But for you I
would have forgotten my mother's precepts and my mother's prayers. Through
your influence I shall soon join her, where the fierce waves of earthly
trial can lash my proud soul no more."

"Thank God! Oh, Russell! this takes away the intolerable bitterness of
parting; this will support me in coming years. I can brave all things in
future."

She saw that a paroxysm of pain had seized him. His brow wrinkled, and he
bit his lips hard, to suppress a groan. Just at this moment Dr. Arnold
re-entered, and immediately after gave him another potion of morphine.

"Aubrey, you must be quiet, if you would not shorten your life."

He silently endured his sufferings for some moments, and raising his eyes
again to Irene's said, in a tone of exhaustion--

"It is selfish for me to make you witness my torture; but I could not bear
to have you leave me. There is something I want to say while I have
strength left. How is Electra?"

"Partially delirious still, but the doctor thinks she will recover. What
shall I tell her for you?"

"That I loved and remembered her in my dying hour. Kiss her for me, and
tell her I fell where the dead lay thickest, in a desperate charge on the
enemy's batteries--that none can claim a nobler, prouder death than
mine--that the name of Aubrey is once more glorified--baptized with my
blood upon the battlefield. Irene, she is alone in the world; watch over
her and love her, for my sake. Doctor, give me some water."

As the haemorrhage increased despite their efforts to stanch it, he became
rapidly weaker, and soon after, with one hand locked in Irene's, he fell
asleep.

She sat motionless, supporting his head, uttering no sound, keeping her
eyes fixed on his upturned countenance. Dr. Arnold went noiselessly in and
out, on various errands of mercy; occasionally anxious, weather-beaten
soldiers softly lifted the curtain of the tent, gazed sadly, fondly, on the
prostrate figure of the beloved commander, and turned away silently, with
tears trickling down their bronzed faces. Slowly the night waned, and the
shrill tones of _reveille_ told that another day had risen before the murky
sky brightened. Hundreds, who had sprung up at that call twenty-four hours
ago, now lay stiffening in their gore, sleeping their last sleep, where
neither the sound of fife and drum, nor the battle-cry of comrades, would
ever rouse them from their final rest before Malvern Hill--over which winds
wailed a requiem, and