They say she's a bad woman, and my Mama would never let me go near her."
The man flinched as though struck with a knife, steadied himself for a moment with his hands on the mare's neck and said,
"You're a brave little one to be out alone this time o'night,—what's your name?"
"Charles Gaston."
"Then you're my Colonel's boy—many a time I followed him where men were failin' like leaves—I wish to God I was with him now in the ground! Don't tell anybody you saw me,—them that knowed me will think I'm dead, and it's better so."
"Good-bye, sir," said the child "I'm sorry for you if you've got no home. I'm after the doctor for my Mama,—she's very sick. I'm afraid she's going to die, and if you ever pray I wish you'd pray for her."
The soldier came closer. "I wish I knew how to pray, my boy. But it seemed to me I forgot everything that was good in the war, and there's nothin' left but death and hell. But I'll not forget you, good-bye!"
When Charlie was in bed, he lay an hour with wide staring eyes, holding his breath now and then to catch the faintest sound from his mother's room. All was quiet at last and he fell asleep. But he was no longer a child. The shadow of a great sorrow had enveloped his soul and clothed him with the dignity and fellowship of the mystery of pain.
