OFF TO THE WAR.
It was a calm, clear October night. The moonlight streamed through the window of Frank's room, an he lay in bed, thinking of the evening that was past, and of the morning that was to come. Little Willie, his younger brother, was sleeping sweetly at his side. He had heard his sisters come up stairs and go to bed in the room next to his; and they were conversing now in low tones,—about him he was sure.
Would he ever sleep in that nice warm bed again? Would he ever again fold dear little Willie in his arms, and feel his dewy cheek against his own, as he did now? What was the future that awaited him? Who would fill his mother's place when he was gone from her? He had read over the prayer she wrote for him; it was still fresh in his thoughts, and he repeated it now to himself in the silence of the moonlit chamber.
When he opened his eyes, he saw a white shape enter softly and approach his bedside. There it stood in the moonlight, white and still. Was it a ghost? Was it an angel? Frank was not afraid.
"Mother!"
"Are you awake, my darling?"
"O, yes, mother. I haven't slept at all."
"I didn't mean to awake you, if you were asleep," she said, kneeling down beside him. "But I could not sleep; and I thought I would come and look at you, and kiss you once more; for perhaps I shall never see you in your bed again."
"O, mother, don't talk so. I hope I shall be spared to you a long, long time yet."