"Close shave, Théophile," assented the Lieutenant. Then there arose above roar of battle the nearby clicking of the musket hammers, followed by the crash of a volley, and the gray line moved forward cautiously through the blinding sulphurous smoke, stumbling over the fallen and the obstructions that blocked the way. "Water! O, for the love of God, a drop of water," groaned a young wounded Union officer, propped against a tree trunk, the blood trickling between the fingers of the hand he pressed to his side. His weak voice was unheard, and the gray line passed by him. Wounded on the "Albert! Albert Lapointe!" gasped the wounded man, as the young officer hurried on. Lapointe heard the voice, and, turning, he bent and gazed at the quivering form. "Jim! Jim Rogers! O, my God, to find you in this plight," and quickly uncorking his canteen he held it to Rogers' lips. "My friend! My brother! What, what can I do to relieve you?" he asked, helplessly. "Nothing, nothing, Al. I'm about done for," moaned Rogers, "O, this pain, this agony !" Backward came the gray line in dogged retreat before the never-flagging blaze of flame in front. The two friends were left between the lines. "Go! Leave me, Al. God bless and protect you, brother. This pain won't last much longer. I'm-I'm dying. O, how cold I am." Lapointe arose, tore open his coat, pulled it off, and tucked it about his friend's body as carefully as would a loving mother around an infant. Bending, he kissed Rogers on the forehead. One last long look through tear-dimmed eyes, and then he crouched low and hurried in the direction of his regiment. When night had fallen, and only the moans of the wounded broke the stillness of the battlefield, a squad of Union soldiers entered the wood and examined the bodies of the dead and dying. "Quiet now, men," cautioned the commanding officer, that hellish battery on the hill yonder dropping shells on us." or you'll have "It must 'a' been about here I saw the lieutenant tumble over, captain. I sot him up agin a tree, an'-here he is, jest as I left him. We're too late, I guess. Seems to me he's a goner." "Here, you men stand about me to shut off the glare, and I'll strike a match," said the captain. "Jove! It is poor Rogers. Poor boy! and a rebel's coat wrapped around him. Good! The heart beats yet. Lift him. Gently now! Throw away that old gray coat." "Can't, captain! He's got the clutch o' death on it." over there to the field hospital. We may be able to save him." "Another of the old boys in blue laid at rest to-day," sighed Colonel Rogers, as he put down the evening paper and gazed around at the family group in the cosy sitting-room. "It is sad to realize that so many of the vigorous fellows with whom one touched shoulders thirty years ago have answered the last roll call, my children." "Whose death caused you the keenest sorrow, papa?" asked the colonel's eldest daughter. "Well, my girl, I was deeply grieved when dear old 'Uncle Billy,' as we called General Sherman, died, but the keenest sorrow I felt was to hear that a boy in gray was no more. "Ah! the death of my old college chum, Albert Lapointe, was a terrible blow. I have often told you about my meeting Lapointe on the battlefield, where I was lying desperately wounded, and how he stripped the coat from his back for my comfort. I never heard anything about him again until Appomattox. Of course, like the rest of the Yankees, I was jubilant over the surrender, but let me tell you, boys and girls, I was full of sympathy for the brave soldiers of the South. There was mourning in many homes in the North, but down in the southland thousands had no homes in which to mourn their dead. Everything-relatives, friends, homes, possessions, prospects-all swept away. "After the preliminaries of the capitulation had been arranged, I hurried to that part of the Confederate camp where Lapointe's regiment was quartered. I found there only a handful of men. I asked an officer to tell me where I could find Lieutenant Lapointe. Oh, for the Touch "In the wilderness, sir,' he answered. 'Lieutenant of a Vanished Hand. Lapointe fell with his face to the foe. I wish to God, sir, that I was lying beside him this day.' "When I heard the fate of my friend, children, I grieved as if I had lost a beloved brother. "If John will bring down the cedar case from my wardrobe, I will show you a hallowed relic, my children." When John, the eldest son, had deposited the case upon the table, the veteran unlocked it, removed the protecting coverings, and took out a worn and weather-stained blue coat, with tarnished buttons. "This, my children, is the coat I donned in '61, when I enlisted. You'll value it when I'm gone. This," he continued, reverently, lifting a shabby coat of gray, while tears glistened in his eyes, "this is the coat that my dear, dead friend, Albert Lapointe, exhibited so proudly to me in the college dormitory; the coat that he stripped from his shoulders to protect me from the cold on the battlefield. "John, my son, it is my wish that you place it beneath my head when I join the bivouac of the dead." THE DESERTER'S STORY. BY LEIB PORTER. T is night, and a dying fire makes dimly visible the interior of a miserable room. Its walls and floor are bare; a bed drawn forward for warmth, a table at its foot, and a low splint-bottomed rocking-chair before the hearth complete its furniture. Outside, the snow is falling fast and the wind moans, while at intervals a dull roar, which shakes the hills with its hollow reverberation, proclaims that darkness has not entirely quieted the sounds of a battle which has been raging not many miles distant. A woman's figure moves upon the bed, restlessly but feebly; she is white and wasted, as if with illness, and it is a task almost beyond her strength to lift and hush the wailing child lying by her side. Presently she rouses herself with a painful effort and staggers to the chair, holding her baby to her breast. Its feeble cries are stilled and soothed by the slow motion of her rocking figure. She shivers as a sudden blast shakes the cabin, and putting forth all her strength, lifts a log of wood upon the fire. The effort seems to exhaust her, and she falls back white and gasping; the infant slides down upon her knees, where it lies