Sitting on her porch in the early morning, she remembers the first of July, fifty years ago.
"Madam!" cried the soldier who galloped to the door, "there is to be a battle in this town!"
"Here?" she had answered stupidly. "Here?"
Sitting there at noon, she hears the roaring blasts of artillery, she seems to see shells, as of old, curving like great ropes through the air, she remembers that somewhere on this field, struck by a missile such as that, her husband fell.
Sitting there in the moonlight, she remembers Early on his white horse, with muffled hoofs, riding spectralwise down the street among the sleeping soldiers.
"Up, boys!" he whispers, and is heard even in that heavy stupor. "Up, boys, up! We must get away!"
She hears also the pouring rain of July the fourth, falling upon her little house, upon that wide battle-field, upon her very heart. She sees, too, the deep, sad eyes of Abraham Lincoln, she hears his voice in the great sentences of his simple speech, she feels his message in her soul.
"Daughter!" he seems to say, "Daughter, be of good comfort!"
So, still, Mary Bowman sits waiting. She is a Christian, she has great hope; as her waiting has been long, so may the joy of her reunion be full.