University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER IV.
WILL AND BROTHER TOM.

A LETTER from brother Tom,—I am so glad.
It's an age since he wrote, and I've been dying
to hear from home. Dear old Tom!” and droping
parasol in one place, gloves in another, and shawl in
another, Rose Mather, who had just come in from shoping,
seized the letter her husband handed her, and seating
herself upon an ottoman near the window, began to read
without observing that it was dated at Washington instead
of Boston, as usual.

Gradually, however, there came a shadow over her
face, and her husband saw the tears gathering slowly in
her eyes, and dropping upon the letter she had been
“dying to get.”

“What is it, Rose?” Mr. Mather asked, as a sob met
his ear.

“Oh, Will,” and Rose cried outright, “I didn't believe
Tom would do that! I thought people like him never
went to the war. I 'most know he'll be killed. Oh,
dear, dear. What shall I do?” and Rose hid her face in
the lap of her husband, who fondly caressed her chestnut
hair as he replied,

“You'll bear it like a brave New England woman. We
need just such men as your brother Tom, and I never respected
him one half so much as now that he has shown
how truly noble he is. He was greatly opposed to Lincoln,
you know, and worked hard to defeat him; but now
that our country is in danger, he, like a true patriot, has
thrown aside all political feeling and gone to the rescue.
I honor him for it, and may success attend him.”

“Yes,” interrupted Rose, as a new idea struck her,
“but what will his Southern friends think of him? and
he has got a heap of them. There are the Birneys and
Franklins from New Orleans, the Richardsons in Mobile,
and those nice people in Charleston,—what will they say
when they hear he has taken up arms against them? and
he always used to quarrel so with those stiff Abolitionists
in Boston, when they said the Southerners had no right
to their slaves. Tom insisted they had, and that the North
was meddling with what was none of its business, and
now he's turned abolitionist, and joined too,—dear,
dear.”

Mr. Mather smiled at Rose's reasoning, and after a moment,
replied, “I have no idea that Tom has changed his
mind in the least with regard to the negroes, or that he
loves his Southern friends one whit the less than when
defending them from abuse. Negroes and Southern proclivities
have nothing to do with it. A blow has been
struck at the very heart of our Union, and Tom feels it
his duty to resent it. It's just like this: suppose you, in
a pet, were trying to scratch your mother's eyes out, and
Tom should try to prevent it. Would you think him
false to you, because he took the part of his mother?
Would you not rather respect him far more than if he
stood quietly by and saw you fight it out?”

“It is not very likely I should try to scratch out mother's
eyes,” said Rose, half laughing at her husband's
odd comparison, and adding, after a moment, “I don't
see how folks can fight and love each other too.”

Mr. Mather didn't quite see it either, and without directly
replying to Rose, he asked, by way of diverting
her mind from the subject of her brother's volunteering,
if she noticed what Tom said about the Rockland Company
in general, and George Graham and Isaac Simms in
particular?

This reminded Rose of Annie, who had been ill most
of the time since her husband's departure.

“I meant to have called on Mrs. Graham right away,”
she said. “The poor creature has been so sick, they say,
but would not let them send for George, because it was
his duty to stay where he was. I'd like to see duty or
anything else make me willing to part with you. I don't
believe Mrs. Graham loves her husband as I do you, or
she would never consent to be left alone,” and Rose
nestled closer to her husband, who could not find courage
to tell her what he meant to do when he handed her
Tom's letter. It would be too much for her to bear at
once, he thought, as he saw how greatly she was pained
because her brother had joined the army, and was even
then in Washington.

To Rose it was some consolation that Tom was captain
of his company, and that his soldiers were taken from
the finest families in Boston. This was far better than
if he had gone as a private, which of course he would not
do. He was too proud for that, and she could never have
forgiven him the disgrace. Still, viewed in any light, it
was very sad, for Tom had been to Rose more like a
father than a brother. He was the pride, the head of
the Carleton family, upon whom herself and mother had
leaned, the one since the day of her widowhood, and the
other since she could remmeber. He it was who had
petted and caressed, and spoilt her up to the very hour
when, at the altar, he had given her away to Will. He
it was, too, who had been the arbiter of all the childish
differences which had arisen between herself and Jimmie,
teasing, naughty Jimmie, wandering now no one knew
where, if indeed he were alive. And at the thought of
Jimmie, with his saucy eyes and handsome face, her tears
flowed afresh. What if he were living and should join

the army, like Tom? It would be more than she could
bear, and for a long time after her husband left her, Rose
sat weeping over the picture she drew of both her brothers
slain on some bloody battle-field. The shadow of war
was beginning to enfold her, and brought with it a new
and strange sympathy for those who, like herself, had
brothers in the army.

Again remembering Annie Graham, she sprang up, exclaiming
to herself,

“I'll go this very afternoon. She'll be so glad to know
what Tom thinks of George!” and ere long Rose was picking
her way daintily through the narrow street which led
to the cottage in the Hollow. It was superior to most of
the dwellings upon that street, and Rose was struck at
once with the air of neatness and thrift apparent in everything
around it, from the nicely painted fence to the little
garden with its plants of flowers just budding into
beauty.

“They have seen better days, I am sure, or else Mrs.
Graham's social position was above her husband's,” was
Rose's mental comment, as she lifted the gate latch and
passed up the narrow walk, catching a glimpse, through
the open window, of a sweet, pale face, and of a thick,
stout figure, flying through the opposite door, as if anxious
to avoid being seen.

Poor Annie had been very sick, and more than once
the physician who attended her had suggested sending
for her husband, but Annie, though missing him sadly,
and longing for him more than any one could guess, always
opposed it, begging of Widow Simms, who of her
own accord went to nurse her, not to write anything which
would alarm him in the least. So George, ever hopeful,
ever looking on the sunny side, thought of his blue-eyed
wife as a little bit sick, and nervous it might be, but not

dangerous at all, and wrote to her kind, loving, cheering
letters, which did much to keep her courage from dying
within her. Annie was better now,—was just in that
state of convalescence when she found it very hard to
lie all day long, watching Widow Simms as she bustled
out and in, setting the chairs in a row with their six
backs square against the wall, and their six fronts opposite
the table, stand and bureau, also in a row. She was
just wishing some one would come, when the swinging of
the gate and the widow's exclamation, “Oh, the land, if
that stuck up thing ain't comin',” announced the approach
of Rose Mather.

“I'll make myself missin', for mercy knows I don't
wan't to hear none of your secession stuff. It fairly makes
my blood bile!” was the widow's next comment; and
gathering up her knitting she hurried into the kitchen,
leaving Annie to receive her visitor alone.

Not waiting for her knock to be answered, Rose entered
at the open door, and advanced at once into the
room where Annie was, her fair hair pushed back from
her forehead, her blue eyes unusually brilliant, and her
face scarcely less white than the pillow on which it lay.

Rose had an eye for the beautiful, and after the first
words of greeting were over, she broke out in her impulsive
way—

“Why, Mrs. Graham, how handsome you are looking!
just like the apple blossoms. I wish your husband could
see you now. I'm sure he wouldn't stay there another
hour. I think it's cruel in him, don't you?”

The tears came at once to Annie's eyes, and her voice
was very low as she replied:

“George does not know how sick I have been, neither
do I wish to have him. It would only make his burden
heavier to bear, and I try to care more for his comfort
than my own.”

This was a phase of unselfishness wholly new to Rose,
and for an instant she was silent, then remembering
Tom's letter, she seated herself upon the foot of the bed,
and throwing aside her bonnet, took the letter from her
pocket, telling Annie as she did so that she, too, was now
interested in the war, and in every one whose friends had
gone.

“I never knew how it felt before,” she said; “and
I've made a heap of silly speeches, I know. Don't you
remember that time in the Hall, when I talked about
your husband being shot? I am sorry, but I do think
he's more likely to be picked off than Tom, who is not
nearly as tall. You are faint, ain't you?” she added, as
she saw how deathly pale Annie grew, while the drops
of perspiration stood thickly about her lips.

“Simpleton, simpleton!” muttered Widow Simms, listening
through the keyhole in the kitchen, while Annie
whispered:

“Please don't talk that way, Mrs. Mather. I know
George is very tall, but unless God wills it otherwise, the
bullets will pass by him as well as others.”

Rose saw she had done mischief again, by her thoughtless
way of speaking, and eager to repair the wrong, she
bent over Annie and said:

“I am sorry. I'm always doing something foolish.
You are faint; shan't I tell the servant to bring you some
water? She's in the kitchen, I suppose,” and ere Annie
could explain, Rose had darted into the neat little kitchen
where Widow Simms was stooping over the stove and
kindling a fire, with which to make the evening tea.

