AN ECHO OF ANTIETAM By Edward Bellamy 1898 I The air was tremulous with farewells. The regiment, recruited withinsight of the steeples of Waterville, and for three months in camp justoutside the city, was to march the next morning. A series of greatbattles had weakened the Federal armies, and the authorities atWashington had ordered all available men to the front. The camp was to be broken up at an early hour, after which the regimentwould march through the city to the depot to take the cars. The streetsalong the route of the march were already being decorated with flags andgarlands. The city that afternoon was full of soldiers enjoying theirlast leave of absence. The liquor shops were crowded with parties ofthem drinking with their friends, while others in threes and fours, withlocked arms, paraded the streets singing patriotic songs, sometimes inrather maudlin voices, for to-day in every saloon a soldier might enter, citizens vied for the privilege of treating him to the best in thehouse. No man in a blue coat was suffered to pay for anything. For the most part, however, the men were sober enough over theirleave-taking. One saw everywhere soldiers and civilians, strolling inpairs, absorbed in earnest talk. They are brothers, maybe, who havecome away from the house to be alone with each other, while they talk offamily affairs and exchange last charges and promises as to what is tobe done if anything happens. Or perhaps they are business partners, andthe one who has put the country's business before his own is giving hislast counsels as to how the store or the shop shall be managed in hisabsence. Many of the blue-clad men have women with them, and these arethe couples that the people oftenest turn to look at. The girl who hasa soldier lover is the envy of her companions to-day as she walks by hisside. Her proud eyes challenge all who come, saying, "See, this is myhero. I am the one he loves. " You could easily tell when it was a wife and not a sweetheart whom thesoldier had with him. There was no challenge in the eyes of the wife. Young romance shed none of its glamour on the sacrifice she was makingfor her native land. It was only because they could not bear to sit anylonger looking at each other in the house that she and her husband hadcome out to walk. In the residence parts of the town family groups were gathered on shadypiazzas, a blue-coated figure the centre of each. They were trying totalk cheerfully, making an effort even to laugh a little. Now and then one of the women stole unobserved from the circle, but herbravely smiling face as she presently returned gave no inkling of theflood of tears that had eased her heart in some place apart. The youngsoldier himself was looking a little pale and nervous with all hisaffected good spirits, and it was safe to guess that he was even thenthinking how often this scene would come before him afterwards, by thecamp-fire and on the eve of battle. In the village of Upton, some four or five miles out of Waterville, on abroad piazza at the side of a house on the main street, a group of fourpersons were seated around a tea-table. The centre of interest of this group, as of so many others that day, was a soldier. He looked not over twenty-five, with dark blue eyes, darkhair cut close to his head, and a mustache trimmed crisply in militaryfashion. His uniform set off to advantage an athletic figure of youthfulslender-ness, and his bronzed complexion told of long days of practiceon the drill-ground in the school of the company and the battalion. Hewore the shoulder-straps of a second lieutenant. On one side of the soldier sat the Rev. Mr. Morton, his cousin, and onthe other Miss Bertha Morton, a kindly faced, middle-aged lady, who washer brother's housekeeper and the hostess of this occasion. The fourth member of the party was a girl of nineteen or twenty. She wasa very pretty girl, and although to-day her pallid cheeks and red andswollen eyelids would to other eyes have detracted somewhat from hercharms, it was certain that they did not make her seem less adorableto the young officer, for he was her lover, and was to march with theregiment in the morning. Lieutenant Philip King was a lawyer, and by perseverance and nativeability had worked up a fair practice for so young a man in and aroundUpton. When he volunteered, he had to make up his mind to leave thiscarefully gathered clientage to scatter, or to be filched from him byless patriotic rivals; but it may be well believed that this seemed tohim a little thing compared with leaving Grace Roberts, with the chanceof never returning to make her his wife. If, indeed, it had been for himto say, he would have placed his happiness beyond hazard by marryingher before the regiment marched; nor would she have been averse, but hermother, an invalid widow, took a sensible rather than a sentimental viewof the case. If he were killed, she said, a wife would do him no good;and if he came home again, Grace would be waiting for him, and thatought to satisfy a reasonable man. It had to satisfy an unreasonableone. The Robertses had always lived just beyond the garden from theparsonage, and Grace, who from a little girl had been a great pet of thechildless minister and his sister, was almost as much at home there asin her mother's house. When Philip fell in love with her, the Mortonswere delighted. They could have wished nothing better for either. Fromthe first Miss Morton had done all she could to make matters smooth forthe lovers, and the present little farewell banquet was but the last ofmany meetings she had prepared for them at the parsonage. Philip had come out from camp on a three-hours' leave that afternoon, and would have to report again at half-past seven. It was nearly thathour now, though still light, the season being midsummer. There had beenan effort on the part of all to keep up a cheerful tone; but as the timeof the inevitable separation drew near, the conversation had been moreand more left to the minister and his sister, who, with observationssometimes a little forced, continued to fend off silence and thedemoralization it would be likely to bring to their young friends. Gracehad been the first to drop out of the talking, and Philip's answers, when he was addressed, grew more and more at random, as the meetings ofhis eyes with his sweetheart's became more frequent and lasted longer. "He will be the handsomest officer in the regiment, that's one comfort. Won't he, Grace?" said Miss Morton cheerily. The girl nodded and smiled faintly. Her eyes were brimming, and thetwitching of her lips from time to time betrayed how great was theeffort with which she kept her self-command. "Yes, " said Mr. Morton; "but though he looks very well now, it isnothing to the imposing appearance he will present when he comes backwith a colonel's shoulder-straps. You should be thinking of that, Grace. " "I expect we shall hear from him every day, " said Miss Morton. "He willhave no excuse for not writing with all those envelopes stamped andaddressed, with blank paper in them, which Grace has given him. Youshould always have three or four in your coat pocket, Phil. " The young man nodded. "I suppose for the most part we shall learn of you through Grace; butyou mustn't forget us entirely, my boy, " said Mr. Morton. "We shall wantto hear from you directly now and then. " "Yes; I 'll be sure to write, " Philip replied. "I suppose it will be time enough to see the regiment pass if we are inour places by nine o'clock, " suggested Miss Morton, after a silence. "I think so, " said her brother. "It is a great affair to break camp, andI don't believe the march will begin till after that time. " "James has got us one of the windows of Ray & Seymour's offices, youknow, Philip, " resumed Miss Morton; "which one did you say, James?" "The north one. " "Yes, the north one, " she resumed. "They say every window on Main Streetalong the route of the regiment is rented. Grace will be with us, youknow. You must n't forget to look up at us as you go by--as if theyoung man were likely to!" He was evidently not now listening to her at all. His eyes were fastenedupon the girl's opposite him, and they seemed to have quite forgottenthe others. Miss Morton and her brother exchanged compassionate glances. Tears were in the lady's eyes. A clock in the sitting-room began tostrike: "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. " Philip started. "What time is that?" he asked, a little huskily. No one replied at once. Then Mr. Morton said: "I am afraid it struck seven, my boy. " "I must leave in ten minutes then, " said the young man, rising from thetable. The rest followed his example. "I wonder if the buggy will be in time?" said he. "It is at the gate, " replied Miss Morton. "I heard it drive up some timeago. " Unmindful of the others now, Philip put his arm about Grace's waist anddrew her away to the end of the piazza and thence out into the garden. "Poor young things, " murmured Miss Morton, the tears running down hercheeks as she looked after them. "It is pitiful, James, to see how theysuffer. " "Yes, " said the minister; "and there are a great many just such scenesto-day. Ah, well, as St. Paul says, we see as yet but in part. " Passing in and out among the shrubbery, and presently disappearingfrom the sympathetic eyes upon the piazza, the lovers came to a littlesummer-house, and there they entered. Taking her wrists in his hands, heheld her away