"He's dreaming," whispered Willy.
"Did you ever see anybody die?" asked Frank, in a low tone.
Willy's face paled.
"No, Frank; let's go home and tell somebody."
Frank stooped and touched the soldier's face. He was talking all the time now, though they could not understand everything he said. The boy's touch seemed to rouse him.
"It's bedtime," he said, presently. "Kneel down and say your prayers for Father."
"Willy, let's say our prayers for him," whispered Frank.
"I can say, 'Now I lay me.'" But before he could begin,
"'Now I lay me down to sleep,'" said the soldier tenderly. The boys followed him, thinking he had heard them. They did not know that he was saying—for one whom but that morning he had called "his curly-head at home"—the prayer that is common to Virginia and to Delaware, to North and to South, and which no wars can silence and no victories cause to be forgotten.
The soldier's voice now was growing almost inaudible. He spoke between long-drawn breaths.