"Why don't you obey orders?" cried Gray.

"The orders were to load and fire, and I was bound to obey them before any others!" said Frank, preparing to prime.

Just then Atwater, who was again on his back, suddenly dropped his piece, which fell across his left arm, and brought his right hand to his breast. The movement was so abrupt and unusual it attracted Frank's attention.

"Are you hit, Abe?"

And in an instant he saw the answer to his hurried question in a gush of blood which crimsoned the poor, brave fellow's breast.

"It has come!" said Atwater.

"How could it—and you lying down so!" ejaculated Frank.

"I don't know—never mind me!" replied Abe, faintly.

Then Frank remembered the mysterious shots aimed at him and Sinjin in the woods, and the subsequent solution of the mystery. He looked up—all around—overhead.

"What's the trouble, Manly?" screamed Tucket. "What do you see?"

"There!" Frank shouted, pointing upwards; "there! the man that killed Atwater!"

And in the branches of a tree, which stood but a few paces in front of them, he showed, half hidden by the thick masses, the figure of a rebel.

The sharpshooter was loading his piece. Frank saw the movement, and would have hastened to avenge the death of his friend before the assassin could fire again. But he was out of caps, and must borrow. Tucket's gun was ready.

"'Die thou shalt, gray-headed ruffian!'"

Seth shouted the words up at the man in the tree, and lying on his back, brought the butt of his gun to his shoulder, aimed heavenward, and fired.

Scarce had flame shot from the muzzle, when down came the rebel's gun tumbling to the ground; pursued out of the tree by something that resembled a huge bird, with spread wings, swooping down terribly, and striking the ground with a jar heard even amid the thunder of battle.

It was the rebel himself.

"'Rattling, crashing, thrashing, thunder down!'" screamed Seth Tucket, his ruling passion, poetry, strong even in battle.

The man, pitching forwards in his fearful somerset, had fallen within a few feet of Frank. The boy recovering from his astonishment at the awful sight, felt a strange curiosity to see if he was dead.

He looked over the log. There lay the wretch, a hideous heap, the face of him upturned and recognizable.

Where had Frank seen that grim countenance, that short, stiff, iron-gray hair? Somewhere, surely. He looked again, trying to fix his memory.

"I swan to man, ef it ain't old Buckley!"

Seth was right. It was the Maryland secessionist whose turkeys the boys had stolen, and who, in consequence, had made haste to avenge his wrongs by joining the confederate army.

A strange, sickening sensation came over Frank at the discovery. Thus the evil he had done followed him. But for that wild freak of plundering the poor man's poultry-yard, he might be plodding now on his Maryland farm, and Atwater would not be lying there so white and still with a bullet in his breast.



XXXI.

"VICTORY OR DEATH."

Where all this time was the old drum-major? He too had disappeared from the ambulance corps to assume, like Frank, a position of still more arduous service and greater danger.

Shortly after Frank left him, word came that the battery of boat-howitzers, which, from a curve in the road that commanded the rebel works, had been doing splendid execution, was suffering terribly, and getting short of hands. It must soon withdraw unless reinforced. But who would volunteer to help work the guns?

The old man had been familiar with artillery practice. At the thought of the service and the peril his spirit grew proud within him. But his heart yearned for Frank.

"Where is Manly?" he inquired of Ellis.

"I believe he has gone into the fight with our company," said the wounded volunteer.

The truth flashed upon the veteran. Yes, the boy he loved had gone before him into danger. He no longer hesitated, or lost any time in getting leave to report himself to the commander of the battery.

"What can you do?" was the hurried question put to him, as he stood in the thick powder-smoke, calmly asking for work.

Just then, a gunner was taken off his feet by a cannon-ball.

"I can take this fellow's place, sir," said the old man, grimly.

"Take it!" replied the officer.

The wounded sailor was borne away, and the old drummer, springing to the howitzer, assisted in working it until, its ammunition exhausted, the battery was ordered to withdraw.

During the severest part of the action Mr. Sinjin had observed a person in citizen's dress, with his coat off, briskly handling the cannon-balls. Their work done, he turned to speak with him.

"You are a friend of my young drummer boy, I believe," said the old man.

"Yes, and a friend of all his friends!" cordially answered the white-sleeved civilian.

"You can preach well, and fight well," said the veteran, his eyes gleaming with stern pride.

