A short time before the visit to the farm a dreadful battle had been fought in Virginia, not many miles from the State-line, near which stood the house of Nelly’s grandma.  It so happened that the regiment to which Mr. Grey belonged had participated in the fight, and at the conclusion he found himself badly wounded and a prisoner.  Having been ill previously, the wounded soldier was unable to be marched off with other prisoners, but was left, as all supposed, to die.  The tide of battle rolled on, leaving the field where the fight began strewn with the dying and the dead.  A blazing sun poured its intolerable light and heat upon the upturned faces and defenceless heads of hundreds of suffering, dying men, adding frightful tortures to the pain of their wounds.  When the dews of night came to moisten parched lips, to cool aching brows, Mr. Grey managed to drag himself to a stump near by, and placing his back against it, waited hoping to gain a little more strength.  His mouth was parched and dry, but he had not a drop of water.  Suddenly his eyes fell upon a canteen lying at no great distance, almost within reach of his hand; with infinite pain and trouble he at last possessed himself of it.  It was not quite empty, but just as Mr. Grey was about to drink, he heard a deep groan, and turning, met the imploring eyes of a Federal soldier.  He was but a youth, and had been shot through the body and mortally wounded.  His parched lips refused to speak, only the earnest eyes begged for water.  Mr. Grey at once handed him the canteen, although he felt almost as if he would die for want of the water it contained.  Eagerly the dying boy drank.  It seemed as if he must take all, there was so very little, but after a swallow or two he resolutely handed it back, gasping, “God bless ——.  Left you some.”  When the moon arose, its rays fell upon the dead young face of the boy in his gory blue, whose last words had been a blessing upon the wounded, exhausted soldier in gray sitting beside him.

Later came help,—­old men who, starting when the first news of the battle reached them, had ridden miles guided by the sound of the firing.  Most of them were Marylanders, who had sent forth their sons to battle for the Confederate cause, and who now sought among the dead and dying with dim, anxious eyes for the loved faces they yet prayed not to find.  Among them came farmer Dale, whose son was a Confederate soldier.  Eagerly he examined the faces of those who lay upon the bloody field.  All, however, were strange, until at last he came upon Mr. Grey.  Carefully assisting him to reach an old cabin which stood near, he made the suffering man as comfortable as possible, then, without loss of time, set out to convey the news to Mrs. Grey.  Now, it would seem that the very easiest thing would have been to carry the wounded soldier at once to the house of his wife’s mother to be nursed and cared for, but it must be remembered that the Federal army had been shown