and he asked the doctor:

"Can I survive the night?"

"No, General. The end is near."

He was silent. And then slowly said:

"I am resigned if it be God's will.
But--I--would--like--to--see--my--wife--"

The beautiful voice sank into eternal silence.

So passed the greatest cavalry leader our country has produced. A man
whose joyous life was a long wish of good will toward all of his fellow
men.

The little mother heard the news as she rode in hot haste over the rough
roads to Richmond. The hideous thing was beyond belief, but it had come.
She had heard the roar of battle for three years and after each bloody
day he had come with a smile on his lips and a stronger love in his
brave heart. She had ceased to fear his death in battle. God had
promised her in prayer to spare him. Only once had a bullet cut his
clothes.

And now he was dead.

But yesterday he dashed across the country from his line of march, and,
even while the conflict raged, held her in his arms and crooned over
her.

The tears had flowed for two hours before she reached the house of
death. She could weep no longer.

A sister's arm encircled her waist and led her unseeing eyes into the
room. There was no wild outburst of grief at the sight of his cold body.

She stooped to kiss the loved lips, placed her hand on the high forehead
and drew back at its chill. She stood in dumb anguish until her sister
in alarm said:

"Come, dear, to my room."

The set, blue eyes never moved from the face of her dead.

"It's wrong. It's wrong. It's all wrong--this hideous murder of our
loved ones! Why must they send my husband to kill my father? Why must
they send my father to kill the father of my babies? Why didn't they
stop this a year ago? It must end some time. Why did they ever begin it?
Why must brother kill his brother? My father, thank God, didn't kill
him. But little Phil Sheridan, his schoolmate, did. And he never spoke
an unkind word about him in his life! His heart was overflowing with joy
and love. He sang when he rode into battle--"

She paused and a tear stole down her cheeks at last.

"Poor boy, he loved its wild din and roar. It was play to his daring
spirit."

A sob caught her voice and then it rose in fierce rebellion:

"Where was God when he fell? He was thirty-one years old, in the glory
of a beautiful life--"

Her sister spoke in gentle sympathy.

"His fame fills the world, dear."

"Fame? Fame? What is that to me, now? I s