"Drusilla, my friend, this instant has widowed us and has taken from this house its only son. I feel the dread fact her in my heart!"
The younger wife and the two little girls hastened to the side of Emeline, and there they knelt, weeping and moaning. The premonition seemed too real to be disputed.
While the women and children were rocking back and forth in their agony of apprehension, a hurried knock was heard at the door; and, without waiting for a response, a brother soldier of William stalked into the room. He saw the piteous sight; and all his gallant hardihood gave way. Mingling his heavy tears with the rain from gentler eyes, he sobbed:
"My sister, our Savior help you! Brother Anderson is dead! God's will be done!"
The spirit of courage sustained Emeline, and she cried:
"Where is our husband? Alive he was ours—and we will have his clay now life is ended. Call my boy to bring his father's body home. God's will be done!"
While the grief-shaken soldier was replying, another breathless messenger burst in, saying between his gasps of haste and sorrow:
"Your boy is dead! Oh, Sister Anderson, he fell a martyr—brave, manly, beyond his years—he took a soldier's part: he has met a soldier's fate."
Did this last blow send Emeline swooning? No: in such a crisis a noble, religious soul is exalted beyond the reach of earthly mourning.
Calmly she spoke: