it square to-day. Let um lave it to his brigade."

Adjutant Wallis, who had been blubbering aloud, who had cursed the
rebels and the luck energetically, and who had also been trying to pray
inwardly, groaned out, "This is our last victory. You see if it ain't.
Bet you, two to one."

"Hush, man!" replied Gahogan. "We'll win our share of urn, though we'll
have to work harder for it. We'll have to do more ourselves, an' get
less done for us in the way of tactics."

"That's so, Major," whimpered a drummer, looking up from his duty of
attending to a wounded comrade. "He knowed how to put his men in the
right place, and his men knowed when they was in the right place. But
it's goin' to be uphill through the steepest part of hell the rest of
the way."

Soldiers, some of them weeping, some of them bleeding, arrived
constantly to inquire after their commander, only to be sent quietly
back to their ranks or to the rear. Around lay other men--dead men, and
senseless, groaning men--all for the present unnoticed. Everything,
except the distant pursuit of the cavalry, waited for Waldron to die.
Fitz Hugh looked on silently with the tears of mingled emotions in his
eyes, and with hopes and hatreds expiring in his heart. The surgeon
supported the expiring victor's head, while Chaplain Colquhoun knelt
beside him, holding his hand and praying audibly. Of a sudden the
petition ceased, both bent hastily toward the wounded man, and after
what seemed a long time exchanged whispers. Then the Chaplain rose,
came slowly toward the now advancing group of officers, his hands
outspread toward heaven in an attitude of benediction, and tears
running down his haggard white face.

"I trust, dear friends," he said, in a tremulous voice, "that all is
well with our brother and commander. His last words were, 'God is with
us.'"

"Oh! but, man, _that_ isn't well," broke out Gahogan, in a groan. "What
did ye pray for his soul for? Why didn't ye pray for his loife?"

Fitz Hugh turned his horse and rode silently away. The next day he was
seen journeying rearward by the side of an ambulance, within which lay
what seemed a strangely delicate boy, insensible, and, one would say,
mortally ill.

WHO WAS SHE?
-------------
BY BAYARD TAYLOR

_James Bayard Taylor (born at Kennett Square, Pa., in 1825; died in
1878) was probably in his day the best American example of the
all-round literary craftsman. He was poet, novelist, journalist, writer
of