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Speaking again of his friends, he said, "Tell my father that I died happy." His last words were, "Heavenly Father, I'm coming to thee!" Then the Christian soldier sweetly and calmly fell asleep in Jesus."

This scene was witnessed by about twenty fellow-soldiers, and the effect upon the feelings of all was very marked. A Roman Catholic, who lay near the dying one, said, with tears in his eyes, and with strong emotion, “I never want to die happier than that man did." Another said, “I never prayed until last night; but when I saw that man die so happy, I determined to seek religion too."

V. SURPRISED, BUT READY.

The clock had just struck the midnight hour, when the chaplain was summoned to the cot of a wounded soldier. He had left him only an hour before with confident hopes of his speedy recovery, - hopes which were shared the surgeon and the wounded man himself. But a sudden change had taken place, and the surgeon had come to say that the man could live but an hour or two at most, and to beg the chaplain to make the fearful announcement to the dying man.

He was soon at his side, but, overpowered by his emotions, was utterly unable to deliver his message. The dying man, however, quickly read the solemn truth in the altered looks of the chaplain, his faltering voice and ambiguous words. He had not before entertained a doubt of his recovery. He was expecting soon to see his mother, and with her kind nursing soon to be well. He was therefore entirely unprepared for the announcement, and at first it was overwhelming.

"I am to die, then; and,- how long?"

As he had before expressed hope in Christ, the chaplain replied, "You have made your peace with God; let death come as soon as it will, he will carry you over the river."

"Yes; but this is so awfully sudden, awfully sudden!" -his lips quivered; he looked up grievingly-"and I shall not see my mother."

"Christ is better than a mother," murmured the chaplain. "Yes." The word came in a whisper. His eyes were closed; the lips still wore that trembling grief, as if the chastisement were too sore, too hard to be borne; but as the minutes passed, and the soul lifted itself up stronger and more steadily, upon the wings of prayer, the countenance grew calmer, the lips steadier; and when the eyes opened again, there was a light in their depths that could have come only from heaven.

"I thank you for your courage,” he said, more feebly, taking the hand of the chaplain; "the bitterness is over now, and I feel willing to die. Tell my mother" — he paused, gave one sob, dry, and full of the last anguish of earth" tell her how I longed to see her; but if God will permit me, I will be near her. Tell her to comfort all who loved me, to say that I thought of them all. Tell my father that I am glad he gave his consent, and that other fathers will mourn for other sons. Tell my minister, by word or letter, that I thought of him, and that I thank him for all his counsels. Tell him I find that Christ will not desert the passing soul, and that I wish him to give my testimony to the living, that nothing is of real worth but the religion of Jesus. And now, will you pray with

me?"

With swelling emotion and tender tones, the chaplain besought God's grace and presence; then, restraining his sobs, he bowed down and pressed upon the beautiful brow, already chilled with the breath of the coming angel, twice,

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thrice, a fervent kiss. They might have been as tokens from the father and mother, as well as himself. So thought perhaps the dying soldier, for a heavenly smile touched his face with new beauty, as he said, "Thank you; I won't trouble you any longer. You are wearied out; go to your rest."

"The Lord God be with you," was the firm response. "Amen," trembled from the fast whitening lips.

Another hour passed. The chaplain still moved uneasily around his room. There were hurried sounds overhead, and footsteps on the stairs. He opened his door, and encountered the surgeon, who whispered one little word, "Gone." Christ's soldier had found the Captain of his salvation.

VI. LOOKING UP.

As the Rev. Mr. Chidlaw was leaving the side of a dying soldier, in one of the Western hospitals, he heard the uncomplaining sufferer say, "It is a blessed thing to die looking up."

"And what does my brother behold, looking up?"

"Christ and heaven," was the prompt and joyous

response.

VII. NOT DUMB, THOUGH SPEECHLESS.

In one of the hospitals near Alexandria lay a youthful soldier gasping his last breath. He could not speak; but by signs he made his comrade, who was a kind-hearted though unlettered son of Erin, understand that he wanted the chaplain. Rev. Mr. B- was soon by his bedside. "What is it, my poor boy?" he said kindly.

The dying youth feebly pointed to his mother's signature

in a letter lying beside his pillow, then more feebly to the dark locks which shaded his pale brow.

The chaplain was quick to catch his meaning. "Send a lock of hair to your mother, James?" The eager nod answered him.

"Any message, dear boy? Can you whisper a word of farewell?"

No, he could not; his breath was nearly spent. But a slight movement of his finger, first pointing to his heart, and then upward, was full of significance to the intent eye of the soldier's friend.

"Yes, Jamie, I understand, your soul is resting on Jesus, you are going to your heavenly home. I shall write to your mother, and she will bless God amid her tears." A loving, grateful smile beamed upon the chaplain, and Jamie was no more.

VIII. THE DOCTOR'S YOUTHFUL PATIENT.

An army correspondent of the Philadelphia "Presbyterian" gives the following incident as related by a medical friend, in the cabin of a Mississippi transport steamer, to a group of listening soldiers:

In the town of L, where I reside and practise my profession, a company was raised for the Iowa Regiment. Among the volunteers was a boy about sixteen years of age, and known as Billy W His home was

a den of iniquity and vice. His parents were the vilest of the vile. I know of no moral, and of but few human, laws that they did not habitually violate. So far as I know, Billy never attended a Sabbath school. I do not believe he ever attended church half a dozen times in his life; and as to religious knowledge, I regarded him as little

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better than a heathen. Before the company left us, every member of it was furnished with a copy of the New Testament. Billy received his, joined his regiment, went to the seat of war, and for months we heard nothing from him. In the bloody and terrible conflict of Shiloh, in the month of April last, Billy, the drummer-boy, was dangerously wounded. He was put upon a cot, placed upon a government transport, and brought down to Cairo, with other wounded soldiers. Here a kind Providence seemed to watch over the boy. His youth, his manly fortitude, and his interesting appearance, enlisted the sympathies of strangers, and, instead of being sent to the hospital, he was taken upon his cot to the cars and carried to Dixon, whence he was sent directly to his home at L—. On his way from Pittsburg Landing he contracted a disease which would, I think, of itself have soon terminated his brief life. Immediately upon his arrival home, I was called to visit him professionally. The news of his arrival had drawn to the house three or four of our pious women, who went to minister to his wants. I saw at once that he must soon die, and said to him,

"Billy, I will do all I can for you. I will give you medicine, but it will, I fear, do you no good. You probably have but a very short time to live."

He received the announcement with a composure which astonished us all. It was evidently not the result of stupidity or indifference. A pleasant smile was upon his countenance, and there was something about him which those of us who had known him before his enlistment failed to comprehend. After a few moments' silence, he looked up to me, and said, pleasantly,

"Doctor, I bless God that I am not afraid to die. Jesus is my Saviour. You have been very kind to me, doctor, and now I have one favor to ask. It is the last request I