“Girl, girl, Mrs. Graham wants some water. Hurry
and bring it quick, will you?”

Rose called out a little peremptorily, for there was
something rather suggestive of defiance in the square,

straight back which never moved a particle in answer to
the command.

“Deaf or hateful,” was Rose's mental comment, and as
it might possibly be the former, she wished she knew the
girl's name, as that would be more apt to attract her.
“Most every Irish girl is Bridget,” she thought to herself,
“and I guess this one is. Any way she acts like the
girl that used to order mother out doors, so I'll venture
upon that name.”

“Bridget, Bridget!” and this time the voice was decidedly
authoritative in its tone, but what more Rose
might have added was cut short by the widow, who
dropped the griddle with a bang, and turning sharply
round, replied:

“There's no Bridget here, and if it's me you mean, I
am Mrs. Joseph Simms!”

Rose had good reason for remembering Mrs. Simms,
and coloring crimson, she tried to apologize:

“I beg your pardon; I did not see your face. I supposed
everybody kept a girl; and your back looked
like—”

“Don't make the matter any worse,” interrupted
the widow, smiling in spite of herself at Rose's attempt
to excuse her blunder. “You thought from my dress
that I was a hired girl, and so I was in my younger days,
and I don't feel none the wus for it neither. Miss Graham's
faint, is she? She's had time to get over it, I
think. Here's the water,” and filling a gourd shell she
handed it to Rose, who, in her admiration of the (to her)
novel drinking cup, came near forgetting Annie.

But Annie did not care, for the rencounter between
the widow and Rose had done her quite as much good
as the water could, and Rose found her laughing the first
really hearty laugh she had enjoyed since George went
away.

“It's just like me,” Rose said, as she resumed her seat
by Annie, listening intently while she told how kind the
Widow Simms had been, coming every day to stay with
her, and only leaving her at night because Annie insisted
that she should.

“I like Mrs. Simms!” was Rose's vehement exclamation;
“and I am glad Tom said what he did about Isaac,
who used to saw our wood. I did not tell you, did I?
And there's something real nice about your husband, too.
I mean to call her in while I read it,” and Rose ran out
to the wood-shed, where the widow was now splitting a
pine board for kindling, the newspaper she at first had
used, having burned entirely out.

Rose's manner and voice were very conciliatory as she
said:

“Please, Mrs. Simms, come in and listen while I read
what brother Tom has written about Mr. Graham and
your Isaac,—something perfectly splendid. Tom has
volunteered and gone to Washington, you know.”

It was strange how those few words changed the
widow's opinion of Rose. The fact that Thomas Carleton,
whom the Rockland people fancied was a Secessionist,
had joined the Federal army, did much toward effecting
this change, but not so much as the fact that he had
actually noticed her boy, and spoken of him in a letter.

“Miss Mather ain't so bad after all,” she thought, and
striking her axe into the log, she followed Rose to the
sitting-room, listening eagerly while she read the few
sentences pertaining to George and Isaac. They were
as follows:

“By the way, Will, I find there's a company here from
Rockland. Fine appearing fellows, too, most of them
are, and under good discipline. I am especially pleased

with the second lieutenant. He's a magnificent looking
man, and attracts attention wherever he goes.”

“That's George, you know,” and Rose, quite as much
pleased as Annie herself, nodded toward the latter,
whose pale cheek flushed with pride at hearing her husband
thus spoken of by Rose Mather's brother.

“Yes, but Isaac,” interrupted the widow. “Whereabouts
does he come in?”

“Oh, pretty soon I'll get to him. There's more about
George yet,” answered Rose, as she resumed her reading.

“I had the pleasure of talking with him yesterday,
and found him very intelligent and sensible. If we had
more men like him, success would be sure and speedy.
He has about him a great deal of fun and humor, which
go far toward keeping up the spirits of his company,
and some of the poor fellows need it sadly. There's a
young boy in the ranks, Isaac Simms, who interests me
greatly.”

“Oh-h!” and the widow drew a long sigh as Rose continued:

“I wonder he was ever suffered to come, he seems so
young, so girl-like and so gentle. Still he does a great
deal of good, Lieut. Graham tells me, by visiting the
sick and sharing with them any delicacy he happens to
have. He's rather homesick, I imagine, for when I asked
him if he had a mother, his chin quivered in a moment,
and I saw the tears standing in his eyes. Poor boy, I
can't account for the interest I feel in him. Heaven
grant that if we come to open fight he may not fall a
victim.”

“Yes, yes, my boy, my darling boy,” and burying her
face in her hard hands, the widow sobbed aloud. “I
thank you, Miss Mather, for reading me that,” she said,

“and I thank your brother for writing it. Tell him so,
will you. Tell him I'm nothing but a cross, sour-grained,
snappish old woman, but I have a mother's heart, and I
bless him for speaking so kindly of my boy.”

Rose's tears fell fast as she folded up the letter, and
Annie's kept company with them. There was a bond of
sympathy now between the three, as they talked together
of the soldiers, Mrs. Simms and Annie devising various
methods by which they might be benefited, and Rose
wishing she, too, could do something for them.

“But I can't,” she said, despairingly. “I never did
anybody any real good in all my life,—only bothered
them,” and Rose sighed as she thought how useless and
aimless was her present mode of life.

“You'll learn by and by,” said the widow, in a tone
unusually soft for her; then, as if the sock she held in
her lap had suggested the idea, she continued, “Can
you knit?”

Rose shook her head.

“Nor your mother, neither?”

Again Rose shook her head, feeling quite ashamed
that she should lack this accomplishment.

“Well,” the widow went on, “'taint much use to learn
now. 'Twould take a year to git one stocking done, but
if when winter comes, that brother of yours wants socks
and mittens, or the like of that, tell him I'll knit 'em for
him.'

“Oh, you are so kind!” cried Rose, thinking to herself
how she'd send Widow Simms some pineapple preserves,
such as she had with dessert that day.

They grew to liking each other very fast after this,
and Rose staid until the little round table was arranged
for tea and rolled to Annie's bedside. There was no
plate for Rose, the widow having deemed it preposterous

that she should stay, but the table looked so cosy, with
its tiny black teapot, and its nicely buttered toast,
that Rose invited herself, with such a pretty, patronizing
way, that the widow failed to see the condescension
it implied. It did not, however, escape Annie's observation,
but she could not feel angry with the little
lady, touching her bone-handled knife as if she were
afraid of it, and looking round in quest of the napkin
she failed to find, for Widow Simms had banished
napkins from the table as superfluous articles, which
answered no earthly purpose,save the putting an extra
four cents into the pocket of the washerwoman, Harry
Baker's mother.

It was growing late, and the sunset shadows were already
creeping into the Hollow when Rose bade Annie
good-bye, promising to come again ere long, and wondering,
as she took her homeward way, whence came the
calm, quiet peace which made Annie Graham so happy,
even though her husband were far away in the midst of
danger and death. Rose had heard that Annie was a
Christian, and so were many others whom she knew, but
they were much like herself,—good, well-meaning people,
amiable, and submissive when everything went to suit
them, but let their husbands once join the army and they
would make quite as much fuss as she, who did not profess
to be anything. And then, for the first time in her
life, Rose wished she, too, could learn from Annie's
teacher, and so have something to sustain her in case
her husband should go. But he wouldn't go,—and if
he did, all the religion in the world could not make her resigned,—and
the tears sprang to Rose's eyes as she hurried
up the handsome walk to the piazza, where Will sat smoking
his cigar in the hazy twilight. She told him where
she had been, and then sitting upon his knee told

him of Annie, wishing she could be like her, and asking
if he did not wish so too.

Will made no direct reply. His thoughts were evidently
elsewhere, and after a few minutes he said, hesitatingly:

“Would it break my darling's heart if I should join
Tom at Washington?”

There was a cry of horror, and Rose hid her face in
her husband's bosom.

“Oh, Will, Will, you shan't, you can't, you mustn't
and won't! I didn't know you ever thought of such a
cruel thing. Don't you love me any more? I'll try to
do better, I certainly will!” and Rose nestled closer to
him, holding his hands just as Annie Graham had once
held her husband's.

“You could not be much better, neither could I love
you more than I do now, Rosa, darling,” Mr. Mather replied,
kissing her childish brow. “But, Rosa, be reasonable
once, and listen while I tell you how, ever since
the fall of Sumter, I have thought the time would come,
when I should be needed, resolving, too, that when it
came, it should not find me a second Sardanapalus!”

