Never while he lived would Andy forget that tone of bitter agony.

"He's dead! My boy for whom I have watched and waited. Dead! ere he
could offer his brave young life on his country's altar. Oh! woe is me,
woe is me!"

For a moment there was silence, then Janie's voice rang out so that Andy
could hear every word.

"As God hears me, Margaret, I would gladly give my ain useless lad, if
by so doing, yours might be reclaimed from death. Your sorrow is one for
which there is no comfort. To have a son to give; to have him snatched
away before the country claimed him! Aye, woman, your load is, indeed, a
heavy one. To think of Andy alive, and your strong man-child lying dead!
The ways of God are beyond finding out. It grieves me sore, Margaret,
that it does. It seems a useless sacrifice, God forgive me for saying
it!"

The women were sobbing together. In the room above, Andy hid his head
under the pillow to shut out the sound. Never, in all his lonely life,
had he suffered so keenly. Love, pride, hope, went down before the hard
words. In that time of great deeds, when the brave were marching on to
victory or death, he, poor useless cripple, was a disgrace to the mother
whom he loved.

Where could he turn for comfort? He limped to the window, to cool his
fevered face. He leaned on the sill and looked up at the stars. They
seemed unfriendly now, and yet he and they had kept many a vigil, and
they had always seemed like comrades in the past. Poor Andy could not