My DEAR OLD FRIEND:

I have come to the end of life; they tell me it will be all over by the
morrow, and there remains but one thing that greatly troubles me--my
little girl, my Elsa. You know I have never much feared death, nor do
I in this hour when I face it once more; for I have ever tried to honor
God and do my duty as both man and soldier. David, I can scarcely
write, for my mind wanders strangely, and my fingers will but barely
grasp the pen. 'T is not the grip of the old sword-hand you knew so
well, for I am already very weak, and dying. But do you yet remember
the day I drew you out of the rout at Saratoga, and bore you away
safely, though the Hessians shot me twice? God knows, old friend, I
never thought to remind you of the act,--'twas no more than any comrade
would have done,--yet I am here among strangers, and there is no one
else living to whom I may turn in my need. David, in memory of it,
will you not give my little orphan child a home? Your old comrade,
upon his death-bed, begs this of you with his final breath. She is all
alone here, save for me, and there is no blood kin in all the world to
whom I may appeal. I shall leave some property, but not much. As you
love your own, I pray you be merciful in this hour to my little girl.

Your old comrade,
ROGER MATHERSON.

This had been endorsed by another and bolder hand:

Captain Roger Matherson, late of the Massachusetts Continental Line,
died at this fort, of fever, fourteenth June, 1812. His daughter is
being cared for by the ladies of the garrison.

NATHAN HEALD,
Capt. First Regt. Inf., Commanding.

The tears were clinging to my mother's long lashes as she finished the
reading; she was ever tender of heart and sympathetic with sorrow. My
father sat in silence, looking far off at the green woods. Presently
he took the paper again into his hands, folded it carefully in the old
creases, and placed it safely away between the Bible leaves. I saw my
mother's fingers steal along the arm of the chair until they closed
softly over his.

"The poor little lamb!" she said gently.

My father's old sword hung over the fireplace, and I saw his glance
wander toward it, as something seemed to rise choking in his throat.
He was always a man who felt deeply, yet said but little; and we both
knew he was thinking about the old days and the strong ties of
comradeship.

The stranger struck flint and steel to light his pipe; the act