hat bitter cold. Through the long, desolate hours the
pitiful cries of the wounded men rang through the black, freezing night,
and few hands stirred to save them. A great army was fighting to save
its flags and guns and reach the shelter beyond the river.

Amid the few flickering lanterns could be heard the greetings of friends
in subdued tones as they clasped hands:

"Is that you, old boy?"

"God bless you--yes--I'm glad to see you!"

A dying man in blue was pitifully calling for water somewhere, in the
darkness in front of Ned Vaughan's ditch. He took his canteen, got a
lantern and went to find him. It might be John. If not, no matter, he
was some other fellow's brother.

As the light fell on his drawn face Ned murmured:

"Thank God!"

He pressed the canteen to his lips and held his head in his lap. It was
only too plain from the steel look out of the eyes that his minutes were
numbered. He moved and turned his dying face up to Ned:

"Why is it you always whip us, Johnny?"

He paused for breath:

"I wonder--every battle I've been in we've been defeated--why--why--why,
O God, why----"

His head drooped and he was still.

Ned wondered if some waiting loved one on the shores of eternity had
given him the answer. He wrapped him tenderly in his blanket and left
him at rest at last.

As he turned toward his lines the unmistakable wail of a baby came
faintly through the darkness--a wee voice, the half smothered cry
sounding as if it were nestling in a mother's arms. He followed the
sound until his lantern flashed in the wild eyes of a young woman who
had fled from her home in terror during the battle and was hugging her
baby frantically in her arms.

Ned led her gently to an officer's quarters and made her comfortable.

The glory of war was fast fading from his imagination. A grim spectre
was slowly taking its place.

John's shattered regiment lay down on the field with the rear guard at
four o'clock to snatch an hour's sleep, their heads pillowed on the
bodies of the dead. The cold moderated and a light mantle of snow fell
softly just before day and covered the field, the living and the dead.
When the reveille sounded at dawn, the bugler looked with awe at the
thousands of white shrouded figures and wondered which would stir at his
note. The living slowly rose as from the dead and shook their white
shrouds. Thousands lay still, cold and immovable to await the
archangel's mightier call at the last.

Be