“Mother!”
“My Dory!” and she fell upon his neck. And the snowy hair and the chestnut, intermingled, lay, motionless, on one pillow!
And which of the two shall we pity?
He seemed to hear that name. At any rate, a beaming look—a serenely exultant smile—
I remember hurrying, once, to the roar of a battle which was over before our command reached the field. The combatants were gone. The wounded, even, had been removed. Only the Silent lay there, upon their gory bed. Wandering a little way from the road, while our troops halted, I saw a fair young boy (he was not over sixteen years of age) seated upon the ground, and leaning back against a young white oak, with his rifle across his lap. Struck with his rare beauty, I drew nearer.
The boy sat still.
I spoke to him.
He did not move.
I stooped and touched his damask cheek.
’Twas cold!