“Yes, in one sense. I do not mean to say that men are lacking in courage who reject the doctrine which we have discussed. But there is something in Jackson which is more than courage. It is his sublime, inflexible faith. There are numbers of men who will go unflinchingly into any of the dangers of battle, but they are animated by a spirit of desperation, by human feelings, such as pride, ambition, and the like. But Jackson puts himself unreservedly in the hands of God, and accepts whatever comes without a murmur. He knows that he can never be killed till God speaks the word, and it is this firm belief that gives such adamantine solidity to his grand and exalted character.”
That morning when all knelt around the family altar, it was a most solemn and affecting scene. Ernest was now regarded as one of the family. The Doctor read a portion of Scripture suitable to the occasion, and they sang with quivering voices three or four stanzas of that familiar old hymn, which seems destined to go sounding down through all the ages till the last of the redeemed are gathered home:
“How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord,
Is laid for your faith in His excellent word.”
Then all knelt down to pray. Ernest had the feeling of Jacob when, alone at Bethel, his head pillowed upon rock the patriarch said, “surely the Lord is in this place.” A holy influence gently stole over his soul, as the Doctor, in a husky voice, prayed for their guest. All arose in tears. Ernest shed tears too, but they were strange tears. His faith was firmer, and he felt that he could trust himself in the hands of God.
Alas! those were days that tried men’s souls! When the “soldier boy” went from his home, it was like shaking hands over the grave. The mother drew her darling son to her breast and imprinted burning kisses upon his brow. He broke loose from her frantic embrace, and in a few days afterwards, the news was brought that he was sleeping in the soldier’s bloody grave. Young husbands and wives parted to meet no more till the last trump shall call them up on the resurrection morn. No pen can describe the awful scenes of those four years of fratricidal strife. Sad! sad! sad!
Ernest was accompanied by Mildred to the depot. They rode in a buggy while Dr. Arrington came on horse-back in the rear. The young man endeavored to be lively and cheerful, and this humor was encouraged by Mildred. Yet both could see through this disguised mutual gaiety. It was not natural. Frequently there were long pauses in their conversation. Such is generally the case with two friends, about to part in a very short time, who feel that they ought to talk, but can think of no topic suitable to the occasion. I have seen two brothers, one of whom was condemned to be shot for a military offence, hold their last interview; it was a silent meeting. So when Ernest and Mildred tried to keep up a cheerful conversation, they would often relapse into silence.
“O, my Mildred,” cried Ernest with deep emotion, as they neared the depot, “I can keep up this false show no longer. I am not cheerful. The thought of leaving you is as bitter as death, and I may as well give vent to my real feelings. I could almost wish that I had never met you. My thoughts will all run out to you. O, I fear we shall never meet again.”