im.

"Why, father, what can be the matter?" she said, stopping in front of
him, with the open book pressed to her breast.

"Matter enough, I'm afraid, Rachel. There's been a battle near a place
called Rich Mountain, in Western Virginia, and Harry Glen's---"

"O, father," she said, growing very white, "Harry's killed."

"No; not killed." The old man's lip curled with scorn. "It's worse. He
seems to've suddenly discovered he wasn't prepared to die; he didn't
want to rush all at once into the presence of his Maker. Mebbe he didn't
think it'd be good manners. You know he was always stronger on etikwet
than anything else. In short, he's showed the white feather. A dozen
or more letters have come from the boys telling all about it, and the
town's talking of nothing else. There's one of the letters. It's from
Jake Alspaugh, who quite working for me to enlist. Read it yourself."

The old gentleman threw the letter upon the grass, and strode on angrily
into the house. Rachel smoothed out the crumpled sheet, and read with a
growing sickness at heart:

Mr. Bond--Deer Sur:

i taik my pen in hand to lett you no that with the exception of an
occashunal tuch of roomaticks, an boonions all over my fete from hard
marchin, ime all rite, an i hope you ar injoin the saim blessin. Weve
jest had an awful big fite, and the way we warmed it to the secshers
jest beat the jews. i doant expect theyve stopt runnin yit. All the
Sardis boys done bully except Lieutenant Harry Glen. The smell of burnt
powder seamed to onsettle his narves. He tuk powerful sick all at wunst,
jest as the trail was gittin rather fresh, and he lay groanin wen
the rest of the company marched off into the fite. He doant find the
klime-it here as healthy as it is in Sardis. i 'stinguished myself and
have bin promoted, and ive got a Rebel gun for you with a bore big enuff
to put a walnut in, and it'll jest nock your hole darned shoulder off
every time you shoot it. No more yours til deth send me some finecut
tobacker for heavens sake.

Jacob Alspaugh.

Rachel tore the letter into a thousand fragments, and flung the volume
of poems into the ditch below. She hastened to her room, and no one saw
her again until the next morning, when she came down dressed in somber
black, her face pale, and her colorless lips tightly compressed.

Chapter II. First Shots.

"Cowards fear to die; but courage stout,
Rather than live in snuff, will be put out."