“From whom?”
“From her, you know!”
“And who do you mean by ‘her?’”
“His sister, to be sure,” he said, in an injured tone, as though I should have known that, at present, there was but one subject for him.
“Oh, have you? What does she say?”
“Not now, not now,” he said, looking at the others, as though the grief were too fresh, the subject too sacred, to be mentioned so publicly; “but I just thought you’d like to know.”
At a quiet moment, the next day, he begged me to let him tell me what she had written;—her warm, earnest thanks to him for all his love and tenderness to her darling brother; and begging him to plant some flowers where he was laid to rest. This may never be in his power, but there are those who will never forget to care for and cherish the low grave of that young Private.
Military Hospital, July, 1862.
What matters it, one more, or less?
A Private died to-day;