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THE LITTLE ORDERLY, or THE POWER OF LOVE - _ . - By GENERAL G v^'V N the latter part of the year 18C4, I had been on leave of absence to the bedside of a dying parent, and was returning by rail to the army in Virginia. It was m wm in the dark days of the Co* and as I joi rneyed, my thoughts 0/ - the situation of af fairs were made stiff more ?ad by the ioss which I had’lately sustained. T believed that T then sa»w the clouds gathering which were soon to burst in desolating fury upon my de voted country. 1 was sitting, sad and silent, at the window of the cars, looking upon a crowd of persons who had assembled at one of the stations in South Carolina, where a num ber of soldiers were taking passage. The scene was an affecting one. It was evident that the larger part of the crowd were the relatives .and friends of the soldiers, and had come there to bid them, perhaps, a last adieu. “All aboard,” closed the parting scene, and the rumbling train drowned the sobs that came from aching hearts. As it moved off, a bright youth, of scarce seventeen summers, in a hurried manner, en tered the car in which I was seated, accom panied by a stalwart soldier, whose worn and rusty uniform told that he had already been, at the front . The youth, who was clad in a new suit of gray, and wore a military cap, which sat in jaunty gracefulness on his close ly-shorn head, from the attention paid to him by his companion, seemed to be under the pro tection and care of the latter. I was struck with his delicate beauty. His cheek, now Hushed with more than its natural color, and his melting eyes, spoke the exciting emotions that stirred his heart. His air and manner showed his breeding, and that he had enjoyed the advantages of culture and refined society. His whole mien and appearance made a deep impression upon me. and awakened in my mind thoughts still more sad. As we whirled on ward towards the seat of war, and as I gazed upon his youthful face and fragile form, I thought of the dangers and hardships before him, of the dread field of battle and the toil some camp, of the sorrowing parents he had left behind, of a home made desolate, and of hearts that would moirn his fate. I pitied in ray soul the poor boy and his parents, and wondered why they had not taken measures to save a child, so young and tender, from the perils and sufferings of army life. We were not long in reaching our destination, Peters burg. There I lost sight of the youth and his soldier friend. At the time of this incident, I was on the staff of General , then commanding a di vision. I went immediately to his headquar ters, a small cottage a few miles from Peters burg, on the right wing of our army. The day after my arrival there the youth and his friend who had attracted my attention on the train made their appearance at headquarters and enquired for the General. They were shown into his presence, and the youth was introduced to him by the name of Arthur b . Arthur made known the purpose of his visit by asking the General whether he could give him a place at headquarters. I listened to the conversation with interest. The feeling of pity which I had before felt was again excited, and I at once determined, if I could by any agency at my command, to save the boy from the lines. THE GOLDEN AGE FOR WEEK OF SEPT. 11 The General was evidently struck with the appearance of the youth, and I thought I saw his face relax with sympathy for him. But his reply was: “I have no place here for you, my son, but am sorry that one so young and tender, as you appear to be, should be con signed to the ranks.” A feeling of disappoint ment clouded Arthurs face, and a tear stood in his eye, as he turned to leave. But before he left the room, obeying an impulse I could not resist, I approached the General and said: “One of our orderlies is absent on sick-leave, and perhaps you can let the boy take his place until he reports for duty.” The General again fixed his eyes upon Arthur, and the expres sion of his face showed that he could not re sist the appeal. “Well,” said he, “let it be so; report for duty tomorrow.” Arthur re plied, “I will report promptly,” and retired, casting towards me a glance of grateful ob ligation. That afternoon, before the sun went down, Arthur came to the General’s quarters, with his cloak and blankets neatly wrapped. He remained there, as the evening wore on, as if waiting for orders. At a late hour, the Gen eral directed one of his aids to assign the boy to a place for the night. He was told to occupy the quarters which had been as signed to the other orderlies, I was present when the instructions were given. For some time he remained silent, and then approach ed me, saying lie had observed that I had taken an interest in his behalf, and hoped that he would be allowed to occupy my quarters, giv