"I should--have turned back, my boy." After a silence the hero said more to himself than to me "Ah, if my brother were here to-night--I might live!" Many days afterward I thought myself dull not to have guessed what that speech meant, but now I was too distressed by the change I saw coming over him to do any surmising. He began to say things entirely to himself. "Home!" he murmured; "sweet, sweet home!--my home! my country!--My God, my country, my home!--Smith,--you know what that is you're--wiping off my brow,--don't you?" "Yes, Captain." "I--I didn't want you to be--taken too unpleasantly by surprise--just at the--end. You know what's--happening,--don't you?" "Yes, Captain." As I wiped the brow again I heard the tread of two horses down in front of the house; they were Gholson's, and Ned Ferry's for Charlotte. "Captain, may I go and bring her--tell her what you say, and bring her?" "Do you think she'd come? She'd have gone to Ship Island if I had caught her." "I know she'll come." "I wish she would; she could 'bear a message and a token,' as the song says." She came. I met her outside the door, and for a moment I feared she would come no farther. "How can I, Richard! Oh, how can I?" she whispered; "this is my doing!" But presently she stood at the bedside calm and compassionate, in the dark dress and limp hat of two nights before. The dying man's eyes were lustrous with gratitude. "I have one or two things," he said, after a few words of greeting, "that I'd like to send home--to my mother--and my wife; some trifles--and a message or two; if I--if--if I--" "Will you let me take them?" Charlotte asked. I did not see or hear what they were; Gholson beckoned me into the hall. He did not whisper; there are some people, you know, who can never exercise enough self-suppression to whisper; he mumbled. He admitted the dying had some rights, but--he feared the delay might result unfortunately; wanted me to tell Charlotte so, and was sure I was ever so wrong to ask to have Ned Ferry awakened for the common incident of a prisoner's death; he would let him know the moment he awoke. When I came back into the room the captive had asked Charlotte to pray. "Tisn't that I'm--the least bit afraid," he was saying. "Oh, no," she responded, wiping his brow, "why should you be? Dying isn't nearly so fearful a thing as living. I'd rather, now, you'd pray for me; I'm such an unbeliever--in the beliefs, I mean, the beliefs the church people think we can't get on without. My religion is scarcely anything but longings and strivings"--she sadly smiled--"longings and strivings and hopes." "Yet you wouldn't--" "Part with it? Oh, not for the world beside!" "Neither would I--with mine." The soldier folded his hands in supplication. "Neither would I--though mine, O Lord--is only the--old-fashioned sort--for whose beliefs our fathers--used to kill one another; God have mercy--on them--and us."