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diff --git a/old/69870-0.txt b/old/69870-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 1395b79..0000000 --- a/old/69870-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,12989 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Rose Mather, by Mary Jane Holmes - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Rose Mather - A tale - -Author: Mary Jane Holmes - -Release Date: January 24, 2023 [eBook #69870] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading - Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from - images generously made available by The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROSE MATHER *** - - - - - - POPULAR NOVELS - - BY - - _MRS. MARY J. HOLMES_. - - - TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE. - ENGLISH ORPHANS. - HOMESTEAD ON HILLSIDE. - LENA RIVERS. - MEADOW BROOK. - DORA DEANE. - COUSIN MAUDE. - MARIAN GREY. - EDITH LYLE. - DAISY THORNTON. - CHATEAU D’OR. - DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT. - HUGH WORTHINGTON. - CAMERON PRIDE. - ROSE MATHER. - ETHELYN’S MISTAKE. - MILBANK. - EDNA BROWNING. - WEST LAWN. - MILDRED. - FORREST HOUSE. - MADELINE (_New_). - QUEENIE HETHERTON (_New_). - - - “Mrs. Holmes is a peculiarly pleasant and fascinating writer. Her books - are always entertaining, and she has the rare faculty of enlisting the - sympathy and affections of her readers, and of holding their attention - to her pages with deep and absorbing interest.” - - - All published uniform with this volume. Price $1.50 each. Sold - everywhere, and sent _free_ by mail on receipt of price, - - BY - - G. W. CARLETON & Co., Publishers, - New York. - - - - - ROSE MATHER: - A Tale. - - - BY - - MRS. MARY J. HOLMES, - - AUTHOR OF “TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE,” “LENA RIVERS,” “THE CAMERON PRIDE,” - ETC., ETC. - -[Illustration] - - NEW YORK: - - _Carleton, Publisher, Madison Square_. - - LONDON: S. LOW, SON & CO. - - MDCCCLXXXIII. - - - - - Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by - - DANIEL HOLMES, - - in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for - the Northern District of New York. - - - TROW’S - PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING CO., - _205–213 East 12th St._, - NEW YORK. - - - - - _To_ - - THE SOLDIERS LIVING - - AND - - The Memory of the Soldiers Dead, - - THIS STORY OF THE WAR - - IS GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED BY - - THE AUTHOR. - - BROWN COTTAGE, Brockport, N. Y. - _April, 1868._ - - - - - CONTENTS. - - - CHAP. PAGE - I.— THE WAR MEETING 9 - II.— ROSE AND ANNIE 20 - III.— THE DEPARTURE 35 - IV.— WILL AND BROTHER TOM 50 - V.— JIMMIE 67 - VI.— FINDING SOMETHING TO DO FOR THE WAR 81 - VII.— THE BATTLE 87 - VIII.— THE RETREAT 98 - IX.— THE REBEL AND THE YANKEE 111 - X.— NEWS OF THE BATTLE AT ROCKLAND 121 - XI.— THE WOUNDED SOLDIER 134 - XII.— GETTING READY 142 - XIII.— THE DYING SOLDIER 150 - XIV.— MATTERS IN ROCKLAND 158 - XV.— THE DESERTER 165 - XVI.— NEWS DIRECT FROM JIMMIE 179 - XVII.— THE CONFEDERATE SOLDIER’S WELCOME TO ROCKLAND 191 - XVIII.— THE RICHMOND CAPTIVES 208 - XIX.— TOM’S RECEPTION 224 - XX.— AT THE MATHER MANSION 248 - XXI.— “NOT LONG FOR THIS WORLD.” 259 - XXII.— THE WOUNDED SOLDIER 269 - XXIII.— TOM AND JIMMIE 283 - XXIV.— THE RESULTS OF THE BATTLE 289 - XXV.— GETTYSBURGH 292 - XXVI.— COURSE OF EVENTS 296 - XXVII.— THE HUNTED SOLDIER 304 - XXVIII.— THE DEAD ALIVE 318 - XXIX.— THE HEROINE OF THE MOUNTAIN 322 - XXX.— ARTHUR AND MAUDE 337 - XXXI.— MAUDE AND TOM 343 - XXXII.— SUSPICION 353 - XXXIII.— IN THE CAVE 359 - XXXIV.— POOR ARTHUR 368 - XXXV.— THE DEAD AND THE LIVING 373 - XXXVI.— ANDERSONVILLE PRISONERS 377 - XXXVII.— IN ROCKLAND 385 - XXXVIII.— THE LOVERS 392 - XXXIX.— CHARLIE 397 - - - - - ROSE MATHER. - - - - - CHAPTER I. - THE WAR MEETING. - - -The long disputed point as to whether the South was in earnest or not -was settled, and through the Northern States the tidings flew that -Sumter had fallen and the war had commenced. With the first gun which -boomed across the waters of Charleston bay, it was ushered in, and they -who had cried, “Peace! peace!” found at last “there was no peace.” Then, -and not till then, did the nation rise from its lethargic slumber and -shake off the delusion with which it had so long been bound. Political -differences were forgotten. Republicans and Democrats struck the -friendly hand, pulse beat to pulse, heart throbbed to heart, and the -watchword everywhere was, “The Union forever.” Throughout the length and -breadth of the land were true, loyal hearts, and as at Rhoderic Dhu’s -command the Highlanders sprang to view from every clump of heather on -the wild moors of Scotland, so when the war-cry came up from Sumter our -own Highlanders arose, a mighty host, responsive to the call; some from -New England’s templed hills, with hands inured to toil, and hearts as -strong and true as flint; some from the Empire, some the Keystone State, -and others from the prairies of the distant West. It mattered not what -place had given them birth; it mattered little whether the Green -Mountains of Vermont, the granite hills of New Hampshire, or the shadowy -forests of Wisconsin had sheltered their childhood’s home; united in one -cause they rallied round the Stars and Stripes, and went forth to meet, -not a foreign foe, but alas, to raise a brother’s arm against another -brother’s arm in that most dreadful of all anarchies, a national civil -war. - -In the usually quiet village of Rockland the utmost interest was felt, -and though there, as elsewhere, were many whose hearts beat as warmly -for their Southern friends as when the sun shone on a nation at peace, -all felt the necessity of action, and when at last the evening came in -which the first war meeting of that place was to be held, a dense and -promiscuous crowd wended its way to the old brick church, whose hallowed -walls echoed to the sound of fife and drum, strange music for the house -of God, but more acceptable, in that dark hour, than songs of praise -sung by vain and thoughtless lips. In the centre of the church, the men -were mostly congregated, while the seats nearest the door were occupied -by the women,—the wives and mothers and sisters who had come with aching -hearts to see their brothers, sons and husbands give their signatures to -what seemed their sure death warrant. Conspicuous among these was Widow -Simms, whose old-fashioned leghorn, with its faded green veil, was -visible at all public gatherings, its broad frill of lace shading a pair -of sharp grey eyes, and a rather peculiar face. It was very white now, -and the thin lips were firmly compressed as the widow tried to look -resolute and unconcerned when two of her sons went forward, their faces -glowing with youthful enthusiasm, as they heard the President repeat -their names, “John Simms,—Eli Simms.” The widow involuntarily said it -after him, her mother’s heart whispering within her, “Isaac won’t go. -He’s too young. I can’t give Isaac up,” and her eye wandered to where -her youngest boy was sitting, twirling his old cloth cap, and -occasionally exchanging a word with the young man next to him, William -Baker, who, together with his brother, arose, to follow John and Eli -Simms. - -Scarcely, however, had they risen to their feet, when a woman occupying -the same seat with Widow Simms, uttered a cry more like the moaning howl -of some wild beast, than like a human sound. - -“No, Harry, no, Bill—no, no,” and the bony arms were flung wildly toward -the two young men, who, with a dogged, indignant glance at her, fell -back among the crowd where they could not be seen, muttering something -not very complimentary to “the old woman,” as they called her. - -But the old woman did not hear it, and if she had, it would have made no -difference. It mattered not to her that they had ever been the veriest -pests in the whole village, the planners of every grade of mischief, the -robbers of barns and plunderers of orchards,—they were _her_ boys, and -she didn’t want them shot, so she continued to moan and cry, muttering -incoherently about the rich treading down the poor, and wondering why -Judge Warner didn’t send his own white fingered sons, if he thought -going to war was so nice. - -“I wouldn’t make such a fuss, let what would happen to me,” said the -Widow Simms, casting a half contemptuous glance upon the weeping woman, -whom she evidently considered far beneath her, and adding, “They had -‘nough-sight better be shot than hung,’ as an aside to the young woman -just behind her,—sweet Annie Graham, who was holding fast to her -husband’s hand, as if she would thus keep him in spite of the speaker’s -eloquent appeals, and the whispers of his companions, who were urging -him to join the company forming so rapidly before the altar. - -There was a terrible struggle going on in Annie Graham’s breast,—duty to -her country and love for her husband waging a mighty conflict, the -former telling her that if the right would triumph, somebody’s husband -must go, and the wife-heart crying out, “Yes, somebody’s husband _must_ -go, I know, but not mine, not George.” - -Very tenderly George Graham’s strong arm encircled the girlish form, and -when he saw how fast the tears came to the great dreamy eyes of blue, -and thought how frail was the wife of little more than a year, he bent -down until his chin rested on her pale brown hair, and whispered softly -to her, - -“Don’t, Annie, darling, you know I will never go unless you think I -ought, and give your free consent.” - -Had George Graham wished, he could not have chosen a more powerful -argument than the words, “Unless you think I ought.” - -Annie repeated them to herself again and again, until consciousness of -all else around her was forgotten in that one question of _duty_. She -heard no longer the second speaker, whose burning eloquence was stirring -up hitherto reluctant young men to place their names beside others -already pledged to their country’s cause. Leaning forward so that her -forehead rested on the railing in front, she tried to pray, but flesh -and strength were weak, and the prayer ended always with the unuttered -cry, “I cannot let George go,” while the fingers twined more and more -closely around the broad, warm hand, which sought awhile to reassure -her, and then was withdrawn from her grasp as George arose and politely -offered his seat to a lady who had just arrived, and who, after glancing -an instant at his _coat_, accepted his civility as a matter of course, -but withheld the thanks she would have accorded to one whom she -considered her equal. - -Spreading out her wide skirt of rich blue silk so that it nearly covered -poor Annie, she threw her crimson scarf across the railing in front, -hitting Widow Simms, and so diverting the attention of Mrs. Baker, that -the latter ceased her crying, while the widow turned with an expression -half curious, half indignant. Annie, too, attracted by the heavy fringe -and softly-blended colors of the scarf, a part of which had fallen upon -her lap, as the widow shook it from her shoulder with a jerk, stole a -glance at the new comer, in whom she recognized the bride, the beauty, -the envied belle of Rockland, Rose Mather, from Boston,—and wife of the -wealthy and aristocratic William Mather, who three months before had -ended the strife between the Rockland ladies as to what fair hand should -spend his gold, and drive his iron greys, by bringing to his elegant -mansion a fairy little creature with whose exquisite beauty even the -most fastidious could not find fault. Childish in proportions, and -perfect in form and feature, she would have been handsome without the -aid of the dancing brown eyes, and chestnut curls which shaded her -girlish brow. Rose knew she was pretty,—knew she was stylish,—knew she -was fascinating,—knew she was just then _the rage_, and as such could do -and say what she pleased. Sweeping back her chestnut hair with her snowy -hand, she gave one rapid glance at the sea of heads around her, and -then, in a half petulant tone, exclaimed to her companion! - -“I don’t believe Will is here. I can’t see him anywhere.” - -“Didn’t you know he had enlisted?” asked a young man, who had made his -way through the crowd, and joined her. - -For an instant the bright color faded from Rose Mather’s cheek, but it -quickly returned as she read in Mr. Wentworth’s eye, a contradiction of -his words. - -“Will enlisted!” she repeated. “Such people as _Will_ don’t go to the -war. It’s a very different class, such, for instance, as that one going -up to sign. Upon my word, it’s the boy who saws our wood!” and she -pointed at the youth, offering himself up that just such people as Rose -Mather, radiant in silks and diamonds, and lace, might rest in peace at -home, knowing nothing of war, and its attendant horrors, save what came -to her through the daily prints. - -Widow Simms heard the remark, and with a swelling heart turned toward -the boy who sawed Rose Mather’s wood, for _she_ knew who it was, and it -did not need the loud whisper of Mrs. Baker to tell her that it was -_her_ boy, the youngest of the three, the one she loved the best, the -baby, who kept the milk of human kindness from turning quite sour within -her breast by his many acts of filial love, and his gentle, caressing -ways. How could she give him up, her darling, her idol, the one so like -his father, dead ere he was born? Who would comfort her as he had done? -Who would give her the good-night kiss, timidly, stealthily, lest the -older ones should see and laugh at his girlish weakness? Who would bring -his weekly earnings, and empty them slily into her lap? Who would find -her place in the prayer book on Sunday, and pound her clothes on Monday, -long before it was light? Who would split the nice fine kindlings for -the morning fire or bring the cool fresh water in the summer from the -farther well, and who, when her head was aching sadly would make the cup -of tea she liked so much? Homely offices, many of them, it is true, but -they made up the sum of that mother’s happiness, and it is not strange -that, for a moment, the iron will gave way, and the poor widow wept over -her cruel bereavement, not noisily, as Mrs. Baker had done, but -silently, bitterly, her body trembling nervously, and her whole attitude -indicative of keen, unaffected anguish. - -Rose did not know the relationship existing between the widow and the -boy who sawed her wood, but her better nature was touched always at the -sight of distress, and for several minutes, she did not speak except to -tell Mr. Wentworth how much _Brother Tom_ had paid for the crimson -scarf, one end of which he was twirling around his wrist. To Annie it -seemed an enormous sum, and a little over-awed with her close proximity -to one who could sport so expensive an article of dress, she -involuntarily tried to move away, and avoid, if possible, being noticed -by the brilliant belle. She might have spared herself the trouble, for -Rose was too much absorbed with the group of admirers gathering around -her to heed the shrinking figure at her side, and, after a time, as -Widow Simms recovered her composure, she resumed her gay badinage, -bringing in Will with every other breath, and showing how completely her -heart was bound up in her husband, notwithstanding the evident -satisfaction with which she received the flattering compliments of the -gentlemen who, since her arrival at Rockland, had made it a point to -admire and flirt with the little Boston belle, laughing loudly at -speeches which, from one less piquant and attractive, would have been -pronounced decidedly silly and meaningless. - -Rose was not well posted with regard to the object of that meeting. She -knew that Sumter or Charleston had been fired upon, she hardly could -tell which, for she was far too sleepy when Will read the news to -comprehend clearly what it was all about, and she had skipped every word -which Brother Tom had written about it in his last letter, the one in -which he enclosed five hundred dollars for the silver tea-set she saw in -Rochester, and wanted so badly. Rose was an accomplished musician, a -tolerable proficient in both French and German, and had skimmed nearly -all the higher branches, but like many fashionably educated young -ladies, her knowledge of geography comprised a confused medley of -cities, towns and villages, scattered promiscuously over the face of the -earth, but _which_ was _where_ she could not pretend to tell; and were -it not that Brother Tom had spent three winters in Charleston, leaving -at last his fair-haired wife sleeping there beneath the Southern sky, -she would scarcely have known whether the waters of the Atlantic or of -Baffin’s Bay, washed the shore of the Palmetto State. And still Rose was -not a fool in the ordinary acceptation of the term. She knew as much or -more than half the petted belles of modern society, and could say smart -foolish things with so pretty an air of childishness, that even those of -her own sex who were at first most prejudiced against her, confessed -that she was certainly very captivating, and possessed the art of making -everybody like her, even if she hadn’t common sense! - -On this occasion she chatted on in her usual style, provoking from -George Graham more than one good-humored smile at remarks which evinced -so much ignorance of the matter then agitating the entire community. - -“Will wouldn’t go to the war, of course,” she said, ‘supposing there -were one, which she greatly doubted. Northern men, particularly those of -Rockland, were so hateful toward the South. She didn’t believe Boston -people were that way at all. At least, Brother Tom was not, and he knew; -he had lived in Charleston, and described them as very nice folks. -Indeed, she knew they were, herself, for she always met them at Newport, -and liked them so much. She didn’t credit one word of what the papers -said. She presumed Mr. Anderson provoked them. Tom knew him personally. - -“You have another brother besides Tom—won’t _he_ join the army?” asked -Mr. Wentworth, a smile curling the corners of his mouth. - -Rose sighed involuntarily, for on the subject of _that other brother_ -she was a little sore, and the mention of him always gave her pain. He -was not like Brother Tom, the eldest, the pride of the Carleton family. -He was _Jimmie_, handsome, rollicking, mischievous Jimmie, to those who -loved him best, while to the Boston people, who knew him best, he was -“that young scapegrace, Jim Carleton, destined for the gallows, or some -other ignominious end,” a prediction which seemed likely to be verified -at the time when he nearly broke a comrade’s head for calling him a -liar, and so was expelled from college, covered with disgrace. Something -of this was known to Mr. Wentworth, and he asked the question he did, -just to see what Rose would say. But if he thought she would attempt to -conceal anything pertaining to herself, or any one else, for that -matter, he was mistaken. Rose was too truthful for anything like -duplicity, and she frankly answered: - -“We don’t know where Jimmie is. They turned him out of college, and then -he ran away. It’s more than a year since we heard from him. He was in -Southern Virginia, then. Mother thinks he’s dead, or he would surely -write to some of us,” and a tear glittered in Rose’s eyes, as she -thought of recreant Jimmie, sleeping elsewhere than in the family vault -at beautiful Mt. Auburn. Rose could not, however, be unhappy long over -what was a mere speculation, and after a few moments she resumed the -subject of her husband’s volunteering. - -“She knew he wouldn’t, even if he did vote for Lincoln. She was not one -bit concerned, for no man who loved his wife as he ought, would want to -go and leave her,” and the little lady stroked her luxuriant curls -coquettishly, spreading out still wider her silken robe, which now -completely covered the plain shilling calico of poor Annie, whose heart -for a moment beat almost to bursting as she asked herself if it were -true, that no man who loved his wife as he ought, would want to go and -leave her. In a moment, however, she repelled the assertion as false, -for George had given too many proofs of his devotion for her to doubt -him now, even though he had expressed a desire to join the army. Then -she wished she was at home, where she could not hear what Rose Mather -said, and she was about proposing to George that they should leave, when -Mr. Mather himself appeared, and she concluded to remain. He was a -haughty-looking man, very fond of his little wife, on whose shoulder he -laid his hand caressingly, as he asked “what she thought of war now?” - -“I just think it is horrid!” and Rose’s fat hand stole up to meet her -husband’s; “Mr. Wentworth tried to make me think you had volunteered, -but I knew better. The idea of your going off with such frights! Why, -Will, you can’t begin to guess what a queer-looking set they are. There -was our milkman, and the boy who sawed our wood, and canal-drivers, and -peddlers, and mechanics, and”—— - -Rose did not finish the sentence, for something in her husband’s -expression stopped her. He had caught the quick uplifting of Annie -Graham’s head,—had noted the indignant flashing of her blue eye, the -kindling spot on her cheek, and glancing at George, he saw at once how -Rose’s thoughtless words must have wounded her. He had seen the -disgusted expression of Widow Simms, as she flounced out into the aisle, -and knowing that the “boy who sawed his wood,” was her son, he felt -sorry that his wife should have been so indiscreet. Still, he could not -be angry at the sparkling little creature chatting so like a parrot, but -he felt impelled to say: - -“You should not judge people by their dress or occupation. The boy who -saws our wood has a heart larger than many who make far more -pretensions.” - -Rose tried to pout at what she knew to have been intended as a -reprimand, but in the excitement of the jam as they passed out of the -church, she forgot it entirely, only once uttering an impatient -ejaculation as some one inadvertently stepped upon her sweeping skirt, -and so held her for a