But it could not be, for Charlie’s life was ebbing away; the last sand was dropping from the glass. Closer the fair curly head nestled to its strange pillow,—the bleeding bosom of a foe,—and the lips murmured incoherently of the elm-trees growing near the mountain home, and the mother watching daily for tidings of her boy. Then the train of thought was changed, and Charlie heard the _bell_, just as it pealed that morning from his own village spire. How grand the music was echoing through the Virginia woods, and the blue eyes closed, as with a whisper he asked: “Don’t you hear the old bell at home, calling the folks to church? It has stopped now, and the children are singing before the organ, ‘Glory to God on high.’ I used to sing it with them. Do you know it, ‘_Gloria in excelsis_’?” “Yes, yes!” the soldier eagerly replied, glad to find they were both of the same faith,—that little Yankee boy, born among the granite hills, and he a North Carolinian, born on Southern soil. “Then sing it,” Charlie whispered; “sing it, won’t you? Maybe I’ll go to sleep. I don’t ache any now.” With a mighty effort the soldier forced down his bitter grief, and in a low, mournful tone, commenced our beautiful church chant, the dying child for whom he sang, faintly joining with him for a time, but the sweet voice ceased ere long, the curly head pressed heavier, the bleeding stumps lay motionless, and when the chant was ended, Charlie had gone to his last sleep. Carefully, reverently, the North Carolinian laid the little form upon the grass, and kissed the stiffened lips for the sake of the mother, who might never know just how Charlie died. Just then footsteps sounded near. Tom and Isaac were coming, and the face of the soldier darkened when he saw them, as if they had been intruders upon him and his beautiful dead. Their appearance, however, disarmed him at once, and with a faint smile he pointed to his companion, and said: “He was in the Federal army two hours ago; he has joined God’s army now. Poor Charlie! I would have done much to save him!” and with his hand he smoothed the golden hair, on which the flecks of western sunshine lay. Isaac knew it was a Rebel speaking to him, and for an instant he experienced the same sensation he had felt in the midst of the fray, but only for an instant, for though he knew it was a sworn foe, he knew, too, that ’twas a noble-hearted man, and with a pitying glance at the dead, he asked if aught could be done for the living. “No,” and the soldier smiled again; “my passport is sealed; I am going after Charlie. Some one of your men did his work well—see!” and opening his coat, he disclosed the frightful wound from which the dark blood was gushing. Then, in a few words he had told them Charlie’s story, adding in conclusion,