does, He has helped me to live for my children, my poor fatherless little ones," Sophie said, amid her choking sobs.
"We must go back to father and Harold," Adelaide said presently. "They are in the parlor, where we left them very unceremoniously."
"And Harold, I know, is longing for a chat with Elsie," Sophie said.
They found the gentlemen patiently awaiting their return. Elsie seated herself near Harold, who, somewhat recovered from his fatigue, was now able to take part in the conversation.
"You were shocked by my changed appearance?" he said, in an undertone, as their eyes met and hers filled again. "Don't mind it, I was never before so happy as now; my peace is like a river—calm, deep, and ever increasing as it nears the ocean of eternity. I'm going home!" And his smile was both bright and sweet.
"Oh, would you not live—for your mother's sake? and to work for your Master?"
"Gladly, if it were His will; but I hear Him saying to me, 'Come up hither'; and it is a joyful summons."
"Harold, when——" her voice faltered, but with an effort she completed her sentence—"when did this begin?"
"At Andersonville; I was in perfect health when I entered the army," he answered quickly, divining the fear that prompted the question; "but bad air, foul water, wretched and insufficient food, rapidly and completely undermined my constitution. Yet it is sweet to die for one's country! I do not grudge the price I pay to secure her liberties."
Elsie's eyes sparkled through her tears. "True patriotism still lives!" she said. "Harold, I am proud of you and your brothers. Of dear Walter, too; for his heart was right, however mistaken his head may have been."
"Walter? oh, yes, and I——"
But the sentence was interrupted by the entrance of his mother and sisters, May and Daisy, Mr. Dinsmore, and his son and daughter. Fresh greetings, of course, had to be exchanged all round, and were scarcely finished when Mr. Travilla came in with his three children.
Elsie called them to her, and presented them to Harold with all a mother's fond pride in her darlings.
"I have taught them to call you Uncle Harold. Do you object?"
"Object? far from it; I am proud to claim them as my nephew and nieces."
He gazed with tender admiration upon each dear little face; then, drawing the eldest to him and putting an arm about her, said, "She is just what you must have been at her age, Elsie; a little younger than when you first came to Elmgrove. And she bears your name?"
"Yes; her papa and mine would hear of no other for her."
"I like to have mamma's name," said the child, in a pretty, modest way, looking up into his face. "Grandpa and papa call mamma Elsie, and me wee Elsie and little Elsie, and sometimes daughter. Grandpa calls mamma daughter too, but papa calls her wife. Mamma, has Uncle Harold seen baby?"
"My namesake! ah, I should like to see him."
"There is mammy on the porch now, with him in her arms," cried the child.
"Go, and tell her to bring him here, daughter," Elsie said; and the little girl hastened to obey.
It was a very fine babe, and Harold looked at it with interest.
"I am proud of my name-child," he said, turning to the mother with a gratified smile. "You and Mr. Travilla were very kind to remember me."
The latter, who had been engaged in the exchange of salutations with the others, hearing his name, now came up and took the hand of the invalid in his. He was much moved by the sad alteration in the young man, who, when last seen by him, was in high health and spirits—the full flush of early manhood's prime.
Taking a seat by his side, he inquired with kindly interest how he was, who was his physician, and if there had been any improvement in the case of late.
"Thank you, no; rather the reverse," Harold said, in answer to the last inquiry. "I am weaker than when I left the hospital."
"Ah, that is discouraging; still, we will hope the disease may yet take a favorable turn."
"That is what my parents say," he answered, with a grave, sweet smile; "and though I have little hope, I know that nothing is too hard for the Lord, and am more than willing to leave it in His hands."
"Uncle Harold," said Elsie, coming to the side of his chair and looking up into his face with eyes full of tender sympathy, "I'm so, so sorry for you. I'll ask Jesus to please make you well, or else take you soon to the happy land where you'll never have any more pain."
"Thank you, darling," he said, bending down to kiss the sweet lips. "I know the dear Saviour will listen to your prayer."
"You used to play with my mamma when you were a little boy like me; didn't you, uncle Harold?" queried Eddie, coming up close on the other side.
"Not quite so small, my man," Harold answered, laying his hand gently on the child's head. "Your mamma was about the size of your Aunt Rosie, yonder, and I some three or four years older."
"We've been down to the brook where you played together—you and mamma and Aunt Sophie," said Elsie. "Papa took us, and I think it's a lovely place to play."
"Sophie and I have talked over those dear old times more than once, of late," Harold remarked, turning to Mrs. Travilla. "It does not seem so very long ago, and yet—how many changes! how we are changed! Well, Rosie, what is it?" for she was standing by his chair, waiting with eager face till he should be ready to attend to her.
"Uncle Harold, do you feel able to tell us the story about your being a prisoner, and how you got free, and back to the Union army?" she asked, with persuasive look and tone. "Papa and mamma, and all of us that haven't heard it, would like so much to hear it, if it won't tire you to talk so long."
"It is not a long story; and as my lungs are sound, I do not think it will fatigue me, if you will all come near enough to hear me in my ordinary tone of voice."
They drew around him, protesting against his making the effort, unless fully equal to it; as another time would do quite as well.
"Thank you all," he said; "but I feel able for the task, and shall enjoy gratifying my nieces and nephews, as well as the older people."
He then proceeded with his narrative; all listening with deep interest.
Among other incidents connected with his prison life, he told of his interview with Jackson, and the poor wretch's death that same night.
Elsie shuddered and turned pale, yet breathed a sigh of relief as she laid her hand in that of her husband, and turned a loving, grateful look upon her father, to meet his eyes fixed upon her with an expression of deep thankfulness, mingled with the sadness and awe inspired by the news of the miscreant's terrible end.
Harold spent the day at his brother's, and availed himself of an opportunity, which offered that afternoon, to have a little private talk with Elsie, in which he delivered Walter's packet, telling her how it came into his hands.
"Dear, dear Walter," she said, weeping, "I have so wanted to know the particulars of his death, and am so thankful to hear that he was a Christian."
"His friend told me he was instantly killed, so was spared much suffering."
"I am thankful for that. I will open this now; you will like to see the contents."
They were a letter from Walter to her, and two photographs—both excellent and striking likenesses; one of her in her bridal robes, the other of himself in his military dress.
The first Elsie threw carelessly aside, as of little worth; the other she held long in her hands; gazing intently upon it, again and again wiping away the fast-falling tears.
"It is his own noble, handsome face," she murmured. "Oh, to think I shall not see it again in this world! How good of him to hive it taken for me!" and again she gazed and wept.
Turning to her companion she was startled by