“O my love—my darling—my honey, is that you?” said the elderly woman, with streaming eyes, reaching out her thin arms to take Rachel to her heart. “I never expected ter see ye ag'in! But God is good.”
“Aunt Debby, is it possible? Are you hurt, dear?”
“No, not hurt child; on'y killed,” she answered with a sweet radiance on her face.
“Killed? It is not possible.”
“Yes, honey, it is possible. It is true. The gates open for me at last.”
“How did it happen?”
“I got through Breckenridge's lines all right, an' reached the river, but thar was a picket thar, hid behind a tree, and ez he heered my hoss's feet splash in the ford, he shot me through the back. An' I didn't get through in time,” she added, with the first shade of melancholy that had yet appeared in her face. “Did YOU?”
“No, I was too late, too.”
“An' Jim must've been, too. Hev ye seed him any whar?”
“No,” said Rachel, unable to restrain her tears.