from him, and his eyes went slowly over her from head tofoot, as if he would impress upon his mind an image that absence shouldnot have power to dim. "You are so beautiful, " he said, "that in this moment, when I ought tohave all my courage, you make me feel that I am a madman to leave youfor the sake of any cause on earth. The future to most men is but achance of happiness, and when they risk it they only risk a chance. In staking their lives, they only stake a lottery ticket, which wouldprobably draw a blank. But my ticket has drawn a capital prize. I risknot the chance, but the certainty, of happiness. I believe I am a fool, and if I am killed, that will be the first thing they will say to me onthe other side. " "Don't talk of that, Phil. Oh, don't talk of being killed!" "No, no; of course not!" he exclaimed. "Don't fret about that; I shallnot be killed. I've no notion of being killed. But what a fool I am towaste these last moments staring at you when I might be kissing you, mylove, my love!" And clasping her in his arms, he covered her face withkisses. She began to sob convulsively. "Don't, darling; don't! Don't make it so hard for me, " he whisperedhoarsely. "Oh, do let me cry, " she wailed. "It was so hard for me to hold back allthe time we were at table. I must cry, or my heart will break. Oh, myown dear Phil, what if I should never see you again! Oh! Oh!" "Nonsense, darling, " he said, crowding down the lump that seemed likeiron in his throat, and making a desperate effort to keep his voicesteady. "You will see me again, never doubt it. Don't I tell you I amcoming back? The South cannot hold out much longer. Everybody says so. Ishall be home in a year, and then you will be my wife, to be God's Graceto me all the rest of my life. Our happiness will be on interest tillthen; ten per cent, a month at least, compound interest, piling up everyday. Just think of that, dear; don't let yourself think of anythingelse. " "Oh, Phil, how I love you!" she cried, throwing her arms around his neckin a passion of tenderness. "Nobody is like you. Nobody ever was. SurelyGod will not part us. Surely He will not. He is too good. " "No, dear, He will not. Some day I shall come back. It will not belong. Perhaps I shall find you waiting for me in this same littlesummer-house. Let us think of that. It was here, you know, we found outeach other's secret that day. " "I had found out yours long before, " she said, faintly smiling. "Time 's up, Phil. " It was Mr. Morton's voice calling to them from thepiazza. "I must go, darling. Good-by. " "Oh, no, not yet; not quite yet, " she wailed, clinging to him. "Why, wehave been here but a few moments. It can't be ten minutes yet. " Under the influence of that close, passionate embrace, those clingingkisses and mingling tears, there began to come over Philip a feeling ofweakness, of fainting courage, a disposition to cry out, "Nothing can beso terrible as this. I will not bear it; I will not go. " By a tyrannicaleffort of will, against which his whole nature cried out, he unwound herarms from his neck and said in a choked voice:-- "Darling, this is harder than any battle I shall have to fight, but thisis what I enlisted for. I must go. " He had reached the door of the summer-house, not daring for honor's saketo look back, when a heartbroken cry smote his ear. "You have n't kissed me good-by!" He had kissed her a hundred times, but these kisses she apparentlydistinguished from the good-by kiss. He came back, and taking her againin his embrace, kissed her lips, her throat, her bosom, and then oncemore their lips met, and in that kiss of parting which plucks the heartup by the roots. How strong must be the barrier between one soul and another that they donot utterly merge in moments like that, turning the agony of parting tothe bliss of blended being! Pursued by the sound of her desolate sobbing, he fled away. The stable-boy held the dancing horse at the gate, and Mr. Morton andhis sister stood waiting there. "Good-by, Phil, till we see you again, " said Miss Morton, kissing himtenderly. "We 'll take good care of her for you. " "Will you please go to her now?" he said huskily. "She is in thesummer-house. For God's sake try to comfort her. " "Yes, poor boy, I will, " she answered. He shook hands with Mr. Mortonand jumped into the buggy. "I 'll get a furlough and be back in a few months, maybe. Be sure totell her that, " he said. The stable-boy stood aside; the mettlesome horse gave a plunge andstarted off at a three-minute gait. The boy drew out his watch andobserved: "He hain't got but fifteen minutes to git to camp in, but he'll do it. The mare 's a stepper, and Phil King knows how to handle theribbons. " The buggy vanished in