“I have brought my little brother back,” said a young soldier as he stepped from the cars, and took my hand. He could say no more; his heart was full. It was indeed a sad case. This young man had, some two years before, spoken a long farewell to the home of his boyhood, leaving his mother, sisters, and this “little brother,” and had gone to seek his fortunes in the thriving young State of Texas. He was at home on a thirty days' furlough. I remember well the scene on his return. He was a most affectionate brother, and tender-hearted son. He took his family by surprise, and with his weather-beaten brow, and the strange, half Mexican dress of a Texas Ranger, was scarcely recognized as the long absent boy.

The joyful greeting is over. But the “little brother” is not there to mingle glad tears with the happy family. He is away at his post near Richmond. Though barely sixteen, he has volunteered for the war, and has already seen much of the stern life of the soldier. There, with the brave my so soon to be immortal, he awaits the onset of the invading host. The Western soldier has scarcely settled himself at home, when the news is borne on the telegraph that the terrible battles around the Capitol have commenced. In his military ardor the feeling of home is for the moment forgotten, and he leaves on the first train that he may see the smoke of battle, and be near at hand to watch the fate of his brother.

The young soldier has returned. The battles around Richmond are still raging. Our brave army is steadily driving the enemy from his long line of entrenchments and multiplied redoubts. He is at last in full retreat. The Capitol is safe. Victory after victory is sounded through the land. Glad voices greet you on every side, as the cars arrive.— Cheers rise on the air, and a thousand grateful hearts swell with God's great deliverance. But here and there, amid the happy throng, could be seen one whose sad face spoke a mournful contrast. Such an one greeted me in the young Texas Ranger, who, as he grasped my hand, and brushed a tear away, said: “Mr.—I have brought my little brother back.” He had fallen. In his first battle, in the first fierce encounter around the Capitol of his country, his temples were pierced by the fatal bullet, and now, in a neat case, secured by the kind Chaplain, he is brought to his home.

But the worst is yet to come. Listen to me, dear young man—you who are so bravely battling for all we holear. This is noble youth, who had thus fallen for his country and his people, was, I fear, not prepared to die. What, thought I, as I made my way to the scene of suffering affection, can I say to his mother? That mother I knew well; and knowing her as I did, I knew what alone would comfort her.

I THOUGHT OF HIS YOUTH. He had not indeed made any profession of faith in Christ. He had said nothing on the subject to any of his companions.— No one knew that he had ever been really serious on the subject of his soul's interest. Still he was so young. Only sixteen brief summers had measured his short probation. Was there not some hope in this circumstance? The longest life, the three score years and ten, is full short enough to prepare for vast eternity. It is as the drop to the ocean. And will not a kind and benevolent Being, as we know God to be, allow some mitigation of His law for extreme youth? He knows with what thoughtlessness we run along over this period of our days; how much of life—buoyant, hopeful life—there is in us, and how little we care for the morrow. Will He not relent—allow some abatement of the stern sentence against a young man who had only too thoughtlessly let his precious probation slip from him? No, dear young man, I fear this plausible view will not answer. It is not a long or a short life, as such, that gives us opportunities for final preparation: nor does it take any specific period for preparation. It is faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, and nothing more; faith that works—whether a longer or a shorter time —by love, and purifies the heart. In this faith is life True, youth is thoughtless; but youth is susceptib, too; and, as compared with other periods of life, is as favorable for securing salvation as any other. Indeed, the Scriptures would have us infer that, sober and thoughtful as mature age may be, it is not so well fitted for the work of preparation as the tender years of youth. “Remember now thy Creator,” writes the wise man, “in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not, nor the years draw nigh, when thou shalt say, I have no pleasure in them.” And if they will indulge because it is their spring time, the same inspired one tells them, for warning, “Rejoice, O young man, in thy youth; and let thy heart cheer thee in the days of thy youth, and walk in the ways of thy heart, and in the sight of thine eyes; but know thou that for all these things God will bring thee into judgment.” How could I soothe the mother, then, on account of his youth?

BUT I THOUGHT OF THE SUDDENNESS OF HIS DEATH. The fatal bullet pierced his temples at the beginning of the struggle, and he fell without a word for the stricken ones at home. No moment left him for sober thought. No time for one brief prayer.—At once he was summoned into the presence of the Judge. Would not this mitigate the case? Sometimes the kind Judge allows a brief interval. The wound is mortal; but, though sinners long, they may, and perchance do repent before they die. The disease is fatal; still, time is allowed for some serious moments ethe messenger summons them away. But here, no word; no time for committing the Spirit. The solemn darkness overshadowed him at once.

But I could honestly see no comfort in this. He had received ranch instruction at home: had been fully warmed of the uncertainty of life. For his country's sake had entered the army as the place of danger. Disease had already taken many from his side. and battle he knew would take many more. Brave, as he was, he expected to stem the leaden hail, and fearlessly charge on batteries vomiting forth the missiles of death. And yet, with all this in view, he dared to go, did go, without preparation. Too fearless, he ventured his soul, not his body only, his soul, upon the fate of battle. Too adventurous, he put his little all at stake, and lost.— Alas! I could see no comfort in this. “Be not afraid of them that kill the body and after that have no more that they can do. But fear him which after he hath killed, hath power to cast into hell. Yea, I say unto you, fear Him.”

BUT THIS YOUNG MAN DIED IN DEFENCE OF HIS COUNTRY. They whispered this—the kind friends who were at his Grave—to his mother. Some told the sisters their brother had died in a noble cause; and the father's face was lit up with a momentary triumph as the preacher spoke of his falling in defence of all we hold dear. I thought of this too. A martyr in a noble cause. A bleeding victim upon the altar of his country. Well! if there could be a way for a noble death, in the eye of our Judge, to atone for a misspent life, then these friends had ground for consolation. If, from any battle-fields heroes went, by virtue of their death and noble disdain of danger, to the realms of the blessed, there would then be hope for our dead, fallen on so many crimsoned fields for all we hold dear in life, liberty and honor. But will this suffice? O no! There is no comfort here. Earthly comfort there may be. Cause for honest, patriotic pride there may be; but for the other world, comfort, there can be none. For whs He to whose bar we must be brought, and with wom we must contend? No political judge; no military chieftain. The issue with Him is not national, but personal.