e usual
time. As he made his way through a group at the door, he notice
compassionate glances directed toward him.

His heart gave a sudden bound.

"Has anything happened to my father?" he inquired, with pale face. "Have
any of you heard anything?"

"He is wounded, Frank," said the nearest bystander.

"Show it to me," said Frank.

In the evening paper, which was placed in his hands, he read a single
line, but of fearful import: "Henry Frost, wounded." Whether the wound
was slight or serious, no intimation was given.

Frank heaved a sigh of comparative relief. His father was not dead, as
he at first feared. Yet he felt that the suspense would be a serious
trial. He did not know how to tell his mother. She met him at the gate.
His serious face and lagging steps revealed the truth, exciting at first
apprehensions of something even more serious.

For two days they remained without news. Then came a letter from the
absent father, which wonderfully lightened all their hearts. The fact
that he was able to write a long letter with his own hand showed plainly
that his wound must be a trifling one. The letter ran thus:

"DEAR MARY: I fear that the report of my wound will reach you before
this letter comes to assure you that it is a mere scratch, and scarcely
worth a thought. I cannot for an instant think of it, when I consider
how many of our poor fellows have been mown down by instant death, or
are now lying with ghastly wounds on pallets in the hospital. We have
been through a fearful trial, and the worst thought is that our losses
are not compensated by a single advantage.

"Before giving you an account of it from the point of view of a private
soldier, let me set your mind at rest by saying that my injury is only a
slight flesh-wound in the arm, which will necessitate my carrying it in
a sling for a few days; that is all.

"Early on the morning of Thursday, the 10th inst., the first act in the
great drama commenced with laying the pontoon bridges over which our men
were to make their way into the rebel city. My own division was to cross
directly opposite the city. All honor to the brave men who volunteered
to lay the bridges. It was a trying and perilous duty. On the other
side, in rifle-pits and houses at the brink of the river, were posted
the enemy's sharpshooters, and these at a given signal opened fire upon
our poor fellows who were necessarily unprotected. The firing was so
severe and deadly, and impossibl