a cloud of dust around the next turn in the road. The stable-boy strode whistling down the street, the minister went tohis study, and Miss Morton disappeared in the shrubbery in the directionof the summer-house. II Early next morning the country roads leading into Waterville werecovered with carts and wagons and carriages loaded with people cominginto town to see the regiment off. The streets were hung with flagsand spanned with decorated arches bearing patriotic inscriptions. Bed, white, and blue streamers hung in festoons from building to buildingand floated from cornices. The stores and places of business were allclosed, the sidewalks were packed with people in their Sunday clothes, and the windows and balconies were lined with gazers long before it wastime for the regiment to appear. Everybody--men, women, and children--wore the national colors in cockades or rosettes, while many younggirls were dressed throughout in red, white, and blue. The city seemedtricked out for some rare gala-day, but the grave faces of the expectantthrong, and the subdued and earnest manner which extended even to theolder children, stamped this as no ordinary holiday. After hours of patient waiting, at last the word passes from mouth tomouth, "They are coming!" Vehicles are quickly driven out of the way, and in a general hush all eyes are turned towards the head of thestreet. Presently there is a burst of martial music, and the regimentcomes wheeling round the corner into view and fills the wide street fromcurb to curb with its broad front. As the blue river sweeps along, therows of polished bayonets, rising and falling with the swinging treadof the men, are like interminable ranks of foam-crested waves rolling inupon the shore. The imposing mass, with its rhythmic movement, gives theimpression of a single organism. One forgets to look for the individualsin it, forgets that there are individuals. Even those who have brothers, sons, lovers there, for a moment almost forget them in the impression ofa mighty whole. The mind is slow to realize that this great dragon, so terrible in its beauty, emitting light as it moves from a thousandburnished scales, with flaming crest proudly waving in the van, is butan aggregation of men singly so feeble. The hearts of the lookers-on as they gaze are swelling fast. An afflatusof heroism given forth by this host of self-devoted men communicatesitself to the most stolid spectators. The booming of the drum fills thebrain, and the blood in the veins leaps to its rhythm. The unearthlygayety of the fife, like the sweet, shrill song of a bird soaring abovethe battle, infects the nerves till the idea of death brings a scornfulsmile to the lips. Eyes glaze with rapturous tears as they rest upon theflag. There is a thrill of voluptuous sweetness in the thought of dyingfor it. Life seems of value only as it gives the poorest something tosacrifice. It is dying that makes the glory of the world, and all otheremployments seem but idle while the regiment passes. The time for farewells is gone by. The lucky men at the ends of theranks have indeed an opportunity without breaking step to exchange anoccasional hand-shake with a friend on the sidewalk, or to snatch a kissfrom wife or sweetheart, but those in the middle of the line can onlylook their farewells. Now and then a mother intrusts her baby to afile-leader to be passed along from hand to hand till it reaches thefather, to be sent back with a kiss, or, maybe, perched aloft on hisshoulder, to ride to the depot, crowing at the music and clutching atthe gleaming bayonets. At every such touch of nature the people cheerwildly. From every window and balcony the ladies shower garlands uponthe troops. Where is Grace? for this is the Upton company which is passing now. Yonder she stands on a balcony, between Mr. Morton and his sister. Sheis very pale and the tears are streaming down her cheeks, but her faceis radiant. She is smiling through her tears, as if there was no suchthing on earth as fear or sorrow. She has looked forward to this ordealwith harrowing expectations, only to find herself at the trying momentseized upon and lifted above all sense of personal affliction by thepassion of self-devotion with which the air is electric. Her face asshe looks down upon her lover is that of a priestess in the ecstasyof sacrifice. He is saluting with his sword. Now he has passed. With agreat sob she turns away. She does not care for the rest of the pageant. Her patriotism has suddenly gone. The ecstasy of sacrifice is over. Sheis no longer a priestess, but a brokenhearted girl, who only asks to beled away to some place where she can weep till her lover returns. III There was to be a great battle the next day. The two armies had beenlong manoeuvring for position, and now they stood like wrestlers whohave selected their holds and, with body braced against body, kneeagainst knee, wait for the signal to begin the struggle. There hadbeen during the afternoon some brisk fighting, but a common desire topostpone the decisive contest till the morrow had prevented the mainforces from becoming involved. Philip's regiment had thus far only beenengaged in a few trifling skirmishes, barely enough to stir the blood. This was to be its first battle, and the position to which it had beenallotted promised a bloody baptism in the morning. The men were inexcellent heart, but as night settled down, there was little or nomerriment to be heard about the camp-fires. Most were gathered ingroups, discussing in low tones the chances of the morrow. Some, knowingthat every fibre of muscle would be needed for the work before them, hadwisely gone to sleep, while here and there a man, heedless of the talkgoing on about him, was lying on his back staring up at the darkeningsky, thinking. As the twilight deepened, Philip strolled to the top of a little knolljust out of the camp and sat down, with a vague notion of casting upaccounts a little in view of the final settlement which very possiblymight come for him next day. But the inspiration of the scene around himsoon diverted his mind from personal engrossments. Some distance downthe lines he could see the occasional flash of a gun, where a batterywas lazily shelling a piece of woods which it was desirable to keep theenemy from occupying during the night. A burning barn in that directionmade a flare on the sky. Over behind the wooded hills where theConfederates lay, rockets were going up, indicating the exchange ofsignals and the perfecting of plans which might mean defeat and ruin tohim and his the next day. Behind him, within the Federal lines, cloudsof dust, dimly outlined against the glimmering landscape, betrayed thelocation of the roads along which artillery, cavalry, infantry werehurrying eagerly forward to take their assigned places for the morrow'swork. Who said that men fear death? Who concocted that fable for old wives? Heshould have stood that night with Philip in the midst of a host of onehundred and twenty-five thousand men in the full flush and vigor oflife, calmly and deliberately making ready at dawn to receive deathin its most horrid forms at one another's hands. It is in vain thatReligion invests the tomb with terror, and Philosophy, shuddering, averts her face; the nations turn from these gloomy teachers to stormits portals in exultant hosts, battering them wide enough for thousandsto charge through abreast. The heroic instinct of humanity with itshigh contempt of death is wiser and truer, never let us doubt, than superstitious terrors or philosophic doubts. It testifies to aconviction, deeper than reason, that man is greater than his seemingself; to an underlying consciousness that his mortal life is but anaccident of his real existence, the fashion of a day, to be lightly wornand gayly doffed at duty's call. What a pity it truly is that the tonic air of battlefields--the airthat Philip breathed that night before Antietam--cannot be gatheredup and preserved as a precious elixir to reinvigorate the atmosphere intimes of peace, when men grow faint of heart and cowardly, and quake atthought of death. The soldiers huddled in their blankets on the ground slept far moresoundly that night before the battle than their men-folk and women-folkin their warm beds at home. For them it was a night of watching, a vigilof prayers and tears. The telegraph in those days made of the nation anintensely sensitive organism, with nerves a thousand miles long. Ere itsechoes had died away, every shot fired at the front had sent a tremorto the anxious hearts at home. The newspapers and bulletin boards inall the towns and cities of the North had announced that a great battlewould surely take place the next day, and, as the night closed in, amighty cloud of prayer rose from innumerable firesides, the self-sameprayer from each, that he who had gone from that home might survive thebattle, whoever else must fall. The wife, lest her own appeal might fail, taught her cooing baby to lispthe father's name, thinking that surely the Great Father's heart wouldnot be able to resist a baby's prayer. The widowed mother prayed that ifit were consistent with God's will he would spare her son. She laid herheart, pierced through with many sorrows, before Him. She had borne somuch, life had been so hard, her boy was all she had to show for so muchendured, --might not this cup pass? Pale, impassioned maids, kneelingby their virgin beds, wore out the night with an importunity that wouldnot be put off. Sure in their great love and their little knowledge thatno case could be like theirs, they beseeched God with bitter weepingfor their lovers' lives, because, forsooth, they could not bear it ifhurt came to them. The answers to many thousands of these agonizingappeals of maid and wife and mother were already in the enemy'scartridge-boxes. IV The day came. The dispatches in the morning papers stated that thearmies would probably be engaged from an early hour. Who that does not remember those battle-summers can realize fromany telling how the fathers and mothers, the wives and sisters andsweethearts at home, lived through the days when it was known that agreat battle was going on at the front in which their loved ones wereengaged? It was very quiet in the house on those days of battle. Allspoke in hushed voices and stepped lightly. The children, too small tounderstand the meaning of the shadow on the home, felt it and took theirnoisy sports elsewhere. There was little conversation, except as to whendefinite news might be expected. The household work dragged sadly, forthough the women sought refuge from thought in occupation, they wereconstantly dropping whatever they had in hand to rush away to theirchambers to face the presentiment, perhaps suddenly borne in upon themwith the force of a conviction, that they might be called on to bearthe worst. The table was set for the regular meals, but there was littlepretense of eating. The eyes of all had a far-off expression, and theyseemed barely to see one another. There was an intent, listening lookupon their faces, as if they were hearkening to the roar of the battle athousand miles away. Many pictures of battles have been painted, but no true one yet, forthe pictures contain only men. The women are unaccountably left out. We ought to see not alone the opposing lines of battle writhing andtwisting in a death, embrace, the batteries smoking and flaming, thehurricanes of cavalry, but innumerable women also, spectral forms ofmothers, wives, sweethearts, clinging about the necks of the advancingsoldiers, vainly trying to shield them with their bosoms, extendingsupplicating hands to the foe, raising eyes of anguish to Heaven. Thesoldiers, grim-faced, with battle-lighted eyes, do not see the ghostlyforms that throng them, but shoot and cut and stab across and throughthem as if they were not there, --yes, through them, for few are theballs and bayonets that reach their marks without traversing some ofthese devoted breasts. Spectral, alas, is their guardianship, but realare their wounds and deadly as any the combatants receive. Soon after breakfast on the day of the battle Grace came across tothe parsonage, her swollen eyes and pallid face telling of a sleeplessnight. She could not bear her mother's company that day, for she knewthat she had never greatly liked Philip. Miss Morton was very tender andsympathetic. Grace was a little comforted by Mr. Morton's saying thatcommonly great battles did not open much before noon. It was a respiteto be able to think that probably up to that moment at least no harmhad come to Philip. In the early afternoon the minister drove intoWaterville to get the earliest bulletins at the "Banner" office, leavingthe two women alone. The latter part of the afternoon a neighbor who had been in Watervilledrove by the house, and Miss Morton called to him to know if there wereany news yet. He drew a piece of paper from his pocket, on which he hadscribbled the latest bulletin before the "Banner" office, and read asfollows: "The battle opened with a vigorous attack by our right. Theenemy was forced back, stubbornly contesting every inch of ground. General ------'s division is now bearing the brunt of the fight and issuffering heavily. The result is yet uncertain. " The division mentioned was the one in which Philip's regiment wasincluded. "Is suffering heavily, "--those were the words. There wassomething fearful in the way the present tense brought home to Grace asense of the battle as then actually in progress. It meant that whileshe sat there on the shady piazza with the drowsy hum of the bees in herears, looking out on the quiet lawn where the house cat, stretchedon the grass, kept a sleepy eye on the birds as they flitted in thebranches of the apple-trees, Philip might be facing a storm of leadand iron, or, maybe, blent in some desperate hand-to-hand struggle, wasdefending his life--her life--against murderous cut and thrust. To begin to pray for his safety was not to dare to cease, for to ceasewould be to withdraw a sort of protection--all, alas I she could give--and abandon him to his enemies. If she had been watching over himfrom above the battle, an