"I prefer to preach, but I believe in fighting too, when duty points that way," said Mr. Egglestone,—for it was he, flushed and begrimed with his toil at the deadly guns.

Even as they were speaking, a cannon-ball passed between them. Mr. Egglestone was thrown back by the shock of the wind it carried, but recovered instantly to find himself unhurt. But where was the old drummer? He was not there. And it was some seconds before the bewildered clergyman perceived him, several paces distant, lying on his face by the road.

* * * *

The howitzers silenced, it was determined to storm the enemy's works.

Frank afterwards had the satisfaction of knowing that it was in part the information gained from the prisoner he had taken that decided the commanding general to order a charge.

Frank was with his company, where we left him, when suddenly yells rent the air; and, looking, he saw the Zouaves of Parke's brigade dashing down the causeway in front of the rebel redoubt.

They were met by a murderous fire. They returned it as they charged. As their comrades fell, they passed over them unheedingly, and still kept on—a sublime sight to look upon, in their wild Arab costumes, shouting, "Zou! zou!" bounding like tigers, clearing obstructions, and sweeping straight to the breastwork with their deadly bayonets.

"What is it?" asked Atwater, faintly.

"Victory!" answered Frank; for the firing ceased—the enemy were flying.

"That's enough!" And the still pallid face of the soldier smiled.

Victory! None but those who have fought a stern foe to the bloody close, and seen his ranks break and fly, and the charging columns pursue, ranks of bristling steel rushing in through clouds of battle smoke, know what pride and exultation are in that word.

Victory! Reno's column, that had outflanked the rebels on the west side, fighting valiantly, charged simultaneously with the Zouaves. The whole line followed the example, and went in with colors flying, and shouts of joy filling the welkin which had been shaken so lately with the jar of battle. Over fallen trees, over pits and ditches, through brush, and bog, and water, the conquering hosts poured in; Frank's regiment with the rest, and himself among the foremost that planted their standard on the breastwork.

There were the abandoned cannon, still warm and smoking. There lay a deserted flag, bearing the Latin inscription "Aut vincere aut mori,"—Victory or death,—flung down in the precipitate flight.

"They couldn't conquer, and they didn't want to die; so they split the difference, and run," observed Seth Tucket.

There too lay the dead and dying, whom the boastful enemy had forsaken where they fell. One of these who had not run was an officer—handsome and young. He was not yet dead. A strange light was in his eyes as he looked on the forms of the foemen thronging around him, saw the faces of the victors, and heard the cheering. Success and glory were for them—for him defeat and death.

"Lift me up," he said, "and let me look at you once."

They raised him to a sitting posture, supported partly by a gun-carriage, and partly by the arms of his conquerors. And they pressed around him, their voices hushed, their triumphant brows saddened with respect for the dying.

"Though we have been fighting each other," he said, solemnly, "we are still brothers. God forgive me if I have done wrong! I too am a northern man,—I too——"

As he spoke, a figure in the uniform of his foes sprang through the crowd to his feet.

"O, my brother! O, my brother George!"

It was Frank Manly, who knelt, and with passionate grief clasped the hand that had clasped his in fondness and merry sport so often in the happy days of his childhood, when neither ever dreamed of their unnatural separation and this still more unnatural meeting.

"Frank! my little brother! so grown! is it you?" said the wounded captive, with dreamy surprise.

"O George! how could you?" Frank began, with anguish in his voice. But he checked himself; he would not reproach his dying brother.

"My wife, you know!" was all the unhappy young man could murmur. He looked at Frank with a faint and ever fainter smile of love, till his eyes grew dim. "I am going, Frank. It is all wrong—I know now—but it is too late. Tell mother——"

His words became inaudible, and he sank, swooning, in Captain Edney's arms.

"What, George? what shall I tell mother?" pleaded Frank, in an agony.

"And father too," said the dying lips, in a moment of reviving recollection. "And my sisters——" But the message was never uttered.

"George! O, George! I am here! Don't you see me?"

The dim eyes opened; but they saw not.

"Carry me up stairs! Let me die in the old room—our room, Frank."

It was evident his mind was wandering; he fancied himself once more at home, and wished to be laid in the little chamber where he used to sleep with Frank, as Frank had slept with Willie in later days.

"Kiss me, mother!" The ashen face smiled; then the light faded from it; and the lips, grown cold and numb, murmured softly, "It is growing dark—Good night!"

And he slept—the sleep of eternity.

