Let us pass on before, and take a peep into the hospital. There we find Ned Ellis, playing dominoes with one hand, and joking to keep up the spirits of his companions. There lies Frank on his cot, with blanched countenance, eyes closed, and pale lips smiling, as if in dreams. Of his two friends, Atwater and the old drummer, only one, as Seth Tucket said, remains. One was carried out last night—in a coffin his cold form is laid—life's fitful fever is over with him.
And the other? Very still, very pale, stretched on his narrow bed, no motion of breathing perceptible, behold him! What is it we see in that sculptured, placid face? Is it life, or is it death? It's neither life nor death, but sleep, that dim gulf between.
Mr. Egglestone, who has been much about the hospital from the first, enters with a radiant look, and steps lightly to Frank's side.
The drummer boy's eyes unclose, and smile their welcome.
"Better, still better, I am glad to see!" says the minister, cheerily.
"Almost well," answered Frank, although so weak that he can hardly speak. "I shall be out again in a day or two. The fever has quite left me; and I was having such a beautiful dream. I thought I was a water-lily, floating on a lake; and the lake, they told me, was sleep; and I felt all whiteness and peace! Wasn't it pretty?"
"Pretty, and true too!" said the minister, with a suffusing tear, as he looked at the pale, gentle boy, and thought how much like a white fragrant lily he was. "I have news for you, Frank. The steamer has arrived."
"O! and letters?"
"Probably, though I have none yet. But something besides letters!"—Mr. Egglestone whispered confidentially, "Atwater's wife is here!"
"Is she? Brave girl!—O, dear!" said Frank, his features changing suddenly, "why didn't my mother come too! She might, I think! It seems as if I couldn't wait, as if I couldn't live, till I see her!"