moment, producing the sensation which nearly every -woman experiences when she feels a sudden backward pull, as if skirt and -waist were parting company. - -With the hasty exclamation, “Who _is_ stepping on me, I’d like to know?” -she turned just in time to hear Annie Graham’s politely-spoken words of -apology: - -“I beg your pardon, madam; they push me so behind that I could not help -it.” - -“It isn’t the least bit of matter,” returned Rose, disarmed at once of -all resentment, by Annie’s lady-like manner, and the expression of the -face, on which traces of tears were still lingering. - -“Who is that, Will?” she whispered, as they emerged into the moonlight, -and George Graham’s tall form was plainly discernible, together with -that of his wife. - -Will told her who it was, and Rose rejoined: - -“He has volunteered, I ’most know. Poor, isn’t he?” - -“Not very rich, most certainly,” was Mr. Mather’s reply. - -“Then I guess he’s going to the war,” was Rose’s mental comment, as if -poverty were the sole accomplishment necessary for a soldier to possess, -a conclusion to which older and wiser heads than hers seemed at one time -to have arrived. - -Annie Graham heard both question and answer, and with emotions not -particularly pleasant she whispered to herself: - -“Rose Mather shall see that one man at least will not go, even if he is -a mechanic and poor!” and clinging closer to George’s arm, she walked on -in silence, thinking bitter thoughts of the little lady, who, delighted -with having _Will_ on one side of her, and Mr. Wentworth, his partner, -on the other, tripped gaily on, laughing as lightly as if on the -country’s horizon there were no dark, threatening cloud, which might yet -overshadow her in its gloomy folds, and leave her heart as desolate as -that of the Widow Simms, or the wailing mother of Harry and Bill. - - - - - CHAPTER II. - ROSE AND ANNIE. - - -Rose Mather’s home was a beautiful place, containing everything which -love could devise, or money purchase, and Rose was very happy there, -dancing like a sunbeam through the handsome rooms of which she was the -mistress, and singing as gaily as her pet canary in its gilded cage by -the door. No shadow of sorrow or care had ever crossed her pathway, and -the eighteen summers of her short life had come and gone like so many -pleasant memories, bringing with them one successive round of joys, -leaving no blight behind, and bearing with them, alas, no thanks for the -good bestowed, for Rose was far too thoughtless to think that the -Providence which shielded her so tenderly, might have dealt more harshly -with her. But the shadow was creeping on apace, and Rose was conscious -that the war meeting had awakened within her a new and uncomfortable -train of thought. Like many others, she had a habit of believing that -nothing very bad could happen to her, and so, let what might occur, she -was sure her husband would be spared. Still, in spite of her gaiety, an -undefined something haunted her all the way from the church, and even -when alone with her husband in her tasteful sitting-room, with the -bright gas-light falling cheerily around her, and adding a fresh lustre -to the elegant furniture, she could not shake it off, nor guess what it -was that ailed her. At last, however, it came to her, suggested by the -sight of her husband’s evening paper, and laying her curly head upon his -knee, she gave vent to her restlessness in the expression: - -“I wish there wouldn’t be any war. What is it all for? Tell me, please.” - -It was the first interest she had evinced in the matter. And glad to -talk with any one upon the subject which was beginning to occupy so much -of his own thoughts, Mr. Mather drew her into his lap, and endeavored, -as far as possible, to explain to her what it all was for. Much of what -he said, however, was Greek to Rose, who only gained a vague idea that -the North was contending for a bit of cloth, such as she had often seen -floating over the dome of the old State House in Boston, and with the -remark, that men’s lives were far more valuable than all the Stars and -Stripes in the world, she fell away to sleep leaving her husband in the -midst of an argument not quite clear to himself, for, like his wife, he -could not then see _exactly what the war was for_. Still, inasmuch as -there was war, he would not play the coward’s part, nor shrink from the -post of duty if his country should need his services. But this Rose did -not know, and secure in the belief that whatever might happen, Will -would never go, she soon resumed her wonted cheerfulness, and if she -said anything of the war, was sure to startle her hearers with some -remark quite unworthy of a New England daughter. She did wish they would -stop having so many meetings, she said, or if they must have them, she -wished they’d get Brother Tom to come and set them right. He had lived -in Charleston. He could tell them how kind the people were to Mary, his -sick wife, and were it not that ’twas beneath him to lecture, she’d -surely write for him to come. Rose Mather was growing unpopular by her -foolish speeches, and when at last she was asked to join with other -ladies of the town in making articles of clothing for the volunteers, -she added the last drop to the brimming bucket, by tossing back her -chestnut tresses, and “guessing she shouldn’t blister her hands over -that coarse stuff. She couldn’t sew much any way, and as for making -bandages and lint, the very idea was sickening. She’d give them fifty -cents if they wanted, but she positively couldn’t do more than that, for -she must have a new pair of lavender kids. She had worn the old ones -three or four times, and Will preached economy every day.” - -With a frown of impatience, the matron who had been deputed to ask help -from Rose, took the fifty cents, and with feelings anything but -complimentary to the silly little lady, went back to the hall where -scores of women were busily employed in behalf of the company, some of -whom would never return to tell how much good even the homely housewife, -with its pins and needles, and thread, had done them when far away where -no mother or sister hand could reach them, nor yet how the thought that -perhaps a dear one’s fingers had torn the soft linen band, or scraped -the tender lint applied to some gaping wound, had helped to ease the -pain, and cheer the homesick heart. It was surely a work of mercy in -which our noble women were then engaged, and if from the group collected -in Rockland Hall, there was much loud murmuring at Rose Mather’s want of -sense or heart, it arose not so much from ill-nature, as from -astonishment that she could be so callous and indifferent to an object -of so much importance. - -“Wait till her husband goes, and she won’t mince along so daintily, -taking all that pains to show her Balmoral, when it isn’t one bit -muddy,” muttered the Widow Simms, pointing out, to those near the -window, the lady in question, tripping down the street in quest of -lavender kids, perhaps, or more likely, bound for her husband’s office, -where, now that everybody worked all day long at the Hall, she spent -much of her time, it was so lonely at home, with nobody to call. “I hope -he’ll be drafted and have to go, upon my word!” continued the widow, -whose heart was very sore with thinking of the three seats at her -fireside, so soon to be vacated by her darling boys, Eli, John, and -Isaac. “Yes, I do hope he’ll be drafted, don’t you, Mrs. Graham?” and -she turned toward Annie, who was rolling up bandages of linen, and -weaving in with every coil a prayer that the poor soldier, whose lot it -should be to need that band, might return again to the loved ones at -home, or else be fitted for that better home, where war is unknown. - -Annie shook her head, but made no answer. There was no bitterness now in -her heart against Rose Mather. She had prayed that all away, and only -hoped the anguish which had come to her, making her brain giddy, and her -heart faint, might never be borne by another, if that could be. George -had volunteered—was to be second lieutenant, and Annie, oh, who shall -tell of the gloom which had fallen so darkly around the cottage she had -called hers for one brief year. It was a neat, cozy dwelling, and to -Annie it never seemed so cheerful as on that memorable night of the war -meeting, when she had lighted the lamp, and sat down with George upon -the chintz-covered lounge he had helped her make when first she was a -bride. It is true the carpet was not of velvet, like that Rose Mather -trod upon; neither was there in all the house one inch of rosewood or of -marble, but there was domestic love, pure and deep as any Rose ever -experienced, and there was something better far than that, a patient, -trusting faith in One who can shed light upon the dreariest home, and -make the heaviest trial seem like nought. It was this trusting faith -which made Annie Graham the sweet, gentle being she was, shedding its -influence over her whole life, and softening down a disposition which -otherwise might have been haughty and resentful. Annie was naturally -high-spirited and proud, and Rose’s remarks concerning volunteers in -general, and George in particular, had stung her to the quick, but with -the indignant mood there came another impulse, and ere the cottage had -been reached, the bitter feeling had gone, leaving nothing but sorrow -that it had ever been there. Like Rose, she wished there would be no -war, but wishing was of no avail, and long after George Graham was -asleep and dreaming, it may be, of glories won on battle-fields, Annie -lay awake, questioning within herself, whether she ought, by word or -deed, to prevent her husband’s going, if he felt as he seemed to feel, -that it was as much his duty as that of others to join in his country’s -defence. Annie was no great reasoner, logically; all her decisions were -made to turn upon the simple question of right and wrong, and on this -occasion she found it hard to tell, so evenly the balance seemed -adjusted. More than once she stole from her pillow, and going out into -the fresh night air, knelt in the moonlight, and asked for guidance to -choose the right, even though that right should take her husband from -her. - -“If I knew he would not die, it would not be so hard to give him up,” -she murmured, as sickening visions of fields strewn with the dead, and -hospitals filled with the dying, came over her, and for an instant her -brain reeled with the thought of George dying thus, and leaving her no -hope of meeting him again, for George’s faith was not like hers. - -Anon, however, something whispered to her that the God she loved was on -the field of carnage, and in the camp and in the hospital, and -everywhere as much as there in Rockland, that prayers innumerable would -follow the brave volunteers, and that the evil she so much feared might -be the means of working the great good she so desired. And thus it was -that Annie came to a decision. Stealing back to her husband’s side, she -bent above him as he lay sleeping, and with a heart which throbbed to -its very core, though the lip uttered no sound, she gave him to his -country asking, if it could be, that he might come back again, but if it -were ordered otherwise—“God’s will be done.” There was no shrinking -after that sacrifice was made, though when the morning came, the -death-white face and the dark circle beneath the eyes, told of a weary -vigil, such as many and many a woman kept both North and South, during -the dark hours of the Rebellion. But save the death-white face, and -heavy eyes, there was no token of the inner struggle, as with a -desperate effort at self-command, Annie wound her arms around her -husband’s neck, and whispered to him, “You may go,—I give my free -consent,” and George, who cared far more to go than he had dared -express, kissed the lips which tried so hard to smile, little dreaming -what it cost his brave young wife to tell him what she had. To one of -his temperament, there was no danger to be feared for himself. The -bullet which might strike down a brother at his side would be turned -away from him. Others would, of course, be killed, but he should escape -unharmed. In the language of one speaker, whose eloquent appeal had done -much to fire his youthful enthusiasm, “He was not going to be _shot_, -but to _shoot_ somebody!” - -This was his idea, and ere the clinging arms had unclasped themselves -from his neck, his imagination had leaped forward to the future, and -in fancy George Graham wore, if not a Colonel’s, at least a Captain’s -uniform, and the cottage on the hill, which Annie so much admired, and -for the purchase of which a few hundreds were already saved, was -his,—bought with the money he would earn. The deed should be drawn in -her name, too, he said, and he pictured her to himself coming down the -walk to meet him, with the rose-blush on her cheek, just as she looked -the first time he ever saw her. Something of this he told her,—and -Annie tried to smile, and think it all might be. But her heart that -morning was far too heavy to be lightened by a picture of what seemed -so improbable. Still, George’s hopeful confidence did much to reassure -her, and when, a few days after, she started for the Hall, she -purposely took a longer walk for the sake of passing the cottage on -the hill, thinking, as she leaned over the low iron fence, how she -would arrange the flower-beds more tastefully than they were now -arranged, and teach the drooping vines to twine more gracefully around -the slender columns supporting the piazza in front. She would have -seats, too,—willow-twisted chairs beneath the trees, where she and -George could sit at twilight, and watch the shadows creeping across -the hollow where the _old_ cottage was, and up the opposite hill, -where the cupola of Rose Mather’s home was plainly visible, blazing in -the April sunshine. It was a very pleasant castle which Annie built, -and for a time the load of pain which, since George volunteered, had -lain so heavy at her heart, was gone; but it returned again when, as -she passed a turn in the road, her eye wandered down to the hollow, -and that other cottage standing there so brown and small, and looking -already so desolate, because she knew that ere many days were over, -she should wait in vain for the loved footsteps coming down the -road,—should miss the pleasant, cheery laugh, the teasing joke and -words of love which made the world all sunshine. The cottage on the -hill became a worthless thing as poor Annie forced back her tears, and -with quickened steps hurried on to join the group of ladies busy at -the Hall. - -Taking her seat by the window, she commenced the light work imposed on -her, that of tearing and winding bandages for those who might be -wounded. - -“Maybe there’ll never be no fight, but it’s well enough to be prepared,” -was the soothing remark of the kind-hearted woman who gave the work to -Annie, noting, as she did so, how the lip quivered and the cheek paled -at the very idea. - -“What if George should need them?” kept suggesting itself to her as she -worked industriously on, hoping that if he did, some one of the rolls -she was winding might come to him, or better yet, if he could only have -the bit of soft linen she had brought herself,—a piece of her own -clothing, and bearing on it her maiden name, Annie Howard. He would be -sure to know it, she said, it was written so plainly with indelible ink, -and it would make him feel so glad. But there might be other Annie -Howards, it was not an uncommon name, was suggested next to her, as she -tore the linen in strips, and quick as thought, her hand sought the -pocket of her dress for the pencil which she knew was there. Glancing -around to see that no one observed her, she touched the pencil to her -lips and wrote after the name, “It’s _your_ Annie, George. Try to -believe I’m there. Rockland, April, 1861.” - -There were big tear-drops on that bit of linen, but Annie brushed them -away, and went on with her rolling, just as Widow Simms called her -attention to Rose Mather, as mentioned several pages back. - -Annie could not account for it to herself, but ever since Rose’s arrival -at Rockland, she had felt a strange inexplicable interest in the -fashionable belle; an interest prompted by something more than mere -curiosity, and now that there was an opportunity of seeing her without -being herself seen, she straightened up and smoothing the soft braids of -her pale brown hair, waited for the entrance of the little lady, who, -with her pink hat set jauntily on her chestnut curls, and her rich fur -collar buttoned gracefully over her handsome cloth cloak, tripped into -the room, doing much by her sunny smile and pleasant manner to disarm -the ladies of their recent prejudice against her. She was nothing but a -child, they reflected; a spoiled, petted child; she would improve as she -grow older, and came more in contact with the sharp corners of the -world, so those who had the honor of her acquaintance, received her with -the familiar deference, if we may be allowed the expression, which had -always marked their manner toward William Mather’s bride. Rose was too -much accustomed to society to be at all disconcerted by the hundred pair -of eyes turned scrutinizingly toward her. Indeed, she rather enjoyed -being looked at, and she tossed the coarse garments about with a pretty -playfulness, saying that “since the ladies had called upon her she had -thought better of it, and made up her mind to martyr herself one -afternoon at least, and benefit the soldiers. To be sure there wasn’t -much she could do. She might hold yarn for somebody to wind, she -supposed, but she couldn’t knit, and she didn’t want to sew on such -ugly, scratchy stuff as those flannel shirts, but if somebody would -thread her needle, and fix it all right, she’d try what she could do on -a pair of drawers.” - -For a time no one seemed inclined to volunteer her services, and Widow -Simms’s shears clicked spitefully loud as they cut through the cotton -flannel. At last, however, Mrs. Baker, who had more than once officiated -as washerwoman at the Mather mansion, came forward and arranged some -work for Rose, who, untying the strings of her pink hat, and adjusting -her tiny gold thimble, labored on until she had succeeded in sewing up -and joining together a long leg with one some inches shorter, which had -happened to be lying near. Loud was the shout which a discovery of this -mistake called forth, nor was it at all abated when Rose demurely asked -if it would not answer for some soldier who should chance to have a limb -shot off just below the knee. - -“The little simpleton!” muttered the widow, while Mrs. Baker pointed out -to the discomfited lady that one division of the drawers was right side -out and the other wrong! - -There was no alternative save to rip the entire thing, and with glowing -cheeks, Rose began the task of undoing what she had done, incidentally -letting out, as she worked, that Will might have known better than to -send her there,—she shouldn’t have come at all if he had not insisted, -telling her people would call her a secessionist unless she did -something to benefit the soldiers. She didn’t care what they called her; -she knew she was a democrat, or used to be before she was married; but -now that Will was a republican, she hardly knew what she was; any way, -she was not a secessionist, and she wasn’t particularly interested in -the war either; why should she be?—Will was not going, nor Brother Tom, -nor any of her friends. - -“But somebody’s friends are going,—somebody’s Will, somebody’s Tom; as -dear to them as yours are to you,” came in a rebuking tone from a -straight-forward, outspoken woman, who knew from sad experience that -“somebody’s Tom was going.” - -“Yes, I know,” said Rose, a shadow for an instant crossing her bright -face, “and it’s dreadful, too. Will says everything will be so much -higher, and it will be so dull at Saratoga and Newport next summer, -without the Southern people. One might as well stay at home. The war -might have been avoided, too, by a little mutual forbearance from both -parties, until matters could be amicably adjusted, for Brother Tom said -so in his letter last night, and a heap more which I can’t remember.” - -Here Rose paused quite exhausted, with the effort she had made to repeat -the opinion of Brother Tom. She had read all his last letter, fully -indorsing as much of it as she understood, and after a little she went -on: - -“Wasn’t it horrid, though, their firing into the Massachusetts boys?—and -they were from right ’round Boston, too. Tom saw them when they started. -They were fine looking men, he says, and Will thinks I ought to be proud -that I’m a Bay State girl, and so I am, but it isn’t as if my friends -had gone. Tom is a democrat, I know, but it’s quite another kind that -join the army.” - -Widow Simms could keep silent no longer, and brandishing her polished -shears by way of adding emphasis to what she said, she began: - -“And s’posin’ ’tis folks as poor as poverty struck, haint they feelin’s, -I’d like to know? Haint they got bodies and souls, and mothers, and -wives, and sisters? And s’posin’ ’tis _democrats_,—more shame for -t’other side that helped get up the muss. Where be they now, them chaps -that wore the big black capes, and did so much toward puttin’ Lincoln in -that chair? Why don’t they help to keep him settin’ there, and not stand -back with their hands tucked in their trouses’ pockets? Both my boys, -Eli and John, voted t’other ticket, and Isaac would, but he wasn’t -twenty-one. They’ve all jined, and I won’t say I’m sorry, for if there’s -anything I hate, it’s a _sneak!_ It makes me _so_ mad!” and the big -shears again clicked savagely, as Widow Simms resumed her work, after -having thus delivered her opinion of the _black republicans_, besides -having, in her own words, given “that puckerin Miss Mathers a piece of -her mind.” - -Obtuse as Rose was on many points, she saw there was some homely truth -in what the widow had said, but this did not impress her so much as the -fact that she had evidently given offence, and she was about trying to -extricate herself from the dilemma when George Graham appeared, -ostensibly to bring some trivial message to the President of the -Society, but really to see if his wife were there, and speak to her some -kind word of encouragement. Rose recognized him as the young man she had -seen at the war meeting, and the moment he left the hall, she broke out -impetuously, - -“Isn’t he handsome?