Thus Annie reasoned, and the widow felt herself grow stronger as hope whispered of a brighter day to-morrow. To Annie it was brighter, for it brought her news of George, wounded in his right arm, an inmate of the hospital, and at present too weak to write. This was all, but it comforted the young wife. He was not dead. He might come home again, and Annie’s heart overflowed with grateful thanksgiving that while so many were bereaved of their loved ones she had been mercifully spared. The next mail brought her a second letter from Mr. Mather, more minute in its particulars than any which had preceded it. He had obtained permission to stay with George, had removed him to a private boarding-house, far more comfortable than the crowded hospital; and, at his request he wrote to Annie that her husband, though badly wounded and suffering much from the terrible excitement of the battle, was not thought dangerous, and had strong hopes of ere long receiving his discharge and returning home where she could nurse him back to life. This was Annie’s message, read by her eagerly, while the Widow Simms, forgetting all formality in her anxiety to hear if there was aught concerning her boy, looked over her shoulder, her eye darting from line to line until she caught _his name_. There was something of him, and grasping Annie’s arm, she whispered, “Read what it says of Isaac.” And Annie read how brave Tom Carleton had generously given place to the poor wounded George, and staid behind him with Isaac, hoping to make his way to Washington in safety. They had not been heard from since, and the widow’s heart was sick as heart could be with the dread uncertainty. Anything was preferable to this suspense, and in a state of mind bordering upon distraction she walked the floor, now wringing her hands and again declaring her intention to start at once for somewhere. She knew not whither, or cared, provided she found her child. In the midst of her excitement the gate swung open, and Mrs. Baker rushed up the walk, her sleeves above her elbows, and her hair pushed back from her bonnetless head, just as she had left her washing at a neighbor’s when she received _Bill’s letter_, which told of Hal’s sad fate, and unravelled the mystery of Tom Carleton’s silence. “He’s took! The Rebels have got your Ike!” she shrieked, brandishing aloft the soiled missive, and howling dismally. Then, putting her hand into her bosom, she drew forth the lock of hair, and thrusting it almost in to the widow’s face, cried out, “Look, ’tis Harry’s hair, all there is left of Harry. That’s what I git for havin’ a boy two inches taller than Ike, who stood in front, and would of been shot instead of Harry, only he was shorter. Read it, Miss Graham,” and tossing the letter into Annie’s lap, the wretched woman sank upon the doorstep, and covering her face with her wet apron, rocked back and forth, while Annie read aloud as follows: “WASHINGTON, _July 24th_, 1861.