He smiled faintly. “I must get well within our lines. Remember—Harrisonburg—good-night!” And he closed his eyes and wearily turned his lace away. “Shelton!”
The skirmisher bent tenderly over his captain.
“Lie down by the fire and sleep. You cannot help me. God alone can do that, and he will release me from my sufferings before many days. Shelton, give me your hand. Tell your little boy, when he grows up, that I said you were as brave as a lion in battle; and tell your wife that you could be as gentle as a woman to a suffering comrade. And now lie down and rest. Good-night!”
“Presently, captain.”
“What are you crying about, man? Such things will happen. Good-night!”
| [1] | Meis ipsius vidi oculis. |
CHAPTER LXXV.
Let us return to that little parlor on Leigh Street, from the windows of which, four years ago, we caught our first glimpse of the man who has played so large a part in our story. It is full of people, now,—half a dozen elderly men, all the rest women. Of the men, one is a minister, with a face so singularly gentle that his smile is a sort of subdued sunbeam.
The countenances of the women all wear looks of happy expectancy. Mr. and Mrs. Poythress are there, and Lucy. Mr. and Mrs. Rolfe, but not Mary. And others whom the reader, to her cost, does not know. Our plump friend, Mrs. Carter, is bustling about, who but she, her jolly face wreathed in smiles.