Before it is too late! Harry, who has been wondering, the while, at this serious language, so uncommon from his genial friend, wonders still more at that expression. What does he mean? He asks, finally. “I’m half sorry I let the words escape me; but now that I have aroused your curiosity, and since you trust me with your secrets, well, yes, I will tell you. You know one mustn’t expect to engage in battles and come out whole and sound. One day a small, round piece of lead discharged from a rifle took lodgings in my shoulder, and has since been slowly working its way down towards my heart. So it seems that a bullet is to be the death of me after all.” Harry stares at the Lieutenant in mute amazement. Death! He suddenly becomes aware how strong are the cords of love which bind him to the blind man. To lose him, his best friend! No more confidential talks, him no more to come to in trouble, and doubt, and perplexity, and lay open all one’s thoughts! he who first discovered good in the wayward nature—a little, tender plant, so covered by the dust that others could not see, and helped it to grow and thrive in spite of the trampling that else would have destroyed it. “Oh, Lieutenant! it isn’t true! Something can be done!” No, it appears from the reply, nothing can be done. “Nobody knows? Katy doesn’t know?” the boy asks, at length, in a husky, tremulous voice. “The surgeon and Lem have known of it only. It was on sister’s account that I wished the matter to be kept quiet. I wanted to spare her the sadness as long as possible. But I must tell her very soon. It will not do for it to come upon her too suddenly. Ah, my Katy!” and another voice is low and tremulous. “Is it painful ever?” “Sometimes.” “And you’ve kept it to yourself all these years! We didn’t know!” From the chimney corner where he has been lounging Harry gazes once more at the patient face, pallid from silent, secret suffering, at the empty sleeve, at the eyes which cannot see; then he throws himself flat upon the carpet in a fit of weeping—he who so rarely sheds a tear—and his surprise, and grief, and anger, take expression in one passionate outcry against the war which caused all this—that brothers’ war! But as he lies there sobbing, listening to some calm and soothing words, there comes to him—even to Harry—a remembrance of a face he has somewhere seen pictured. That, too, was a pallid face and patient. It drooped from a cross; and the brow was encircled by thorns; and underneath was written: IT IS FINISHED. CONSOLATION. “It’s lonesome without _him_!” You may have noticed those high walls which some build about their houses and grounds, so high you can get but a glimpse of the tree-tops above them; the shady walks, and gushing fountains, and green grass-plats, and bright flowers are entirely hidden from view.