Alas! her country was bounded by the Rhine. This was their country!
But still, as they went, she prayed blindly:
“God bless you and keep you, my boys, and send you back to me as you go—good boys. Father Abraham, they are my all—everything on earth I love. Send them back as you receive them.”
V
WE GO OUT TO FIGHT UNDER THE FLAG; WE RETURN—UNDER IT
It seemed cruel—it was cruel—that her prayer should be so utterly denied her—that they should all be killed. But so it fell out.
One by one they came home to her and were laid away in the churchyard of Saint Michael’s, in their pine coffins and faded uniforms, with the honors of war. It was heart-breaking to have to follow them, one by one, to their graves—to the same Dead March in Saul—to the same muffled drums—to the cadenced tramp of soldiers—with the Stars and Stripes for shroud—with all the solemn pomp of war.
She thought only of the beautiful thing in the coffin to which she had given life. And each time she prayed dizzily—iterating it—so that God might perhaps the better hear:
“Our Father, who art in heaven—keep the rest—keep the rest—keep John.”
The last of them died at Gettysburg—in the first day’s fight.
It was only a few miles away, and on the third of July he came home. On the fourth, while cannons were bursting for joy, she was following once more the soldiers to the tune of the Dead March. It was the last. She had grown afraid to pray. But once more, at the open grave, she raised her hands: