An Echo of Antietam | Page 8

stubborn ones,
with scanty laurels for the victors, to be expected when men of one race

meet in battle. The losses on both sides had been enormous, and the
report was confirmed that Philip's division had been badly cut up.
The parsonage was but one of thousands of homes in the land where no
lamps were lighted that evening, the members of the household sitting
together in the dark,--silent, or talking in low tones of the far-away
star-lighted battlefield, the anguish of the wounded, the still heaps of
the dead.
Nevertheless, when at last Grace went home she was less entirely
despairing than in the afternoon. Mr. Morton, in his calm, convincing
way, had shown her the groundlessness of her impression that Philip
was certainly dead, and had enabled her again to entertain hope. It no
longer rose, indeed, to the height of a belief that he had escaped wholly
scathless. In face of the terrible tidings, that would have been too
presumptuous. But perhaps he had been only wounded. Yesterday the
thought would have been insupportable, but now she was eager to make
this compromise with Providence. She was distinctly affected by the
curious superstition that if we voluntarily concede something to fate,
while yet the facts are not known, we gain a sort of equitable assurance
against a worse thing. It was settled, she told herself, that she was not
to be overcome or even surprised to hear that Philip was
wounded,--slightly wounded. She was no better than other women, that
he should be wholly spared.
The paper next morning gave many names of officers who had fallen,
but Philip's was not among them. The list was confessedly incomplete;
nevertheless, the absence of his name was reassuring. Grace went
across the garden after breakfast to talk with Miss Morton about the
news and the auspicious lack of news. Her friend's cheerful tone
infused her with fresh courage. To one who has despaired, a very little
hope goes to the head Eke wine to the brain of a faster, and, though still
very tremulous, Grace could even smile a little now and was almost
cheerful. Secretly already she was beginning to play false with fate, and,
in flat repudiation of her last night's compact, to indulge the hope that
her soldier had not been even wounded. But this was only at the bottom
of her heart. She did not own to herself that she really did it. She felt a

little safer not to break the bargain yet.
About eleven o'clock in the forenoon Mr. Morton came in. His start and
look of dismay on seeing Grace indicated that he had expected to find
his sister alone. He hastily attempted to conceal an open telegram
which he held in his hand, but it was too late. Grace had already seen it,
and whatever the tidings it might contain, there was no longer any
question of holding them back or extenuating them. Miss Morton, after
one look at her brother's face, silently came to the girl's side and put her
arms around her waist. "Christ, our Saviour," she murmured, "for thy
name's sake, help her now." Then the minister said:--
"Try to be brave, try to bear it worthily of him; for, my poor little girl,
your sacrifice has been accepted. He fell in a charge at the head of his
men."

V
Philip's body was brought home for burial, and the funeral was a great
event in the village. Business of all kinds was suspended, and all the
people united in making of the day a solemn patriotic festival. Mr.
Morton preached the funeral sermon.
"Oh, talk about the country," sobbed Grace, when he asked her if there
was anything in particular she would like him to speak of.
"For pity's sake don't let me feel sorry now that I gave him up for the
Union. Don't leave me now to think it would have been better if I had
not let him go."
So he preached of the country, as ministers sometimes did preach in
those days, making it very plain that in a righteous cause men did well
to die for their native land and their women did well to give them up.
Expounding the lofty wisdom of self-sacrifice, he showed how truly it
was said that "whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever
will lose his life... shall find it," and how none make such rich profit out
of their lives as the heroes who seem to throw them away.

They had come, he told the assembled people, to mourn no
misadventure, no misfortune; this dead soldier was not pitiable. He was
no victim of a tear-compelling fate. No broken shaft typified his career.
He was rather one who had done well for himself, a