"O, my wound is nothing!" Frank declared. "See that he and Atwater have every thing done for them—won't you, Mr. Egglestone?"
The minister promised, and Frank endeavored to settle his mind to rest.
But he could not sleep. Every five minutes he started up to inquire after his friends. Hour after hour passed, and he still remained wakeful as a spirit doomed never to sleep again. His wounded arm pained him; and he had so many things to think of,—his suffering comrades, old Buckley shot out of the tree, his rebel brother, his folks at home, and all the whirling incidents and horrors of that dread day.
So he thought, and thought; and prayed silently for the old drummer groaning on his bed of pain; and pleaded for Atwater lying there, still, with the death-shadow he had foreseen darkening the portal of his body. And Frank longed for his mother, as he grew weary and weak, until at last sleep came in mercy, and dropped her soft, vapory veil over his soul.
The thrilling news of the victory came north by telegraph. Then followed letters from correspondents, giving details of the battle, when, one morning, Helen Manly ran home in a glow of excitement, bringing a damp and crumpled newspaper.
"News from Frank!" she cried, out of breath.
In a moment the little family was gathered about her, the parents eager and pale.
"Is he living? Tell me that!" said Mrs. Manly.
"Yes, but he has been wounded, and is in the hospital."