hat he said in his note that for the good of
Virginia and the South he could wish that he were lying here in your
place--"

The soldier on the bed smiled a little and shook his head. "Better ten
Jacksons should lie here than one Lee."

It was sunny weather, fair and sweet with all the bloom of May, the
bright trees waving, the long grass rippling, waters flowing, the sky
azure, bees about the flowers, the birds singing piercingly sweet,
mother earth so beautiful, the sky down-bending, the light of the sun so
gracious, warm, and vital!

A little before noon, kneeling beside him, his wife told Stonewall
Jackson that he would die. He smiled and laid his hand upon her bowed
head. "You are frightened, my child! Death is not so near. I may yet get
well."

The doctor came to him. "Doctor, Anna tells me that I am to die to-day.
Is it so?"

"Oh, general, general!--It is so."

He lay silent a moment, then he said, "Very good, very good! It is all
right."

Throughout the day his mind was now clouded, now clear. In one of the
latter times he said there was something he was trying to remember.
There followed a half-hour of broken sleep and wandering, in the course
of which he twice spoke a name, "Deaderick." Once he said "Horse
Artillery," and once "White Oak Swamp."

The alternate clear moments and the lapses into stupour or delirium were
like the sinking or rising of a strong swimmer, exhausted at last, the
prey at last of a shoreless sea. At times he came head and shoulders out
of the sea. In such a moment he opened his grey-blue eyes full on one of
his staff. All the staff was gathered in grief about the bed. "When
Richard Cleave," he said, "asks for a court of enquiry let him have it.
Tell General Lee--" The sea drew him under again.

It hardly let him go any more; moment by moment now, it wore out the
strong swimmer. The day drew on to afternoon. He lay straight upon the
bed, silent for the most part, but now and then wandering a little. His
wife bowed herself beside him; in a corner wept the old man, Jim.
Outside the windows there seemed a hush as of death.

"Pass the infantry to the front!" ordered Stonewall Jackson. "Tell A. P.
Hill to prepare for action!" The voice sank; there came a long silence;
there was only heard the old man crying in the corner. Then, for the
last time in this phase of being, the great soldier opened his eyes. In
a moment he spoke, in a very sweet and calm voice. "Let us cross over
the