When Frank rose up from the corpse he had mastered himself. Then Captain Edney saw, what none had noticed before, that blood was streaming down his arm—the same arm that had been grazed before; this time it had been shot through.

"You are wounded!"

"Yes—but not much. I must go—let me go and take care of Atwater!"

"But you need taking care of yourself!"—for he was deadly pale.

"No, sir—I—Abe, there——"

Even as the boy was speaking he grew dizzy and fell fainting in his captain's arms.



XXXII.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

It is over. The battle is ended, the victory won. The sun goes down upon conquerors and conquered, upon the living and the dead. And the evening comes, melancholy. The winds sigh in the pine-tops, the sullen waves dash upon the shore, the gloom of the cypresses lies dismal and dark on Roanoke Island.

Buildings suitable for the purpose, taken from the enemy, have been converted into hospitals, and the wounded are brought in.

There is Frank with his bandaged arm, and Ellis with his stump of a hand bound up, and others worse off than they. There is the surgeon of their regiment, active, skilful, kind. There, too, is Mr. Eggleston, the minister, proving his claim to that high title, ministering in the truest sense to all who need him, holding to fevered lips the cup of medicine or soothing drink, and holding to fevered souls the still more precious drink.

There is Corporal Gray, assisting to arrange the hospital, and cheering his comrades with an account of the victory.

"The rebels ran like herds of deer after we got the battery. We tracked 'em by the traps they threw away. Guns, knapsacks, coats,—they flung off every thing, and skedaddled for dear life! We met an old negro woman, who told us where their camp was; but some of 'em had taken another direction, by a road that goes to the east side of the island. Our boys followed, and found 'em embarking in boats. We fired on 'em, and brought back two of their boats. In one we got Jennings Wise, of the Wise Legion, that we had the bloody fight with flanking the battery. He was wounded and dying.

"But our greatest haul was the camp the old negress pointed out The rebels rallied, and as we moved up, fired upon us, doing no damage. We returned the compliment, and dropped eight men. Then more running, of the same chivalrous sort, our boys after them; when out comes a flag of truce from the camp.

"'What terms will be granted us?' says the rebel officer.

"'No terms, but unconditional surrender,' says General Foster.

"'How long a time will be granted us to consider?'

"'Just time enough for you to go to your camp to convey the terms and return.'

"Off went the rebel. We waited fifteen minutes. Then we pushed on again. That movement quickened their deliberations; and out came Colonel Shaw, the commander, and says to General Foster,—

"'I give up my sword, and surrender five thousand men!' For he didn't know some two thousand of his force had escaped. What we have got is about three thousand prisoners, and all their forts and quarters, which we call a pretty good bag."

The boys forgot their wounds, they forgot their dead and dying comrades, listening to this recital. But short-lived was the enthusiasm of one, at least. Scarce was Gray gone, when Frank saw four men with a stretcher, bringing upon it a grizzled, pallid old man.

"O, Mr. Sinjin! O, my dear, dear friend! You too!"

"Is it my boy?" said the veteran, with a wan smile. "Yes, I too! They have done for me, I fear."

"But nobody told me. How—where——" The boy's grief choked his voice.

"An impertinent cannon-ball interrupted my conversation with Mr. Egglestone," said the old man, stifling his agony as the men removed him to a cot. "And took a—" he groaned in spite of himself—"a greedy mouthful out of my side—that's all."

Frank knew not what to say or what to do, he was so overcome.

"There, my boy," said the old man, to comfort him, "no tears for me! It is enough to see you again. They told me you were hurt—" looking at the lad's disabled arm. "I am glad it is no worse." And the wan veteran smiled content.

Frank, with his one hand, smoothed the pillow under the old gray head, struggling hard to keep back his sobs as he did so.

"Who is my neighbor there?" Mr. Sinjin cheerfully asked.

"Atwater," Frank managed to articulate.

"Is it? I am sorry! A bad wound?"

"The bullet went through a Bible he carried, then into his breast, beyond the reach of surgery, I am afraid," Mr. Egglestone answered for Frank. "He lies in a stupor, just alive."

"Poor fellow!" said Mr. Sinjin, feelingly. "If Death must have one of us, let him for once be considerate, and take me. Atwater is young, just married,—he needs to live; but I—I am not of much account to any body, and can just as well be spared as not."

"O, no, O, no!" sobbed Frank; "I can't spare you! I can't let you die!"

"My boy," said the old man, deeply affected, "I would like to tarry a little longer in the world, if only for your sake. You have done so much for me—so much more than you can ever know! You have brought back to my old heart more of its youth and freshness than it had felt for years. I thank God for it. I thank you, my dear boy."

With these words still ringing in his ear, Frank was taken away by the thoughtful Mr. Egglestone and compelled to lie down.

"You must not agitate the old man, and you need repose yourself, Frank. I fear the effects of all this excitement, together with that wound, on your slender constitution."

"O, my wound is nothing!" Frank declared. "See that he and Atwater have every thing done for them—won't you, Mr. Egglestone?"

The minister promised, and Frank endeavored to settle his mind to rest.

But he could not sleep. Every five minutes he started up to inquire after his friends. Hour after hour passed, and he still remained wakeful as a spirit doomed never to sleep again. His wounded arm pained him; and he had so many things to think of,—his suffering comrades, old Buckley shot out of the tree, his rebel brother, his folks at home, and all the whirling incidents and horrors of that dread day.

So he thought, and thought; and prayed silently for the old drummer groaning on his bed of pain; and pleaded for Atwater lying there, still, with the death-shadow he had foreseen darkening the portal of his body. And Frank longed for his mother, as he grew weary and weak, until at last sleep came in mercy, and dropped her soft, vapory veil over his soul.

* * * *

The thrilling news of the victory came north by telegraph. Then followed letters from correspondents, giving details of the battle, when, one morning, Helen Manly ran home in a glow of excitement, bringing a damp and crumpled newspaper.

"News from Frank!" she cried, out of breath.

In a moment the little family was gathered about her, the parents eager and pale.

"Is he living? Tell me that!" said Mrs. Manly.

"Yes, but he has been wounded, and is in the hospital."

"Wounded!" broke forth Mr. Manly in consternation; but his wife kept her soul in silence, waiting with compressed white lips to learn more.

"In the arm—not badly. There is a whole half column about him here. For he has made himself famous—Frank! our dear, dear Frank!" And the quick tears flooding the girl's eyes fell upon the paper.

Mrs. Manly snatched the sheet and read, how her boy had distinguished himself; how he had captured a rebel, and fought gallantly in the ranks, and received a wound without minding it; and how all who had witnessed his conduct, both officers and men, were praising him; it was all there—in the newspaper.

"What adds to the romance of this boy's story," said the writer in conclusion, "is a circumstance which occurred at the capture of the breastwork. Among the dead and wounded left behind when the enemy took to flight, was a rebel captain, of northern parentage, who came south a few years ago, married a southern belle, became a slaveholder, joined the slaveholders' rebellion in consequence, and lost his life in defence of Roanoke Island. He lived long enough to recognize in the drummer boy his own younger brother, and died in his arms."

Great was the agitation into which the family was thrown by this intelligence.

"O that I had the wings of a dove!" said Mrs. Manly. "For I must go, I must go to my child!"

Pride and joy in his youthful heroism, pain and grief for the other's tragic end, all was absorbed in the dreadful uncertainty which hung about the welfare of the favorite son; and she knew that not all the attentions and praises of men could make up to him, there on his sick bed, for the absence of his mother.

The family waited, however,—in what anguish of suspense need not to be told,—until the next mail brought them letters from Mr. Egglestone and Captain Edney. By these, their worst fears were confirmed. Exposure, fatigue, excitement, the wound he had received, had done their work with Frank. He was dangerously ill with a fever.

"O, dear!" groaned Mr. Manly, "this wicked, this wicked rebellion! George is killed, and now Frank! What can we do? what can we do, mother?" he asked, helplessly.

While he was groaning, his wife rose up with that energy which so often atoned for the lack of it in him.

"I am going to Roanoke Island! I am going to my child in the hospital!"

That very day she set out. Alone she went, but she was not long without a companion. On the boat to Fortress Monroe she saw a solitary and disconsolate young woman, whose face she was confident of having seen somewhere before. She accosted her, found her going the same journey with herself, and on a similar errand, and learned her history.

"My husband, that I was married to at the cars just as his regiment was leaving Boston, has been shot at Roanoke Island, and whether he is alive or dead I do not know."

"Your husband," said Mrs. Manly,—"my son knows him well. They were close friends!"

And from that moment the mother of Frank and the wife of Atwater were close friends also, supporting and consoling each other on the journey.



XXXIII.

A FRIEND IN NEED.

