ove he must have borne to the fair being for whom he had treasured up his boyhood's jewels, for whom he gave up everything of the earth earthy, to rescue a Republic, and then go back after this episode of suffering to inaugurate the life of a citizen farmer on the bleak hills of New York:—if all this could not sustain him, what could?—
In former visits to him he had made me his confidant in regard to these matters.
He seemed to be haunted with the idea that he would, after all, return to Utica, and once more see those he loved; and yet he also seemed to me like one whose days were numbered, and the surgeon had told me, after repeated counsels with his professional brethren, that it was next to impossible to save his life, and that I must not expect it.
All the while I clung to the belief that some vitality of faith, or love, or hope, or patriotism, or divine aid, would still send that boy back to the banks of the Mohawk.
I saw another nervous twitch around the temples.