n hour to ask the favor," said the soldier. "There are so
many things--my histories and all--give me an hour that I may decide
what I shall ask."

And as Death tarried, the soldier communed with himself. Before he
closed his eyes forever, what boon should he ask of Death? And the
soldier's thoughts sped back over the years, and his whole life came to
him like a lightning flash--the companionship and smiles of kings, the
glories of government and political power, the honors of peace, the
joys of conquest, the din of battle, the sweets of a quiet home life
upon a western prairie, the gentle devotion of a wife, the clamor of
noisy boys, and the face of a little girl--ah, there his thoughts
lingered and clung.

"Time to complete our work--our books--our histories," counselled
Ambition. "Ask Death for time to do this last and crowning act of our
great life."

But the soldier's ears were deaf to the cries of Ambition; they heard
another voice--the voice of the soldier's heart--and the voice
whispered: "Nellie--Nellie--Nellie." That was all--no other words but
those, and the soldier struggled to his feet and stretched forth his
hands and called to Death; and, hearing him calling, Death came and
stood before him.

"I have made my choice," said the soldier.

"The books?" asked Death, with a scornful smile.

"No, not them," said the soldier, "but my little girl--my Nellie! Give
me a lease of life till I have held her in these arms, and then come
for me and I will go!"

Then Death's hideous aspect was changed; his stern features relaxed and
a look of pity came upon them. And Death said, "It shall be so," and
saying this he went his way.

Now the soldier's child was far away--many, many leagues from where the
soldier lived, beyond a broad, tempestuous ocean. She was not, as you
might suppose, a little child, although the soldier spoke of her as
such. She was a wife and a mother; yet even in her womanhood she was
to the soldier's heart the same little girl the soldier had held upon
his knee many and many a time while his rough hands weaved prairie
flowers in her soft, fair curls. And the soldier called her Nellie
now, just as he did then, when she sat on his knee and prattled of her
dolls. This is the way of the human heart.

It having been noised about that the soldier was dying and that Nellie
had been sent for across the sea, all the people vied with each other
in soothing the last moments of the famous man