—so tall, so broad-shouldered, and such a splendid -mark for a bullet,—I most know he will be shot?” - -“Hush-sh!” came warningly from several individuals, but came too late. -The mischief was done. Ere Rose could collect her thoughts a group of -frightened women had gathered around poor Annie, who had fainted. - -“What’s the matter? do tell!” cried Rose, standing on tiptoe and -clutching at the dress of Widow Simms, who angrily retorted, - -“I should s’pose you’d ask. It’s enough to make the poor critter faint -clean away to hear a body talk about her husband’s being a fust rate -mark for a bullet!” - -With all her thoughtlessness, Rose had the kindest heart in the world; -and forcing her way through the crowd, she knelt by the -white-faced-Annie, and taking the drooping head in her lap, pushed back -the thick braids of hair, noticing, with her quick eye for the -beautiful, how soft and luxuriant they were, how pure was the -complexion, how perfect were the features, how small and delicate the -fingers, and how graceful was the slender neck. - -“I’m so sorry! I wish I’d staid at home; I _am_ so sorry,” she kept -repeating; and when at last Annie returned to consciousness, Rose -Mather’s was the first voice she heard, Rose’s the first face she saw. - -With an involuntary shudder she closed her eyes wearily, while Rose -anxiously asked of those about her how they should get her home. “Oh, -Jake,” she suddenly exclaimed, as, towering above the female heads, she -saw her colored coachman looking for her, and remembered that her -husband was to call and take her out to ride, “oh, Jake, lift this lady -up, careful as you can, and put her in our carriage. Is Will there? -Well, no matter, he’ll just have to get out. Stand back, won’t you, and -let Jake come,” she continued, authoritatively to the group of ladies -who, half-amused and half-surprised at this new phase in Rose Mather’s -character, made way for burly Jake, who lifted Annie’s light form as if -it had been a feather’s weight, and bore it down the stairs, followed by -Rose, who, with one breath, told Annie not to be a bit afraid, for Jake -certainly would not drop her, and with the next asked Jake if he were -positive and sure he was strong enough not to let her fall. - -Lazily reclining upon the cushions of his carriage, William Mather was -smoking his Havana, and admiring the sleek coat of his iron greys, when -Rose appeared, and seizing him by the arm, peremptorily ordered him to -alight, and help Jake lift the lady in. - -“I don’t know who ’tis, but it’s somebody I made faint away with my -silly talk,” she replied in answer to Mr. Mather’s question, “Who have -you there?” - -“_You_ made faint away!” he repeated, as he found himself rather -unceremoniously landed upon the flagging stones, his Havana rolling at -his feet, and his wife preparing to follow Annie, whom Jake had placed -inside. - -“Yes; I talked about her husband’s being a splendid mark for a bullet, -and all that, without ever thinking she was his wife. He looked so tall, -and big, and nice, that I couldn’t help thinking his head would come -above all the rest in a fight, but I don’t believe it will. There Jake, -we are ready now, drive on,” said Rose, while poor Annie groaned afresh -at this doubtful consolation. - -“Drive whar?” asked Jake. “I dun know whar they lives.” - -“To be sure, nor I either,” returned Rose, turning inquiringly to her -husband, who gave the information, adding, as he glanced down the -street, - -“Mr. Graham himself is coming, I see. I think, Rose, you had best give -your place to him.” - -Rose, who was fond of adventures, wanted sadly to go with Annie, but -George, when he came up, seemed so concerned, and asked so many -questions, that she deemed it best to leave it for his wife to make the -necessary explanations, merely saying, as she stepped upon the walk, - -“I am so sorry, Mr. Graham; I really did not mean anything wrong in -saying I knew you’d be shot, for you are so——” - -“Rose, your dress is rubbing the wheel,” interrupted Mr. Mather, by way -of diverting Rose from repeating the act for which she was expressing -sorrow. - -“No, it ain’t rubbing the wheel, either. It isn’t any where near it,” -said Rose, wondering what Will could mean; while George, taking a seat -by Annie, smiled at what he saw to be a ruse. - -Bent upon reconciliation, Rose pressed up to the carriage, and said to -Annie, “You _won’t_ be angry at me always, will you? I shouldn’t have -thought of it, only he does look so——” - -“Go on, Jake,” Mr. Mather called out, cutting short Rose’s speech, and -the next moment Annie was driving down the street in Rose Mather’s -carriage, and behind the iron greys, an honor she had never dreamed in -store for her when she saw the stylish turnout passing the door of her -cottage in the Hollow. - - - - - CHAPTER III. - THE DEPARTURE. - - -The 13th Regiment was ordered to Elmira, and the day had arrived for the -departure of the volunteers. Bright was the sun, and cloudless the sky -which shone on Rockland, that spring day; but cloudless sky nor warm -spring sun could comfort the hearts about to part with their treasures, -some forever, and some to meet again, but when, or where, or how, none -could tell save Him who holds the secrets of the future. - -There were mothers who had never felt a pang so keen or a pain so sore, -as when with hearts too full of anguish for the dry, red eyes to weep, -they watched their sons pass from the threshold of the door, and knew -that when the golden sunlight, falling so brightly around them, was -purple in the west, they would look in vain for that returning step, and -listen in vain for tones which were the first, perhaps, to stir the deep -fountains of maternal love. Fathers, too, were there, with heads bent -down to hide the tears they deemed it weak to shed, as they gave the -farewell blessing to their boy, praying that God might be over and -around him, both when the deafening battle roar was sounding in his ear, -and when in the stilly night he wrapped his blanket about him, and laid -him down to rest, sometimes with the southern star shining upon him, and -sometimes with the southern rain falling on his unsheltered head, for -all these vicissitudes must come to a soldier on the field. Wives and -sisters, too, there were, who shuddered as they thought how the dear -ones to whom they said good-bye, would miss the comforts they were -leaving, miss the downy pillow, the soft, warm bed made with loving -hands, and the luxuries of home never prized one half so much as now, -when they were to be exchanged for a life within the camp. And there -were maidens, from whose cheeks the roses faded, as they gave the -parting kiss, and promised to be faithful, even though the manly form -the lover bore away should come back to them all maimed and crushed and -crippled with the toil of war. Far better so than not to come at all. At -least so Annie Graham thought, as, winding her arms around her husband’s -neck, she whispered to him: - -“If the body you bring back has my George’s heart within it, I shall -love you just the same as I do now,” and with her fair head lying on his -bosom, Annie wept piteously. - -Not till then had she realized what it was to let him go. She had become -somewhat accustomed to thinking of it,—accustomed to seeing him pass in -and out, dressed in his stylish uniform, which made him look so -handsome, and then she had hoped the regiment would not be ordered for a -long, long time, never perhaps; but now that dream was over; the dreaded -hour had come, and for a moment Annie felt herself too weak to meet it. -Through the livelong night she had prayed, or if perchance sleep for a -moment shut the swollen lids, the lips had moved in prayer that her -husband might come back to her again, or failing to do so, that he might -grasp, even at the eleventh hour, the Christian’s faith, and so go to -the Christian’s home, where they would meet once more. She had given him -her little Bible, all pencil-marked and worn with daily usage,—the one -she read when first the spirit taught her the meaning of its great -mysteries,—and George had promised he would read it every day,—had said -that when he went to battle he would place it next his heart, a talisman -to shield him from the bullets of the foe. And Annie, smiling through -her tears, pointed him again to the only One who could stand between him -and death, asking that when he was far away, he would remember what she -said, and pray to the God she honored. - -“It’s time, now, darling,” he said, at last, as he heard in the distance -the beat of the drum. - -But the clinging arms refused to leave his neck, and the quivering lips -pressed so constantly to his, murmured: - -“Wait a little minute more. ’Tis the last, you know.” - -Again the drum-beat was heard mingled with the shrill notes of the fife; -the soldiers were marching down the street, and he must go, but oh, who -can tell of the love, the pain, the grief, the tears mingled with that -parting,—or the agony it cost poor Annie to take her arms from off his -neck, to feel him putting her away, to hear him going from the room, -across the threshold, down the walk, through the gate, and know that he -was gone. - -As a child in peril instinctively turns to the mother who it knows has -never failed to succor, so Annie turned to God, and with a moaning cry -for help, sank on her knees just where George had left her. Burying her -face in the lounge she prayed that He who heareth even the raven’s cry, -would care for her husband, and bring him home again if that could be. -So absorbed was she as not to hear the gate’s sharp click, nor the -footstep coming up the walk. Impelled by something he could not resist, -George had paused just by the garden fence, and yielding to the impulse -which said he must see Annie’s face once more, he stole softly to the -open door, and stood gazing at her as she knelt, her hands clasped -together, and her face hidden from his view, as she prayed for him. - -“Will the kind Father keep my George from peril if it can be, but -if,—oh, God, how can I say it?—if he must die, teach him the road to -Heaven.” - -That was what she said, and George, listening to her, felt as if it were -an angel’s presence in which he stood. He could not disturb her. She was -in safer hands than his, and he would rather leave her thus,—would -rather think of her when far away, just as he saw her last, kneeling in -her desolation and praying for him. - -“It will help to make me a better man,” he said, and brushing aside the -great tears swimming in his eyes, he left his angel Annie, and went on -his way to battle. - - * * * * * - -Just off from Rockland’s main street, and in a cottage more humble than -that of George Graham, the sun shone on another parting,—on Widow Simms -giving up her boys, and straining every nerve to look composed, and keep -back the maternal love throbbing so madly at her heart. Rigid as if cut -in stone were the lines upon her forehead and around her mouth, as she -bustled about, doing everything exactly as it should be done, and coming -often to where Isaac sat trying to look unconcerned and whistling -“Dixie” as he pulled on the soft, warm pair of socks she had sat up -nights to knit him. Eli and John had some too, snugly tucked away in -their bundle, but Isaac’s were different. She had ravelled her own -lamb’s wool stockings for the material composing his, for Isaac’s feet -were tender; there were marks of chilblains on them; they would become -sore and swollen from the weary march, and his mother would not be there -with soothing lint and ointment made from the blue poke-berries. Great -pains had the widow taken with her breakfast that morning, preparing -each son’s favorite dish and bringing out the six china cups and damask -cloth, part of her grandmother’s bridal dower. It was a very tempting -table, and John and Eli tried to eat, exchanging meaning smiles when -they saw their mother put in Isaac’s cup the biggest lump of sugar, and -the largest share of cream. They did not care,—for they too loved the -fair-haired, smooth-faced boy sipping the yellow coffee he could not -drink for the mysterious bunches rising so fast in his throat. The -breakfast was over now. Isaac was trying on his socks, while Eli and -John, knowing their mother would rather be alone when she said good-bye -to her baby, prepared to start, talking quite loud, and keeping up stout -courage till the last moment came, when both the tall, six-foot young -men put their arms around the widow’s neck, and faltered a faint -“Good-bye, mother, good-bye.” - -There were no tears in the mother’s eyes, nor in the sons’, but in the -breast of each there was a whirlpool of raging waters, hurting far more -than if they had been suffered to overflow in torrents. Eli was the -first to go, for John lingered a moment. There was something he would -say, something which made him blush and stammer. - -“Mother,” he began, “I saw Susan last night. We went to Squire Harding’s -together; and,—and,—well, ’taint no use opposing it now,—Susan and I are -one; and if I shouldn’t come back, be good to her, for my sake. Susan’s -a nice girl, mother,” and on the brown, bearded cheek, there was a tear, -wrung out by thoughts of only last night’s bride, Susan Ruggles, whose -family the widow did not like, and had set herself against. - -There was no help now, and a sudden start was all the widow’s answer. -She was not angry, John knew; and satisfied with this, he joined his -brother in the yard, where he was cutting his name upon the beech tree. -Thrice the widow called them back, failing each time to remember what -she wanted to say. “It was something, sure,” and the hard hands worked -nervously, twisting up the gingham apron into a roll, smoothing it out -again and working at the strings, until Eli and John passed from the -yard, and left her standing there, watching them as they walked down the -road. They were a grand-looking couple, she thought, as she saw how well -they kept step. They were to march together to the depot, she knew, and -nobody in town could turn out a finer span, but who would go with -Isaac?—“Stub,” his brothers called him. She hoped it might be Judge -Warner’s son,—it would be such an honor; and that brought her back to -the fact that Isaac was waiting for her inside; that the hardest part of -all was yet to come, the bidding him good-bye. He was not in the chair -where she had left him sitting, but was standing by the window, and -raising often to his eyes his cotton handkerchief. He heard his mother -come in, and turning toward her, said, with a sobbing laugh: - -“I wish the plaguy thing was over.” - -She thought he meant the war, and answered that “it would be in a few -months, perhaps.” - -“I don’t mean that, I mean the telling you good-bye. Mother, oh, -mother!” and the warm-hearted boy clasped his mother to his bosom, -crying like a child; “if I’ve ever been mean to you,” he said, his voice -choked with tears—“if I’ve ever been mean to you, or done a hateful -thing you’ll forget it when I’m gone? I never meant to be bad and the -time I made that face, and called you an old fool, when I was a little -boy, you don’t know how sorry I felt, nor how long I cried in the -trundle-bed after you were asleep. You’ll forget it, won’t you, when I -am gone, never to come back, maybe? Will you, mother, say?” - -Would she? Could she remember aught against her youngest born, save that -he had ever been to her the best, the dearest, most obedient child in -the world? No, she could not, and so she told him, caressing his light -brown hair and showering upon it the kisses which the compressed lips -could no longer restrain. The fountain of love was broken, and the -widow’s tears dropped like rain on the upturned face of her boy. - -Suddenly there came to their ears the same drum-beat which had sounded -so like a funeral knell to Annie Graham. Isaac must go, but not till one -act more was done. - -“Mother,” he whispered, half hesitatingly, “it will make me a better -soldier if you say the Lord’s Prayer with me just as you used to do, -with your hand upon my head. I’ll kneel down, if you like,” and the boy -of eighteen, wearing a soldier’s dress, _did_ kneel down, nor felt shame -as the shaky hand rested once more on his bowed head, while his mother -said with him the prayer learned years ago, kneeling as he knelt now. - -Surely to the angels looking on there was charge given concerning that -young boy,—charge to see that no murderous bullet came near him, even -though they should fall round him thick and fast as summer hail. It -would seem that some such thought as this intruded itself Upon the Widow -Simms, for where the swelling pain had been there came a gentle peace. -God would care for Isaac. He would send him home in safety, and so the -bitterness of that parting was more than half taken away. - -Again the drum beat just as Annie heard it. Another pressure of the -hand, another burning kiss, another “good-bye, mother, don’t fret too -much about us,” and then the last of the widow’s boys was gone. - -Turn we now to the shanty-like building down by the mill, where the -mother of Harry and Bill rocked to and fro upon the unmade bed, and rent -the air with her dismal howls, hoping thus to win at least one tender -word from the two youths, voraciously devouring the breakfast she, like -Widow Simms, had been at so much pains to prepare, watching even through -her tears to see “if they wan’t going to leave her one atom of the steak -she had spent her yesterday’s earnings to buy.” - -No they didn’t. _Harry_ took the last piece, growling angrily at Bill, -who, kinder hearted than his brother, suggested that “_Hal_ shouldn’t be -a pig, but leave something for the old woman.” - -“Leave it yourself,” was Harry’s gruff response, and turning to his -mother, he told her “not to make a fool of herself, when she knew she -was glad to be rid of them. At any rate, if she were not, the whole -village were;” adding, by way of consolation, that “he should probably -end his days in State Prison if he staid at home, and he had better be -shot in a fair fight, as there was some credit in that.” - -Around Harry Baker’s childhood there clustered no remembrance of prayers -said at the mother’s knee, or of Bible stories told in the dusky -twilight, and though reared in New England, within sight of the church -spire, he had rarely been inside the house of God, and this it was which -made the difference between that scene and the one transpiring in the -house of Widow Simms. All the animal passions in Harry Baker’s case were -brought to full perfection, unsubdued by any softer influence, and -rising from the table, after having filled his stomach almost to -bursting, he swaggered across the room, and opening his bundle began to -comment upon the different articles, he having been too drunk to notice -them when given to him on the previous night. - -“What in thunder is this for?” he exclaimed, holding up the calico -housewife, and letting buttons, scissors and thread drop upon the floor. -“Plaguy pretty implements of war, these!” and he began to enumerate the -articles. “Fine tooth comb, black as the ace of spades. Good enough idea -that; hain’t used one since I can remember;” and he passed it through -his shaggy hair, whose appearance fully verified the truth of his -assertion. “Half a paper of pins. Why didn’t the stingy critters give us -more? An old brass thimble, too. Here, mother, I’ll give you that to -remember me by,” and he tossed it into her lap. The drawers then took -his attention; the identical pair Rose Mather made, and though they were -better than any he had ever worn, he laughed at them derisively. Trying -them on he succeeded in making quite a long rip in one of the seams, for -Rose’s stitches were none the shortest. Then, with a flourish, he kicked -them off, uttering an oath as he felt a sharp scratch from the needle -which Rose had broken, and failed to extricate. The woolen shirt came -next, but any remarks he might have made upon that, were prevented by -his catching sight of the _little brown book_ which lay at the bottom of -the bundle. - -“Hurrah, Bill, if here ain’t a Testament, with ‘Harry Baker’ inside. -Rich, by George! Wonder if they s’posed I’d read it. Let us see what it -says. ‘Come unto me all ye that labor.’ Mother, that means _you_, -scrubbin’ and workin’, you know. Keep the pesky thing. I enlisted to -lick the Southerners, not to sing _himes_ and psalms!” and he threw the -sacred book across the floor, just as the first drum-beat sounded. -“That’s the signal,” he exclaimed, and hastily rolling up the shirt and -drawers, he started for the door, carelessly saying, “Come Bill take -your Testament and come along. Good-bye, old lady. You needn’t wear -black if I’m killed. ’Twon’t pay, I guess.” - -“Oh, Harry, Harry, wait. Wait, Billy boy, do wait. Give your old marm -one kiss,” and the poor woman tottered toward Harry, who savagely -repulsed her, saying “he wan’t going to have her slobberin’ over him.” - -“You, Billy, then, you’ll let me kiss you, won’t you?” and she turned -toward Bill, who hesitated a moment, for Harry was in the way. - -Bill was afraid of Harry’s jeers, and so he, too, refused, while the -wailing cry rose louder. - -“Oh, Billy, do just once, and I’ve been so good to you! Just once, do, -Billy.” - -“Shan’t do it,” was Bill’s reply, as he followed Harry, who, as a -farewell parting had hurled a stone at a cow across the street, set the -dog on his mother’s kitten, stepped on the old cat’s tail, and then left -the yard, slamming after him the rickety gate his mother had tried in -vain to have him fix before he went. - -Billy, however, waited. There was something more human in his nature -than in his brother’s. He had not thrown his Testament away, and the -sight of it in his bundle had touched a tender chord, making him half -resolve to read it. Watching his brother till he was out of sight, he -went back to where his mother sat, moaning dolefully, - -“Oh that I should raise sich boys!