On one chubby hand she left her last kiss, as she whispered: "Good-by; may we meet where parting is not and tears are wiped away by the hand of God." Then, looking the farewells she could no longer speak, "Mid the dying rays of the setting sun,” she passed from earth to commence an eternal day of rest. Ah, Death! does it never weep over its own ruthless workdarkened homes, desolate hearts and orphaned ones? Three days later folds of satin-gift of her husband for a festive eve-rested around the form of Edith Fletcher in her narrow casket, while flowers, whose native tints stole in unfading beauty through their transparent covering, were woven with the rich knots of her own luxuriant hair. When the last rites of love were ended, the wife and mother was carried from her home to return no more to the hearts she had gladdened with her love. For many days Wallace Fletcher refused to leave his room. But the prattle of his boy and words of many friends prevailed and drew him from his seclusion to mingle again with the bustling world. Annie took the vacant place in the household but not in the heart of the husband. For the sake of those around her, and especially the little one, yet too young to know his loss, she sought to wear a smiling face. But hers was a living heart, whose deep well of affection was, as Thackeray says, "like the lithographer's stone, what was once written upon it could never be rubbed out." Only the stilly hours and the Eye that never sleeps were cognizant of her bitter anguish. Weeks after Edith had rested from earthly care, on a night of unusual storm and tempest, the overwrought nerves of the loving girl assumed an ascendancy beyond her control, and, leaving her bed, she went, not to the darkened tomb, but to the couch of the motherless child, that she might weep there. Like a panorama the past flitted before her. She saw again the faltering step of the invalid; every look, every movement of the lost one passed rapidly before her agonized vision. The silent room, within whose curtained walls the last farewell was breathed on that dreadful, dreadful night. She knew not why, but here the voice of the tempest seemed to lull its fury and whisper in Edith's soothing voice "There is no night there." Annie stretched out her hand to clasp what seemed so real. "Edith, Edith!" she said, "no sorrow there, but ours is the night of despair. Do you not pity us, and would you not come to us, even from the Father's house of many mansions?" Once more did the wild tempest speak in softened tones— "I shall be satisfied." As the fountains of her tears were dried, Annie repeated: "Satisfied-satisfied-to leave the perishable draperies of earth and, clad in the spotless robes of immortality, advance in progress and knowledge bordering on the Infinite, and, darling, shall we know you there?" Then, with a heart no longer restless, Annie lay down by the sleeping Charlie and slept more peacefully than for many weary nights. CHAPTER XIX. Turn back the dial! I would again Live this life o'er with its sorrows and pain; THE fair-haired boy to whom the mother's last anxious thoughts were given, was alternately grieved and angry at a loss he could not comprehend. But, when he found in Annie the thoughtful guardian, the pleasing teacher and ready playmate, he ceased to regret the past in the enjoyment of the present. When more than two years had passed, and she told him of another home and other friends from whom she had been long away and for whose sake she must leave him, at least for a few months, his large eyes filled with tears and he remembered again the kiss of his babyhood and the soft hand of his mother. "Who is to be my mamma when you are away?" he asked, "and who stay with me? I can't stay all alone." "No, darling, some nice lady will come here and take good care of our Charlie, and he must love her." "I don't want to love her," and the pouting lip and flashing eye verified his word. "Why can't I go with you?" he asked. "Not this time. You will stay with papa; he would be lonely without his little boy." After a moment he seemed to grasp a new thought and exclaimed: "Great Scott! Annie, you shan't go; my own mamma would not like it, and I'll tell my papa to stop it," giving force to his words by stamping his little foot; then rushed crying to her arms. "My little boy is too much excited," remarked Mr. Fletcher, coming from an adjoining room. "You are not to be forgotten or neglected while Annie is away. Mrs. Barlow and her pretty Agnes are to come and stay with you, so no more tears to-day." Then, turning to Annie, he continued: "We hope your absence will not be long; yet, as we cannot in the interval do without some one, I have prevailed on Mrs. Barlow to exchange the wearing labor of her large family for the care of our Charlie and a general supervision of household duties." "The best possible arrangement. Mrs. Barlow loved Edith, and will be a kind mother to her child. I shall have no more anxiety on his account." In due time Mrs. Barlow and her young girls removed to the home of Wallace Fletcher, thus relieving Annie from further duties. There was nothing peculiar in the wish that she had expressed for a change of employment and place. None wondered that she desired, for a season, to escape from care and the noise of a large town. The resolve to lengthen her stay indefinitely was a secret of her own, casting no shadows before and leaving in its wake no significant word. The idea of a prolonged absence was not altogether pleasant, for Lewiston had its many attractions. She thought of its privileges and its people, among whom she had glided from girlhood to mature life. She loved its shady walks, the chime of its Sabbath bells and the enclosure in the cemetery on whose pointing shaft was chiseled the name of Edith. A drizzly, misty morning greeted Annie's departure from the city, its grey light half obscuring the familiar objects that were passed on her short drive to the station. Martial music mingled with the whistle of steam, and men in blue passed along the trains. War, unappeased and terrible, wasted the land, hushing the low voice of compromise in the cruelties of Libby and Andersonville. Call after call had been answered by self-sacrificing men, and still recruits went forward. A division of newly-recruited soldiers were on the early train, going forth with music and to tempt the hardships of camp and uncertainties of battle. It was sad to look on so many young men and think of their perilous errand. Think of the homes they had left on that gloomy morning and judge by precedent how many would gladden them again. Something like a reverential awe crept over the features of Annie as she looked at these young faces, some of them little more than boy soldiers and felt their days should be numbered by their unselfish acts, instead of circling suns. At Sawmill Junction, a short ride from Lewiston, our young traveller was to leave her military companions and go on another train towards Bradford, which, she found to her dismay, had left the Junction ten minutes before her arrival, thus necessitating a stay of some hours, till the coming of the next train. Those who have done a like penance may understand the feelings of the poor traveller, as she gathered her long skirts from the unswept floor of a country station house and took the first survey of the ill-lighted room, with its rusty stove and uncomfortable benches. Two tiresome hours she dozed over a weekly journal, reading literature, politics, advertisements and sheriff's sales indiscriminately, till the sun, breaking through the clouds, peeped in at the dirty window and danced saucily in her face. No second challenge was needed, and, leaving her uncomfortable quarters, she walked leisurely along till she had passed a |