“Why, it’s Mrs. Mather,” she cried. “What can have brought her back to-night?” and hastening to the door she led Rose in, asking why she was there.
“Oh, Annie,” Rose replied, winding her arms around Annie’s neck, “I wish I did not have to tell, but I must, and I know it will kill you dead. I’m sure it would me, and I don’t see why you should be served so either. We shall not go to-morrow, for Will is going to bring him home. Don’t you know now? Can’t you guess?” and Rose thrust the dispatch into the hands of the bewildered Annie, who clutched it eagerly, and bending to the lamplight, read what Rose had read before her.
It came to her like a thunderbolt, striking all the deeper because it found her so full of eager expectation; and the November wind, as it swept past the door, and down the lonely Hollow, took with it one wailing cry of anguish, and then all was still within the cottage, save the sobbing whispers of Widow Simms and Rose bending over the unconscious form which lay upon the bed, so white and still that a terrible fear entered the hearts of both lest the stricken Annie, too, were dead.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE DYING SOLDIER.
Backward now we turn, and stand again in the chamber where we saw the glitter of the polished steel, and heard the bitter cry forced out by pain from lips unused to give such sign of weakness. They were white now as the wintry snow which covers the Northern hills, and the breath came feebly from between them, as the sick man whispered faintly:
“I shall not be here if Annie comes, for when the drum beats on the morrow, calling my comrades to their daily drill, I shall be far away where sounds of battle were never heard but once. Oh the peace, the quiet, the rest, there is in Heaven. I hope you will one day come to share it with me; you who have been kinder than a brother,” and the long, white fingers grasped the hand which for so many days and weeks had soothed the aching head and cooled the fevered pillows with all a woman’s tenderness.
Never for an hour had that faithful friend deserted his post. Day and night had found him there, ministering to every want, and, as far as human aid could do, smoothing the pathway leading so surely down to death. But his vigils were almost over now; his release was just at hand, for, as George had said, the morrow’s drum-beat would only find there the body, which was so worn by suffering and disease, that William Mather could lift it in his arms as easily as he could have lifted a little child. He was greatly changed from the days when he had been aptly called the Rockland Hercules. But as the outer man decayed, the inner life grew strong and bright, shining forth at the last with all the splendor which perfect faith in Christ’s Atonement can shed around a death-bed. There was no repining now, no murmuring at the mysterious dealings of Providence, nothing but sweet, childish confidence, and a patient waiting for the end coming on so fast that George himself could feel the irregular beat of his wiry pulse, and mark the death hue as it came creeping on, settling first in purplish spots about his finger tips, and spreading its ashen coloring over his clammy hands.
A stormy November night had closed over Washington, and the rain beat dismally against the windows of the room where Mr. Mather bent over the dying soldier, listening to what he said.
“You can’t tell Annie all,” George whispered, looking fondly up into the face he had learned to love so well. “You must write it down so as not to lose a single word. Bring pen and paper, and then sit where I can see you, for the sight of you does me good; you have been so kind to me.”