' Remember,
dear Rose, this sweet message is for you as well as for us.
Your loving sister,
May Allison."
Rose, who had been clinging about her husband's neck and hiding her face
on his shoulder, vainly striving to suppress her sobs during the reading,
now burst into a fit of hysterical weeping.
"Oh Freddie, Freddie, my little brother! my darling brother, how can I
bear to think I shall never, never see you again in this world! Oh Horace,
he was always so bright and sweet, the very sunshine of the house."
"Yes, dearest, but remember his dying message; think of his perfect
happiness now. He is free from all sin and sorrow, done with the weary
marchings and fightings, the hunger and thirst, cold and heat and fatigue
of war; no longer in danger from shot or bursting shell, or of lying
wounded and suffering on the battle-field, or languishing in hospital or
prison."
"Yes," she sighed, "I should rather mourn for poor wounded Ritchie, for
Harold and Edward, still exposed to the horrors of war. Oh, when will it
end?--this dreadful, dreadful war!"
All were weeping; for all had known and loved the bright, frank,
noble-hearted, genial young man.
But Rose presently became more composed, and Mr.
Pages:
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284