It was Texas in the Springtime on a bright and sunny day. The names were chiseled in marble the color of red clay, And, perhaps, too close to the color of blood blown into the wind. In orderly ranks they waited as quietly as ever they do. With my head in my hands I heard no approach- Only the quiet concerned words she spoke, "Sir, are you all right?" Her face blurred and simmered before my eyes. "No, young lady," I said. "I am not all right. I will never be all right - Never so long as these names are chiseled in stone. Never then will I be all right." How long she silently stood I do not know, But in a kind voice so quiet and low - "My father would wish you well. He would not want you living this Hell." "Your father? He is not here... Where is he, my dear?" "He is here. His name is chiseled just here." An awful dam burst...It spread through my breast - Washed across my ravaged soul... Dragged me nearly to my knees... Supported by hands of silk - by a heart of pure gold... Torment devolved to quiescence and peace. Much later I said, "He was strong and brave, this father of yours. I am certain these words to be true." "Did you know him? Were you his friend? Please tell me what you know of him." "There is all I know of him," pointing to her reflection in the stone. "I never met him, but he must have been someone special - Very special, indeed, for his daughter to take this hand - His unknown brother's blood-stained hand."