“There, give me the pen,” he said, when the letter was finished, and the trembling fingers grasped it eagerly, but quickly let it fall as the purple, festered flesh above the elbow throbbed and quivered with the pain the sudden effort caused. “Once more; I’ll do it if it costs my life!” he whispered, nerving himself with might and main, and then, with Mr. Mather guiding his hand, he wrote his name, and the words, “God bless you, darling Annie!” “It’s done, and she must never know the agony it cost me,” he moaned, as his bandaged arm fell heavily at his side, while with his other hand he wiped away the sweat which stood so thickly upon his face. “Bring Annie’s Bible,” he said, “and lay it on my pillow. It will make me bear it better. Oh, Annie, Annie, if you could be here to pray for me! Can’t you?” and the dim eyes turned imploringly toward Mr. Mather who shook his head hesitatingly.
Man of the world as he had been, he had not yet learned to pray, but he could not resist that touching appeal, and bending down he answered:
“I never learned to pray, but while the operation is going on, I’ll do the best I can. Shall I call them now?”
George nodded, and William admitted the two surgeons, who were growing somewhat impatient at the delay. They were not naturally hard-hearted men, but years of practice had brought them to look on amputations in a mere business point of view. Still there was something about this case which touched a chord of sympathy, and they spoke kindly to the sufferer, telling him it would soon be over, and was not half so bad as losing a leg would be. George made no reply except to shudder nervously as he saw the cold, polished steel so soon to cut into his flesh.
“You’ll need bandages,” he said, his mind flashing backward to the day when he had looked in at Rockland Hall, where Annie, with others, sat working for just such a scene as this.
“It’s here,” Mr. Mather answered, pointing to a table where lay a ball prepared for Company R.
Without knowing why he did so, Mr. Mather took it up and began mechanically to unroll it, pausing suddenly as traces of a pencil met his view. There was something written there,—something which made him start as he read, “Annie Howard. It’s your Annie, George. Try to think I’m there. Rockland, April, 1861.”
Was it a happen so, or a special providence that this bit of linen, over which Annie’s prayers had been breathed, should come at last to him for whom it was intended? Mr. Mather believed the latter, and pointed it out to George, who, comprehending the truth at a glance, uttered a wild, glad cry of joy as he pressed it to his lips.
“Yes, Annie, I know you are here. I can feel your presence, and it will help to ease the pain. Begin without delay. Don’t wait, if it must be done.”
There was a moment’s silence, a shutting of both William’s and George’s eyes, and a shriek of anguish rang through the room as George cried out, “Oh, Annie, Annie, stand up closer to me,—it makes me faint, it hurts me so bad! Pray, Mr. Mather, pray!” and Mr. Mather did pray, the first prayer which had passed his lips since his early boyhood,—not aloud, but silently; and the writhing victim grew still at last, only shivering once as the sharp saw glided through the splintered bone. Carefully they bound up the bleeding stump with the soft linen Annie had sent, speaking comforting words to the sufferer, who seemed to be stupefied, for he did not notice what they said.