The sudden lifting of Rose's head, and her look of perplexed
inquiry, showed that notwithstanding the fanciful
ornament styled a Diploma lying in her writing-desk, Sardanapalus
had not the honor of being numbered among
her acquaintances. But her heart was too full to ask an
explanation, and her husband continued:

“Besides that, there was a mutual understanding between
Tom and myself, that if one went the other would,
and he has gone,—nobly laying aside all the party prejudice
which for a time influenced his conduct. Our
country needs more men.”

“Yes, yes,” gasped Rose; “but more have gone.

There's scarcely a boy left in town, and it's just so everywhere.”

Mr. Mather smiled as he replied:

“I know the boys have gone,—boys whose fair, beardless
faces should put to shame a strong, full-grown man
like me. And another class, too, have gone, our laboring
young men, leaving behind them poverty and little
helpless children, whereas I have nothing of that kind
for an excuse.”

“Oh, I wish I had a dozen children, if that would keep
you!” cried Rose, the insane idea flashing upon her that
she would at once adopt a score or more of those she
had seen playing in the muddy Hollow that afternoon.

Mr. Mather smiled, and continued:

“Suppose you try and accustom yourself to the idea
of living a while without me. I shall not die until my
appointed time, and shall undoubtedly come back again.
Don't you see?”

“No, Rose didn't. Her heart was too full of pain to
see how going to war was just as sure a method of prolonging
one's life as staying at home, and she sobbed
passionately, one moment accusing her husband of not
loving her as he used to, and the next begging of him to
abandon his wild project.

Mr. Mather was a man of firm decision, and long before
he broached the subject to his wife, his mind
had been made up that his country called for him,—not
for somebody else,—but for him personally; that if the
rebellion were to be crushed out, men of wealth and influence
must help to crush it, not alone by remaining at
home and urging others on, though this were an important
part, but by actually joining in the combat, and by
their presence cheering and inspiring others. And Mr.
Mather was going, too,—had, in fact, already made arrangements

to that effect, and neither the tears nor
entreaties of his young wife could avail to change his
purpose. But he did not tell her so that night; he
would rather come to it gradually, taking a different
course from that which George Graham had pursued,
for where George had left the decision wholly to his
wife, Mr. Mather had taken it wholly upon himself, making
it first and telling Rose afterwards. It was better
so, he thought, and having said all to her that he wished
to say on that occasion, he tried to divert her mind into
another channel. But Rose was not to be diverted. It
had come upon her like a thunderbolt,—the thing she
so much dreaded,—and she wept bitterly, seeing in the
future, which only a few hours before looked so bright
and joyous, nothing but impenetrable gloom, for she could
read her husband tolerably well, and she intuitively felt
that she had lost him,—that he was going from her,
never to come back, she knew. She should be a widow
before she was nineteen, and the host of summer dresses
she meant to buy when she went back to Boston, changed
into a widow's sombre weeds, as Rose saw herself arrayed
in the habiliments of mourning. What a fright she
looked to herself in the widow's cap, with which her
vivid imagination disfigured her chestnut hair, and she
shuddered afresh as she thought how hideous she was in
black.

Poor, simple little Rose! And yet we say again Rose
was not a fool, nor yet an unnatural character. There
are many, many like her, some who will recognize themselves
in this story and more who will not. Gay, impulsive,
pleasure-seeking creatures, whom fashionable education
and too indulgent parents have done their utmost
to spoil, but who still possess many traits of excellence,
needing only adverse circumstances to mould and hammer

them into the genuine coin of true-hearted womanhood.
Such an one was Rose. Reared by a fond mother, petted
by an older brother, and teased by a younger, flattered
by friend and foe, and latterly caressed and worshiped
by a husband, Rose had come to think far too much of
her own importance as Mrs. Rose Mather,—née Miss Rose
Carleton, of Boston, an acknowledged belle, and leader
of the ton.

There was a wide difference between Rose and Annie
Graham, for while the latter, in her sweet unselfishness,
thought only of her husband's welfare, both here and
hereafter, Rose's first impulse was a dread shrinking
from being alone, and her second a terror lest the years
of her youth, now spread out so invitingly before her,
should be passed in secluded widowhood, with nothing
from the gay world without wherewith to feed her vanity
and love for admiration. Still, beneath Rose's light exterior
there was hidden a mine of tenderness and love, a
heart which, when roused to action, was capable of
greater, more heroic deeds, than would at first seem possible.
And that heart was rousing, too,—was gradually
waking into life; but not all at once, and the tears which
Rose shed the whole night through were wrung out
more from selfishness, perhaps, than from any higher
feeling. It would be so stupid living there alone in
Rockland. If she could only go to Washington with
Will it would not be half so bad, but she could not, for she
waked Will up from a sound sleep to ask him if she might,
and he had answered “No,” falling away again to sleep,
and leaving Rose to wakefulness and tears, unmingled
with any prayer that the cloud gathering so fast around
her might sometime break in blessings on her head.

