“That was good! Now I can die comfortably. Friend, are you Yank. or Secesh?”
“Yank.,” said Wing.
“Well, never mind. What are we fighting for, I wonder? I’m Secesh. Put your hand—in my bosom, Yank. Take out a powder-flask cover that you will find there. My sister worked it and gave it to me before I left home to join the army. Keep it, Yank.——”
“I will keep it for your sister and send it to her if you will tell me where she lives,” said Wing.
“Her name is Ellen Jenkins. She lives—” And here the speaker’s voice failed.
“She lives—?” said Wing, listening attentively.
—“In Rich—in Rich—” panted the dying boy.
Wing snatched a flask of brandy from his bosom and placed it to the lips of the young soldier.
Too late! There was but the gurgling death rattle in his throat. He could neither swallow nor articulate.
“Do you mean to say that she lives in Richmond?” gently inquired Wing, taking the hand of the boy, who closed his fingers upon the hand of Wing and nodded earnestly.