“Harold, poor Harold, couldn’t come home; they wouldn’t give him a furlough even for a day.  Edward went, the day after the funeral, and enlisted, and Ritchie will go back as soon as his wound heals.  He says that while our men stood crowded together on the river-bank, below the bluff, where they could neither fight nor retreat, and the enemy were pouring their shot into them from the heights, Fred came to him, and grasping his hand said, ’Dear Dick, it’s not likely either of us will come out of this alive; but if you do and I don’t, tell mother and the rest not to grieve; for I know in whom I have believed.’  Remember, dear Rose, this sweet message is for you as well as for us.

Your loving sister,
May Allison.”

Rose, who had been clinging about her husband’s neck and hiding her face on his shoulder, vainly striving to suppress her sobs during the reading, now burst into a fit of hysterical weeping.

“Oh Freddie, Freddie, my little brother! my darling brother, how can I bear to think I shall never, never see you again in this world!  Oh Horace, he was always so bright and sweet, the very sunshine of the house.”

“Yes, dearest, but remember his dying message; think of his perfect happiness now.  He is free from all sin and sorrow, done with the weary marchings and fightings, the hunger and thirst, cold and heat and fatigue of war; no longer in danger from shot or bursting shell, or of lying wounded and suffering on the battle-field, or languishing in hospital or prison.”

“Yes,” she sighed, “I should rather mourn for poor wounded Ritchie, for Harold and Edward, still exposed to the horrors of war.  Oh, when will it end?—­this dreadful, dreadful war!”

All were weeping; for all had known and loved the bright, frank, noble-hearted, genial young man.

But Rose presently became more composed, and Mr. Travilla proceeded with the distribution of the remaining letters.

“From Adelaide, doubtless, and I presume containing the same sad news,” Mr. Dinsmore said, breaking the seal of another black edged epistle, directed to him.  “Yes, and more,” he added, with a groan, as he ran his eye down the page.  “Dick Percival was killed in a skirmish last May; and Enna is a widow.  Poor fellow, I fear he was ill prepared to go.”

Mr. Travilla had taken up a newspaper.  “Here is an account of that Ball’s Bluff affair, which seems to have been very badly managed on the part of the Federals.  Shall I read it aloud?”

“Oh, yes, yes, if you please,” sobbed Rose; “let us know all.”

“Badly managed, indeed,” was Mr. Dinsmore’s comment at the conclusion, “it looks very like the work of treason.”

“And my two dear brothers were part of the dreadful sacrifice,” moaned Rose.

“But oh! how brave, noble, and unselfish they, and many others, showed themselves in that awful hour,” said Elsie amid her sobs and tears.  “Dear mamma, doesn’t that comfort you a little?”