side of
it which she had never seen before. The other was his Prayer Book. O
God--prayer! Was there then a God, that such things could happen? Where
was He that day? She had given that book to him when he was yet a child.
"Dead,"--she whispered,--"dead," shrinking back and staring at him.

"Would God I had died in his place, dear madam!" he said with infinite
pity.

"How--how was it?" she went on, dry-eyed, in agony, moistening her
cracking lips.

"Fighting like a hero over the body of General Mercer at Princeton. His
men retreated and left them--"

"The rebel cowards," she interrupted.

"Nay, not cowards, but perhaps less brave than he. The British charged
with their bayonets; our men had not that weapon, they fell back."

"Were you there, sir?"

"Surely not! Should I be here now if I had been there then, madam?" he
replied proudly.

"True, true! you at least are a gentleman. Forgive the question."

"General Mercer and some of his officers sprang at the line. I had it
from his own lips. Some one cut the general down; Hilary interposed, and
enabled him to rise to his feet; they were attacked, fought bravely
until--until--they died."

Stricken to the death at least, but determined to die as the rest had
died, fighting, she drew herself up resolutely, and lifted her hand to
that pitiless heaven above her. "So--be--it--unto--all--the--enemies--"
When had he heard her say that before, he wondered in horror. She
stopped, her face went whiter before him, the light went out of it.

"Oh, my son, my son--O God, my son, my son--Oh, give him back, my son--my
son!" She reeled and fell against him, moaning and beating the air with
her little feeble hands. The break had come at last; she was no longer a
Talbot, but a woman. With infinite pity and infinite care he half led,
half carried her into the house, and then, after being bidden not to
summon assistance, he sank down on his knees by her side, where she lay
on the sofa in the parlor, crushed, broken, feeble, helpless, old. With
many interruptions he told her the sad story. He laid the long dark lock
of hair he had cut from her son's head in her hand. There was a letter
from George Washington which he read to her, in which, after many tender
words of consolation, he spoke of Talbot as "one who would have done
honor to any country." He told her of that military funeral, the kind
words of Cornwallis, the guard of honor, the soldiers of the king, and