"Sing to me."
"Oh, I can't," came to her lips. But she never uttered the words. "What shall I sing?" she asked.
"My mother's favourite hymn, 'Peace, perfect peace.' It is peace, you know—wonderful—all the pain gone—not a bit thirsty—sure to get well—going—home; invalided home, you know. Peace! Yes, sing it, won't you?"
Mollie sang the first verse,—
"Peace, perfect peace, in this dark world of sin."
"Sing it louder," said the poor lad; "I can't hear you. Wonderful! how quiet it is! And it is dark—night—yes, it is night."
"No, dear," she answered; "it is morning."
"Morning! then I am much better," he said "Peace—yes, the morning brings peace." The words died away. "Much better," he said again, after a pause. "Going to—get—well."
As he uttered the last words Mollie bent forward. She laid her fingers on his eyelids and closed them down. Then she motioned to a nurse who stood a little way off. She turned to Major Strause. His eyes were shining—there were tears in them.
"God bless you! God bless you!" he said