annie longed to see her,—and, if possible, impart to her some portion of the hopeful trust which kept her own soul from fainting beneath its burden of anxious uncertainty. But the days passed on, and Rose came no more to the cottage in the Hollow. Love for her husband had triumphed over every other feeling, and rousing from her state of inertness, she busied herself in doing, or rather trying to do, a thousand little things which she fancied might add to _Willie’s_ comfort. She called him _Willie_ now, as if that name were dearer, tenderer than _Will_, and the strong man, every time he heard it, felt a sore pang,—there was something so plaintive in the tone, as if she were speaking of the dead. It was a most beautiful summer day, when at last he left her, and Rose’s heart was well nigh bursting with its load of pain. It was all in vain that she said her usual form of prayer, never more meaningless than now when her thoughts were so wholly absorbed with something else. She did not pray in faith, but because it was a habit of her childhood, a something she rarely omitted, unless in too great a hurry. No wonder then that she rose up from her devotion quite as grief-stricken as when she first knelt down. God does not often answer what is mere lip service, and Rose was yet a stranger to the prayer which stirs the heart and carries power with it. The parting was terrible, and Mr. Mather more than half repented when he saw how tightly she clung to his neck, begging him to take her with him, or at least to send for her very soon. “What shall I do when you are gone? What can I do?” she sobbed, and her husband answered: