The tears were clinging to my mother's long lashes as she finished the
reading; she was ever tender of heart and sympathetic with sorrow. My
father sat in silence, looking far off at the green woods. Presently
he took the paper again into his hands, folded it carefully in the old
creases, and placed it safely away between the Bible leaves. I saw my
mother's fingers steal along the arm of the chair until they closed
softly over his.

"The poor little lamb!" she said gently.

My father's old sword hung over the fireplace, and I saw his glance
wander toward it, as something seemed to rise choking in his throat.
He was always a man who felt deeply, yet said but little; and we both
knew he was thinking about the old days and the strong ties of
comradeship.

The stranger struck flint and steel to light his pipe; the act
instantly recalled my father to the demands of hospitality.

"Friend," he said, speaking firmly, "hitch to the stump yonder, and
come in. You have brought me sad news enough, yet are no less welcome,
and must break bread at our board. John," and he turned toward me,
"see to friend Burns's horse, and help your mother to prepare the
dinner."

Out in the rude shed, which, answered as a kitchen during summer
weather, I ventured to ask:

"Mother, do you suppose he will take the little girl?"