The words were faintly spoken.
“Know you! What, Robert Walden!”
There was not strength in the arm sufficient to lift the weary hand. Abraham grasped it, looked one moment at the closing eyes, and hastened from the room. Breathless with running, he reached the Brandon home, telling the story.
“We must have him brought here instantly; he must not die there,” said Mr. Brandon, who accompanied Abraham to the jail, only to find that the sergeant in charge could not permit the removal. Sadly they returned.
“I must tell Ruth about it,” said Berinthia, putting on her bonnet and hastening from the house.
Ruth was sitting in her chamber. A strange, yet sweet peace had come into her soul. The heart that had struggled so sorely was at rest. She was repeating to herself the words spoken by the world’s best friend, “My peace I leave you; not as the world giveth, give I unto you.”
The summer birds were no longer singing; the swallows had gone. The melocotoons were no longer upon the trees, neither the early pears and ripening apples; the soldiers had plucked them. Her father’s face was growing grave; her mother’s step less elastic. There was sorrow and desolation around her, and yet she was happy. She saw Berinthia walking up the path.
“Come right up,” the cheerful invitation from the chamber window.
“Oh, Ruth, I’ve something to tell you. He’s alive!”
“Who?”