The general and his staff were soon mounted and riding rapidly toward the masses and long lines of troops that were marshalling on the plain below.

Beverly stood at the doorway alone with Philip Searle.  He was grave and sad, although the bustle and preparation of an expected battle lent a lustre to his eye.  To his companion he was stern and distant, and they both walked onward for some moments without a word.  At a short distance from the building, they came upon a black groom holding two saddled horses.

“Mount, sir, if you please,” said Beverly, and they rode forward at a rapid pace.  Philip was somewhat surprised to observe that their course lay away from the camp, and in fact the sounds of military life were lessening as they went on.  They passed the brow of the hill and descended by a bridle-path into a little valley, thick with shrubbery and trees.  At the gateway of a pleasant looking cottage Beverly drew rein.

“I must ask you to enter here,” he said, dismounting.  “Within a few hours we shall both be, probably, in the ranks of battle; but first I have a duty to perform.”

They entered the cottage, within which all was hushed and still; the sounds of an active household were not heard.  They ascended the little stair, and Beverly pushed gently open the door of an apartment and motioned to Philip to enter.  He paused at first, for as he stood on the threshold a low sob reached his ear.

“Pass in,” said Beverly, in a grave, stern tone.  “I have promised that I would bring you, else, be assured, I would not linger in your presence.”

They entered.  It was a small, pleasant room, and through the lattice interwoven with woodbine the rising sun looked in like a friendly visitor.  Upon a bed was stretched the form of a young girl, sleeping or dead, it would be hard to tell, the features were so placid and beautiful in repose.  One ray of sunlight fell among the tangles of her golden hair, and glowed like a halo above the marble-white brow.  The long dark lashes rested upon her cheek with a delicate contrast like that of the velvety moss when it peeps from the new-fallen snow.  Her hands were folded upon her bosom above the white coverlet; they clasped a lily, that seemed as if sculptured upon a churchyard stone, so white was the flower, so white the bosom that it pressed.  One step nearer revealed that she was dead; earthly sleep was never so calm and beautiful.  By the bedside Oriana Weems was seated, weeping silently.  She arose when her brother entered, and went to him, putting her hands about his neck.  Beverly tenderly circled his arm about her waist, and they stood together at the bedside, gazing on all that death had left upon earth of their young cousin, Miranda.