At Roanoke Island, a certain tall, lank, athletic private had been detailed for fatigue duty at the landing, when the steamer from the inlet arrived.

Being at leisure, he was watching with an expression of drollery and inquisitiveness for somebody to tell him the news, when he saw two bewildered, anxious women come ashore, and look about them, as if waiting for assistance.

Prompted by his naturally accommodating disposition, and no less by honest curiosity, the soldier stepped up to them.

"Ye don't seem over'n above familiar in these parts, ladies," he said, with his politest grin.

"We are looking for an officer who promised to aid us in finding our friends in the hospital—or at least in getting news from them," said the elder of the two,—a fine-looking, though distressed and careworn woman of forty.

"Sho! wal. I s'pose he's got other things to look after, like as not!" And the soldier, in his sympathy, cast his eyes around in search of the officer. "Got friends in the hospital, hev ye?" Then peering curiously under the bonnet of the young female, "Ain't you the gal that merried Atwater?"

"O! do you know him? Is he—is he alive?" By which eager interrogatives he perceived that she was "the gal."

The droll countenance grew solemn. "I ain't edzac'ly prepared to answer that last question, Miss—Miss Atwater!" he said, with some embarrassment. "But the fust I can respond to with right good will. Did I know him!"—Tears came into his eyes as he added, "Abe Atwater, ma'am, was my friend; and a braver soldier or a better man don't at this moment exist!"

"Then you must know my boy, too!" cried the elder female,—"Frank Manly, drummer."

The soldier brightened at once.

"Frank Manly! 'Whom not to know argues one's self unknown.' Your most obedient, ma'am,"—bowing and scraping. "Your son has attracted the attention of the officers, and made himself pop'lar with every body. Mabby ye haven't heerd——"

"I've heard," interrupted the anxious mother. "But how is he? Tell me that!"

"Wal, he was a little grain more chirk last night, I was told. He has had a fever, and been delirious, and all that—perty nigh losing his chance o' bein' promoted, he was, one spell! But now I guess his life's about as sure's his commission, which Cap'n Edney says there ain't no doubt about."

"So young!" said Mrs. Manly, trembling with interest.

"He's young, but he's got what we want in officers—that is, sperit; he's chock full of that. I take some little pride in him myself," added the private. "We was almost like brothers, me and Frank was! 'In the desert, in the battle, in the ocean-tempest's wrath, we stood together, side by side; one hope was ours, one path!'"

"This, then, is Seth Tucket!" exclaimed Mrs. Manly, who knew him by his poetry.

"That's my name, ma'am, at your service!" And Seth made another tremendous bow. "But I see," he said, "you're anxious; ye want to git to the hospital. I tell ye, Frank'll be glad to see ye; he used to rave about you in his delirium; he would call 'mother! mother!' sometimes half the night."

"Poor child! poor, dear child!" said Mrs. Manly. "I can't wait! help me, sir,—show me the way to him, if nothing more!"

"Hello!" shouted Seth. "Whose cart is this? Where's the driver of this cart? It's been standin' here this hour, and nobody owns it." He jumped into it. "Who claims this vehicle? 'Who so base as would not help a woman? If any, speak! for him have I offended!' Nobody? Then I take the responsibility—and the cart too! Hop in, ladies. Here's a board for you to set on. I'll drive ye to the hospital, and bring back the kerridge before Uncle Sam misses it."

The women were only too glad to accept the invitation, and they were soon seated on the board. Seth adjusted his anatomy to the edge of the cart-box, and drove off. But he soon stood up, declaring that a hungry fellow like him couldn't stand that board,—he was too sharp set.

Mrs. Manly did not venture to ask again about Atwater,—what he had already said of him having gone so heavily to the poor wife's heart. But she could inquire about the old drum-major, who, she had heard, was wounded.

"Old Sinjin? Wal! I'm in jest the same dilemmy consarning him as Atwater. They've both been sick and at the pint of death ever sence the fight. Now one of 'em's dead, and t'other's alive. A chap that was at the hospital told me this morning, 'One of them sickest fellers in your regiment died last night," says he; 'I don't know which of 'em,' says he. And I haven't had a chance yet to find out."

"O, haste then!" cried the young wife. "May be my husband is living still!"

"Shouldn't wonder the least might if he is," said Seth, willing to encourage her. "For he has hung on to life wonderfully; he said he believed you was coming, and he couldn't bear the idee of dying before he could see you once more. Old Buckley's bullet has been found, you'll be pleased to know."

