“No, Charlie. There is naught but peace in Heaven,” and again the white hands laved the feverish forehead, for the soldier would fain keep that little spirit till his could join it company, and speed away to the land where trouble is unknown.
But it could not be, for Charlie’s life was ebbing away; the last sand was dropping from the glass. Closer the fair curly head nestled to its strange pillow,—the bleeding bosom of a foe,—and the lips murmured incoherently of the elm-trees growing near the mountain home, and the mother watching daily for tidings of her boy. Then the train of thought was changed, and Charlie heard the bell, just as it pealed that morning from his own village spire. How grand the music was echoing through the Virginia woods, and the blue eyes closed, as with a whisper h
