"What do you want with a lawyer?" Again the calm, friendly tone
quieted him.

"I want him to draw a will. My brother is--" he caught his breath with
a gasp in a desperate effort for self-control. "They say he's--dying."
He finished the sentence with a quiver in his voice, and the brave
front and the trembling, childish tone went to the man's heart. "I
don't believe it--he can't be dying," the boy talked on, gathering
courage. "But anyway, he wants to make a will, and--and I reckon--it
may be that he--he must."

"I see," the other answered gravely, and the young, torn soul felt
an unreasoning confidence that he had found a friend. "Where is your
brother?"

"He's in the prison hospital there--in that big building," he pointed
down the street. "He's captain in our army--in the Confederate army.
He was wounded at Gettysburg."

"Oh!" The deep-set eyes gazed down at the fresh face, its muscles
straining under grief and responsibility, with the gentlest, most
fatherly pity. "I think I can manage your job, my boy," he said. "I
used to practise law in a small way myself, and I'll be glad to draw
the will for you."

The young fellow had whirled him around before he had finished the
sentence. "Come," he said. "Don't waste time talking--why didn't
you tell me before?" and then he glanced up. He saw the ill-fitting
clothes, the crag-like, rough-modelled head, the awkward carriage of
the man; he was too young to know that what he felt beyond these was