Never had he realized the meaning of home; never before had he felt how closely his heart's tendrils were entwined about that hallowed place.

Again, in spite of his firmness and fortitude, and in spite of the sneers of Ben Lethbridge, he felt the hot tears sliding down his cheek.
When he reached the brow of the hill which would soon hide the little cottage from his view, perhaps forever, he gazed behind him again, to take his last look at the familiar spot.

His mother and sister still stood at the front gate watching the receding column in which the son and the brother was marching away to peril and perhaps death.
"God bless my mother! God bless them all!" were the involuntary ejaculations of the soldier boy, as he turned away from the hallowed scene.
But the memory of that blessed place, sanctified by the presence of those loving and devoted ones, was shrined in the temple of his heart, ever to go with him in camp and march, in the perils of battle and siege, to keep him true to his God, true to himself, and true to those whom he had left behind him.

That last look at home and those that make it home, like the last fond gaze we bestow on the loved and the lost, was treasured up in the garner of the heart's choicest memories, to be recalled in the solemn stillness of the midnight vigil, amid the horrors of the battle-field when the angry strife of arms had ceased, and in the gloom of the soldier's sick bed when no mother's hand was near to lave the fevered brow.
The moment when he obtained his last view of the home of his childhood seemed like the most eventful period of his existence.

His heart grew big in his bosom, and yet not big enough to contain all he felt.