This old man, who seemed a part and parcel of the room, sat at a round table, old-fashioned as the sideboard, on which the remnants of his solitary dinner still remained. A decanter, full of some ruby-tinted liquor, stood before him; but the glasses were empty, and not a drop of liquid had as yet stained them. With both elbows on the table, and both hands bent under his chin, he sat gazing on the Dutch picture; but apparently seeing something far beyond it, which filled his eyes with gloom, and bent his brows with heavy thought. At last he moved heavily in his chair, and pushed the decanter away toward the centre of the table. “Why should I think of him now more than at another time?” he muttered. “The fellow is safe enough, I dare say; very likely isn’t in the army at all. Am I a man to grow moody over a dream, or a bit of nightmare? I wouldn’t have believed it if any one had told me so; but, spite of myself, I do feel shaky, and tons of lead seem to be holding down my heart. Hark! I heard the patter of feet running swiftly; now a cry. There is news from the army. Tush! what is that to me? I have no one to mourn or hope for again.” The old man started from his chair and went swiftly into the hall, crying out, in a hoarse voice, as he flung the door open, “Boy, boy! I say—boy, a paper, quick!” The newsboy broke up a shrill cry and came clamping back, selecting a paper from the bundle under his arm as he moved. “Great battle, sir; list of killed and wounded a yard long! Ten cents; thank you! Can’t stay to give change. Most of our fellers ’ed stick you with a week older, and take the money at that. But I mean ter have yer for a general customer. Hallo! there comes another chap yelling like blazes; bet yer a copper, old boy, that I get round the corner fust.” Away the sharp, young rogue darted down the street, with the clatter of his thick shoes beating the pavement like a pair of flails, and his shrill, young voice cutting the frosty air with a shrill clearness that made the old man on the door-step shiver. “It is very cold,” he said, buttoning his coat over his chest with trembling fingers. “Yet I could see the wind whistling through that little fellow’s hair, and he did not seem to mind it, or think that his voice is a death-cry to so many. Why did I get this? What do I care who lives or dies?” The old man went into the house as he spoke, and sat down on the spindle-legged sofa, unfolding his damp paper in the light of a window behind it. It was the first time he had interested himself in the war news enough to purchase an extra. Now his breath came quickly, and his hands shook with something beside cold.