It was scarcely light next morning when Rose, determining
to prevail, redoubled her entreaties for her husband

to abandon the decision he now candidly acknowledged,
but she could not. He was going to the war,
and going as a private. Rose almost fainted when he
told her this, and for a time refused to be comforted.
She might learn to bear it, she said, if he were an officer,
but to go as a common soldier, like those she worked for
at the Hall, was more than she could bear.

It was in vain that Mr. Mather told her how only a few
could be officers, and that he was content to serve his
country in any capacity, leaving the more lucrative situations
to those who needed them more. He did not tell
her he had declined a post of honor, for the sake of one
who seemed to him more worthy of it. He would rather
this should reach her from some other source, and ere
the day was over it did, for in a small town like Rockland
it did not take long for every other one to know that
William Mather had enlisted as a private soldier, when
he might have been Colonel of a regiment, had he not
given place to another because that other had depending
on him a bed-ridden mother, a crazy wife, and six little
helpless children.

How fast William Mather rose in the estimation of
those who, never having known him intimately, had
looked upon him as a cold, haughty man, whose loyalty
was somewhat doubtful, and how proud Rose felt, even
in the midst of her tears, as she heard on every side her
husband's praise. Even the Widow Simms ventured to
the Mather mansion, telling her how glad she was, and
offering to do what she could for the volunteer, while
Annie, unable to do anything for herself, could only pray
that God would bring Mr. Mather back safely to the childwife,
who was so bowed down with grief. How Annie
longed to see her,—and, if possible, impart to her some
portion of the hopeful trust which kept her own soul

from fainting beneath its burden of anxious uncertainty.
But the days passed on, and Rose came no more to the
cottage in the Hollow. Love for her husband had triumphed
over every other feeling, and rousing from her
state of inertness, she busied herself in doing, or rather
trying to do, a thousand little things which she fancied
might add to Willie's comfort. She called him Willie
now, as if that name were dearer, tenderer than Will,
and the strong man, every time he heard it, felt a sore
pang,—there was something so plaintive in the tone, as
if she were speaking of the dead.

It was a most beautiful summer day, when at last he
left her, and Rose's heart was well nigh bursting with its
load of pain. It was all in vain that she said her usual
form of prayer, never more meaningless than now when
her thoughts were so wholly absorbed with something
else. She did not pray in faith, but because it was a
habit of her childhood, a something she rarely omitted,
unless in too great a hurry. No wonder then that she
rose up from her devotion quite as grief-stricken as when
she first knelt down. God does not often answer what
is mere lip service, and Rose was yet a stranger to
the prayer which stirs the heart and carries power with
it. The parting was terrible, and Mr. Mather more than
half repented when he saw how tightly she clung to his
neck, begging him to take her with him, or at least to
send for her very soon.

“What shall I do when you are gone? What can I
do?” she sobbed, and her husband answered:

“You can work for me, darling,—work for all the soldiers.
It will help divert your mind.”

“I can't I can't,” was Rose's answer. “I don't know
how to work. Oh, Willie, Willie! I wish there wasn't
any war.

Willie wished so too, but there was no time now for
regrets, for a rumbling in the distance and a rising
wreath of smoke on the western plain warned him not to
tarry longer if he would go that day. One more burning
kiss,—one more fond pressure of the wife he loved
so much,—a few more whispered words of hope, and then
another Rockland volunteer had gone. Gone without
daring to look backward to the little form lying just the
same as he had put it from him, and yet not just the
same. He had felt it quivering with anguish when he
took his arms away, but the trembling, quivering motion
was over now, and the form he had caressed lay motionless
and still, all unconscious of the dreary pain throbbing
in the heart, and all unmindful of the loud hurrah
which greeted William Mather, as he stepped upon the
platform of the car and waved his hat to those assembled
there to see him off. Rose, who had meant at the
very last to be so heroic, so brave, so worthy the wife of
a soldier, had fainted.