—that I should raise sich boys!” - -“Mother,” he said, and Mrs. Baker’s heart fairly leaped at the sound, -for there was genuine sympathy in the tone. “Mother, now that Hal has -gone, I don’t mind kissin’ you, or lettin’ you kiss me, if you want to.” - -The doleful moan was a perfect scream as the shrivelled arms clasped -Bill, while the joyful mother kissed the rough but not ill-humored face. - -“There, now, don’t screech so like an owl,” he said, releasing himself -from her, and adding, as he glanced at a huge silver watch, won by -gambling, “Maybe seein’ I’ve a few minutes to spare, I’ll drive a nail -or so into that confounded gate, and I dun know, but while I’m about it, -I’ll split you an armful of wood. I had or’to have cut up the hull on’t -I s’pose, but when Hal is ’round I can’t do nothin’.” - -It was strange how many little things Bill did do in these few minutes -he had to spare—things which added greatly to his mother’s comfort, and -saved her several shillings, beside making a soft warm spot in a heart -which knew not many such. Glancing at the tall clock brought from New -England, when Mrs. Baker first moved to Rockland, Bill remarked: - -“The darned thing has stopped agin. I or’to have iled it, I s’pose. It -would kind of been company for you, hearin’ it tick. I _vum_, if I -hain’t a mind to give you this old turnep,” and again he drew out the -silver watch. “You’ll lay abed all day without no time. Like enough I’ll -nab one from some tarnal rebel,—who knows?” and with his favorite -expression, “_Nuff said_,” Bill laid the watch upon the table, his -mother moaning all the while, - -“Billy boy, Billy boy, I never sot so much store by you before. How can -I let you go? Stay, Billy, do, or else run away the first chance you -git. Will you, Billy boy?” - -“Not by a jug full!” was the emphatic response. “I ain’t none of that -kind. I’ll be shot like a dog before I’ll run. The Baker name shall -never be disgraced by my desertin’. It’s more like Hal to do that; but -don’t howl so. I’m kinder puttin’ on the tender, you know, ‘cause I’m -goin’ away. I should be ugly as ever if I’s to stay to hum. So stop your -snivelin’,” and having driven the last nail into a broken chair, Bill -gathered up his bundle, and with the single remark, “Nuff said,” darted -through the open door, and was off ere his mother fairly comprehended -it. - -There was a great crowd out that morning to see the company off. -Fathers, mothers, wives, and sisters,—those who had friends in the -company and those who had none. The Mather carriage was there, and from -its window Rose’s childish face looked out, now irradiated with smiles -as its owner bowed to some acquaintance, and again shadowed with -sympathy as the cries of some bereaved one were heard amid the throng. - -Widow Simms, too, was there, drawn thither by a desire to see if Isaac -_did_ march with Charlie Warner, as she hoped he would, notwithstanding -that he had told her he was probably too short. She didn’t believe -that,—he was taller than he looked, and inasmuch as Charlie was the most -aristocratic of the company, she did hope Isaac would go with him. So -there she stood waiting, not far from Mrs. Baker, who had dried her -eyes, and come for a last look at her boys. - -Onward the soldiers came, slowly, steadily onward, the regular tread of -their feet and the measured beat of the drum making solemn music as they -came, and sending a chill to many a heart; for ’twas no gala day, no -Fourth of July, no old-fashioned general training, they were there to -celebrate. Every drum-beat was a note of war, and they who kept time to -it were going forth to battle. Onward, onward still they came, George -Graham’s splendid figure towering above the rest, and eliciting more -than one flattering compliment from the lookers on. - -There were John and Eli, side by side,—John eagerly scanning the female -forms which lined the walk for a sight of last night’s bride, and Eli -looking for his mother, if perchance she should be there. She was there, -and what to John was better yet, she stood with her hand on _Susan’s_ -shoulder, showing that thus early she was trying to mother her. - -“That’s him,—that’s John,” and Susan’s voice faltered as she pointed him -out to the widow, whose heart gave one great spasm of pain as she saw -him, and then grew suddenly still with wrath and indignation; for alas, -her Isaac, who was to have gone with Charlie Warner, son of Rockland’s -Judge, was marching with _William Baker_,—_Bill_,—who had been to the -workhouse twice, to say nothing of the times he had stolen her -rare-ripes and early melons! She had not looked for anything like this, -and could scarcely believe her senses. Yet there they were, right before -her eyes, Isaac and Bill, the former hoping his mother would not see -him, and the latter trying not to see his mother, who was quite as much -delighted to see him with Isaac Simms as the widow would have been had -Isaac been with Charlie Warner, just in front. - -Mrs. Baker had followed her sons to the hall, had heard the reasons for -the captain’s decision, and she called out in a loud, exultant tone, - -“Miss Simms! Miss Simms do you see your Ike with Billy? Cap’n Johnson -would have put him with Charlie Warner if he hadn’t fell short two -inches. Look kinder nice together, don’t they? only Ike stoops a trifle, -’pears to me.” - -It didn’t “’pear” so to Widow Simms, but then her eyes wore blurred so -that she could not see distinctly, for, strange to say, the sharpest -pang of all was the knowing that Isaac, so pure, so gentle, so -girl-like, must be a companion for reckless, swearing, gambling Bill, -and for a time she could not quite forgive her youngest born that he had -not been just two inches taller. Blind, ignorant Widow Simms, the hour -will come when, on her bended knees, she’ll thank the over-ruling hand -which kept her boy from growing _just two inches taller_! - -Onward, still onward they moved, until they turned the corner and paused -before the depot. - -A little apart from the rest George Graham stood, wishing that the cars -would come, and building airy-castles of what would be when he returned, -covered with laurels, as he was sure to do if only opportunities were -offered. He would distinguish himself, he thought, with many a brave -deed, so that the papers would talk of him as a gallant hero, and when -he came back to Rockland, the people would come out to meet him, a -denser crowd than was assembled now. Their faces would not then be so -sad, for they would come to do him honor, and in fancy he heard the -stirring notes of the martial music, and saw the smile of joy steal over -the weather-beaten features of the leader of the band, the man with the -jammed white hat, as he fifed that welcome home. There would be -carriages there, too, more than now, and maybe there would be _a -carriage expressly for him_, and the dreamer saw the long procession -moving down the street,—saw the little boys on the walk, the women at -the doors, and heard the peal of the village bells. It would be grand, -he thought, if he could have a crown just as the Roman victors used to -do,—it would please Annie so much to see him thus triumphant. _She_ -would not come up to the depot, he knew. She would rather be alone when -she met him, while he, too, would prefer that all those people should -not be looking on when he kissed his little wife. Just then the train -appeared, and the confusion became greater as the crowd drew nearer -together, and the man with the jammed white hat who was to fife George’s -welcome home, redoubled his exertions, and tried his best to drown his -own emotions in the harsh sounds he made. But above the fife’s shrill -scream, above the bass drum’s beat, and above the engine’s hiss, was -heard the sound of wailing, as one by one the Rockland volunteers -stepped aboard the train. - -Bill was the last to go, for as a parting act he had fired the old -cannon, which almost from time immemorial had heralded to Rockland’s -sleeping citizens that twelve o’clock had struck and it was Independence -day. Some said it was no good omen that the worn-out gun burst in twain -from the heavy charge with which Bill had seen fit to load it, but Bill -cared not for omens, and with three cheers and a _tiger_ for Uncle Sam, -he jumped upon the platform just as the final all aboard was shouted. - -There was a ringing of the bell, a sudden puffing of the engine, a -straining of machinery, a sweeping backward of the wreaths of smoke, and -then, where so lately one hundred soldiers had been, there was nothing -left save an open space of frozen ground and iron rails, as cold and as -empty as the hearts of those who watched until the last curling ring of -vapor died amid the eastern woods, and then went sadly back to the homes -left so desolate. - - - - - CHAPTER IV. - WILL AND BROTHER TOM. - - -“A letter from brother Tom,—I am so glad. It’s an age since he wrote, -and I’ve been dying to hear from home. Dear old Tom!” and dropping -parasol in one place, gloves in another, and shawl in another, Rose -Mather, who had just come in from shopping, seized the letter her -husband handed her, and seating herself upon an ottoman near the window, -began to read without observing that it was dated at _Washington_ -instead of Boston, as usual. - -Gradually, however, there came a shadow over her face, and her husband -saw the tears gathering slowly in her eyes, and dropping upon the letter -she had been “dying to get.” - -“What is it, Rose?” Mr. Mather asked, as a sob met his ear. - -“Oh, Will,” and Rose cried outright, “I didn’t believe Tom would do -that! I thought people like him never went to the war. I ’most know -he’ll be killed. Oh, dear, dear. What shall I do?” and Rose hid her face -in the lap of her husband, who fondly caressed her chestnut hair as he -replied, - -“You’ll bear it like a brave New England woman. We need just such men as -your brother Tom, and I never respected him one half so much as now that -he has shown how truly noble he is. He was greatly opposed to Lincoln, -you know, and worked hard to defeat him; but now that our country is in -danger, he, like a true patriot, has thrown aside all political feeling -and gone to the rescue. I honor him for it, and may success attend him.” - -“Yes,” interrupted Rose, as a new idea struck her, “but what will his -Southern friends think of him? and he has got a heap of them. There are -the Birneys and Franklins from New Orleans, the Richardsons in Mobile, -and those nice people in Charleston,—what will they say when they hear -he has taken up arms against them? and he always used to quarrel so with -those stiff Abolitionists in Boston, when they said the Southerners had -no right to their slaves. Tom insisted they had, and that the North was -meddling with what was none of its business, and now he’s turned -abolitionist, and joined too,—dear, dear.” - -Mr. Mather smiled at Rose’s reasoning, and after a moment, replied, “I -have no idea that Tom has changed his mind in the least with regard to -the negroes, or that he loves his Southern friends one whit the less -than when defending them from abuse. Negroes and Southern proclivities -have nothing to do with it. A blow has been struck at the very heart of -our Union, and Tom feels it his duty to resent it. It’s just like this: -suppose you, in a pet, were trying to scratch your mother’s eyes out, -and Tom should try to prevent it. Would you think him false to you, -because he took the part of his mother? Would you not rather respect him -far more than if he stood quietly by and saw you fight it out?” - -“It is not very likely I should try to scratch out mother’s eyes,” said -Rose, half laughing at her husband’s odd comparison, and adding, after a -moment, “I don’t see how folks can fight and love each other too.” - -Mr. Mather didn’t quite see it either, and without directly replying to -Rose, he asked, by way of diverting her mind from the subject of her -brother’s volunteering, if she noticed what Tom said about the Rockland -Company in general, and George Graham and Isaac Simms in particular? - -This reminded Rose of Annie, who had been ill most of the time since her -husband’s departure. - -“I meant to have called on Mrs. Graham right away,” she said. “The poor -creature has been so sick, they say, but would not let them send for -George, because it was his duty to stay where he was. I’d like to see -duty or anything else make me willing to part with you. I don’t believe -Mrs. Graham loves her husband as I do you, or she would never consent to -be left alone,” and Rose nestled closer to her husband, who could not -find courage to tell her what he meant to do when he handed her Tom’s -letter. It would be too much for her to bear at once, he thought, as he -saw how greatly she was pained because her brother had joined the army, -and was even then in Washington. - -To Rose it was some consolation that Tom was captain of his company, and -that his soldiers were taken from the finest families in Boston. This -was far better than if he had gone as a private, which of course he -would not do. He was too proud for that, and she could never have -forgiven him the disgrace. Still, viewed in any light, it was very sad, -for Tom had been to Rose more like a father than a brother. He was the -pride, the head of the Carleton family, upon whom herself and mother had -leaned, the one since the day of her widowhood, and the other since she -could remember. He it was who had petted and caressed, and spoilt her up -to the very hour when, at the altar, he had given her away to Will. He -it was, too, who had been the arbiter of all the childish differences -which had arisen between herself and _Jimmie_, teasing, naughty -_Jimmie_, wandering now no one knew where, if indeed he were alive. And -at the thought of Jimmie, with his saucy eyes and handsome face, her -tears flowed afresh. What if he were living and should join the army, -like Tom? It would be more than she could bear, and for a long time -after her husband left her, Rose sat weeping over the picture she drew -of both her brothers slain on some bloody battle-field. The shadow of -war was beginning to enfold her, and brought with it a new and strange -sympathy for those who, like herself, had brothers in the army. - -Again remembering Annie Graham, she sprang up, exclaiming to herself, - -“I’ll go this very afternoon. She’ll be so glad to know what Tom thinks -of George!” and ere long Rose was picking her way daintily through the -narrow street which led to the cottage in the Hollow. It was superior to -most of the dwellings upon that street, and Rose was struck at once with -the air of neatness and thrift apparent in everything around it, from -the nicely painted fence to the little garden with its plats of flowers -just budding into beauty. - -“They have seen better days, I am sure, or else Mrs. Graham’s social -position was above her husband’s,” was Rose’s mental comment, as she -lifted the gate latch and passed up the narrow walk, catching a glimpse, -through the open window, of a sweet, pale face, and of a thick stout -figure, flying through the opposite door, as if anxious to avoid being -seen. - -Poor Annie had been very sick, and more than once the physician who -attended her had suggested sending for her husband, but Annie, though -missing him sadly, and longing for him more than any one could guess, -always opposed it, begging of Widow Simms, who of her own accord went to -nurse her, not to write anything which would alarm him in the least. So -George, ever hopeful, ever looking on the sunny side, thought of his -blue-eyed wife as a little bit sick, and nervous it might be, but not -dangerous at all, and wrote to her kind, loving, cheering letters, which -did much to keep her courage from dying within her. Annie was better -now,—was just in that state of convalescence when she found it very hard -to lie all day long, watching Widow Simms as she bustled out and in, -setting the chairs in a row with their six backs square against the -wall, and their six fronts opposite the table, stand and bureau, also in -a row. She was just wishing some one would come, when the swinging of -the gate and the widow’s exclamation, “Oh, the land, if that stuck up -thing ain’t comin’,” announced the approach of Rose Mather. - -“I’ll make myself missin’, for mercy knows I don’t wan’t to hear none of -your _secession_ stuff. It fairly makes my blood bile!” was the widow’s -next comment; and gathering up her knitting she hurried into the -kitchen, leaving Annie to receive her visitor alone. - -Not waiting for her knock to be answered, Rose entered at the open door, -and advanced at once into the room where Annie was, her fair hair pushed -back from her forehead, her blue eyes unusually brilliant, and her face -scarcely less white than the pillow on which it lay. - -Rose had an eye for the beautiful, and after the first words of greeting -were over, she broke out in her impulsive way— - -“Why, Mrs. Graham, how handsome you are looking! just like the apple -blossoms. I wish your husband could see you now. I’m sure he wouldn’t -stay there another hour. I think it’s cruel in him, don’t you?” - -The tears came at once to Annie’s eyes, and her voice was very low as -she replied: - -“George does not know how sick I have been, neither do I wish to have -him. It would only make his burden heavier to bear, and I try to care -more for his comfort than my own.” - -This was a phase of unselfishness wholly new to Rose, and for an instant -she was silent, then remembering Tom’s letter, she seated herself upon -the foot of the bed, and throwing aside her bonnet, took the letter from -her pocket, telling Annie as she did so that she, too, was now -interested in the war, and in every one whose friends had gone. - -“I never knew how it felt before,” she said; “and I’ve made a heap of -silly speeches, I know. Don’t you remember that time in the Hall, when I -talked about your husband being shot? I am sorry, but I _do_ think he’s -more likely to be picked off than Tom, who is not nearly as tall. You -are faint, ain’t you?” she added, as she saw how deathly pale Annie -grew, while the drops of perspiration stood thickly about her lips. - -“Simpleton, simpleton!” muttered Widow Simms, listening through the -keyhole in the kitchen, while Annie whispered: - -“Please don’t talk that way, Mrs. Mather. I know George is very tall, -but unless God wills it otherwise, the bullets will pass by him as well -as others.” - -Rose saw she had done mischief again, by her thoughtless way of -speaking, and eager to repair the wrong, she bent over Annie and said: - -“I am sorry. I’m always doing something foolish. You are faint; shan’t I -tell the servant to bring you some water? She’s in the kitchen, I -suppose,” and ere Annie could explain, Rose had darted into the neat -little kitchen where Widow Simms was stooping over the stove and -kindling a fire, with which to make the evening tea. - -“Girl, girl, Mrs. Graham wants some water. Hurry and bring it quick, -will you?” - -Rose called out a little peremptorily, for there was something rather -suggestive of defiance in the square, straight back which never moved a -particle in answer to the command. - -“Deaf or hateful,” was Rose’s mental comment, and as it might possibly -be the former, she wished she knew the girl’s name, as that would be -more apt to attract her. “Most every Irish girl is Bridget,” she thought -to herself, “and I guess this one is. Any way she acts like the girl -that used to order mother out doors, so I’ll venture upon that name.” - -“Bridget, Bridget!” and this time the voice was decidedly authoritative -in its tone, but what more Rose might have added was cut short by the -widow, who dropped the griddle with a bang, and turning sharply round, -replied: - -“There’s no Bridget here, and if it’s me you mean, I am _Mrs. Joseph -Simms_!” - -Rose had good reason for remembering Mrs. Simms, and coloring crimson, -she tried to apologize: - -“I beg your pardon; I did not see your face. I supposed everybody kept a -girl; and your back looked like——” - -“Don’t make the matter any worse,” interrupted the widow, smiling in -spite of herself at Rose’s attempt to excuse her blunder. “You thought -from my dress that I was a hired girl, and so I was in my younger days, -and I don’t feel none the wus for it neither. Miss Graham’s faint, is -she? She’s had time to get over it, I think. Here’s the water,” and -filling a gourd shell she handed it to Rose, who, in her admiration of -the (to her) novel drinking cup, came near forgetting Annie. - -But Annie did not care, for the rencounter between the widow and Rose -had done her quite as much good as the water could, and Rose found her -laughing the first really hearty laugh she had enjoyed since George went -away. - -“It’s just like me,” Rose said, as she resumed her seat by Annie, -listening intently while she told how kind the Widow Simms had been, -coming every day to stay with her, and only leaving her at night because -Annie insisted that she should. - -“I like Mrs. Simms!” was Rose’s vehement exclamation, “and I am glad Tom -said what he did about Isaac, who used to saw our wood. I did not tell -you, did I? And there’s something real nice about your husband, too. I -mean to call her in while I read it,” and Rose ran out to the wood-shed, -where the widow was now splitting a pine board for kindling, the -newspaper she at first had used, having burned entirely out. - -Rose’s manner and voice were very conciliatory as she said: - -“Please, Mrs. Simms, come in and listen while I read what brother Tom -has written about Mr. Graham and your Isaac,—something perfectly -splendid. Tom has volunteered and gone to Washington, you know.” - -It was strange how those few words changed the widow’s opinion of Rose. -The fact that Thomas Carleton, whom the Rockland people fancied was a -Secessionist, had joined the Federal army, did much toward effecting -this change, but not