arrival. She is talking to herself.

"One treasure is yet left me in this world--my noble, beautiful,
brave son. God bless him; for him I am willing to live. There he
comes; how fast he runs! but how red and heated he looks! What is
the matter, Harry? what has happened?" she exclaimed, as he entered;
"are you sick?"

"Yes, Mother, and I shall never be well again. I have been accused
of stealing, and Mr. Reid and the postmaster both believe it. I
cannot live here any longer. I have just come from the recruiting
office; I have enlisted for the Mexican war, and I hope I shall be
shot; I go the day after to-morrow. I will never be seen here again.
To think that any one should dare to accuse me of theft! Why did I
not knock him down? I hate the world, I hate all mankind, I hate
life, I want to die. If it were not for you, Mother, I believe I
should kill myself. O Mother, Mother! how can I live?" And the poor
fellow laid his head in his mother's lap and wept bitterly.

The poor mother--she spoke not, she did not weep; she laid her hands
upon her son's head, and looked up through the thin roof of her poor
cottage, far, far into the everlasting heavens, where alone are
peace and hope to be found. In her deep agony she called upon the
Almighty for aid. She looked like a marble image of despair.

"I must prepare to go," at last her son said; "I have enlisted, and
I must be ready. "What will you do with yourself, Mother?"

"Go with you, my child. Wherever you go, there I go too. I can cook
for the camp. You have done wrong, my son, in enlisting as a