his words, "well done."

This battle-day I worked out of doors from morning until night, seeking
to bring order and beauty out of confusion and decay, striving to have
all things ready when he came. My sleep was sweet that night, and I
awoke with these words in my mind:--

"Lord, in the morning Thou shall hear
My voice ascending high."

The sun streamed in through the eastern window, and all the hills beyond
were bathed in glory; the earth was fair to look upon, and happiness,
descending from the skies, nestled in my heart.

I planted all this day, covering precious seed, thinking on their summer
beauty; and, as the evening fell, I stood at the garden gate watching
the way he must come for whose coming I longed with a longing that could
not be uttered.

As I looked, idly speculating on his speed, a horseman dashed up in mad
haste, his steed spent and flecked with foam. Men do not ride so hot
with good tidings,--what need to make such haste with evil?

Still, no sense of loss, no shadow of the coming night. Peace covered my
heart, and would not be scared away. Blind infatuation! that could not
see.

"Was it not then a victory?" I cried; for sadness and defeat were
written in his face.

"Nay, not that." The outstretched hand turned white with pity. "But
this--"

Too kind to speak the words, at sight of which I fell, struck by a bolt
that, riving _his_ heart, through leagues of space had travelled
straight to mine.

* * * * *

Months later, when the long night had passed away, and the dawn brought
patience and resignation, one who saw him fall, gloriously, told me the
story. I could bear it then; for in my soul's eclipse I had beheld him
walking on the heavenly hills, and knew that there he was waiting for
me.

He lies buried, at his own request, where he fell, on Southern soil.

O pilgrim to those sacred shrines, if in your wandering ye come upon a
nameless grave, marked by a sunken sword, tread lightly above the
slumbers of my little boy!

LAKE CHAMPLAIN.

Not thoughtless let us enter thy domain;
Well did the tribes of yore,
Who sought the ocean from the distant plain,
Call thee their country's door.[F]

And as the portals of a saintly pile
The wanderer's steps delay,
And, while he musing roams the lofty aisle,
Care's phantoms melt away

In the vast realm where tender memories brood
O'er sacred ha