that
sculptured, placid face? Is it life, or is it death? It's neither life
nor death, but sleep, that dim gulf between.

Mr. Egglestone, who has been much about the hospital from the first,
enters with a radiant look, and steps lightly to Frank's side.

The drummer boy's eyes unclose, and smile their welcome.

"Better, still better, I am glad to see!" says the minister, cheerily.

"Almost well," answered Frank, although so weak that he can hardly speak.
"I shall be out again in a day or two. The fever has quite left me; and I
was having such a beautiful dream. I thought I was a water-lily, floating
on a lake; and the lake, they told me, was _sleep_; and I felt all
whiteness and peace! Wasn't it pretty?"

"Pretty, and true too!" said the minister, with a suffusing tear, as he
looked at the pale, gentle boy, and thought how much like a white
fragrant lily he was. "I have news for you, Frank. The steamer has
arrived."

"O! and letters?"

"Probably, though I have none yet. But something besides letters!"--Mr.
Egglestone whispered confidentially, "Atwater's wife is here!"

"Is she? Brave girl!--O, dear!" said Frank, his features changing
suddenly, "why didn't my mother come too! She might, I think! It seems as
if I couldn't wait, as if I couldn't live, till I see her!"

"Well, Frank," then said the minister, having thus prepared him, "your
mother did think--your mother is here!"

At the moment, Mrs. Manly, who could be no longer restrained, flew to the
bedside of her son. He started up with a wild cry; she caught him in her
arms; they clung and kissed and cried together.

"Mother! mother!" "My child! my darling child!" were the only words that
could be heard in that smothering embrace.

Mr. Egglestone turned, and took the hand of her companion, who had
entered with her, and led her to the cot where lay the still figure and
placid, sculptured face. O woman, be strong! O wife, be calm! keep back
the tears, stifle the anguish, of that heaving breast.

She is strong, she is calm, tears and anguish are repressed. She bends
over the scarcely breathing form, gazes into the utterly pallid face, and
with clasped hands in silence blesses him, prays for him--her husband.

For this is he--Abe Atwater, the shadow of death he foresaw still
darkening the portal of his body, as if hesitating to enter, nor yet
willing to pass by. And the face in the coffin outside there is the face
of the old drummer, whose soul, let us hope