The courier read the message in low tones. A great battle was joined. The fate of a nation hung on its issue. The stricken man drew from his pocket a tiny gold pencil and tried to write an answer—stopped suddenly and pressed his hand on his heart.
Billy sprang to his side and seized the dispatch:
"I'll take the message to General Cooper—Mr. President—"
The white face turned to the young soldier and looked at him pitifully:
"Thank you, my son—thank you—it is best—I must have this hour with our little boy—leave me with my dead!"
Jennie stayed to help the stricken home.
She took little Jeff in her arms to rock him to sleep. He drew her head down and whispered:
"Miss Jennie, I got to Joe first after he fell. I knelt down beside him and said all the prayers I know—but God wouldn't wake him!"
The girl drew the child close and kissed the reddened eyes. Over her head beat the steady tramp of the father's feet, back and forth, back and forth, a wounded lion in his cage. The windows and doors were still wide open, the curtains waving wan and ghostlike from their hangings.
Two days later she followed the funeral procession to the cemetery—thousands of children, each child with a green bough or bunch of flowers to pile on the red mound.