The stout-hearted Pennsylvania farmer left the car, and a lady sat in the seat he had occupied by my side.
She, too, was advanced in life. She had traveled all day, was sick and weary, but she had received a letter that one of her sons was dying at Frederick. He had been wounded at Antietam,—shot through the breast. She had three sons; two in the army, and one, a little one, at home.
"I am a widow," she said. "My husband was a sea-captain, and was lost at sea years ago. My boys supported me. When the war broke out, they wanted to go, and I couldn't say no. Joseph, the youngest, is not old enough to be a soldier; if he was, he would be with them. I should like to see my son once more. I hope God will spare him till I get there; but I am not sorry I let him go."
Opposite sat a well-dressed lady from Philadelphia. She had received a message, "Your son is dying; come quick if you would see him."
Tears were dropping from her eyelids. The train was not swift enough.
"Why don't they go faster?" she impatiently asked. She had a basket with wine, cordials, and delicacies.
"I thought I would take them, for if he don't want them, somebody will."
The two mothers, the one poor, earning her living by her needle, now that her brave boys were in the army; the other rich, able to have all that money can purchase, sat down together, and talked of their hopes and fears, both longing to clasp their loved ones to their hearts once more. There was no complaining, no regret that they had given their consent when their sons asked if they might enlist.
There was sorrow all over the land, for loved ones who had fallen at Williamsburg, Fair Oaks, Glendale, and Malvern, for those who were sleeping beside the Chickahominy, and for those who reposed beneath the shadow of South Mountain, and on the field of Antietam.