flock, wandering in a pathway beset with sharpest thorns. But upon his
troubled face was plainly written, "Of myself I can do nothing." A few
faltering words he essayed, but, as if conscious of the utter
uselessness of any language save that of prayer, he raised imploring
hands to heaven, saying, simply, "Let us pray."

Calmer, if not comforted, all arose from their knees, and, having
finished their labor of love, separated, to return to the homes which
had known beloved forms and faces, but would know them no more for
years, perhaps forever.

Upon reaching once more our own home, we crept, one by one, to a
darkened chamber, where lay a martyred mother whose son had been slain
at the battle of Seven Pines. Pale as death she lay, her Bible clasped
to her breast, the sad eyes closed, the white lips murmuring always
words of prayer for patient submission to God's will, the nerveless
hands never losing their grasp upon the "rod and staff" which
comforted her.

Of this family, every man, and every boy old enough to handle a gun,
had long ago joined the Confederate army. The dear boy whom our hearts
now mourned had just graduated with the highest honors when the war
broke out. Never a blind enthusiast, but an intelligent patriot, he
had been among the first to lay ambitious hopes and literary
aspirations upon the altar of his country. His brothers were cadets at
the Virginia Military Institute, and afterwards did good service under
Stonewall Jackson. Our slain hero joined the Third Alabama Regiment,
and, notwithstanding his tender age and delicate health, had already
made his mark as a soldier, brave as the bravest, never succumbing for
a moment to unaccustomed hardship. His record as a son was all that a