ing as a reason that he had not yet formed the acquaintance of the young men with whom he was about to be thrown. The request was made with such an air of modesty and earn estness that I could not refuse it. I replied, “Certainly,” and led him to the room occu pied by myself and a brother staff-officer, who was then absent. That night the attack on our lines was more furious than common. The roar of can non, intermingled with the, rattle of musketry, was terrific. The General and his staff re mained up till a late hour, awaiting the de velopment of any movement of the enemy which might put them in the saddle. When the firing had subsided, we retired to our quar ters* and on entering my room I found the soldier-boy asleep. He had made his pallet in one corner of the room, and was lying with his face towards me. As the dim light of the candle which I held in my hand fell upon his features, they wore such a sweet- child like expression of innocence and beauty that I involuntarily paused and gazed upon them, as if entranced by the picture. I had been in many trying scenes, witnessed human suf fering in many forms—ghastly wounds, the dying and the dead, on the battlefield —but there was something in the face of the sleep ing boy before me, and the associations ol time and place, far more touching than these. The sensibilities of my nature were softened, the tenderest emotions of my heart were awakened, and as I gazed upon his fair face I felt that I could take him in my arms and nestle him to my bosom. I went cautiously to bed, but long hours elapsed before my eyes were closed in sleep— the vision of beauty still haunted me. I awoke just as the gray light of dawn peep ed through the windows, and, hearing the cracking of the fire, raised my head, and saw Arthur, already dressed, sitting by it. Up so early, my boy?” said I. He answered, “Yes, I thought I would get up and kindle a fire before you got up,’’ In a short time, as 1 was getting out of bed, he .left the room, saying he would go out and see what was go ing on. I saw no more of him till breakfast was over, and in reply to my enquiry whether he had breakfasted, he told me he had been with the boys and shared’their rations. He then asked me if he would be allowed a horse to ride. I told him he would, and put my self to the pains of choosing one I thought suit able for a rider of his age and delicate frame. During that day my duties were active, and I saw nothing of Arthur till after nightfall, and then only for a moment, while he was dis mounting from his horse. When I retired for the night, I found that Arthur had preceded me, and the same sweet but sad scene was pre sented that had so much affected me the night before. I need not say that I looked upon it with like emotions. The next morning, when 1 awoke, Arthur had risen and was sitting by the fire, as he was the morning before. I watched , his face, as he sat gazing upon the fire, and 1 saw an expression of sadness flit across his features and a rising tear moisten his eye. He is thinking, I thought, of home, and the dear ones he might never see again. When I arose from bed, he left the room, say ing, “I will go and look after my horse.” The. day wore on, and was one of unusual activity. The demonstrations of the enemy indicated a general assault on our lines. The necessity required constant and rapid commu nication between headquarters and our works. I saw Arthur several times in his saddle, bear ing orders and reports to and fro. The day, however, ended without any decisive results, and, worn down with fatigue, I retired early to my quarters. When I entered I found the place of Arthur’s pallet in the corner vacant. His blankets were rolled up against the wall. The incident ordinarily would not have affect ed me. But my feelings had become so much enlisted in behalf of the youth that his ab sence at once filled me with painful anxiety. I lay down, but could rtiot compose myself to sleep—the image of the boy would not leave my mind. I got up and went out to enquire after him, but could hear no tidings of him. With sad heart I returned to my lodgings. Hours passed away before I fell into an inter rupted, fitful slumber. I dreamed of dear ones far away, of faces familiar to me in boyhood days, of brothers and sisters, of a mother, now cold in the grave. Arthur’s sweet face also appeared to me, but it was not the face of Ar thur sleeping on the pallet in the corner of the room. It was now pale, and his features were con tracted by suffering. I stood by him, and caught with deep anguish the broken sighs and faint whispers that came from his lips. Startled by the dream, I awoke to hear a knock at my door, and a voice saying: “We have heard from Arthur.” “What have you heard?” said I, springing from my bed. “He was shot from his horse late this after noon.” (Continued next issue.) 3