Sure enough, a moment later Parson White's wife ran in. Her face was
haggard, and her hands outstretched imploringly. With keen appreciation
of what might be coming, Janie McNeal put her in a chair, and stood
guard over her like a gaunt sentinel.

"To bed, Andy, child," she commanded; "'tis late and you are pale. To
bed!"

Andy took the crutch, and, without a word, limped to the tiny room in
the loft above. Boy-like, he was consumed with curiosity. He knew that
the speakers, unless they whispered, could be overheard, so he lay down
upon his hard bed and listened. And poor Margaret White did not whisper.
Once alone with her friend, she poured out her agony and horror.

"My Sam," she moaned, "he is dead!"

Janie and the listener above started. For three years Sam White, the
erring son of the good parson, had been a wanderer from his father's
home. How, then, had he died, and where? The news was startling, indeed.

"Margaret, tell me all!" The firm voice calmed the grief-stricken
mother.

"He was coming home to get our blessing. He heard his country's call,
when his ears were deaf to all others, and it aroused his better nature.
He would not join the ranks until he had our blessing and forgiveness.
Poor lad! he was coming down the pass last night, not knowing that it
was sentineled by the enemy. He did not answer to the command to halt,
and they shot him! Shot him like a dog, giving him no time for
explanation or prayer. Oh! my boy! my boy!"