“I met him over at Camellia before the war,” Helen remembered; “he was a polished gentleman, remarkably impressed, with Southern hospitality. Surely he will not forget the many times he has broken bread with the Carolinians. Barbarians do not forget that, and if he cannot be as chivalrous as Gordon he can at least be as honorable as Morgan.” They sat for a moment in silence. “Jack, come up stairs with me before you go,” Bessie murmured at last. They went out together, and Helen sat and looked into the firelight and dreamed of fires that never fail. The brave wife, leaning upon her strong husband’s shoulder, led him to a little room and stood with him by a bed all covered with little garments. She lit a candle, and its glow showed him more of his wife’s heart than he had ever before seen. There, each in its place on the white spread, were more than a full score of little prophecies of a woman’s love and joy and hope—a dainty cap intertwined with pink ribbons and another with blue; a tiny dress all stitched and sewn with silk, and others just as beautiful by it; some little coats of softest flannel and silken braidings, and a pair of tiny socks all crocheted in pink and white, so small that Bessie looked quaintly into her husband’s face and said: “Jack, dear, do you think anything could be so tiny as to get into those?” “Where did you get them, Bessie, in this poor land of fire and poverty?” “From Helen, the sweet girl. I told her about it at the first, and she had her brother smuggle them to her. Oh, she is so lovely! And see the little basket all covered with dotted swiss and little ribbons intertwined in it; and the soft little brush with ivory handle, as soft as the silken hair it will touch; and the tiny comb. And do you see the little gold pins and the silver powder box and the puff? And she put in a dozen of the softest little undervests. Jack, I love Helen.” “And I do too.” The strong man’s eyes looked suspiciously moist. “Poor girl! When she gave them to me last night she looked at them so long and wistfully, and I knew she was thinking about Ervin.” “Sad, sad, Bessie; but his death was the death of a hero.” “I know it, darling, but—a woman—a true woman—wants—a—a son of her love—and life is a mockery without it.” Then they were silent for a moment, and each deep in thought, until Bessie said slowly, looking at the tiny garments before her: “Jack, do you think that is what Jesus meant when He said He would go and prepare a place for us?” He kissed her then, and said a soldier’s farewell, leaving her standing at the bedroom door. When he had descended the steps, Helen was still looking into the fire. “Helen,” he said, “we owe you much already, but I want to ask another favor.” “What is it, Jack?”