so much as the fact that he had actually noticed -her boy, and spoken of him in a letter. - -“Miss Mather ain’t so bad after all,” she thought, and striking her axe -into the log, she followed Rose to the sitting-room, listening eagerly -while she read the few sentences pertaining to George and Isaac. They -were as follows: - -“By the way, Will, I find there’s a company here from Rockland. Fine -appearing fellows, too, most of them are, and under good discipline. I -am especially pleased with the second lieutenant. He’s a magnificent -looking man, and attracts attention wherever he goes.” - -“That’s George, you know,” and Rose, quite as much pleased as Annie -herself, nodded toward the latter, whose pale cheek flushed with pride -at hearing her husband thus spoken of by Rose Mather’s brother. - -“Yes, but Isaac,” interrupted the widow. “Whereabouts does he come in?” - -“Oh, pretty soon I’ll get to him. There’s more about George yet,” -answered Rose, as she resumed her reading. - -“I had the pleasure of talking with him yesterday, and found him very -intelligent and sensible. If we had more men like him, success would be -sure and speedy. He has about him a great deal of fun and humor, which -go far toward keeping up the spirits of his company, and some of the -poor fellows need it sadly. There’s a young boy in the ranks, Isaac -Simms, who interests me greatly.” - -“Oh-h!” and the widow drew a long sigh as Rose continued: - -“I wonder he was ever suffered to come, he seems so young, so girl-like -and so gentle. Still he does a great deal of good, Lieut. Graham tells -me, by visiting the sick and sharing with them any delicacy he happens -to have. He’s rather homesick, I imagine, for when I asked him if he had -a mother, his chin quivered in a moment, and I saw the tears standing in -his eyes. Poor boy, I can’t account for the interest I feel in him. -Heaven grant that if we come to open fight he may not fall a victim.” - -“Yes, yes, my boy, my darling boy,” and burying her face in her hard -hands, the widow sobbed aloud. “I thank you, Miss Mather, for reading me -that,” she said, “and I thank your brother for writing it. Tell him so -will you. Tell him I’m nothing but a cross, sour-grained, snappish old -woman, but I have a mother’s heart, and I bless him for speaking so -kindly of my boy.” - -Rose’s tears fell fast as she folded up the letter, and Annie’s kept -company with them. There was a bond of sympathy now between the three, -as they talked together of the soldiers, Mrs. Simms and Annie devising -various methods by which they might be benefited, and Rose wishing she, -too, could do something for them. - -“But I can’t,” she said, despairingly. “I never did anybody any real -good in all my life,—only bothered them,” and Rose sighed as she thought -how useless and aimless was her present mode of life. - -“You’ll learn by and by,” said the widow, in a tone unusually soft for -her; then, as if the sock she held in her lap had suggested the idea, -she continued, “Can you knit?” - -Rose shook her head. - -“Nor your mother, neither?” - -Again Rose shook her head, feeling quite ashamed that she should lack -this accomplishment. - -“Well,” the widow went on, “’taint much use to learn now. ’Twould take a -year to git one stocking done, but if when winter comes, that brother of -yours wants socks and mittens, or the like of that, tell him I’ll knit -’em for him.” - -“Oh, you are so kind!” cried Rose, thinking to herself how she’d send -Widow Simms some pineapple preserves, such as she had with dessert that -day. - -They grew to liking each other very fast after this, and Rose staid -until the little round table was arranged for tea and rolled to Annie’s -bedside. There was no plate for Rose, the widow having deemed it -preposterous that she should stay, but the table looked so cosy, with -its tiny black teapot, and its nicely buttered toast, that Rose invited -herself, with such a pretty, patronizing way, that the widow failed to -see the condescension it implied. It did not, however, escape Annie’s -observation, but she could not feel angry with the little lady, touching -her bone-handled knife as if she were afraid of it, and looking round in -quest of the napkin she failed to find, for Widow Simms had banished -napkins from the table as superfluous articles, which answered no -earthly purpose, save the putting an extra four cents into the pocket of -the washerwoman, Harry Baker’s mother. - -It was growing late, and the sunset shadows were already creeping into -the Hollow when Rose bade Annie good-bye, promising to come again ere -long, and wondering, as she took her homeward way, whence came the calm, -quiet peace which made Annie Graham so happy, even though her husband -were far away in the midst of danger and death. Rose had heard that -Annie was a Christian, and so were many others whom she knew, but they -were much like herself,—good, well-meaning people, amiable, and -submissive when everything went to suit them, but let their husbands -once join the army and they would make quite as much fuss as she, who -did not profess to be anything. And then, for the first time in her -life, Rose wished she, too, could learn from Annie’s teacher, and so -have something to sustain her in case her husband should go. But he -wouldn’t go,—and if he did, all the religion in the world could not make -her resigned,—and the tears sprang to Rose’s eyes as she hurried up the -handsome walk to the piazza, where _Will_ sat smoking his cigar in the -hazy twilight. She told him where she had been, and then sitting upon -his knee told him of Annie, wishing she could be like her, and asking if -he did not wish so too. - -Will made no direct reply. His thoughts were evidently elsewhere, and -after a few minutes he said, hesitatingly: - -“Would it break my darling’s heart if I should join Tom at Washington?” - -There was a cry of horror, and Rose hid her face in her husband’s bosom. - -“Oh, Will, Will, you shan’t, you can’t, you mustn’t and won’t! I didn’t -know you ever thought of such a cruel thing. Don’t you love me any more? -I’ll try to do better, I certainly will!” and Rose nestled closer to -him, holding his hands just as Annie Graham had once held her husband’s. - -“You could not be much better, neither could I love you more than I do -now, Rosa, darling,” Mr. Mather replied, kissing her childish brow. -“But, Rosa, be reasonable once, and listen while I tell you how, ever -since the fall of Sumter, I have thought the time would come, when I -should be needed, resolving, too, that when it came, it should not find -me a second _Sardanapalus_!” - -The sudden lifting of Rose’s head, and her look of perplexed inquiry, -showed that notwithstanding the fanciful ornament styled a _Diploma_ -lying in her writing-desk, Sardanapalus had not the honor of being -numbered among her acquaintances. But her heart was too full to ask an -explanation, and her husband continued: - -“Besides that, there was a mutual understanding between Tom and myself, -that if one went the other would, and he has gone,—nobly laying aside -all the party prejudice which for a time influenced his conduct. Our -country needs more men.” - -“Yes, yes,” gasped Rose; “but more have gone. There’s scarcely a boy -left in town, and it’s just so every where.” - -Mr. Mather smiled as he replied: - -“I know the boys have gone,—boys whose fair, beardless faces should put -to shame a strong, full-grown man like me. And another class, too, have -gone, our laboring young men, leaving behind them poverty and little -helpless children, whereas I have nothing of that kind for an excuse.” - -“Oh, I wish I had a dozen children, if that would keep you!” cried Rose, -the insane idea flashing upon her that she would at once adopt a score -or more of those she had seen playing in the muddy Hollow that -afternoon. - -Mr. Mather smiled, and continued: - -“Suppose you try and accustom yourself to the idea of living a while -without me. I shall not die until my appointed time, and shall -undoubtedly come back again. Don’t you see?” - -No, Rose didn’t. Her heart was too full of pain to see how going to war -was just as sure a method of prolonging one’s life as staying at home, -and she sobbed passionately, one moment accusing her husband of not -loving her as he used to, and the next begging of him to abandon his -wild project. - -Mr. Mather was a man of firm decision, and long before he broached the -subject to his wife, his mind had been made up that his country called -for _him_,—not for somebody else,—but for _him_ personally; that if the -rebellion were to be crushed out, men of wealth and influence must help -to crush it, not alone by remaining at home and urging others on, though -this were an important part, but by actually joining in the combat, and -by their presence cheering and inspiring others. And Mr. Mather was -going, too,—had, in fact, already made arrangements to that effect, and -neither the tears nor entreaties of his young wife could avail to change -his purpose. But he did not tell her so that night; he would rather come -to it gradually, taking a different course from that which George Graham -had pursued, for where George had left the decision wholly to his wife, -Mr. Mather had taken it wholly upon himself, making it first and telling -Rose afterwards. It was better so, he thought, and having said all to -her that he wished to say on that occasion, he tried to divert her mind -into another channel. But Rose was not to be diverted. It had come upon -her like a thunderbolt,—the thing she so much dreaded,—and she wept -bitterly, seeing in the future, which only a few hours before looked so -bright and joyous, nothing but impenetrable gloom, for she could read -her husband tolerably well, and she intuitively felt that she had lost -him,—that he was going from her, never to come back, she knew. She -should be a widow before she was nineteen, and the host of summer -dresses she meant to buy when she went back to Boston, changed into a -widow’s sombre weeds, as Rose saw herself arrayed in the habiliments of -mourning. What a fright she looked to herself in the widow’s cap, with -which her vivid imagination disfigured her chestnut hair, and she -shuddered afresh as she thought how hideous she was in black. - -Poor, simple little Rose! And yet we say again Rose was not a _fool_, -nor yet an unnatural character. There are many, many like her, some who -will recognize themselves in this story and more who will not. Gay, -impulsive, pleasure-seeking creatures, whom fashionable education and -too indulgent parents have done their utmost to spoil, but who still -possess many traits of excellence, needing only adverse circumstances to -mould and hammer them into the genuine coin of true-hearted womanhood. -Such an one was Rose. Reared by a fond mother, petted by an older -brother, and teased by a younger, flattered by friend and foe, and -latterly caressed and worshiped by a husband, Rose had come to think far -too much of her own importance as Mrs. Rose Mather,—_née_ Miss Rose -Carleton, of Boston, an acknowledged belle, and leader of the _ton_. - -There was a wide difference between Rose and Annie Graham, for while the -latter, in her sweet unselfishness, thought only of her husband’s -welfare, both here and hereafter, Rose’s first impulse was a dread -shrinking from being alone, and her second a terror lest the years of -her youth, now spread out so invitingly before her, should be passed in -secluded widowhood, with nothing from the gay world without wherewith to -feed her vanity and love for admiration. Still, beneath Rose’s light -exterior there was hidden a mine of tenderness and love, a heart which, -when roused to action, was capable of greater, more heroic deeds, than -would at first seem possible. And that heart was rousing, too,—was -gradually waking into life; but not all at once, and the tears which -Rose shed the whole night through were wrung out more from selfishness, -perhaps, than from any higher feeling. It would be so stupid living -there alone in Rockland. If she could only go to Washington with Will it -would not be half so bad, but she could not, for she waked Will up from -a sound sleep to ask him if she might, and he had answered “_No_,” -falling away again to sleep, and leaving Rose to wakefulness and tears, -unmingled with any prayer that the cloud gathering so fast around her -might sometime break in blessings on her head. - -It was scarcely light next morning when Rose, determining to prevail, -redoubled her entreaties for her husband to abandon the decision be now -candidly acknowledged, but she could not. He was going to the war, and -going as a private. Rose almost fainted when he told her this, and for a -time refused to be comforted. She might learn to bear it, she said, if -he were an officer, but to go as a common soldier, like those she worked -for at the Hall, was more than she could bear. - -It was in vain that Mr. Mather told her how only a few could be -officers, and that he was content to serve his country in any capacity, -leaving the more lucrative situations to those who needed them more. He -did not tell her he had declined a post of honor, for the sake of one -who seemed to him more worthy of it. He would rather this should reach -her from some other source, and ere the day was over it did, for in a -small town like Rockland it did not take long for every other one to -know that William Mather had enlisted as a private soldier, when he -might have been _Colonel_ of a regiment, had he not given place to -another because that other had depending on him a bed-ridden mother, a -crazy wife, and six little helpless children. - -How fast William Mather rose in the estimation of those who, never -having known him intimately, had looked upon him as a cold, haughty man, -whose loyalty was somewhat doubtful, and how proud Rose felt, even in -the midst of her tears, as she heard on every side her husband’s praise. -Even the Widow Simms ventured to the Mather mansion, telling her how -glad she was, and offering to do what she could for the volunteer, while -Annie, unable to do anything for herself, could only pray that God would -bring Mr. Mather back safely to the child-wife, who was so bowed down -with grief. How Annie longed to see her,—and, if possible, impart to her -some portion of the hopeful trust which kept her own soul from fainting -beneath its burden of anxious uncertainty. But the days passed on, and -Rose came no more to the cottage in the Hollow. Love for her husband had -triumphed over every other feeling, and rousing from her state of -inertness, she busied herself in doing, or rather trying to do, a -thousand little things which she fancied might add to _Willie’s_ -comfort. She called him _Willie_ now, as if that name were dearer, -tenderer than _Will_, and the strong man, every time he heard it, felt a -sore pang,—there was something so plaintive in the tone, as if she were -speaking of the dead. - -It was a most beautiful summer day, when at last he left her, and Rose’s -heart was well nigh bursting with its load of pain. It was all in vain -that she said her usual form of prayer, never more meaningless than now -when her thoughts were so wholly absorbed with something else. She did -not pray in faith, but because it was a habit of her childhood, a -something she rarely omitted, unless in too great a hurry. No wonder -then that she rose up from her devotion quite as grief-stricken as when -she first knelt down. God does not often answer what is mere lip -service, and Rose was yet a stranger to the prayer which stirs the heart -and carries power with it. The parting was terrible, and Mr. Mather more -than half repented when he saw how tightly she clung to his neck, -begging him to take her with him, or at least to send for her very soon. - -“What shall I do when you are gone? What can I do?” she sobbed, and her -husband answered: - -“You can work for me, darling,—work for all the soldiers. It will help -divert your mind.” - -“I can’t I can’t,” was Rose’s answer. “I don’t know how to work. Oh, -Willie, Willie! I wish there wasn’t any war. - -Willie wished so too, but there was no time now for regrets, for a -rumbling in the distance and a rising wreath of smoke on the western -plain warned him not to tarry longer if he would go that day. One more -burning kiss,—one more fond pressure of the wife he loved so much,—a few -more whispered words of hope, and then another Rockland volunteer had -gone. Gone without daring to look backward to the little form lying just -the same as he had put it from him, and yet not just the same. He had -felt it quivering with anguish when he took his arms away, but the -trembling, quivering motion was over now, and the form he had caressed -lay motionless and still, all unconscious of the dreary pain throbbing -in the heart, and all unmindful of the loud hurrah which greeted William -Mather, as he stepped upon the platform of the car and waved his hat to -those assembled there to see him off. Rose, who had meant at the very -last to be so heroic, so brave, so worthy the wife of a soldier, had -fainted. - - - - - CHAPTER V. - JIMMIE. - - -There were loving words being breathed into Rose’s ear, when she came -back to consciousness, and there was something familiar in the touch of -the hand bathing her brow, and smoothing her tangled hair, but Rose was -too weak and sick to notice who it was caring for her so tenderly, until -she heard the voice saying to her - -“Is my daughter better?” - -And then she threw herself with a wild scream of joy into the arms which -had cradled her babyhood, sobbing piteously: - -“Oh, mother, mother, Willie has gone to the war! Willie has gone to the -war!” - -It was very strange, Rose thought, that her mother’s tears should flow -so fast, and her face wear so sad an expression just because of Will, -who was nothing but her son-in-law. Then it occurred to her that Tom -might be the occasion of her sadness, but when she spoke of him, asking -why her mother had not prevailed on him to stay at home, Mrs. Carleton -answered, promptly: - -“I never loved him one half so well, as on that night when he told me he -had volunteered. He would be unworthy of the Carleton blood he bears, -were he to hesitate a moment!” and the eye of the brave New England -matron kindled as she added: “If I had twenty sons, I would rather all -should die on the Federal battle-field than have one turn traitor to his -country! Oh, _Jimmie_, _Jimmie_, my poor misguided boy!” - -It was a piteous cry which came from the depths of that mother’s aching -heart,—a cry so full of anguish that Rose was startled, and asked in -much alarm what it was about Jimmie. Had she heard from him, and was he -really dead? - -“No, Rose,” and in the mother’s voice there was a hard, bitter tone. -“No, not dead, but better so, than what he is. Oh, I would so much -rather he had died when a little, innocent child, than live to bear the -name he bears!” - -“What name, mother? What has Jimmie done? Do tell me, you frighten me, -you look so white!” and Rose clung closer to her mother, who, with -quivering lip and faltering voice, told her how recreant runaway Jimmie -had joined the Confederate army under Beauregard, and was probably then -marching on to Washington to meet her other son, in deadly conflict, it -might be; his hand, the very one, perhaps, to speed the fratricidal -bullet which should shed a brother’s life-blood! - -No wonder that her heart grew faint when she thought of her boy as a -_Rebel_,—aye, a rebel of ten times deeper dye than if he had been born -of Southern blood, and reared on Southern soil, for the roof-tree which -sheltered his childhood was almost beneath the shadow of Bunker Hill’s -monument, and many an hour had he sported at its base, playing directly -above the graves of those brave men who fell that awful day when the -fierce thunders of war shook the hills of Boston, and echoed across the -smoky waters of the bay. Far up the lofty tower, too, as high as he -could reach, his name was written with his own boyish hand, and the -mother had read it there since receiving the shameful letter which told -of his disgrace. Climbing up the weary, winding flight of stairs, she -had looked through blinding tears upon that name,—JAMES MADISON -CARLETON,—half hoping it had been erased, it seemed so like a mockery to -have it there on Freedom’s Monument, and know that he who bore it was a -traitor to his country. Yet there it was, just as he left it years ago, -and with a blush of shame the mother crossed it out, just as she fain -would have crossed out his sin could that have been. But it could not. -She knew that Jimmie was in the Southern army, and not wishing to speak -of it at home, where he already bore no envied name, she had come for -sympathy to her only daughter; and it was well for both she did, for it -helped to divert Rose’s grief into a new and different channel; to set -her right on many points, and gradually to obliterate all marks of what -so he had called Secession. - -_Tom_ had been her pride; the brother she honored and feared, while -Jimmie, nearer her age, was more a companion of her childhood; the one -who teased and petted her by turns, one day putting angle worms in her -bosom just to hear her scream, and the next spending all his -pocket-money to buy her the huge wax doll she saw in the shop window, -down on Washington street, and coveted so badly. Such were some of -Rose’s reminiscences of Jimmie, and while time had softened down the -horrid sensations she experienced when she felt the cold worms crawling -on her neck, it had not destroyed the _doll_, the handsomest she had -ever owned, nor made her cease to love the teasing boy. She could not -feel just as her mother did about him, for she had not her mother’s -strong, patriotic feeling, but her tears flowed none the less, while -she, too, half wished him lying beneath the summer grass, in beautiful -Mt. Auburn. - -“How did you hear from him?” she asked, when her first burst of grief -was over, and her mother replied by taking out a letter, on which Rose -recognized her brother’s handwriting. - -“He sent me this,” Mrs. Carleton said, and tearing open the letter, she -read it aloud to Rose. - - “RICHMOND, VA., _June, 1861_. - - “DEAR MOTHER: Pray don’t think you’ve seen a ghost when you recognize - my writing. You thought me dead, I suppose, but there’s no such good - news as that. I’m bullet-proof, I reckon, or I should have died in New - Orleans last summer when the yellow fever and I had such a squabble. I - was dreadfully sick then, and half wished I had not run away, for I - knew you would feel badly when you heard how I died with nobody to - care for me, and was tumbled into the ground, head sticking out as - likely as any way. I used to talk about you, old Martha said, and - about Rose, too. Dear little Rose. I actually laid down my pen just - now, and laughed aloud as I thought how she looked when I treated her - to those worms; telling her I had a necklace for her! Didn’t she dance - and didn’t Tom thrash me, too, till I saw stars! Well, he never struck - me a blow amiss, though I used to think he did. I was a sorry scamp, - mother,—the biggest rascal in Boston. But I’ve reformed. I have, upon - my word, and you ought to see how the people here smile upon and - flatter me, telling me what a nice chap I am, and all that sort of - thing. - - “In short, mother, to come at once to the point, and not spend an hour - in arguing, as Tom used to do when he took me up in the attic where he - kept the _gads_, you know,—in short, I’ve been naturalized,—have sworn - allegiance to the future Southern monarchy, and am as true a Southern - blood as you would wish to see. I’ve got a Palmetto cockade on my - cap,—a tiny Confederate flag on my sleeve, and what is best of all, - I’ve joined the Southern army under Beauregard, and shall shortly - bring the war to the threshold of the Capitol, licking the Yankees - there congregated like fun. It’s about time now, mother, for you to - ring for Margaret. You’ll want the camphor, and make a fuss, of - course, so while you are enjoying that diversion, I’ll go and practice - a little with my gun. You know I could never hit a barn without - shooting twice, but I’m improving fast, and shall soon be able to pick - off a Yankee at a distance of a mile! - - “2 _o’clock_, P.M. - - “Well, mother, I take it for granted you are nicely tucked up in bed, - with the curtains drawn and a wet rag on your head, as the result of - what I’ve told you. I’m sorry that you should feel so badly, and wish - I could see you for an hour or so, as I could surely convince you we - are right. We have been browbeaten and trodden upon by the North until - forbearance has ceased to be a virtue, and now that they’ve thrown - down the gauntlet we will meet them on their own terms. I dare say - they have made you believe that we struck the first blow by firing - into Sumter, but, mother, those northern papers do lie so, all except - the _Herald_, and a few others, which occasionally come within a mile - of the truth, but even they have been bribed recently, or something. - If you want the unbiased truth of the matter subscribe for the - Richmond _Examiner_, or better yet, the Charleston _Mercury_, whose - editor is a New England man, and of course is capable of judging - right. He knows what has brought on this war. He’ll tell you how the - South Carolinians generously bore the insult of the Federal flag - flying there defiantly in their faces until they could bear it no - longer, and so one day we pitched in. - - “I say _we_, for I was there in Fort Moultrie, and saw the fight, but - did not join, for the brave fellows, out of compliment to my having - been born near Bunker Hill, said I needn’t, so I mounted a cotton bale - and looked on, feeling, I’ll admit, some as I used to on the Fourth of - July, when I saw how noble old Sumter played her part. And once, when - a shell burst within ten feet of me, turning things generally topsy - turvy, and blowing shirt sleeves and coat sleeves, and waistbands and - boots, higher than a kite, I was positively guilty of hurrahing for - the Stars and Stripes. I couldn’t help it, to save me. - - And yet, mother, I believe the North wrong,—and the South right, but - so generous a people are we, that all we ask now, is for you to _let - us alone_; and if the Lincolnites won’t do that, why, then we must - stoop to fight the mud-sills. It’s all humbug, too, about the negroes - being on the verge of insurrection. A more faithful, devoted set, I - never saw. They’ll fight for their masters until they die, every man - of them. Tom will tell you that. What are his politics? Bell and - Everett, I dare say, so there’s no danger of my meeting him in battle, - and I’m glad of it, for to tell the truth, I should feel rather - ticklish raising my gun against old Tom. May be, though, he is - humbugged like the rest, and forms a part of that unit said to exist - at the North. What sort of a thing is that, mother? What does it look - like? Democrats and Republicans, Abolitionists and Garrisonites, all - melted in one crucible and bearing _Abraham’s_ image and - superscription! I wish I could see it. Must have changed mightily - round Boston from what they used to be when they quarreled so, some - against and some for Southern rights and Southern people. But strange - things happen nowadays, and it may be Tom, too, has turned his coat, - and taken sides with the Federals. If so, all I can say, is, Tommie, - oh, Tommie, beware of the day, when Southern bloods meet thee in - battle array; for a field of weak cowards rushes full on my sight, and - the ranks of the Yankees are scattered in flight. Won’t we rout them, - though! I shall fight next time. I’ve played pollywog long enough. I - am regularly enlisted now. Am a _Rebel_, as you call us at home. - Nothing very bad about that, either, as I can prove to you, if you’ll - take the trouble to hunt up my old dog-eared History of the United - States, where Washington is styled by the British the _Rebel Chief_. - - “The South are only doing what the Thirteen did in ‘76, trying to - shake off the tyrant’s yoke. It’s the same thing precisely, only the - shoe is on the other foot, and pinches mightily. We did not at first - intend to subjugate the North, but maybe they’ll provoke us to do it, - if they keep on. Now, however, we only want, or rather did want a - peaceable separation, and you may as well yield to it first as last. - What do you intend doing with us, any way, suppose you succeed in - licking us? Hold us as a conquered province, just as England holds - Ireland? Much good that will do you. It will be some like keeping a - mad dog chained so tightly that he cannot get away, but is none the - less snappish and non-come-at-able for that. No, no, acknowledge our - independence, and call home the chaps you have dragged from Poor - Houses and State Prisons, lanes and ditches, and sent to fight against - Southern gentlemen. This, to me, is the most humiliating feature of - the whole; and if I must be _shot_ or taken prisoner, I hope it will - be by some one worthy of my steel. This last I’m writing for old Tom’s - benefit. Give him my compliments, and tell him nothing would please me - more than to welcome him to our camp some day. - - “Dear little Rose,—perhaps she would not let a Rebel kiss her, and I - don’t know but I’d turn Federal for half an hour or so for the sake of - tasting her sweet lips once more. I do love Rose, and I feel a - mysterious lump in my throat every time I look at her picture, taken - just before I left home. I never show it, for somehow it would seem - like profanation to have the soldiers staring at it. So I wear it next - my heart, and when I go into battle I shall keep it there. Perhaps it - will save my life, who knows? - - “I am getting tired, and must close ere long. Now, mother, please - don’t waste too many tears over me. The time will come when you’ll see - we are right; and if it will be any consolation, I will say in - conclusion, that I have written a heap worse than I really believe. I - am not a fool. I understand exactly how the matter stands, but I like - the Southern side the best. I think they are just as near right as the - North, and I’m going to stick to them through thick and thin. We shall - have a battle before long, and this may be the last time I’ll ever - write to you. I’ve been a bad boy, mother, and troubled you so much, - but if I’m shot you will forget all that, and only remember how, with - all my faults, I loved you still,—you and Tom and little Rose,—more - than you ever guessed. - - “By the way, I believe I’ll send you a lock of my hair, cut just over - my left ear, where you used to think it curled so nicely. Perhaps it - will enhance its value if you know I severed it with a bowie knife, - such as I now carry with me. Tell Rose I’ll send her a calico dress by - and by. It will be the most costly present I can make her if the - blockade is carried out, but it won’t be; that old Bull across the sea - will be goring you with his horns first you know. Then you’ll have a - sweet time up there, beset before and behind, and possibly annexed to - Canada. But I don’t want to make you feel any bluer than you are - probably feeling, so good-bye, good-bye. - - “Your affectionate Rebel, - “JAMES M. CARLETON.” - - “P. S.—I shall send this to Washington by a chap who is going to - desert, you know, and join the Federals with a pitiful story about - having been pressed into the Rebel service, telling them, too, how - poor and weak and demoralized we are,—how a handful of troops can lick - us, and so draw them into our web, as a spider tempts a fly, don’t you - see? They offered me that honor, knowing that a son of GEORGE - CARLETON, twice M. C. from Massachusetts, and now defunct, would be - above suspicion, and would thus gather a heap of items. But hang me, - if I could turn spy on any terms. So I respectfully declined. You see - I am quite a somebody, owing to my having had sense enough to wait - until I was twenty-one, ere I ran away, and so bringing a part of my - property with me. Money makes the mare go here as elsewhere, but I’m - about running out. I wish you could send me a few thousand, can’t - you?” - -And this was Jimmie’s letter, over which the mother had wept far -bitterer tears than any she shed when her eldest born bade her his last -farewell, giving to her, just as Jimmie had done, a lock of his brown -hair. She had it with her now, and she laid them both on Rose’s -hand,—the dark brown lock, and the short black silken curl, which twined -itself around Rose’s finger, as if it loved the snowy resting-place. -Rose’s first impulse was to shake it off as if it had been a guilty -thing; but the sight of it recalled so vividly the handsome, saucy face, -and laughing, mischievous black eyes it once had helped to shade, that -she pressed it to her lips, and whispered sadly, “Dear Jimmie, I cannot -hate him if I try, nor see how he is greatly at fault,” while in her -heart was the unframed prayer that God would care for the Rebel-boy, and -bring him back to them. - -Mrs. Carleton was proud of her family name,—proud of her family -pride,—and she shrank from having it known how it had been disgraced, so -after Rose’s first grief was over she bade her keep it a secret, and -Rose promised readily, never doubting for a moment her ability to do so. -Rose had already borne much that morning. Excessive weeping for her -husband, added to what she had heard of Jimmie, took her strength away, -and she spent that first weary day in bed, sometimes sobbing bitterly as -the dread reality came over her that _Will_ was really gone, and again -starting up from a feverish, broken sleep with the idea that it was all -a dream, or a horrid nightmare, from which she should at last awake. -Callers were all excluded, and with a delicious feeling that she was not -to be disturbed, Rose, late in the afternoon, lay watching the western -sunlight dancing on the wall, when a step upon the stairs was heard, and -in a moment Widow Simms appeared, her sharp face softening into an -expression of genuine pity when she saw how white and wan Rose was -looking. - -“They tried to keep me out,” she said, “that brawny cook of yours and -that filigree waiting-maid, but I would come up, and here I am.” - -Then sitting down by Rose she told her Annie had sent her there. “She’s -sorry for you,” the widow said, “and she sent this to tell you so,” and -the widow handed Rose a tiny note, written by Annie Graham. Once Rose -would have resented the act as implying too much familiarity, but her -heart was greatly softened, while, had she tried her best, she could not -have regarded Annie Graham in the light of an inferior. Tearing open the -envelope she read: - - “MY DEAR MRS. MATHER—I am sure you will pardon the liberty I am - taking. My apology is that I feel so deeply for you, for I understand - just what you are suffering,—understand how wearily the hours drag on, - knowing as you do that with the waning daylight _his_ step will not be - heard just by the door, making in your heart little throbs of joy, - such as no other step can make. I am so sorry for you, and I had hoped - you at least might be spared, but God in his wisdom has seen fit to - order it otherwise, and we know that what He does is right. Still it - is hard to bear,—harder for you than for me, perhaps, and when this - morning I heard the car signal given, I knelt just where I did when my - own husband went away, and asked our Heavenly Father to bring your - Willie back in safety, and, Mrs. Mather, I am sure He will, for I - felt, even then, an answer to my prayer,—something which said, ‘It - shall be as you ask.’ - - “Dear Mrs. Mather, try to be comforted; try to see the brighter side; - try to pray, and be sure the darkness now enveloping you so like a - pall will pass away, and the sunshine be the brighter for the cloud. - Come and see me when you feel like it, and remember, you have at least - two friends who pray for you, one at the Father’s right hand in - Heaven, and one in her cottage in the Hollow. - - “ANNIE GRAHAM.” - -Rose had not wept more passionately than she did now, as she kissed the -note, and wished she were one half as good as Annie Graham. - -“But I am not,” she said, “and never shall be. Tell her to keep praying -until Will comes home again.” - -“I will tell her,” returned the widow, “but wouldn’t it be well enough -to try what you can do at it yourself, and not leave it all for her?” - -“Try what I can do at praying?” Rose exclaimed. “I can’t do anything, -only the few words I always say at night, and they have nothing in them -about Will.” - -“Brought up like a heathen!” muttered the widow, feeling within herself -that to the names of her own sons and Captain Carleton, William Mather’s -must now be added, when, as was her daily custom, she took her troubles -to One who has said, “Cast your burdens upon the Lord, for He careth for -you.” - -“We’ll both remember your husband, Miss Graham and I, so don’t fret -yourself to death,” she said, soothingly, as Rose broke into a fresh -burst of tears. - -“It isn’t him so much,” Rose sobbed, “though that is terrible and will -kill me, I most know, but there’s something else that ails me a great -deal worse than that; at least, mother has made me think it is, though I -can’t quite see how having one’s brother join the Rebel army is so very -bad.” - -Rose forgot her promise of secrecy, just as her mother might have known -she would. The story of the Carleton disgrace was told, and perfectly -aghast, the horrified widow listened to it. - -“Your brother a rebel?” she almost shrieked, “a good-for-nothing, -ill-begotten rebel! I thought you said he was a captain of a company;” -and mentally the widow struck from her list of names that of poor, -scandalized Tom, that very moment perspiring at every pore as he went -through with his evening drill within the Federal camp. - -“No, no,” Rose cried, vehemently, “not Tom; I have another brother, a -younger one,—Jimmie we call him. Did you never hear of Jimmie, who ran -away more than a year ago?” - -“Never!” and the staunch patriot of a widow pursed up her thin lips with -an expression which plainly said the Carleton family had fallen greatly -in her estimation, in spite of all Tom had said of Isaac. - -Rose, however, was not good at reading expressions, and taking it for -granted the widow wanted to hear all about it, she told her what she -knew, marvelling much at the rigid silence her auditor maintained. - -“Isn’t it shameful?” she asked, when she had finished. - -“Shameful? Yes. I hope he’ll be catched and hung higher than Haman. I’ll -furnish rope to hang him!” was the indignant widow’s reply, and ere Rose -could quite make out what ailed her, she had said good-afternoon, and -banging the door behind her, was hurrying off, muttering to herself, -“Somethin’ wrong in their bringin’ up. Needn’t tell me. I’d like to see -my boys turnin’ traitor! The rascal!” and as by this time the widow had -reached the shop where she was to stop for burning-fluid, she turned -into the little store, and catching up the can with a jerk, spilt a part -of its contents upon her clean gingham dress, and then hurried off again -with rapid strides toward the cottage in the Hollow. - -The Carletons, Tom and all, were below par in her opinion, and kept -sinking lower and lower, until she reached the cottage, where she gave -vent to her wrath as follows: - -“A pretty how d’ye do up to _Miss Martherses_. Her brother _Jim_ has -jined the cowardly, sneakin’, low-lived, contemptible Rebels, and is -comin’ on to take Washington! The scalliwag! If things go on at this -rate, I’ll jine the army myself, and tar and feather every one on ’em! -Needn’t tell me.” - -Annie was no lover of gossip, and knowing that the widow was terribly -excited, she made no reply except to pass her a letter bearing the -Washington postmark. This had the desired effect, and utterly oblivious -of Jimmie, the widow tore open _Isaac’s_ letter, in which he spoke of -Captain Carleton as being very kind to him, and very popular with the -soldiers. - - “I would fight for him till the very last,” Isaac wrote; “he has been - so good to me, always noticing me with a bow when he comes into our - regiment, as he sometimes does, and when he can, speaking to me a - pleasant word. He knows I sawed his sister’s wood, for I told him so. - It seemed so mean-like to be passing myself off for better than I am, - and you know a soldier’s dress does improve a chap mightily, giving - him kind of a dandy air. Why, even Harry Baker and Bill look like - gentlemen, though Harry gets drunk awfully, and has been in the - guard-house twice, But, as I was saying, Captain Carleton didn’t - appear to think a bit less of me, though he struck me on the shoulder, - and laughed kind of queer when I said why I told him I sawed Mrs. - Mather’s wood, and the next day I saw him talking with our colonel, - and heard something about sergeant, and _Isaac Simms_, and ‘too young - to be expedient.’ Then, when I met him again, he asked me wasn’t I - twenty-one, in such a way that I knew he wanted me to tell him yes; - but, mother, I thought of that prayer we said together, the morning I - came away, ‘Lead us not into temptation,’ and I couldn’t tell a lie, - though the answer stuck in my throat and choked me so, but I out with - it at last. I said, ‘No, sir, I was only eighteen last Thanksgiving,’ - and then his face had the same look it wore when I told him I was a - wood-sawyer. ‘And so I suppose you’ll be nineteen next Thanksgiving’ - he said, adding ‘You don’t know what you lost by telling the truth so - frankly, but the moral gain is much greater than the loss. You are a - brave boy, Isaac Simms, and worthy of being a second George - Washington.’ I do like him so much! Can’t you send him something, - mother, if it’s nothing more than the nice cough-candy you used to - make, or some of that poke-ointment? I notice he coughs occasionally, - and I heard him say his feet were sore. I’d like to give him - something, just to see his handsome white teeth when he laughed, and - said ‘Thank you, my boy.’ Oh, I would almost die for Captain - Carleton.” - -Surely, after reading this, the widow could feel no more animosity -against the Carletons, on account of Jimmie’s sin. - -“Every family must have a black sheep,” she said to Annie, though where -hers was she could not tell. It surely was not John, nor Eli, nor Isaac, -so she guessed it must have been the girl baby that died before ’twas -born, and for whom she shed so many tears. She shouldn’t do it again, -she’d bet, for if it had lived, it would most likely have cut up some -rusty or other, just as Jim Carleton had,—married _Bill Baker_, like as -not; and with this consolatory reflection, the widow took up Isaac’s -letter for a second time, resolving in her own mind that she would send -that Captain Carleton something if she set up nights to make it. - -“I’m glad my boy didn’t tell a lie,” she whispered softly to herself, as -she came again to that part of the letter, poor, weak human nature -creeping in with the same thought, and suggesting how grand it would be -to have him “Sergeant Simms, with the increased wages per month it would -have brought.” This was the old Adam counselling within her, while the -new Adam said, “Better never to be promoted than lose his integrity,” -and with a silent prayer for the boy who would not tell a lie, the widow -folded up the letter, and then repeated to Annie the particulars of -Jimmie Carleton in a much milder manner than she would have done an hour -before. So much good little acts of kindness do, stretching on link -after link, until they reach a point from which they recoil in blessings -on the doer’s head. Thus Captain Carleton’s friendly words to Isaac -Simms were the direct means of saving his mother and sister from the -bitter prejudice the Rockland people, in their then excitable state, -might have felt toward them, had Widow Simms told the story of Jimmie in -the spirit she surely would have told it, had it not been for Isaac’s -timely letter. This, together with a little judicious caution from -Annie, changed her tactics, and though she, that very night, had several -opportunities for telling how “Miss Martherses brother was a rebel, and -that Miss Marthers couldn’t see the mighty harm in it if he was,” she -kept it to herself, speaking only of the noble Tom, so kind to her boy -Isaac. - - - - - CHAPTER VI. - FINDING SOMETHING TO DO FOR THE WAR. - - -The next morning the Mather carriage, containing both Mrs. Carleton and -Rose, drove down the Hollow, and stopped in front of Annie’s gate. Mrs. -Carleton’s business was with Widow Simms, who was mixing bread in the -kitchen, and who experienced considerable trepidation when told “the -grand Boston lady” had asked for her. - -“I’m pesky glad I hain’t tattled about Jim,” she thought, as washing the -flour from her hands and hooking her sleeves at the wrist she entered -the sitting-room, and with a low courtesy, waited to hear the lady’s -errand. - -Mrs. Carleton had come with a request that the widow should not repeat -what Rose had so heedlessly told her the previous night. - -“You may think it strange that I care so much,” Mrs. Carleton said, “and -until you are placed in similar circumstances you cannot understand how -I shrink from having it known that my son could fall so low, or do so -great injustice to his early training.” - -If the widow had possessed one particle of prejudice against the -Carletons, this would have disarmed her entirely, but she did not. -Isaac’s letter had swept that all away, and she replied that “Jimmie’s -secret was as safe with her as if locked up in an iron chest.” - -“I did feel blazin’ mad at you, though, for a spell,” she said, “for I -thought you might have brung him up better; but this cured me entirely,” -and she handed Isaac’s letter to Rose, bidding her read it aloud. - -“Noble boy. You must be proud of him,” was Mrs. Carleton’s comment, -while Rose, ever impulsive, seized upon a new idea. - -It would be so nice for the Rockland ladies to fit up a box of things -and send to Company R, reserving a corner for Tom and Will. She should -do it, anyway, on her own responsibility, if nobody chose to help her, -and she whispered to Annie that George should have a large share of the -delicacies she would provide. - -“You may send that candy to Tom, if you choose,” she said to the widow, -“though I think cod liver oil would be better. And the ointment -too,—only it mustn’t sit near my preserves, for fear the two will get -mixed.” - -Rose had found something to do, and so absorbed was she in a plan which -every one approved, that she forgot to cry _all_ the time for _Will_, as -she had fully intended doing. Up the streets and down she went, -sometimes walking, sometimes riding, but always in a flurry, always -excited, now tumbling over dry-goods boxes in quest of one large enough -to hold the many articles preparing in Rockland for the then ill-fed, -suffering soldiers of the 13th Regiment, now up at the express office, -bargaining about the expense, which she meant to bear herself, and now -down at the Hall, adroitly smoothing over little bickerings frequently -arising among the ladies assembled there, concerning the articles sent -in, some declaring the fried apple pies brought by Mrs. Baker should not -go, nor yet the round balls of Dutch cheese she had saved sour milk two -weeks to make, just because “Billy relished it so much, ’long with apple -turnovers.” - -Poor old Mrs. Baker! It was the best she could do, and when Rose saw how -the tears came at the prospect of Billy’s losing the feast she had -prepared with so much care, she declared the cheese should go if she had -to send it in a separate box. It was just so with the widow’s poke -ointment, some of the ladies wondering what next would be brought in and -what it could be for. Rose knew exactly what ’twas for; Tom had corns, -and the despised salve was for him, so that should go if nothing else. -But when Susan Ruggles Simms, her thoughts intent on _John_, brought in -a round of roasted veal, which her mother-in-law said would be in a most -lively condition by the time it reached Washington, Rose, after -suggesting that it be packed in ice and put in a refrigerator, yielded -for once, and persuaded the girl-wife to carry home her veal, which -would most surely be spoiled ere John came to see it. - -“You can write him a nice long letter,” she said, when she saw how -disappointed Susan looked. “You can tell him your intentions were good -until we old experienced married ladies persuaded you out of them.” - -So Susan, with a sigh, carried back her nice stuffed roast, the widow -muttering in an aside tone, “That’s all them shiftless Ruggleses know! -Might as well send _maggits_ and done with it.” - -It was a strange medley that huge box contained, for every member of -Company R was remembered, thanks to the indefatigable Rose, who procured -a list of the names, and when she found any without friends in that -immediate vicinity, she supplied the deficiency from her own store of -luxuries. Of course _Will_ and _Tom_ fared the best, while next to them -came Lieutenant Graham and Isaac Simms, Rose writing a tiny note to the -latter, telling him how much she liked him for speaking so of Tom, and -sending him a pair of her fine linen sheets, because she couldn’t think -of anything else, and thought these would be cool to sleep in on hot -summer nights. Dear little Rose! how fast she grew in popularity, the -people wondering they had never seen before how good she was, and -imputing some portion of her present interest to the presence of her -mother, who had made arrangements to remain for an indefinite length of -time in Rockland, and who, far less demonstrative than her active -daughter, did much by her sensible advice to keep the wheel in motion, -and Rose from overdoing the matter so zealously taken in hand. - -The box was packed at last;—every chink and crevice was full. Mrs. -Baker’s Dutch cheese and fried apple pies were there, wrapped by Rose -Mather in innumerable folds of paper, tied around with yards of the -strongest twine she could find, and safely stowed away where they could -not be harmed; Widow Simms’s ointment too, and the candy she had made, -occupied a corner, together with her daguerreotype sent to _Isaac_, and -a letter to Captain Carleton. That letter was a mammoth undertaking, but -the widow felt it her duty to write it, groaning and sweating, and -consulting Perry’s old leathern-bound dictionary for every word of which -she felt at all uncertain, and driving poor Annie nearly distracted with -asking “if this were grammar, and if that were too lovin’ like, for a -widder to send a widower.” Not a little amused, Annie gave the required -advice, smiling in spite of herself, as she read the note the widow -handed her, and which ran as follows: - - “MY DEAR MR. CAPTIN CARLETON:—I can’t help puttin’ _dear_ before your - name, you seem so nigh to me since Isaac told how kind you was to him. - I’m nothin’ but a shrivelled, dried up widder, fifty odd years old, - but I’ve got a mother’s heart big enough to take you in with my other - boys. I know you are a nice, clever man, but whether you’re a _good_ - one, as I call good, I don’t know, though bein’ you come from Boston - I’m afraid you’re a Unitarian, and I’ll never quit prayin’ for you - till I know. That’s about all I can do, for I’m poor a’most as Job’s - turkey; but if there’s any shirts or trouses, or the like o’ that - wants makin’, let me know, for I don’t believe your mother or sister - is great at sewin’. Mrs. Marthers ain’t, I know, though as nice a - little body as ever drawed the breath. Your wife is dead, too, they - say, and that comes hard agin. I know just how that feels, for my man - died eighteen years ago last October, a few weeks before Isaac was - born. - - “I send you some ’intment for your feet, and some bits of linen rags - to bind round your toes; also, some red pepper candy, and my likeness - to Isaac. He’ll let you see it if you want to. It don’t ’pear to me - that my eyes is as dull as that, or my lips so puckered up, but we - can’t see as others see us, and I ain’t an atom proud. Heaven bless - you for being kind to Isaac, and if an old woman’s prayers and - blessin’s is of any use, you may be sure you have mine. If you come to - battle, be so good as to oversee him, won’t you, and git him put way - back, if you can. Excuse haste and a bad pen. - - “Yours with regret, - “MRS. BELINDA SIMMS,” - -This was the widow’s letter, sent with Tom’s parcel to Washington, where -the box was greeted by the company with exclamations of joy, and could -those who sent it have seen the eager, happy faces of each one as he -found he was remembered, they would have felt doubly repaid for all the -trouble and annoyance it had cost them. Only one growl of -dissatisfaction was heard, and that from Harry Baker, who, with a -muttered oath, exclaimed, as he undid his paper parcel, - -“Apple turnovers, by jing! Sourer than swill, and mouldier than the rot. -Halloo, Bill, got some too, I see. What in fury is this? _Dutch cheese_, -as I’m alive. Make good bullets for Secesh, so here goes!” and the next -moment there whizzed through the air the cheese poor old Mrs. Baker had -found so hard to smuggle in. The apple pies followed next, and then the -reckless Harry amused himself with jeering at Bill, who, after carefully -stowing away in his pocket, the large, strong twine Rose Mather had -bound around the paper parcel, seated himself upon the ground, and was -munching away at his pie, not because he liked it, but because his -mother had sent it, and Billy’s mother was dearer to him now than when -he was at home. - -Meanwhile, in another part of the camp, Tom Carleton was opening his -parcel, while around him stood a group of officers, some his personal -friends whom he had known in Boston. - -“There must be some mistake,” he said, as he daubed his white fingers -with the sticky candy. But Rose had packed his things in a separate box, -and directed it herself. There could be no mistake, and he continued his -investigations, coming next upon the widow’s picture, which Rose had -carelessly placed in his parcel. - -It would be impossible to describe Tom’s look of amazement and -perplexity, as his eye fell upon the face which looked out upon him from -its glass covering. Precise, puckered, and prim, with a decided -best-clothes air. Who could it be? Tom asked this question aloud, while -his companions laughingly declared it some lady love he had left behind, -suggesting at last that he read the note which lay just beneath it, as -that might explain the mystery. So Tom did read it, with a -fellow-officer looking over his shoulder, and reading too. But there was -too much of the anxious, genuine mother-tone about that letter to cause -more than three or four hearty laughs at the expense of Tom and the -widow. Tom knew now for whom the picture was intended, and he carried it -to Isaac, but it was many a day ere Tom Carleton heard the last of _Mrs. -Belinda Simms_! - -Numerous were the thanks sent by Company R to Rose for her kind -thoughtfulness in setting afloat a plan which brought them so much good, -and Rose, as she received the messages, wished it was all to be done -again, and wondered what she could find to do next. One of Will’s -letters told her at last what to do. She could be kind to the soldiers, -if there were any in Rockland. She could visit their families, speak to -them words of comfort, and supply, if needful, their necessities. This -was just what suited her, and she commenced her task with a right good -will, startling many an awkward youth wearing a soldier’s dress, by -accosting him in the street, inquiring into his history, and frequently -ending the interview by offering him her soft white hand, and leaving in -his rougher one a piece of money, which affected him less than the -brightness of the brilliant eyes he remembered long after the silver was -spent. Every soldier’s wife and every soldier’s mother was looked after, -and the Mather carriage was oftener seen in the muddy Hollow and by -lanes in Rockland, than at the gates of more pretentious dwellings. -Harry’s mother and Bill’s, and others of her standing, blessed the -little lady, for the sunshine brought so often to their squalid homes, -while Annie and Widow Simms prayed from a full heart that no evil should -befall the husband or the brother of the heroic Rose. - - - - - CHAPTER VII. - THE BATTLE. - - -Brightly, beautifully the Sabbath morning broke over all the hills of -the Northland, covering them with floods of rosy light, burnishing the -forest trees with sheens of gold, and cresting each tall spire with -colors which seemed born of Paradise, so radiantly bright they looked, -flashing from their lofty resting-place, and glancing off across the -valleys where the fields of waving corn and summer wheat were growing. -To the westward, too, where prairie on prairie stretches on into almost -interminable space, the same July sun was shining, as quietly, as -peacefully, as if in the hearts of men there burned no bitter feeling of -fierce and vindictive hate,—no thirsting for each other’s blood. Oh, how -calm, how still it was that Sunday morning both east, and north and -west, and as the sun rose higher in the heavens, how soothingly the -bells rang out their musical chimes. From New England’s templed hills to -the far-off shores of Oregon, the echoes rose and fell, ceasing only -when ceased the tramp of the many feet hastening up to worship God in -his appointed way. Old and young, rich and poor, father and mother, -sister and brother, husband and wife, assembling together to keep the -holy day, that best day of the seven, praying not so much for their own -sins forgiven as for the loved ones gone to war,—the dear ones far -away,—and little, little dreaming as they prayed, how the same sun -stealing so softly up the church’s aisle, and shining on the church’s -wall, was even then looking down on a far different scene,—a scene of -carnage, blood and death. For, off to the southward, near where the -waters of the Potomac ripple past the grave of our nation’s hero, -another concourse of people was gathered together; their Sunday bell the -cannon’s roar; their Sunday hymn the battle-cry. - -Long before the earliest robin had trilled its matin song, they had been -on the move, their bristling bayonets glittering in the brilliant -moonlight like the December frost, as with regular, even tread they kept -on their winding way, knowing not if the pale stars watching their -course so pityingly, as it were, would ever shine on them again. -Onward,—onward,—onward still they pressed; over the hills, through the -ravines, down the valleys, across the fields, till the same sun which -shone so softly on their distant homes rose also over the _Federal Fly_, -as it has been aptly termed, moving onward to the _Web_ which lay -beyond, so well concealed and so devoid of sound that none could guess -that the treacherous woods, wearing so cool, so inviting a look, were -sheltering a mighty, expectant host, watching as eagerly for the -advancing foe as ever ambushed spider waited for its deluded prey. -Backward,—backward, stretched the Confederate army, line after line, -rank after rank, battalion after battalion, until in numbers it more -than quadrupled that handful of men steadily moving on. From out their -leafy covert the enemy peered, exulting that the fortunes of the great -Republic, their whilom mother, were so surely within their power, and -pausing for a time in sheer wantonness, just as a kitten sports with the -mouse she has already captured, and knows cannot escape. -Onward,—onward,—onward swept the Federal troops; their polished arms and -glittering uniforms flashing in the morning sunlight just as the flag -for which they fought waved in the morning breeze. They were weary and -worn, and their lips were parched with feverish thirst, for hours had -passed since they had tasted food or water. But not for this did they -tarry; there was no faltering in their ranks, no faintly beating heart, -no wild yearning to be away, no timid shrinking from what the woods, now -just before them, might hold in store, and when the whisper ran along -the lines that the enemy was in view, there was nought felt save joy, -that the long suspense was ended and the fray about to commence. - - * * * * * - -There was a halt in the front ranks, and while they stand there thus, -let us look once more upon these those whom we have known. Just where -the good-humored faces of the Irish regiment, and the tall caps of the -Highlanders are perceptible, the 13th appears in view, our company -marching decorously on, no lagging, no faltering, no cowards there, -though almost every heart had in it some thought of home and the dear -ones left behind. Prayers were said by lips unused to pray, and who -shall tell how many records of sins forgiven were that morning written -in heaven? Bibles, too, were pressed to throbbing hearts, and to none -more closely than to George Graham’s broad chest. He had prayed that -morning in the clear moonlight, and by the same moonlight he had tried -to read a line in Annie’s well-worn Bible, opening to where God promises -to care for the widow and the fatherless. Was it ominous, that passage? -Did it mean that he, so strong, so vigorous, so full of life, should -bite the dust ere many hours were done? He could not believe it. He was -too full of hope for that. He could not die with Annie at home alone, so -he buttoned her Bible over his heart, and prayed that if a bullet struck -him it might be there, fondly hoping that would break its force. - -There was a shadow on his handsome face, and it communicated itself to -Isaac Simms, who was glancing so stealthily at him, and guessing of what -he was thinking. Isaac, too, had prayed in the moonlight, and he, too, -had thought, “What if I should be killed!” wondering if his mother ever -would forget her soldier boy, even though she might not weep over his -nameless grave. This to Isaac was the hardest thought of all. The boy -that would not tell a lie for the sake of promotion, was not afraid to -die, but he preferred that it should not be there ‘mid piles of bloody -slain. He would rather death should come to him up in the humble attic, -where he had lain so oft and listened to the patter of the rain on the -roof above, or feigned to be asleep when his mother stole noiselessly -across the threshold to see if he were covered from the cold and -shielded from the snow, which sometimes found an entrance through a -crevice in the wall. ’Tis strange when we are in danger what flights our -fancy often takes, gathering up the minutest details of our past life, -and spreading them out before us with startling distinctness. So Isaac, -with possible death in advance, thought of his past life; of every -object connected with his home, from the grass-plat in the rear, where -his mother bleached her clothes in spring, to the blue and white checked -blanket hung round his attic bed to protect him from the winter storm. -That widow, so stern, so harsh, so sharp to almost every one, had been -the tenderest of parents to him, and a tear glistened on the cheek of -the fair-haired boy as he remembered the only time he ever was hateful -to her. He had asked her forgiveness for it, and she surely would not -recall it when she read the letter Eli or John would send, bearing the -fatal line, “Mother, poor Isaac is dead.” He knew they would call him -“poor Isaac,” for though they sometimes teased him as his “mother’s -great girl baby,” they petted him quite as much as she, only in a -different way, and he felt now that both would step between him and the -bullet they thought would harm him. Eli would any way, but John, -perhaps, would hesitate, as he now loved Susan best. Isaac was proud of -his brothers, and he glanced admiringly at them as they marched side by -side, keeping even step just as they did down Main street, with his -mother and Susan looking on. One now was thinking of Susan, and one of -his widowed mother. - -Close by Isaac walked Bill, quiet and subdued. He had not prayed that -morning,—he never prayed; but when he saw Isaac kneeling on his blanket -he had said to him, “Manage to get in a word or two for me and Hal; we -need it, mercy knows.” And surely if ever poor mortal needed prayer it -was _Hal_, as his brother styled him. Half stupefied with the vile -liquor he had constantly managed to get, he trudged on, boasting of what -he could do; “only give him a chance and he’d lick the entire Secession -army. He’d like to see the ball that could kill him; he was good at -dodging; he’d show’em a thing or two in the way of fight; he’d take the -tuck out of the Southern gentlemen,—yes, he would,” and so he went -thoughtlessly boasting on to death! - - * * * * * - -Will Mather was not there. Indisposition had detained him at Washington, -and with a hearty God speed he had sent his comrades on their way, -lamenting that he, too, could not join them, and bidding his -brother-in-law do some fighting for him. - - * * * * * - -At the head of his company Capt. Carleton moved. Firm, erect, and -dignified, as if born to command, he did full justice to the Carleton -name, of which he was justly proud; but his face was paler than its -wont, and a tinge of sadness rested upon it as his regiment halted at -last in front of what was supposed to be the hidden foe. Thomas Carleton -had wept bitter tears when he laid his Mary to rest beneath South -Carolina’s sunny skies, and had thought he could never be reconciled to -the loss, but he was half glad now that she was dead, for she was born -of Southern blood, and he would rather she should not know the errand -which had brought him to Virginia, where first he met and loved -her,—rather she should not know how he had come to war with her people. -There was another thought, too, which made him sad that July day. The -green, beautiful woods standing there so silently before him probably -sheltered more than one with whom he had in bygone days struck the -friendly hand and bandied the friendly joke, for his home was once in -Richmond, and there were there those who once held no small place in his -heart. And they were dear to him yet. He was not fighting against them -personally, he was contending only for his nation’s rights, his -country’s