The sun streamed in through the eastern window, and all the hills beyond were bathed in glory; the earth was fair to look upon, and happiness, descending from the skies, nestled in my heart.
I planted all this day, covering precious seed, thinking on their summer beauty; and, as the evening fell, I stood at the garden gate watching the way he must come for whose coming I longed with a longing that could not be uttered.
As I looked, idly speculating on his speed, a horseman dashed up in mad haste, his steed spent and flecked with foam. Men do not ride so hot with good tidings,—what need to make such haste with evil?
Still, no sense of loss, no shadow of the coming night. Peace covered my heart, and would not be scared away. Blind infatuation! that could not see.
"Was it not then a victory?" I cried; for sadness and defeat were written in his face.
"Nay, not that." The outstretched hand turned white with pity. "But this—"
Too kind to speak the words, at sight of which I fell, struck by a bolt that, riving his heart, through leagues of space had travelled straight to mine.
Months later, when the long night had passed away, and the dawn brought patience and resignation, one who saw him fall, gloriously, told me the story. I could bear it then; for in my soul's eclipse I had beheld him walking on the heavenly hills, and knew that there he was waiting for me.
He lies buried, at his own request, where he fell, on Southern soil.