actual witness of the carnage going on thatafternoon on the far-off field, she could scarcely have endured a moreharrowing suspense from moment to moment. Overcome with the agony, shethrew herself on the sofa in the sitting-room and lay quivering, with her face buried in the pillow, while Miss Morton sat beside her, stroking her hair and saying such feeble, soothing words as she might. It is always hard, and for ardent temperaments almost impossible, tohold the mind balanced in a state of suspense, yielding overmuch neitherto hope nor to fear, under circumstances like these. As a relief tothe torture which such a state of tension ends in causing, the mindat length, if it cannot abandon itself to hope, embraces even despair. About five o'clock Miss Morton was startled by an exceeding bitter cry. Grace was sitting upon the sofa. "Oh, Miss Morton!" she cried, burstinginto tears which before she had not been able to shed, "he is dead!" "Grace! Grace! what do you mean?" "He is dead, I know he is dead!" wailed the girl; and then she explainedthat while from moment to moment she had sent up prayers for him, everybreath a cry to God, she suddenly had been unable to pray more, and thisshe felt was a sign that petition for his life was now vain. MissMorton strove to convince her that this was but an effect of overwroughtnerves, but with slight success. In the early evening Mr. Morton returned with the latest news thetelegraph had brought. The full scope of the result was not yet known. The advantage had probably remained with the National forces, althoughthe struggle had been one of those close and stubborn ones, with scantylaurels for the victors, to be expected when men of one race meet inbattle. The losses on both sides had been enormous, and the report wasconfirmed that Philip's division had been badly cut up. The parsonage was but one of thousands of homes in the land where nolamps were lighted that evening, the members of the household sittingtogether in the dark, --silent, or talking in low tones of the far-awaystar-lighted battlefield, the anguish of the wounded, the still heaps ofthe dead. Nevertheless, when at last Grace went home she was less entirelydespairing than in the afternoon. Mr. Morton, in his calm, convincingway, had shown her the groundlessness of her impression that Philipwas certainly dead, and had enabled her again to entertain hope. Itno longer rose, indeed, to the height of a belief that he had escapedwholly scathless. In face of the terrible tidings, that would have beentoo presumptuous. But perhaps he had been only wounded. Yesterday thethought would have been insupportable, but now she was eager to makethis compromise with Providence. She was distinctly affected by thecurious superstition that if we voluntarily concede something to fate, while yet the facts are not known, we gain a sort of equitable assuranceagainst a worse thing. It was settled, she told herself, that shewas not to be overcome or even surprised to hear that Philip waswounded, --slightly wounded. She was no better than other women, that heshould be wholly spared. The paper next morning gave many names of officers who had fallen, but Philip's was not among them. The list was confessedly incomplete;nevertheless, the absence of his name was reassuring. Grace went acrossthe garden after breakfast to talk with Miss Morton about the news andthe auspicious lack of news. Her friend's cheerful tone infused her withfresh courage. To one who has despaired, a very little hope goes tothe head Eke wine to the brain of a faster, and, though still verytremulous, Grace could even smile a little now and was almost cheerful. Secretly already she was beginning to play false with fate, and, in flatrepudiation of her last night's compact, to indulge the hope that hersoldier had not been even wounded. But this was only at the bottom ofher heart. She did not own to herself that she really did it. She felt alittle safer not to break the bargain yet. About eleven o'clock in the forenoon Mr. Morton came in. His start andlook of dismay on seeing Grace indicated that he had expected to findhis sister alone. He hastily attempted to conceal an open telegram whichhe held in his hand, but it was too late. Grace had already seen it, andwhatever the tidings it might contain, there was no longer any questionof holding them back or extenuating them. Miss Morton, after one lookat her brother's face, silently came to the girl's side and put her armsaround her waist. "Christ, our Saviour, " she murmured, "for thy name'ssake, help her now. " Then the minister said:-- "Try to be brave, try to bear it worthily of him; for, my poor littlegirl, your sacrifice has been accepted. He fell in a charge at the