The smile which accompanied these words, quite as much as the words themselves, alarmed Frank.
"Don't say that!" he entreated. "You are a little low-spirited, Abe; that's it."
"O, no! I am not low-spirited in the least. My country demands sacrifices. I, for one, am willing to die." This was said with singular calmness and cheerfulness. But the soldier's voice failed him, as he added, "It is only when I think of her——"
Frank, powerfully wrought upon, endeavored in vain to dissuade his friend from indulging in such sad presentiments.
"Well, we will hope that they are false," said Atwater, but with a look that betrayed how thoroughly he was convinced of their truth. "If I go through safely, then we can laugh at them afterwards. But much may happen in these coming twenty-four hours. Now, I am sitting here with you, talking by these fires that light up the woods so. To-morrow night, this which you call me,"—the soldier smilingly designated his body,—"may be stretched upon this same earth, and you may talk in vain—it cannot answer you."
"We don't know,—that's true," Frank agreed. "But I hope for the best."
"And that may be the best—for me. God knows. And for her, too,—though I dread the stroke for her! This is what I want you to do for me, Frank. If I fall,—if I fall, you know,—you will write to her. Send back to her my last words, with the book she gave me, and her letters. You will find them all in this pocket, here. Will you?"
Frank could not refrain from tears, as he made the promise.
"That is all," said Atwater, cheerfully. "Now, my mind is easier. Now, whatever comes, I am ready. Stay with me, if you like, and we will talk of something else. Or shall we read a little together?"
"I'd like to read a little," said Frank.