How he talked and laughed, making light of danger, and, growing serious, said the fight had but begun,--the business of the nation must, for years, be war,--and that his strength and manhood, nay, his life if need be, should be given to his country. Then his words made me brave, and his looks made me proud. I blessed him with unfaltering lips; and above the hills of promise, which my little boy and I saw looking from our orient window, rose higher yet the mountains of truth, with the straight path of duty leading to the skies. But when he was gone again,--gone,--there fell a shadow of the coming night, and the evening and the morning were the second day.
His frequent letters dissipated the sense of danger, and brought me great comfort. War is not a literary art, and letters from the "imminent deadly breach," made it seem less deadly. His self-abnegation filled me with wonder. "It is well that few should be lost, that many may be saved," he wrote. In what school had this tender youth learned heroism, I asked myself, as I read his noble words and trembled at his courage.
My dreams and my gaze turned southward. No eastern beams lured me to that lookout so long endeared; for the eyes through which I once gazed looked through the smoke of battle, and hope and faith had fled with him, and left me but suspense.
Now came hot work. The enemy pressed sorely, and men's--ay, and women's--souls were tried. Long days of silence passed, days of sickening doubt, and then came the news of _victory_,--victory bought with precious blood and heavy loss. Over the ghastly hospital lists I hung, fearing and dreading to meet the name of my little boy, taking hope, as the list shortened, from the despair of others, _and no mention_. Thank God, who giveth _us_ the victory!
And later, when details come in, I see in "official report" my little boy's name mentioned for meritorious and gallant conduct, and recommended for promotion. Ah! the groans of the dying are lost in the shouts of the victor; and, forgetting the evil because of this good, a woman's heart cried, _Laus Deo_!
After the battle, hardly fought and dearly purchased, my hero came home on furlough. War had developed him faster than the daily kisses of love had done; for my little boy--crowned with immortal youth for me--for all the world came from this rude embrace a man in stature and wisdom, a hero in valor and endurance, a leader beloved and revered.