The illusion was complete; the act had done the falsehood my lips refused to speak. I can never forget that cry of joy. “Oh, Mary! Mary! You have come? I knew you would come if I called you and I have called you so long. I could not die without you, Mary. Don’t cry, Darling, I am not afraid to die now that you have come to me. Oh, bless you. Bless you, Mary.” And he ran his cold, blood-wet hands about my neck, passed them over my face, and twined them in my hair, which by this time had freed itself from fastenings and was hanging damp and heavy upon my shoulders. He gathered the loose locks in his stiffened fingers and holding them to his lips continued to whisper through them, “Bless you, bless you, Mary!” And I felt the hot tears of joy trickling from the eyes I had thought stony in death. This encouraged me, and, wrapping his feet closely in blankets and giving him such stimulants as he could take, I seated myself on the ground and lifted him on my lap, and drawing the shawl on my own shoulders also about his I bade him rest. I listened till his blessings grew fainter, and in ten minutes with them on his lips he fell asleep. So the gray morning found us; my precious charge had grown warm, and was comfortable. Of course the morning light would reveal his mistake. But he had grown calm and was refreshed and able to endure it, and when finally he woke, he seemed puzzled for a moment, but then he smiled and said: “I knew before I opened my eyes that this could n’t be Mary. I know now that she could n’t get here, but it is almost as good. You’ve made me so happy. Who is it?” I said it was simply a lady who, hearing that he was wounded, had come to care for him. He wanted the name, and with childlike simplicity he spelled it letter by letter to know if he were right. “In my pocket,” he said, “you will find mother’s last letter; please get it and write your name upon it, for I want both names by me when I die.” “Will they take away the wounded?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied, “the first train for Washington is nearly ready now.” “I must go,” he said quickly. “Are you able?” I asked. “I must go if I die on the way. I’ll tell you why; I am poor mother’s only son, and when she consented that I go to the war, I promised her faithfully that if I were not killed outright, but wounded, I would try every means in my power to be taken home to her dead or alive. If I die on the train, they will not throw me off, and if I were buried in Washington, she can get me. But out here in the Virginia woods in the hands of the enemy, never. I _must_ go!” I sent for the surgeon in charge of the train and requested that my boy be taken.