nd near them like two
statues; Hal and Mary beside Louis and me, wrapt like ourselves in the
mantle of a strange and new experience. How long we stood thus, I know
not; the last sun-rays were dying as Aunt Hildy said: "We must wait no
longer; Jane and Aunt Peg, you'll help me, the rest of you need'nt
stay;" and so we left our beautiful dead, still in the hands of her
friends.

The day of her burial was a perfect one--calm in its beauty, the blue of
its skies like the eyes of our darling. The little pillow made by her
own hands was of blue, covered with a fine web of wrought lace, and with
edging that had also been her handiwork. We dressed her as she
desired,--in a plain dress of pale blue,--the violet blossoms she loved
were in her hand, and it seemed to me as if I could never see her laid
out of sight--she was so beautiful in this last sleep; she looked not
more than thirty; there were no gray hairs among the brown, and no lines
of care or sorrow marked her sweet, pure face.

All things were as she desired, and when the sun burned low on the
hills, we laid her under the willow, while the children sang "Sweet
Rest."

"Will there ever be another like her?" I said.

"Never," said Aunt Hildy.

"No, never," said the hearts of all.

My father missed her as much as if she had been his daughter, and I was
glad of little Emily's presence; it was a star in our night. Louis was
calm and strong, and spoke of her daily, and insisted on her plate at
the table, saying:

"I cannot call her dead. Let us keep a place for her."

It was a tender recognition which we respected. He looked after her, it
seemed to me, and almost saw her in her new home. The months wore on,
and our cares were still increasing. News of battles lost and won came
to us daily, and at last a letter telling of Lieutenant Minot having
been wounded seriously. It was impossible for any one to reach him at
present, and we must wait until he got to Washington, whither he would
be sent as soon as he was able. Our fears were great, but at last a
letter came from Washington, stating he would start for home on the
twenty-first of October, and he desired Hal to meet him in New York. Hal
found that the wound was in the shoulder, and the ball was still in it.
Unsuccessful probing had caused him great suffering, and we should
hardly have known him.

When the real state of the wound was known, Aunt Hildy said:

"I can get that ball out," and she went to work energet