She looked at him strangely for a moment. “Nelse, I’ve dreamed and dreamed of your coming, but always with him. And now you come alone to tell me he is dead. Lord have pity! there is nothing left!” There was a far-away sound in her voice as though half dreaming. “Yas, Missy, dey is, I jes seed him--my young Marster--dem bright eyes, de ve’y nose, de chin, de mouf! He walks des like Marse Charles, he talks like him, he de ve’y spit er him, en how he hez growed! He’ll be er man fo you knows it. En I’se got er letter fum his Pa fur him, an er letter fur you, Missy.” At this moment Charlie entered the room, slipped past Nelse and climbed into his mother’s arms. He was a sturdy little fellow of eight years with big brown eyes and sensitive mouth. “Yassir--Ole Grant wuz er pushin’ us dar afo’ Richmond Pear ter me lak Marse Robert been er fightin’ him ev’y day for six monts. But he des keep on pushin’ en pushin’ us. Marse Charles say ter me one night atter I been playin’ de banjer fur de boys, Come ter my tent Nelse fo turnin’ in--I wants ter see you.’ He talk so solemn like, I cut de banjer short, en go right er long wid him. He been er writin’ en done had two letters writ. He say, ‘Nelse, we gwine ter git outen dese trenches ter-morrer. It twell be my las’ charge. I feel it. Ef I falls, you take my swode, en watch en dese letters back home to your Mist’ess and young Marster, en you promise me, boy, to stan’ by em in life ez I stan’ by you.’ He know I lub him bettern any body in dis work, en dat I’d rudder be his slave dan be free if he’s daid! En I say, ‘Dat I will, Marse Charles.’ “De nex day we up en charge ole Grant. Pears ter me I nebber see so many dead Yankees on dis yearth ez we see layin’ on de groun’ whar we brake froo dem lines! But dey des kep fetchin’ up annudder army back er de one we breaks, twell bymeby, dey swing er whole millyon er Yankees right plum behin’ us, en five millyon er fresh uns come er swoopin’ down in front. Den yer otter see my Marster! He des kinder riz in de air--pear ter me like he wuz er foot taller en say to his men--’ ‘Bout face, en charge de line in de rear!’ Wall sar, we cut er hole clean froo dem Yankees en er minute, end den bout face ergin en begin ter walk backerds er fightin’ like wilecats ev’y inch. We git mos back ter de trenches, when Marse Charles drap des lak er flash! I runned up to him en dar wuz er big hole in his breas’ whar er bullet gone clean froo his heart. He nebber groan. I tuk his head up in my arms en cry en take on en call him! I pull back his close en listen at his heart. Hit wuz still. I takes de swode an de watch en de letters outen de pockets en start on--when bress God, yer cum dat whole Yankee army ten hundred millyons, en dey tromple all over us!