ot, when the heart throbs with exaltation, when martial music swells,
and the war-steed prances, and the bayonets gleam in the bright
sunlight--then I think not of the doubt, nor of the long train of
horrors, the tears, the bereavements, the agonies, of which this martial
magnificence is but the vanguard. But now, in the still calmness of the
night, when all around me and above me breathes of the loveliness and
holiness of peace, I fear. I question nature, hushed as she is and
smiling in repose, and her calm beauty tells me that Peace is sacred;
that her Master sanctions no discords among His children. I question my
own conscience, and it tells me that the sword wins not the everlasting
triumph--that the voice of war finds no echo within the gates of
heaven."

Ill-comforted by his reflections, he returned to the quiet dwelling, and
entered the chamber of his friend.

CHAPTER XXX.

The sufferer was still sleeping, and Mrs. Wayne was watching by the
bedside. Harold seated himself beside her, and gazed mournfully upon the
pale, still features that already, but for the expression of pain that
lingered there, seemed to have passed from the quiet of sleep to the
deeper calm of death.

"Each moment that I look," said Mrs. Wayne, wiping her tears away, "I
seem to see the grey shadows of the grave stealing over his brow. The
doctor was here a few moments before you came. The minister, too, sat
with him all the morning. I know from their kind warning that I shall
soon be childless. He has but a few hours to be with me. Oh, my son! my
son!"

She bent her head upon the pillow, and wept silently in the bitterness
of her heart. Harold forebore to check that holy grief; but when the
old lady, with Christian resignation, had recovered her composure, he
pressed her to seek that repose which her aged frame so much needed.

"I will sit by Arthur while you rest awhile; you have already overtasked
your strength with vigil. I will awake you should there be a change."

She consented to lie upon the sofa, and soon wept herself to sleep, for
she was really quite broken down with watching. Everything was hushed
around, save the monotones of the insects in the fields, and the
breathing of those that slept. If there is an hour when the soul is
lifted above earth and communes with holy things, it is in the stillness
of the country night, when the solitary watcher sits beside the pillow
of a loved one, waiting the coming of the dark