minutes, climbing down the bank to the spring to get a drink of water;
then I returned and took my place upon the log again.

"'I suppose you often hear from your mother, captain?' I said.

"He did not answer. I repeated the question; no reply. I was
perplexed. Could he have fallen into a brown study? His eyes were
open, and he appeared to be looking off through the forest. At length
I touched his shoulder, but he did not move. I took his hand; he was
dead! Shot through the heart. The roaring of the brook, and the steep
bank, had prevented my hearing the report; but, as I sat there holding
the dead hand, suddenly the woods seemed to grow alive with noise and
light. Our camp had evidently been surprised by the enemy, and a sharp
conflict began. I took poor Allan's note-book and watch, and,
remembering his mother, I managed to cut off a lock of his curly hair;
but, before I had gone far, I myself was struck by a stray shot, and
knew nothing more until I awoke in a border hospital two months
afterwards, pale and weak, the very shadow of my former self. As
memory came back, I thought of the captain. The relics had been
preserved, and, as soon as I was able, I sent them to the poor mother,
with a letter describing my last conversation with her boy,--his last
words on earth. I supposed, of course, that she knew from other
sources all the details of the attack, but I felt that I must also
tell her what _I_ knew; possibly it would be some comfort to her. In
about a week I received a letter written in a careful, old-fashioned
handwriting. The poor mother had known nothing all that long time save
this: 'Captain A. Worthington reported missing.' Our regiment had
suffered severely. The camp had been abandoned, and the dead left on
the field. The suspense had been dreadful, and she had prayed for
relief. It had come in the inward conviction that her boy was dead;