ith a sorrowful earnestness,
"and the fighting, and the frights we have had, was all nothing to this.
I never felt before how terrible the war was."

Andy had now gone to equip the horse, and the men returned to the inside
of the cabin, where they sat in profound silence. Butler, at length,
rose from the door-sill where he had taken his seat, and crossing the
room, took a position by the bed on which Mary Musgrove had thrown
herself, and where she now lay uttering faint and half-smothered moans.

"I have a remembrance for you," he said, stooping down and speaking
scarce above a whisper in the maiden's ear; "I promised to deliver it
into your hand. God knows with what pain I perform my office! John
enjoined upon me to give you this," he continued, as he presented to her
the little copy of the Testament, "and to say to you that his last
thoughts were given to you and his mother. He loved you, Mary, better
than he loved any living creature in this world."

"He did, he did," sobbed forth the girl; "and I loved him far above
family, friends, kinsfolk and all--I wish I were dead by his side."

"Take the book," said Butler, hardly able to articulate. "God for ever
bless you," he added, after a pause of weeping, "and bring you comfort!
I have promised John Ramsay, that neither you, nor any of his family,
shall ever want the service of a friend, while I have life or means to
render it. Before Heaven, that pledge shall be redeemed! Farewell,
farewell! God bless you!"

As Butler uttered these words he grasped the maiden's hand and pressed
it fervently to his lips; then turning to the mother, he addressed some
phrase of comfort to her, and hastily left the room. Scarcely a sound
was heard from any one, except the low sobbing of the exhausted weepers,
and the almost convulsive kisses which Mary imprinted upon the little
book that Butler had put into her hand.

Musgrove, Ramsay, and the woodman, retired from the apartment at the
same moment; and the horses being ready at the door, the retreating beat
of the hoofs upon the turf gave notice to the in-dwellers that the four
men had set forward on their journey.

CHAPTER XLVI.

A RUSTIC FUNERAL.

How glumly sounds yon dirgy song;
Night ravens flap the wing.--_Burger's Leonora._

By eleven o'clock at night, Butler and the party from Ramsay's arrived
at the woodman's cabin. Winter and his comrades had been busy in making
preparations for the funeral. The body ha