"Did you know, Abe, I've a brother in the rebel army?" "I did not know. I have heard you have one somewhere in the south." "Yes, you have heard Jack twit me about my secesh brother. And I have been obliged to own he was a--traitor. And since I left home my folks have had a letter from him, in which he wrote that he was on the point of joining the confederate army, and that we would not probably hear from him again. So I suppose he is fighting against us somewhere." "Not here, I hope," said Atwater. "As well here as any where," said Frank. "I always loved my brother. I love him still. But, as you say, wicked as we are, Christ is in our cause, and----" Frank read,-- "'He that loveth father or mother more than me, is not worthy of me; and he that loveth son or daughter more than me, is not worthy of me.'" "And I," said the boy, lifting up his face with a patriotic, even a religious, fervor in it, "I love my country, I love the cause of right and freedom, better than I love my brother!" "With that true of us, with that love in our hearts," said Atwater, "we can dare to fight, and whatever the result, I believe it will be well with us. See what the book says." And Frank read on. "'He that findeth his life shall lose it; and he that looseth his life for my sake shall find it.'" "That is enough," said Atwater. "I can bind that sentence like an armor around my heart." "What does it mean?" "It means, I think, that though wickedness triumphs, it triumphs to its own confusion, for it has no immortal life. But even the death of a saint is victory." After that the soldier seemed inclined to relapse into revery. Frank thought he did not wish to talk any more; so he gave him back the book. Abram put it in his pocket, and took the boy's hand. "Good night, Frank," he smilingly said. "We shall see each other in the morning." "Good night, Abe." Frank left him. And Atwater, stretching himself upon the ground, put his arm beneath his head, and with the fire-light on his placid countenance, dismissed all worldly care from his mind, and slept peacefully. XXVI. OLD SINJIN. At the foot of a pine tree, on a pillow of boughs, lies the old drum-major. The blaze of the bivouac fire covers him with its glow as with a mantle. But his face looks haggard and care-worn, and his grizzled mustache has a cynical curl even in sleep. At a sound he starts, opening wide those watchful gray eyes an instant, then closing them quickly. It is a footstep approaching. Stealthily it comes, and passes by his side. Then silence--broken only by the crackle and roar of the flames. At length one eye of the sleeper opens a little, and peeps; and as it peeps, it sees, sitting on the pine roots, in the broad fire-light, with his cap before his eyes shading them, and his eyes fixed wistfully on him, Frank, the drummer boy. The eye that opened a little and peeped, closes again. The old fellow begins to snore.