A smile flitted across the officer’s face as he replied, “Had we all known each other better, this war would not have been,” and the noble foe held the boy closer to his bleeding bosom, dipping his hand in the running stream, and laving the feverish brow where the drops of sweat were standing. “What makes you so kind to me?” the dying boy asked, his dim eyes gazing wistfully into the face bending so sadly over him. “I have a boy about your size,—Charlie we call him,” the stranger said. “And I am Charlie, too,” the child replied, “Charlie Younglove, and my home is in New Hampshire, right on the mountain side. Father is dead, and we are poor, mother and I. That’s why I came to the war. I wanted to go to college, sometime. Do you think I’ll die? Will I never go home again?—never see mother nor little sister either?” The soldier groaned, and bent still closer to the drummer boy, asking so earnestly if he must die. How could he tell him yes, and yet he felt he must; he would not be faithful to his trust if he withheld the knowledge, or failed to point that dying one to the only source of life. “Yes, Charlie,” he answered, mournfully, “I think you will. Are you afraid to die? Did your mother never tell you of the Saviour?” “Yes, yes, oh yes!” and the little face lighted up as at the mention of a dear friend. “I went to Sunday School, and learned of Jesus there. I’ve prayed to him every night and every morning since I came from home. I promised her I would,—mother, I mean,—and she prays, too. She said so in her letter, right here in my jacket pocket. Don’t you want to read it?” The officer shook his head, and Charlie went on: “I didn’t want to fight to-day, because I knew it was Sunday, but I had to, or run away. Will God punish me for that, think? Will he turn me out of Heaven?” “No, no, oh no!” and the North Carolinian’s tears dropped like rain upon the troubled face, upturned so anxiously to his. “God will never punish those who put their trust in Jesus.” “I do, I do, I do!” and the trembling voice grew fainter, adding, after a pause: “You are a good man, I know. You have been to Sunday School, I guess, and you prayed this morning, didn’t you?” The soldier answered, “Yes,” and the child continued: “You are dying, too, I ’most know, for there’s blood all over us. We’ll go together, won’t we, you and I? Will there be war in Heaven, between the North and South?” “No, Charlie. There is naught but peace in Heaven,” and again the white hands laved the feverish forehead, for the soldier would fain keep that little spirit till his could join it company, and speed away to the land where trouble is unknown.