Part 92 (2/2)

”Mrs. Davis' beautiful boy--impossible!”

”He climbed over the bannisters and fell to the brick pavement and died a few minutes after his mother reached his side--”

The girl could make no answer. She had come on a sudden impulse to cheer the lonely leader of her people. Perhaps his need in this dark hour had called her. She thought of Socola's story of his mother's vision and wondered with a sudden pang of self-pity where the man she loved was to-night.

This beautiful child, named in honor of his favorite brother, was the greatest joy of the badgered soul of the Confederate leader.

Suddenly his white face appeared at the head of the stairs. A courier had come from the battlefield with an important dispatch. Grant and Lee were locked in their death grapple in the Wilderness. He would try even in this solemn hour to do his whole duty.

He pa.s.sed the sympathetic group murmuring a sentence whose pathos brought the tears again to Jennie's eyes.

”Not my will, O Lord, but thine--thine--thine!”

He took the dispatch from the courier's hand and held it open for some time, staring at it with fixed gaze.

He searched the courier's face and asked pathetically:

”Will you tell me, my friend, what is in it--I--I--cannot read--”

The courier read the message in low tones. A great battle was joined.

The fate of a nation hung on its issue. The stricken man drew from his pocket a tiny gold pencil and tried to write an answer--stopped suddenly and pressed his hand on his heart.

Billy sprang to his side and seized the dispatch:

”I'll take the message to General Cooper--Mr. President--”

The white face turned to the young soldier and looked at him pitifully:

”Thank you, my son--thank you--it is best--I must have this hour with our little boy--leave me with my dead!”

Jennie stayed to help the stricken home.

She took little Jeff in her arms to rock him to sleep. He drew her head down and whispered:

”Miss Jennie, I got to Joe first after he fell. I knelt down beside him and said all the prayers I know--but G.o.d wouldn't wake him!”

The girl drew the child close and kissed the reddened eyes. Over her head beat the steady tramp of the father's feet, back and forth, back and forth, a wounded lion in his cage. The windows and doors were still wide open, the curtains waving wan and ghost-like from their hangings.

Two days later she followed the funeral procession to the cemetery--thousands of children, each child with a green bough or bunch of flowers to pile on the red mound.

A beautiful girl pushed her way to Jennie's side and lifted a handful of snowdrops.

”Please put these on little Joe,” she said wistfully. ”I knew him so well.”

With a sob the child turned and fled. Jennie never learned her name.

<script>