"Old Buckley? Who is old Buckley?"

"The Maryland secessionist that shot your husband, and that I brought down from the tree to pay for it. He never'll git into another tree, without his soul goes into a gobble-turkey, as I should think it might, and flies up in one to roost!"

"And the bullet!——"

"As I was going to tell ye, it's been found. It went through the Bible that you gave him (and that Frank's preserving for you now, I believe), and lodged in his body, the doctor couldn't tell where. But one night Mr. Egglestone,—the fighting minister, you know, that merried you,—he was bathing Abe's back, and what did he find but a bunch, that Abe said was sore. 'Doctor!' says he, 'I've found the bullet!' And, sure enough! the doctor come and cut out the lead. It had gone clean through the poor feller,—into his breast, and out under his side!—Hello!" said Seth, "I shall hev to turn out and wait for that company to march by. I swan to man ef 'tain't my company,—or a part on't, at least! They're drumming out a coward, to the tune of the Rogue's March!"

The women were all impatience to get on; and Mrs. Manly felt but the faintest gleam of interest in the procession, until, as it drew near, in a wretched figure, wearing, in place of the regimental uniform, a suit of rags that might have been taken from some contraband, with drummers before and fixed bayonets behind, she recognized—Jack Winch!

"Wal!" said Seth, "I'd ruther go into a fight and be shot dead than go out of camp in that style! See that label, 'COWARD,' on his back? But he deserves it, ef ever a chap did!"

And Seth, as he drove on, related the story of Jack's miserable boasting and poltroonery. Much as she pitied the wretch, Mrs. Manly could not help remembering his treachery towards her son, and feeling that Frank was now amply avenged.



XXXIV.

THE HOSPITAL.

Let us pass on before, and take a peep into the hospital. There we find Ned Ellis, playing dominoes with one hand, and joking to keep up the spirits of his companions. There lies Frank on his cot, with blanched countenance, eyes closed, and pale lips smiling, as if in dreams. Of his two friends, Atwater and the old drummer, only one, as Seth Tucket said, remains. One was carried out last night—in a coffin his cold form is laid—life's fitful fever is over with him.

And the other? Very still, very pale, stretched on his narrow bed, no motion of breathing perceptible, behold him! What is it we see in that sculptured, placid face? Is it life, or is it death? It's neither life nor death, but sleep, that dim gulf between.

Mr. Egglestone, who has been much about the hospital from the first, enters with a radiant look, and steps lightly to Frank's side.

The drummer boy's eyes unclose, and smile their welcome.

"Better, still better, I am glad to see!" says the minister, cheerily.

"Almost well," answered Frank, although so weak that he can hardly speak. "I shall be out again in a day or two. The fever has quite left me; and I was having such a beautiful dream. I thought I was a water-lily, floating on a lake; and the lake, they told me, was sleep; and I felt all whiteness and peace! Wasn't it pretty?"

"Pretty, and true too!" said the minister, with a suffusing tear, as he looked at the pale, gentle boy, and thought how much like a white fragrant lily he was. "I have news for you, Frank. The steamer has arrived."

"O! and letters?"

"Probably, though I have none yet. But something besides letters!"—Mr. Egglestone whispered confidentially, "Atwater's wife is here!"

"Is she? Brave girl!—O, dear!" said Frank, his features changing suddenly, "why didn't my mother come too! She might, I think! It seems as if I couldn't wait, as if I couldn't live, till I see her!"

"Well, Frank," then said the minister, having thus prepared him, "your mother did think—your mother is here!"

At the moment, Mrs. Manly, who could be no longer restrained, flew to the bedside of her son. He started up with a wild cry; she caught him in her arms; they clung and kissed and cried together.

"Mother! mother!" "My child! my darling child!" were the only words that could be heard in that smothering embrace.

Mr. Egglestone turned, and took the hand of her companion, who had entered with her, and led her to the cot where lay the still figure and placid, sculptured face. O woman, be strong! O wife, be calm! keep back the tears, stifle the anguish, of that heaving breast.

She is strong, she is calm, tears and anguish are repressed. She bends over the scarcely breathing form, gazes into the utterly pallid face, and with clasped hands in silence blesses him, prays for him—her husband.

For this is he—Abe Atwater, the shadow of death he foresaw still darkening the portal of his body, as if hesitating to enter, nor yet willing to pass by. And the face in the coffin outside there is the face of the old drummer, whose soul, let us hope, is at peace. One was taken—will the other be left?