sleeping. Presently life seems to return to her a little, and bending forward with her clasped hands resting over the child, she watches the fire-light gleaming on her wedding ring, and words, low and tense, escape her white lips. "All day I have heard the guns; the battle must be near. Oh, God! if Jim is with them spare him to come to me; let me see him once more before I die," and she raised her clasped hands imploringly. "Jim, Jim, I have struggled against it for your sake-for the sake of your parting prayer to me. I have fought it off so long. I promised you not to give up, I promised to live for you, to pray for us both, to believe that God would preserve you to me, that he would let us meet again; but I can struggle no longer; my strength is gone; the shadows are closing over me, and I'm too weak-too weak to" her voice died away in an exhausted whisper. Then, as the child upon her knees stirred slightly, once again she roused herself. "Oh, bring him back to me! let me see him only once again, let me see him hold his child and kiss it, and then let me lay my head on his breast and die, for I cannot bear this torture any longer. It was all too hard, too hard; I tried to be brave for your sake, Jim; I knew it broke your heart to leave me, just one month married and yet to leave me all alone, -it broke your heart, my poor boy, and the thought of you and your last words held me up, they gave me all the strength I've had. I've fought against it for one long year-fought against it until now, and God has not yet brought you back! Poor Jim, when you do come home I won't be here to meet you," and low, tearless sobs shook her frail body. There came another sound beside the noise of the storm outside the cabin, a sound of footsteps, a hand upon the latch-the door was pushed heavily open, letting in a blinding rush of snow and icy air, and in the midst of it a man's figure muffled to the eyes in a cloak. He closed the door and dropped the heavy garment to the floor, then fell on his knees beside the motionless figure in the chair. She had sat as still as stone, with the look in her face of one who sees a spirit of the dead; but at his touch, the blood leaped from her heart to her cheek, and, giving a cry of joy so sharp that it rang on the air like the keen accent of pain, she fell forward on his breast. For many minutes they remained without sound or motion, lost in the rapture of their reunion, and only the raging storm outside broke the deep, midnight stillness. At last he drew away from her and looked into her face, with eyes in which a great fear grew and deepened. Where were the fair and youthful features he had left behind him, where the bloom and brightness? As he gazed he seeined to trace the cold and blighting finger of death in every line. She read the unspoken anguish in his eyes, and tenderly kissing him, said: "Dear Jim, I am very happy. God has been good; he has heard my prayer, he has brought you back to me once more. See, dear, your baby; kiss her, Jim, she has been a comfort to me. I think she will be a pretty child." She broke off and sank back against the chair, exhausted by her effort to cheer him. He bent and kissed the child, then took it from her lap and laid it down. He had no thought beyond the woman; his face was set and hard, his eyes dry and tearless. "Mary," he whispered, coming close to her, " you are ill and weak now, but I will nurse you; health will come back again, you will soon get strong, for my sake, promise me," and he lifted her in his arms, a light burden that made him tremble, and placed her on the bed. She was too weak to speak, but a happy look was on her face and in the eyes turned toward his. He went on, in the wild hope of rousing her: "Shall I tell you how I come to be with you now, dearest? Will you be glad to hear how I have passed this cruel year away from you?" Не paused anxiously, and, encouraged by a faint smile from her, continued: "It is a long, long story of marches and encampments and battles, with sometimes victory and sometimes defeat, with cold and hunger and fatigue and many hardships; but we were soldiers, fighting for our country's good, and we did not complain. The hardest of all to bear was the absence from home and loved ones, without the power to send or get one word of news, and the longing for this almost broke my heart, but we were down within the enemy's lines, and no letter could pass for love or money. I was twice wounded, Mary, and in the hospital, -for two months the first time and still longer with the second wound, but God be thanked ! I came out as strong as ever." He watched her anxiously to see whether this mention of his pain and danger would rouse her to some show of grief, but though she heard him, the look of happiness on her face remained undisturbed. The past had no longer the power to torture her; she was conscious only of her present joy, and of the close approach of a vast, peaceful future, which already seemed to overshadow her. He knew it was so knew it though he crushed back the despair into his heart and went on desperately, with shaking voice : "When I joined my regiment again I heard with such joy, Mary-for it brought me near to you at last-that all our available forces were to be concentrated at L to await the enemy, and to strike what was hoped would be a final blow. We came at sunset, after a severe march, and met other bodies of troops that had already arrived. There happened to be among the soldiers a boy, just recruited, whom I knew-Tom Harkness, from our own town, Mary, and he told me all the home news, of the women's suffering and struggles; and he told me of you, my darling, and of our child, and that you were not quite well; in fact, had been ailing for some time, with a cough which grew worse, and that it was thought you were pining for a sight of me. man. "What he said just seemed to take away my senses-I was like a crazy I could not sleep or eat, or even think of anything but you. To be so near, just six short miles away, and yet not see you, and you not well and longing too to see me, and to think how we had been parted ever since our wedding day most, without a word or line to break the long, weary timeoh, God! these thoughts drove me mad, and I made up my mind to do a |