nd thicker one. It also ran
from river to river, but was gray instead of blue. Chains are made of
links, and the full measure of "the curse of it" may have been seen
if one could have looked over the land that night and have seen where
the dead links lying there were joined to live under the roof trees
of far away homes.

But here is the tale of a severed link: About two o'clock lights
began to flash about over the battle-field--they were hunting for the
dead and wounded. Among these, three had come out from the Carter
House. A father, son and daughter; each carried a lantern and as they
passed they flashed their lights in the faces of the dead.

"May we look for brother?" asked the young girl, of an officer. "We
hope he is not here but fear he is. He has not been home for two
years, being stationed in another state. But we heard he could not
resist the temptation to come home again and joined General Bate's
brigade. And O, we fear he has been killed for he would surely have
been home before this."

They separated, each looking for "brother." Directly the father heard
the daughter cry out. It was in the old orchard near the house. On
reaching the spot she was seated on the ground, holding the head of
her dying brother in her lap and sobbing:

"Brother's come home! Brother's come home!" Alas, she meant--gone
home!

"Captain Carter, on staff duty with Tyler's brigade," writes General
Wm. B. Bate in his official report, "fell mortally wounded near the
works of the enemy and almost at the door of his father's home. His
gallantry I witnessed with much pride, as I had done on other fields,
and here take pleasure in mentioning it especially."

The next morning in the first light of the first day of that month
celebrated as the birth-month of Him who declared long ago that war
should cease, amid the dead and dying of both armies, stood two
objects which should one day be carved in marble--One, to represent
the intrepid bravery of the South, the other, the cool courage of the
North, and both--"the curse of it."

The first was a splendid war-horse, dead, but lying face forward,
half over the federal breastworks. It was the horse of General Adams.

The other was a Union soldier--the last silent sentinel of
Schofield's army. He stood behind a small locust tree, just in front
of the Carter House gate. He had drawn his iron ram-rod which rested
under his right arm pit, supporting that side. His gun, with butt on
the ground