The eyes of Abe opened; they beheld the vision of his wife, and gladness, like a river of soft waters, glides into his soul. O, may it be a river of life to him! As love has held his spirit back from death, so may its power restore him; for such things have been; and there is no medicine for the sick body or sinking soul like the breath and magnetic touch of love.

Frank meanwhile was lying on his bed, holding his mother's hands, and drinking in the joy of her presence. And she was feeding his rapture with the tenderest motherly words and looks, and telling him of home.

"But how selfish I am!" said Frank, "How little you could afford to leave, and come here! I thought I was going to be a help to you, and, the best I can do, I am only a trouble and a hindrance!"

"I could not stop an instant to think of trouble or expense when my darling was in danger!" exclaimed the grateful mother. "I feel that God will take care of us; if we are his children, he will provide for all our wants. Will he not, Mr. Egglestone?"

"When I have read to you this paper," replied the minister, "then you can be the judge. I was requested to read it to Frank as soon as he was able to hear it—after his friend's death."

"Is it something for me? Poor old Mr. Sinjin!" exclaimed Frank. "He died last night, mother. But he was so happy, and so willing to go, I can't mourn for him. What is the paper?"

"A few nights ago he requested me to come to his side and write as he should dictate." And the clergyman, seating himself, read:—

"'The Last Will and Testament of Servetus St. John, commonly called Old Sinjin.

"I, Servetus St. John, Drummer, being of sound mind, but of body fast failing unto death, having received its mortal hurt in battle for my country, do give and bequeath of my possessions as follows:—

"'Item. My Soul I return to the Maker who gave it, and my Flesh to the dust whence it came.

"'Item. To my Country and the Cause of Freedom, as I have given my last poor services, so I likewise give cheerfully my Life.

"'Item. To Mehitabel Craig, my only surviving sister after the flesh, I give what alone she can claim of me, and what, as a dying sinner, I have no right to withhold, my full pardon for all offences.

"'Item. To my present friend and comforter, Mr. Egglestone, as a memento of my deep obligations to him, I give my watch.

"'Item. To my fellow-sufferer, Abram Atwater, or to his widow, in case of his decease, I bequeath the sum of one hundred dollars.

"'Item. To my fellow-sufferer and dearly beloved pupil, Frank Manly, I give, in token of affection, a miniature which will be found after my death.

"'Item. To the same Frank Manly I also give and bequeath the residue of all my worldly possessions, to wit:—'"

Then followed an enumeration of certain stocks and deposits, amounting to the sum of three thousand dollars.

The will was duly witnessed, and Mr. Egglestone was the appointed executor.

Frank was silent; he was crying, with his hands over his face.

"So you see, my young friend," said Mr. Egglestone, "you have, for your own comfort, and for the benefit of your good parents, a snug little fortune, which you will come into possession of in due time. As for the miniature, I may as well hand it to you now. I found it after the old man's death. He always wore it on his heart."

He took it from its little soiled buckskin sheath, and gave it to Mrs. Manly. She turned pale as she looked at it. Frank was eager to see it, and, almost reluctantly, she placed it in his hands. It might almost have passed for a portrait of himself, only it was that of a girl; and he knew at once that it was his mother, as she had looked at his age.

While he was gazing at the singular memento of the old man's romantic and undying attachment, Mrs. Manly looked away, with the air of one resolutely turning her mind from one painful subject to another.

"I wish to ask you, Mr. Egglestone, what disposition has been made of—I had another son, you know."

He understood her.

"I trust," said he, "that what Captain Edney and myself thought proper to do will meet your approval. After the battle, the wife of Captain Manly sent a request to have his body forwarded to her by a flag of truce. We consulted Frank, who told us to do as we pleased about it. Accordingly, we obtained permission to grant her request, and the body of her husband was sent to her."

There was for a moment a look, as of one who felt bitter wrong, on Mrs. Manly's face; but it passed.

"You did well, Mr. Egglestone. To her who had got the soul belonged the body also. May peace go with it to her desolated home!"

"Mother!" whispered Frank, gazing still at the miniature, "tell me! am I right? do I know now why it was the dear old man thought so much of me?"

"If you have not guessed, my child. I will tell you. Years ago, when I was the little girl you see there, he was good enough to think I was good enough to marry him. That is all."

