s not strong
when he was ordered back into the ranks, and the day before that night,
I carried all his luggage, besides my own, on our march. Toward night we
went in on double-quick, and though the luggage began to feel very
heavy, everybody else was tired too; and as for Jemmie, if I had not
lent him an arm now and then, he would have dropped by the way. I was
all tired out when we came into camp, and then it was Jemmie's turn to
be sentry, and I would take his place; but I was too tired, father. I
could not have kept awake if a gun had been pointed at my head; but I
did not know it until--well, until it was too late."

"God be thanked!" interrupted Mr. Owen, reverently. "I knew Bennie was
not the boy to sleep carelessly at his post."

"They tell me to-day that I have a short reprieve,--given to me by
circumstances,--'time to write to you,' our good Colonel says. Forgive
him, father, he only does his duty; he would gladly save me if he could;
and do not lay my death up against Jemmie. The poor boy is
broken-hearted, and does nothing but beg and entreat them to let him die
in my stead.

"I can't bear to think of mother and Blossom. Comfort them, father! Tell
them I die as a brave boy should, and that, when the war is over, they
will not be ashamed of me, as they must be now. God help me: it is very
hard to bear! Good-by, father! God seems near and dear to me; not at all
as if He wished me to perish forever, but as if He felt sorry for His
poor, sinful, broken-hearted child, and would take me to be with Him
and my Saviour in a better--better life."

A deep sigh burst from Mr. Owen's heart. "Amen," he said
solemnly,--"Amen."

"To-night, in the early twilight, I shall see the cows all coming home
from pasture, and precious little Blossom standing on the back stoop,
waiting for me--but I shall never, never come! God bless you all!
Forgive your poor Bennie."

Late that night the door of the "back stoop" opened softly, and a little
figure glided out, and down the footpath that led to the road by the
mill. She seemed rather flying than walking, turning her head neither to
the right nor to the left, looking only now and then to Heaven, and
folding her hands as if in prayer. Two hours later, the same young girl
stood at the Mill Depot, watching the coming of the night train; and the
conductor, as he reached down to lift her into the car, wondered at the
tear-stained face that was upturned toward the dim lantern he held in