s on the heights, filled the blue
morning sky with belching scarlet flame and smoke: through all, however,
the long train of army-wagons passed over the pontoon-bridge, bearing the
wounded. About six o'clock some men came out from the camp-hospital.
Doctor Blecker stood on the outside of the door: all night he had been
there, like some lean, unquiet ghost. Story, the surgeon, met the men.
They carried something on a board, covered with an old patchwork quilt.
Story lifted the corner of the quilt to see what lay beneath. Doctor
Blecker stood in their way, but neither moved nor spoke to them.

"Take it to the trenches," said the surgeon, shortly nodding to
them.--"Your Rebel friend, Blecker."

"Dead?"

"Yes."

"Story, I did what I could?"

"Of course. Past help.--When are we to be taken out of this trap,
eh?"--going on.

"I did what I could."

As the Doctor's parched lips moved, he looked up. How deep the blue was!
how the cold air blew his hair about, fresh and boisterous! He went down
the field with a light, springing step, as he used, when a boy, long ago,
to run to the hay-field. The earth was so full of health, life, beauty, he
could have cried or laughed out loud. He stopped on the bridge, seeing
only the bright, rushing clouds, the broad river, the sunlight,--a little
way from him in the world, little Grey.

"I thank Thee," baring his head and bending it,--the words died in an
awestruck whisper in his heart,--"for _Thy_ great glory, O Lord!"

* * * * *

"Will you come a little farther? Let a few months slip by, and let us see
what a March day is in the old Pennsylvania hills. The horrors of the war
have not crept hither yet, into these hill-homesteads. Never were crops
richer than those of '61 and '62, nor prices better. So the barns were
full to bursting through the autumn of those years, and the fires were big
enough to warm you to your very marrow in winter.

Even now, if young Corporal Simpson, or Joe Hainer, or any other of the
neighbors' boys come home wounded, it only spices the gossip for the
apple-butter-parings or spelling-matches. Then the men, being Democrats,
are reconciled to the ruin of the country, because it has been done by the
Republicans; and the women can construct secret hiding-places in the
meat-cellar for the dozen silver teaspoons and tea-pot, in dread of
Stuart's cavalry. Altogether, the war gives quite a zest to life up here.
Then, in these low