Frank said no more, but laid the picture on his heart,—for it was his, and the dearest part of the dear old man's legacy.



XXXV.

CONCLUSION.

After a long delay Captain Edney came; apologizing for not appearing to welcome his drummer boy's mother and his old schoolmistress before. His excuse was valid: one of his men, S. Tucket by name, had got into a scrape by running off with one of Uncle Sam's carts, and he had been to help him out of it.

He found a new light shining in the hospital—the light of woman's influence; the light of life to Frank and his friend Atwater, nor to them only, but to all upon whom it shone.

Mrs. Manly remained in the hospital until her son was able to travel, when leave of absence was granted him, and all his friends crowded to bid him farewell, as he departed in the boat with his mother for the north—for home!

Of his journey, of his happy arrival, the greetings from father, sister, little brother, friends—of all this I would gladly write a chapter or two; but he is no longer the Drummer Boy now, and so our business with him is over. And so he left the service? Not he.

"I'm to be a Soldier Boy now!" he declared to all those who came to shake him by the hand and hear his story from his own lips.

His wound was soon healed, and he hastened to return to his regiment; for he was eager to be learning everything belonging to the profession of a soldier. It was not long, however, before he came north again—this time on surprising business. Captain Edney, who had won the rank of Colonel at the battle of Newbern, had been sent home to raise a regiment; and he had been permitted to choose from his own company such persons as he thought best fitted to assist him, and hold commissions under him.

He chose Gray, Seth Tucket, and Frank. Another of our friends afterwards joined the regiment, with the rank of First Lieutenant; having quite recovered from his wound, under the tender nursing of his wife.

With his friends Edney, Gray, Tucket, and Atwater, Frank was as happy as ever a young officer in a new service could be. He began as second lieutenant; but——

But here our story must end; for to relate how he has fought his way up, step by step, to a rank which was never more fairly earned, would require a separate volume,—materials for which we may possibly find some day in his own letters to his mother, and in those of Colonel Edney to his sister Helen.

* * * *

Some extracts from a letter just received from the hero of these pages may perhaps interest the reader.

"I cannot tell you, sir, how much astonished I was on opening the package you sent me. I don't think the mysterious bundle that contained the watch dear old 'Mr. St. John' gave me surprised me half as much. I had never seen any proof-sheets before, and hardly knew what to make of them at first. Then you should have heard me scream at Gray and Atwater. 'Boys,' says I, 'here's a story founded on our adventures!' I sat up all that night reading it, and I must confess I had to blush a good many times before I got through. I see you have not called any of us by our real names; but I soon found out who 'Abe,' and 'Seth,' and 'Jack Winch,' and all the other characters are meant for. I have read ever so many pages to 'Seth' himself, and he has laughed as heartily as any of us over his own oddities. We all wonder how you could have written the story, giving all the circumstances, and even the conversations that took place, so correctly; but I remember, when I was at your house, you kept me talking, and wrote down nearly every thing I said; besides which, I find there was a good deal more in my journal and letters than I supposed, when I consented to let you have them and make what use of them you pleased. Little did I think then, that ever such a book as the 'Drummer Boy' could be made out of them.

"You ask me to point out any important errors I may notice, in order that you may correct them before the book is published. Well, the night the row was in camp, when the 'Blues' cut down the captain's tent, the company was ordered out, and the roll called, and three other fellows put under guard, before Abe and I were let off. I might mention two or three similar mistakes, but I consider them too trifling to speak of. There are, besides, two or three omissions, which struck me in reading the wind-up of the story. 'Jack Winch' went home, and died of a fever within a month. If it isn't too late, I wish you would put that in; for I think it shows that those who think most of saving their lives are sometimes the first to lose them.

"You might add, too, that 'Mr. Egglestone' is now the chaplain of our regiment. We all love him, and he is doing a great deal of good here. I have put the 'Drummer Boy' into his hands, and I just saw him laughing over it. If every body reads it with the interest we do here in camp, it will be a great success.

"There is another thing—but this you need not put into the book. With the money my dear old friend and master left me, I have bought the house our folks live in, so that, whatever happens to me, they will never be without a home....

"In conclusion, let me say that, while you have told some things of me I would rather every body should forget, you have, on the whole, given me a much better character than I deserve.

"We are already beginning to call each other by the names you have given us, and I take great pleasure in subscribing myself,

"Yours, truly,

"FRANK MANLY."



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