headof his men. " V Philip's body was brought home for burial, and the funeral was a greatevent in the village. Business of all kinds was suspended, and all thepeople united in making of the day a solemn patriotic festival. Mr. Morton preached the funeral sermon. "Oh, talk about the country, " sobbed Grace, when he asked her if therewas anything in particular she would like him to speak of. "For pity's sake don't let me feel sorry now that I gave him up for theUnion. Don't leave me now to think it would have been better if I hadnot let him go. " So he preached of the country, as ministers sometimes did preach inthose days, making it very plain that in a righteous cause men did wellto die for their native land and their women did well to give them up. Expounding the lofty wisdom of self-sacrifice, he showed how truly itwas said that "whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoeverwill lose his life. .. Shall find it, " and how none make such rich profitout of their lives as the heroes who seem to throw them away. They had come, he told the assembled people, to mourn no misadventure, no misfortune; this dead soldier was not pitiable. He was no victim of atear-compelling fate. No broken shaft typified his career. He was ratherone who had done well for himself, a wise young merchant of his blood, who having seen a way to barter his life at incredible advantage, atno less a rate indeed than a man's for a nation's, had not let slip sogreat an opportunity. So he went on, still likening the life of a man to the wares of ashopkeeper, worth to him only what they can be sold for and a loss ifoverkept, till those who listened began to grow ill at ease in presenceof that flag-draped coffin, and were vaguely troubled because they stilllived. Then he spoke of those who had been bereaved. This soldier, he said, like his comrades, had staked for his country not only his own life butthe earthly happiness of others also, having been fully empowered bythem to do so. Some had staked with their own lives the happiness ofparents, some that of wives and children, others maybe the hopes ofmaidens pledged to them. In offering up their lives to their countrythey had laid with them upon the altar these other lives which werebound up with theirs, and the same fire of sacrifice had consumed themboth. A few days before, in the storm of battle, those who had goneforth had fulfilled their share of the joint sacrifice. In a thousandhomes, with tears and the anguish of breaking hearts, those who hadsent them forth were that day fulfilling theirs. Let them now in theirextremity seek support in the same spirit of patriotic devotion whichhad upheld their heroes in the hour of death. As they had been liftedabove fear by the thought that it was for their country they were dying, not less should those who mourned them find inspiration in rememberingit was for the nation's sake that their tears were shed, and for thecountry that their hearts were broken. It had been appointed that halfin blood of men and half in women's tears the ransom of the peopleshould be paid, so that their sorrow was not in vain, but for thehealing of the nation. It behooved these, therefore, to prove worthy of their high calling ofmartyrdom, and while they must needs weep, not to weep as other womenwept, with hearts bowed down, but rather with uplifted faces, adoptingand ratifying, though it might be with breaking hearts, this exchangethey had made of earthly happiness for the life of their native land. Soshould they honor those they mourned, and be joined with them not onlyin sacrifice but in the spirit of sacrifice. So it was in response to the appeal of this stricken girl before himthat the minister talked of the country, and to such purpose was it thatthe piteous thing she had dreaded, the feeling, now when it was forevertoo late, that it would have been better if she had kept her lover back, found no place in her heart. There was, indeed, had she known it, nodanger at all that she would be left to endure that, so long as shedreaded it, for the only prayer that never is unanswered is the prayerto be lifted above self. So to pray and so to wish is but to cease toresist the divine gravitations ever pulling at the soul. As the ministerdiscoursed of the mystic gain of self-sacrifice, the mystery of whichhe spoke was fulfilled in her heart. She appeared to stand in someplace overarching life t and death, and there was made partaker of anexultation whereof if religion and philosophy might but catch and holdthe secret, their ancient quest were over. Grazing through streaming eyes upon the coffin of her lover, she wasable freely to consent to the sacrifice of her own life which he hadmade in giving up his own.