ll of the past, I begged of Mr. Bowen to
bring up from the village Frank's knapsack, which he had found in one of
his men's hands,--the poor fellow having taken care of that, while he
lost his own: "For the captain's wife," he said. As soon as it came, I
took from it Frank's coat, and his cap and sword. My heart was in my
mouth as I entered Josephine's room, and saw the fixed quiet on her face
where she sat. I walked in, however, with no delay, and laid the things
down on her bed, close to where she sat. She gave one startled look at
them and then at me; her face relaxed from all its quiet lines; she sank
on her knees by the bedside, and, burying her head in her arms, cried,
and cried, and cried, so helplessly, so utterly without restraint, that
I cried, too. It was impossible for me to help it. At last the tears
exhausted themselves; the dreadful sobs ceased to convulse her; all
drenched and tired, she lifted her face from its rest, and held out her
arms to me. I took her up, and put her to bed like a child. I hung the
coat and cap and sword where she could see them. I made her take a cup
of broth, and before long, with her eyes fixed on the things I had hung
up, she fell asleep, and slept heavily, without waking, till the next
morning.

I feared almost to enter her room when I heard her stir; I had dreaded
her waking,--that terrible hour that all know who have suffered, the dim
awakening shadow that darkens so swiftly to black reality; but I need
not have dreaded it for her. She told me afterward that in all that
sleep she never lost the knowledge of her grief; she did not come into
it as a surprise. Frank had seemed to be with her, distant, sad, yet
consoling; she felt that he was gone, but not utterly,--that there was
drear separation and loneliness, but not forever.

When I went in, she lay there awake, looking at her trophy, as she came
to call it, her eyes with all their light quenched and sodden out with
crying, her face pale and unalterably sad, but natural in its sweetness
and mobility. She drew me down to her and kissed me.

"May I get up?" she asked; and then, without waiting for an answer, went
on,--"I have been selfish, Sue; I will try to be better now; I won't
run away from my battle. Oh, how glad I am he didn't run away! It is
dreadful now, dreadful! Perhaps, if I had to choose if he should have
run away or--or this, I should have wanted him to run,--I'm afraid I
should. But I am glad now. If God wante