se, and remember it when you are away."

After some bashful hesitation, Frank took courage, and read. A long
silence followed. Little Hattie on the lounge was crying.

"But you ought to keep this--for I make the promise to you," he said,
reflecting that he had used his own Testament to write in.

"No, you are to keep it," said his mother, "for I'm afraid we shall
remember your promise a great deal better than you will."

"No, you won't!" cried Frank, full of resolution. "I shall keep that
promise to the letter."

Mrs. Manly took the Testament, read over the pledge carefully, and wrote
under it a little prayer.

"Now," said she, "go to your room, and read there what I have written.
Then go to bed, and try to sleep. We all need rest--for to-morrow."

"O! and you give your consent?"

"My son," said Mrs. Manly, holding his hand, and looking into his face
with affectionate, misty eyes, "it is right that you should do something
for your family, for we need your help. Your little sister is sick, your
father is feeble, and I--my hand may fail any day. And it is right that
you should wish to do something for your country; and, but that you are
so young, so very young, I should not have opposed you at all. As it is,
I shall not oppose you any more. Think of it well, if you have not done
so already. Consider the hardships, the dangers--every thing. Then decide
for yourself. I intrust you, I give you into the hands of our heavenly
Father."

She folded him to her heart, kissing him and weeping. Frank then kissed
his sisters good-night, his resolution almost failing him, and his heart
almost bursting with the thought that this might be the last evening he
would ever be with them, or kiss them good-night.

II.

OFF TO THE WAR.

It was a calm, clear October night. The moonlight streamed through the
window of Frank's room, an he lay in bed, thinking of the evening that
was past, and of the morning that was to come. Little Willie, his younger
brother, was sleeping sweetly at his side. He had heard his sisters come
up stairs and go to bed in the room next to his; and they were conversing
now in low tones,--about him he was sure.

Would he ever sleep in that nice warm bed again? Would he ever again fold
dear little Willie in his arms, and feel his dewy cheek against his own,
as he did now? What was the future that awaited him? Who would fill his
mother's pla