Never for an hour had that faithful friend deserted his post. Day and night had found him there, ministering to every want, and, as far as human aid could do, smoothing the pathway leading so surely down to death. But his vigils were almost over now; his release was just at hand, for, as George had said, the morrow’s drum-beat would only find there the body, which was so worn by suffering and disease, that William Mather could lift it in his arms as easily as he could have lifted a little child. He was greatly changed from the days when he had been aptly called the Rockland Hercules. But as the outer man decayed, the inner life grew strong and bright, shining forth at the last with all the splendor which perfect faith in Christ’s Atonement can shed around a death-bed. There was no repining now, no murmuring at the mysterious dealings of Providence, nothing but sweet, childish confidence, and a patient waiting for the end coming on so fast that George himself could feel the irregular beat of his wiry pulse, and mark the death hue as it came creeping on, settling first in purplish spots about his finger tips, and spreading its ashen coloring over his clammy hands. A stormy November night had closed over Washington, and the rain beat dismally against the windows of the room where Mr. Mather bent over the dying soldier, listening to what he said. “You can’t tell Annie _all_,” George whispered, looking fondly up into the face he had learned to love so well. “You must write it down so as not to lose a single word. Bring pen and paper, and then sit where I can see you, for the sight of you does me good; you have been so kind to me.” The writing utensils were brought, and then sitting where George could look into his face, Mr. Mather wrote as the dying man dictated: