“No, Yank; it's mine. It was my mother's. She's dead—it's all I have left that was hers. But it's yours now, as I'm your prisoner. Take it, Yank. It's hard to give it up.”
“I know it is.”
“Do you?”
“Yes; the ring you took from me was my mother's, Johnnie. She's dead—no, I can't take your mother's ring—keep it.”
“I took yours, but you didn't tell me it was your mother's.”
“No; for I didn't believe it would make any difference.”
“It would have made a difference, Yank—sure's you're born, it would.”
There was a grasp of hands as the tears ran down the faces of the corporal and his prisoner. A tender chord had been struck in the heart of each. They had been foes a few minutes before. They were brothers now.
Each had fought for a cause, and would go on fighting as before. They must continue to be enemies on the field of battle till the great questions at issue were settled by the sword. But all this was forgotten as they spoke of “mother.”
The heart beneath the blue and the heart under the gray beat in unison. Each felt the blessed influence awakened by the utterance of that magic word “mother,” which is so beautifully expressed by Fanny J. Crosby: