“George, run to the telegraph office and bring the despatch,” says the mother to her son. “I must know the truth.”
The boy bounds away towards the office, and is met by Prof. Powell, who says, “Come back, George. I will go home with you, and tell your mother all about it.”
The two return, and the professor, with faltering
voice reads the despatch: “Canby and Thomas killed. Meacham mortally wounded.” The marble-faced wife arises, saying, “I am going to my husband.” Her friends remonstrate with her.
“I am going to my husband. Do not hinder me,” she repeats.
“My father! my father!” cries the elder daughter, as she is borne to her room.
“My father will not die. He must not die. My father will live,” the younger daughter insists. Her brother is trying to hide his tears while he talks hopefully.
“Father is a very strong man. He may get well. I think he will,” he says.
It is midnight, and sympathizing friends are in the sitting-room and parlor. The daughters and son have sobbed themselves to sleep. The mother and wife, with bloodless face, is on bended knees, and, with uplifted hands clasped, is whispering a prayer.
At this moment her brother is bending over her husband three hundred miles away, watching his breathing; while thoughts of a widowed sister and her orphan children sadden the heart of the veteran who has passed through the war of the Great Rebellion. A silent tear drops on the mangled face beneath him.