Winchester journal. [volume] (Winchester, Indiana) 1862-1863, 1863-10-09

er's manner which checked the
noisy demonstrations with which
they were wont to greet him, and
they only gave him a few silent
kisses as he sat down in the great
chair by the west window. He
buried his face in his hands for
awhile. and then he lifted it and
looked around on the little group
of his beloved ones. Three boys
and two girls, and his wife, their
mother, looked, in spite of care,
as fair, almost as young, as on the
day he brought her home. his new
made bride. His chest heaved
with long and bitter sigh--a sort
of sob of despair, rather--and then
he said. as if he feared even she,
his other self, might misunderstood
him.
"God knows, it is not for my
own sake, Mary! | do not think |
am afraid to die. | would go with
more than willingness-with joy
if | had not so much to leave. II
| fall, what will necome of you and
the children? | cannot bear to think
Of what you might suffer, with no
one to stand between you and the
cares and sorrows of the world.
Mary, this drafting indscriminately
does not seem to be just. Surely
the single men ought to 90 first
His wife stole her little hand into
his very gently.
"Do not think of u.s." she said,
with true woman's self-forgetful
ness, sits not that. We should do
we'll enough. You need not fear
that we should come to want. But
O, John!-"
And here she broke down utterly
and cried out, with a burst OF pas
sionate tears:
"No, | cannot bear it, You will
die! | shall never, never see yon
again! If could know that you
would come back, even were it
manned AID helpless | would not
purmur; but to think that you
might die there, and / could not
help you that your eyes would
seek mine, and | not there %,
John, | shall go mad with hopeless
horrorn'
1t was his turn to be comforter
now. As he drew her to the shell
Ter OF his arms. he resrs her poor
head on his breast; he whispered
tenderly:
"AlI VINO fight do not die, Mary.
God watches over US there as well
as here. Some women's husbands
must 20, poor children Something
may happen yet that | shall not
have TO go"
lie knew, however, no solitary
chance under the WIDE heavens by
which he could escape. The words
with him were but the vagueSt ut
terancc of soothing: but she caught
at them eagerly.
"You could procure substitute,
perhaps; is that what YOU nean?'
II would it could, he answer
ed evasively. remembering in his
own mind the difficulty that richer
men than he had experienced in
procuring them in those quiet, thin
ly populated, agricultural towns.
81 am very tired, Mary, can you
give me some tea?'
Chcered little by her new hope,
and anxious, above all. to cheer
him and make him comfortable,
the wife got up and went into the
kitchen. The biscuits for supper
were already made. and in few
moments tea was upon the table
John Morgan drank cup after cup
OF it, with an eager, teverish thirst;
but eating with him was mere fcint.
When the meal was over the child
rem were put to bed, all but the two
oldest girls. They stole out to the
open door, and sat down in the
September moonlight, their arms
around each other, feeling with
sort of dumb pain, that shadow
which they could not resist had
come upon their household. Their
mother, meantime, had lighted her
lamp and taken her work-a child's
trock which she was finishing--to
the little round stand she would
not let this evening seem more un-
like other evenings than she could
help.
Soon there came a footstep upon
the gravel walk, this time a quick,
firm tread. The girls in the door
made way for the new conner TO en-
ter, and he came in and stood silent
" for a moment in the centre of the
little sitting room.
| He was a slender, elegantly
moulded man. You could see at
glance tina; the fibre of his manhood
had never yet been tested by any
rough struggle with fate. Yet one
would not have doubted his untried
courage. 1t shone in his steady blue