CHAPTER XIII.
THE DYING SOLDIER.
Backward now we turn, and stand again in the chamber where we saw the glitter of the polished steel, and heard the bitter cry forced out by pain from lips unused to give such sign of weakness. They were white now as the wintry snow which covers the Northern hills, and the breath came feebly from between them, as the sick man whispered faintly:
“I shall not be here if Annie comes, for when the drum beats on the morrow, calling my comrades to their daily drill, I shall be far away where sounds of battle were never heard but once. Oh the peace, the quiet, the rest, there is in Heaven. I hope you will one day come to share it with me; you who have been kinder than a brother,” and the long, white fingers grasped the hand which for so many days and weeks had s
