Somebody's hand hath rested there—
"Was it a mother's, soft and white?
And have the lips of a sister fair
Been baptized in their waves of light?
God knows best I He was sombebody's lore;
Somebody's heart ensgrined him there;
Somebody wafted his name above,
Night and morn, on the wings of prayer.
Somebody wept when he marched away,
Looking so handsome, brave and grand;
Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay,
Somebody clung to his parting hand.
Somebody's waiting and watching for him,
Yearning to hold him again to her heart;
And there he lies with his dark eyes dim,
And the smiling, childlike lips apart.
Tenderly bury the fair young dead,
Pausing to drop in his grave a tear;
Carve on the wooden slab at his head
"Somebody's darhng slmnbers here."
After hastily partaking of a slight repast, which I could scarcely term breakfast, I commenced immediate preparations to leave the house. Upon examining the basket in which I had found the tea on my arrival, I found a number of articles which assisted me much in assuming a more perfect disguise. There was mustard, pepper, an old pair of green spectacles, and a bottle of red ink. Of the mustard I made a strong plaster about the size of a dollar, and tied it on one side of my face until it blistered it thoroughly. I then cut off the blister and put on a large patch of black court- plaster ; with the ink I painted a red line around my eyes, and after giving my pale complexion a
