And now, with that solemn certainty that alone belongs to Time and Death, the day appointed for departure approached. On the evening before we were to leave, feeling that I ought to pay a farewell visit to Ned’s grave, I went down to the livery stables—our stalls were empty now—and hired a horse and buggy, and drove, with Carlotta, down to Mr. Cheyleigh’s. The old gentleman came out to meet us with his wonted cordiality, and was as cheerful as of old, but Mrs. Cheyleigh had never gotten over Ned’s death, and I could read in her wan, sad face, the tale of incurable sorrow. We talked all the while of Ned and his death; and as I told her how the men all loved him for his goodness, and the officers honored him for his bravery, I could see that, like a Spartan mother, even in her tears, she was proud of her gallant boy.
At length I arose and went out alone to his grave. It was in a grove of pines near the house, and the brown pine straw hushed my footfalls as I approached, and the wind was sighing through the boughs. The grave was enclosed by an iron railing, and over it rested a plain marble slab, on which were an inscription and some lines in gilded letters. Opening the wire-work gate, with uncovered head and softened step I went up to the slab, and, bending over it, read:
SACRED TO THE MEMORY
OF
EDWARD CHEYLEIGH,
Born April 8th, 1840,
Killed at the battle of Gettysburg, July 2d, 1863.
”Tell them to bury me under the pines at home.”
I would not rest in the mouldering tomb
Of the grim churchyard, where the ivy twines,