“You can work for me, darling,—work for all the soldiers. It will help divert your mind.” “I can’t I can’t,” was Rose’s answer. “I don’t know how to work. Oh, Willie, Willie! I wish there wasn’t any war. Willie wished so too, but there was no time now for regrets, for a rumbling in the distance and a rising wreath of smoke on the western plain warned him not to tarry longer if he would go that day. One more burning kiss,—one more fond pressure of the wife he loved so much,—a few more whispered words of hope, and then another Rockland volunteer had gone. Gone without daring to look backward to the little form lying just the same as he had put it from him, and yet not just the same. He had felt it quivering with anguish when he took his arms away, but the trembling, quivering motion was over now, and the form he had caressed lay motionless and still, all unconscious of the dreary pain throbbing in the heart, and all unmindful of the loud hurrah which greeted William Mather, as he stepped upon the platform of the car and waved his hat to those assembled there to see him off. Rose, who had meant at the very last to be so heroic, so brave, so worthy the wife of a soldier, had fainted. CHAPTER V. JIMMIE. There were loving words being breathed into Rose’s ear, when she came back to consciousness, and there was something familiar in the touch of the hand bathing her brow, and smoothing her tangled hair, but Rose was too weak and sick to notice who it was caring for her so tenderly, until she heard the voice saying to her “Is my daughter better?” And then she threw herself with a wild scream of joy into the arms which had cradled her babyhood, sobbing piteously: “Oh, mother, mother, Willie has gone to the war! Willie has gone to the war!” It was very strange, Rose thought, that her mother’s tears should flow so fast, and her face wear so sad an expression just because of Will, who was nothing but her son-in-law. Then it occurred to her that Tom might be the occasion of her sadness, but when she spoke of him, asking why her mother had not prevailed on him to stay at home, Mrs. Carleton answered, promptly: “I never loved him one half so well, as on that night when he told me he had volunteered. He would be unworthy of the Carleton blood he bears, were he to hesitate a moment!” and the eye of the brave New England matron kindled as she added: “If I had twenty sons, I would rather all should die on the Federal battle-field than have one turn traitor to his country! Oh, _Jimmie_, _Jimmie_, my poor misguided boy!” It was a piteous cry which came from the depths of that mother’s aching heart,—a cry so full of anguish that Rose was startled, and asked in much alarm what it was about Jimmie. Had she heard from him, and was he really dead?