honor. He bore no malice toward his Southern brethren, and -like many of our staunchest, bravest Northern men, he would even then -have met them more than half way with terms of reconciliation. He knew -they were no race of bloodthirsty demons, as some fanatics had madly -termed them. They were men, most of them, like himself,—warm-hearted, -impulsive men, generous almost to a fault in peace, but firm and -terrible in war. _Tom_ had lived among them,—had shared their -hospitalities,—had seen them in their various phases, and making -allowance for the vast difference which education and habits of society -make in one’s opinions, he saw many points wherein the North had -misunderstood their actions, and not made due concessions when they -might have done so without yielding one iota of their honor. But time -for concession was over now. Political fanatics had stirred up the mass -of the people till nought but _blood_ could wash away the fancied wrong. -And they were there that Sabbath morn to spill it. Tom, however, did not -know that the green, silent woods sheltered his _brother_, for his -mother had purposely withheld from him the fact that Jimmie had joined -the Southern Army. She knew the struggle it had cost him to take up arms -against a people he liked so much, and she would not willingly add to -his burden by telling him of Jimmie’s sin, and it was well she did not, -for had he known how near he was to Jimmie, he could not have stood -there so unmoved, awaiting the first booming gun which should herald the -opening of the battle. - -It came at last, a bellowing, thunderous roar, whose echoes shook the -hills for miles, as the hissing shell went plowing through the air, -bursting harmlessly at last just beyond its destined mark. The enemy -were in no hurry to retort, for a deep silence ensued, broken ere long -by another heavy gun, which did its work more thoroughly than its -predecessor had done, for where several breathing souls had been there -was nought left save the bleeding mutilated trunks of what were once -human forms. The battle had commenced. Sherman’s Brigade, in which was -the N. Y. 13th, did its part nobly, overrunning in its headlong charges -battery after battery, and recking little of the shafts of death falling -so thick and fast. Louder and more deafening grew the battle din, -hoarser and heavier the battle thunder, denser, deeper the battle smoke, -dimming the brightness of that Sabbath morn. Louder, shriller grew the -Gaelic scream, fiercer rose the Celtic cry, wilder rang the yells of the -13th, as its members plunged into the thickest of the fight their -demoniacal shouts appalling the hearts of the foe far more than the rain -of shot so vigorously kept up, and causing them to flee as from a pack -of fiends. - -Steady in its place George Graham’s giant form was seen; no thought of -Annie now; no thought of home; no thought of Bible buttoned over the -heart; thoughts only of the fray and victory. - -Not far away, and where the fight was thickest, the widow’s boys, Eli -and John, stood firm as granite rocks, the beaded sweat dropping from -their burning brows, begrimed with battle smoke, as with unflinching -nerve and hands that trembled not, they took their aims, seeing more -than one fall before their sure fire. - -White as the winter snow one boyish face gleamed amid the excited -throng; the fair hair pushed back from the girlish forehead, and the -scorching sun falling upon the unsheltered head, for Isaac’s cap had -been shot away, and the ball which shot it lay swimming in the dark life -blood of poor Harry Baker, just behind, and _just two inches taller_ -than the widow’s youngest born. Poor Harry! He had done his best to keep -the promise made so boastfully. In all the 13th Regiment there was not -one who played a braver part than he, firing off with every gun a timely -joke, which raised a smile even in that dreadful hour. But Harry’s work -was done, and Mrs. Baker had but one boy now, for her first-born lay -upon the ground so blackened and disfigured, with the thick brains -slowly oozing from his mangled head, and the purple gore pouring from -his lips, that only those who saw him fall, could guess that it was -Harry. Poor Harry! We say it again, sadly, reverently, for rude and -reckless though he was, he fell fighting for his country; and to all who -perish thus we owe a debt of gratitude, a meed of praise. Sacred, then, -be the memory of those whose graves are with the slain, far away beneath -Virginia’s sky, and sacred be the memory of poor Harry Baker. His own -worst enemy, he lived his life’s brief span, and died at last a -soldier’s death. - - * * * * * - -“Shot plump through the upper story! Won’t the old woman row it, -though?” was Bill’s characteristic comment, as the whizzing and the -death shriek met his ear, and the falling, bleeding figure met his view. - -Spite of his jeering words there was a keen pang in Billy’s heart as he -shrank away from the gory mass he knew had been his brother,—a sudden -upheaving of something in his throat and a blur before his vision, as he -began to realize what it was to go to war. But there was then no time to -waste over a fallen brother. The dread work must go on, and with the -whispered words, “Poor Hal, I’ll do the tender for you when we get the -varments licked,” he marked the position by signs he could not miss, and -then pressed closer to his comrade, saying, as he did so— - -“Ike, Hal’s a goner. Shot right through his top-knot, with a piece of -your cap wedged in his skull. If you’d been a leetle taller you’d been -scalped instead of Hal. So much you get for bein’ ‘Stub.’” - -Isaac shuddered involuntarily, but ere he could look back the crowd -behind pushed him forward, and so he failed to see the ruin which, but -for his short stature, would have come to him. There were no marks upon -him yet,—nothing, save the uncovered head, to tell where he had been. -The balls which struck down others passed him by, the wind they made -lifting occasionally his fair hair, but doing no other damage. Above, -around, before, behind, at right, at left, the grape shot fell like -hail, but left him all untouched, and Billy, grown timid since poor -Harry’s fate, pressed closer to the boy who would not tell a lie, as if -there were safety there. - -Onward, onward they pressed, Isaac wondering sometimes how Tom Carleton -fared, and looking again in quest of their young Lieutenant Graham, -still towering above them all, in spite of Rose’s prediction. The ball -for which he was the mark had not been fired yet, but it was coming. An -Alabamian volunteer had singled out that form, yelling exultingly as he -saw it reel and totter like a broken reed. They were well matched in -size, the two combatants, both splendid marks, as Rose had said, and -Bill Baker’s sure aim froze the laugh upon the Alabamian’s lips and sent -him staggering to the ground, just as Isaac received his captain’s -orders to lead the fainting, wounded George to a place of comparative -safety. - -“It’s only my arm they’ve shattered,” George whispered, glancing sadly -at the disabled limb over which Isaac’s tears were falling. “Will it -kill me, think?” was the next remark, prompted by a thought of Annie. - -Isaac did not believe it would, and with all a woman’s tenderness he -bound it up and held his canteen to the lips of the fainting, weary man, -whispering, - -“Water, boy, water.” - -Isaac had not, like many others, thrown his canteen away, and he gave -freely to the thirsty George, who, with each draught, felt his pulse -grow stronger, while his eyes kindled with fresh zeal as the noise of -the battle grew louder, and seemed to be coming nearer. The onslaught -was terrible now. Cannon after cannon belched forth its terrific -thunder, ball after ball sped on its deadly track, battery after battery -opened its blazing fire, shell after shell cut the summer air, and burst -with murderous hiss; shout after shout rent the smoky sky, shriek after -shriek went down with the rushing wind, officer after officer bit the -dust, rank after rank was broken up, soul after soul went to the bar of -God, and then there came a pause. The firing ceased, the stifling smoke -rolled gradually away, and showed a dreadful sight,—men mutilated and -torn, till not a vestige of their former looks was left to tell who they -had been. Mingled together, in one frightful mass, the dead and dying -lay, smiles wreathing the livid lips of some, and frowns disfiguring -others. Arms, hands, and feet, heads, fingers, toes, and clots of human -hair, dripping red with blood, were scattered over the field,—parts of -the living mass we saw but a few hours agone moving on so hopefully -beneath the morning moonlight, “Like leaves of the forest when autumn -hath blown,” they lay there now, their mangled remains crying loudly to -Heaven for vengeance on the heads of those who brought this curse upon -us. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII. - THE RETREAT. - - -The day was ours, nobly won with sweat and toil and blood, and the brave -men who won it were thinking of the laurels so laboriously earned, when -suddenly the entire scale was turned, and ere they knew what they were -doing, the tired, jaded troops found themselves rushing headlong from -the battle-field, never so much as casting a backward glance, but each -striving to out-run the other, and so escape from they knew not what! -How that panic happened no one can tell. Some charged it to the reckless -conduct of a band of Regulars sent back for ammunition, and others upon -the idle lookers on, the curious ones, who had come “to see the Rebels -whipped,” and who at the first intimation of defeat joined in the -general stampede, making the confusion worse, and adding greatly to the -fright of the flying multitude. - -It was a strange retreat our soldiers made. All law and order were at an -end, company mixed with company, regiment with regiment, and together -they rushed headlong down the hill, many in their dismay fording the -creek regardless of the shot and shell sent after them by the astonished -foe, now really in pursuit. - -Some there were, however, who made the retreat more leisurely, and among -these, Bill Baker. Remembering the mark he had fixed in his own mind, he -sought among the slain for Harry, finding him at last, trampled and -crushed by the flying troops, and wholly unrecognizable by any save a -brother’s eye. Bill knew him, however, in a moment, but there was no -time now to “do the tender,” as he had purposed doing. There was danger -in tarrying long, and with a shudder Bill bent over the mangled form, -and with his jack-knife severed a lock of matted, bloodwet hair, taking -also from the pockets whatever of value they contained, not from any -avaricious motive, but rather from a feeling that the rebels should get -nothing save the body. - -“A darned sight good Hal’s carcass will do ye!” he said, shaking his -fist defiantly in the direction of the foe, “but the wust is your own -this hot weather, if you don’t bury him decently;” then turning to the -lifeless gore, he continued: “Poor Hal! I’m kinder sorry you are dead. -You had now and then a streak of good about you, and I’m sorry we ever -quarreled, I be, upon my word, and I wish you could hear me say so; but -you can’t, knocked into a cocked up hat as you are, poor Hal. If there -was a spot on your face as big as a sixpence that wasn’t smashed into a -jelly, I’d kiss you just for the old woman’s sake, but I swan if I can -stomach it! I might your hands, perhaps,” and bending lower, Bill’s lips -touched the clammy fingers of the dead. - -There was something in the touch which brought to Bill’s heart a pang -similar to the one he felt when he saw his brother fall, and rising to -his feet, he said, mournfully: - -“Good-bye, old Hal, I’m going now; I wish you might go, too. Good-bye,” -and wiping away a tear which felt much out of place on his rough cheek, -Bill walked away, saying to himself, “Poor Hal. I didn’t s’pose I had -such a hankerin’ for him. Didn’t s’pose I cared for nobody; but such a -day’s work as this finds the soft spot in a feller’s heart if he’s got -any. Poor Hal! Mother’ll nigh about raise the _ruff_!” - -Thus soliloquizing Bill moved on, not rapidly as others did, but rather -leisurely than otherwise. He seemed to be benumbed, and did not care -much what became of himself. Wading the stream he trudged on, now -wondering “What the plague they all were running for, when they’d got -the rascals licked,” and again anathematizing the shot which fell around -him. - -“S’pose I care for you,” he said, hitting a spent ball a kick. “S’pose I -care if I do get killed? better do that than to run.” - -Then reflecting that to be shot in the _back_ was not considered a -distinguished mark of honor, he hastened his lagging steps until the -shelter of the wood was reached. Bill was very tired, and feeling -comparatively safe, determined not to travel farther until he had had -some rest. Hunting out a thick clump of underbrush near a stream of -water, where he would be sheltered from observation, he crawled into its -midst, and was ere long sleeping soundly, wholly oblivious to the -strange sights and sounds around him, as squad after squad of soldiers -hurried by. - -Meanwhile George Graham was sitting faint and weary beneath the tree, -when the first token of the retreat met his view. - -“See, they are running,” Isaac said, grasping his sound arm in some -affright. “Let us run, too. You lean on me, and I’ll lead you safely -through.” - -“With a bitter groan, George attempted to rise, but sank back again from -utter exhaustion. A species of apathy had stolen over him, and he would -rather stay there and die, he said, than make the attempt to flee. He -did not think of Annie, until Isaac, bending down, said, entreatingly: - -“It will be horrid for Annie to know you died, when you might have got -away. Try for Annie’s sake, can’t you?” - -Yes, for Annie’s sake he could, and at the mere mention of her name, the -dim eye kindled, and the pale cheeks glowed, while the wounded man made -another effort to rise. He succeeded this time, and with slow steps the -two commenced their retreat. It was a novel sight, that tall, muscular -man, towering head and shoulders above the frail boy, upon whom he -leaned heavily for support,—the generous Isaac, who would not leave him -there alone, even though he knew the danger he was incurring for -himself. - -“They’ll treat us decent if we’re taken prisoners, won’t they, think?” -he asked, as the possibility of such a calamity was suggested to his -mind. Not till then had George thought of that. They would not murder a -wounded man, he was sure, but they might take him prisoner, and death -itself was almost preferable to days of captivity and sickening suspense -away from Annie. The very idea roused him into life, and with a -superhuman effort, he hastened on, almost outrunning Isaac, until they, -too, had reached the friendly woods where Bill had already taken -shelter. Just then a loaded wagon passed them, its frightened, excited -occupants paying no heed to Isaac’s cry for help, until one whose -uniform showed him to be an officer, sprang up, exclaiming: - -“The strong must give place to the wounded. I can find my way to -Washington better than that bleeding man!” and _Tom Carleton_ seized the -reins with a grasp which brought the foaming steeds nearly to their -haunches. The vehicle was stopped, and the next instant Tom had leaped -upon the ground, spraining his ankle severely, and reeling in his first -pain against the astounded Isaac, who cried out, joyfully: - -“Oh, Captain Carleton, save Lieutenant Graham, won’t you? We can walk, -you and I.” - -Tom had not the least suspicion as to whom he was befriending until -then, and now, unmindful of his own aching foot, he assisted George to -the seat he had vacated, and watched the party without a pang as they -drove rapidly away, leaving him alone with Isaac. - -“We’ll do the best we can, my boy,” he said, cheerily, as he met the -confiding, inquiring look bent upon him by Isaac, who, relieved of his -former charge, felt now like leaning for protection and guidance upon -Captain Carleton. - -Alas, his hopes were short-lived, for a groan just then escaped from -Tom’s white lips, wrung out by the agony it cost him to step. Isaac saw -him stagger when he sprang to the ground, and comprehending the case at -once, he resumed his burden of care, and kneeling before poor Tom, who -had sunk upon the grass, he rubbed the swollen limb as tenderly as Rose -herself could have done. - -“If we could only find some water,” Tom said, scanning the appearance of -the woods, and judging at last by indications which seldom failed, that -there must be some not very far away. “There where the bushes are,” he -said, pointing toward the very spot where Bill lay snoring soundly, and -dreaming of robbing Parson Goodwin’s orchard, in company with Hal. -“There must be water there, and human beings too, for I hear singing, -don’t you?” - -Isaac listened till he, too, caught a strain of melody, as sad and low -as if it were a funeral dirge some one was trilling there. - -“What can it mean?” Tom said. “Lend me your hand, my boy, and I’ll soon -find out.” - -It was a harder task to move than he anticipated, for the ankle was -swelling rapidly, and bearing the least weight upon it made the pain -intolerable. Leaning on Isaac’s shoulder, he managed to make slow -progress toward the stream bubbling so deliciously among the grass, and -toward the music growing more and more distinct. - -It was reached at last, and the mystery was solved. Leaning against a -tree was a Confederate officer, whose white face told plainer than words -could tell that never again would he be seen in the pine-shadowed home -he had left so unwillingly but a few months before. Beside him upon the -grass lay a boy, scarcely more than twelve years old, a drummer in a -company of New England volunteers, both little hands shot entirely off, -and the bleeding stumps bound carefully up in the handkerchief of the -Rebel, who had smothered his own dying anguish for the sake of -comforting that poor child, sobbing so piteously with pain. - -“I didn’t s’pose any of you was so good, or I shouldn’t have come to -fight you. Oh, mother, mother, they do ache so,—my hands,—my hands!” he -said, the cry of contrition ending in a childish wail for the mother -sympathy never more to be experienced by that drummer boy. - -A smile flitted across the officer’s face as he replied, “Had we all -known each other better, this war would not have been,” and the noble -foe held the boy closer to his bleeding bosom, dipping his hand in the -running stream, and laving the feverish brow where the drops of sweat -were standing. - -“What makes you so kind to me?” the dying boy asked, his dim eyes gazing -wistfully into the face bending so sadly over him. - -“I have a boy about your size,—Charlie we call him,” the stranger said. - -“And I am Charlie, too,” the child replied, “Charlie Younglove, and my -home is in New Hampshire, right on the mountain side. Father is dead, -and we are poor, mother and I. That’s why I came to the war. I wanted to -go to college, sometime. Do you think I’ll die? Will I never go home -again?—never see mother nor little sister either?” - -The soldier groaned, and bent still closer to the drummer boy, asking so -earnestly if he must die. How could he tell him yes, and yet he felt he -must; he would not be faithful to his trust if he withheld the -knowledge, or failed to point that dying one to the only source of life. - -“Yes, Charlie,” he answered, mournfully, “I think you will. Are you -afraid to die? Did your mother never tell you of the Saviour?” - -“Yes, yes, oh yes!” and the little face lighted up as at the mention of -a dear friend. “I went to Sunday School, and learned of Jesus there. -I’ve prayed to him every night and every morning since I came from home. -I promised her I would,—mother, I mean,—and she prays, too. She said so -in her letter, right here in my jacket pocket. Don’t you want to read -it?” - -The officer shook his head, and Charlie went on: - -“I didn’t want to fight to-day, because I knew it was Sunday, but I had -to, or run away. Will God punish me for that, think? Will he turn me out -of Heaven?” - -“No, no, oh no!” and the North Carolinian’s tears dropped like rain upon -the troubled face, upturned so anxiously to his. “God will never punish -those who put their trust in Jesus.” - -“I do, I do, I do!” and the trembling voice grew fainter, adding, after -a pause: “You are a good man, I know. You have been to Sunday School, I -guess, and you prayed this morning, didn’t you?” - -The soldier answered, “Yes,” and the child continued: - -“You are dying, too, I ’most know, for there’s blood all over us. We’ll -go together, won’t we, you and I? Will there be war in Heaven, between -the North and South?” - -“No, Charlie. There is naught but peace in Heaven,” and again the white -hands laved the feverish forehead, for the soldier would fain keep that -little spirit till his could join it company, and speed away to the land -where trouble is unknown. - -But it could not be, for Charlie’s life was ebbing away; the last sand -was dropping from the glass. Closer the fair curly head nestled to its -strange pillow,—the bleeding bosom of a foe,—and the lips murmured -incoherently of the elm-trees growing near the mountain home, and the -mother watching daily for tidings of her boy. Then the train of thought -was changed, and Charlie heard the _bell_, just as it pealed that -morning from his own village spire. How grand the music was echoing -through the Virginia woods, and the blue eyes closed, as with a whisper -he asked: - -“Don’t you hear the old bell at home, calling the folks to church? It -has stopped now, and the children are singing before the organ, ‘Glory -to God on high.’ I used to sing it with them. Do you know it, ‘_Gloria -in excelsis_’?” - -“Yes, yes!” the soldier eagerly replied, glad to find they were both of -the same faith,—that little Yankee boy, born among the granite hills, -and he a North Carolinian, born on Southern soil. - -“Then sing it,” Charlie whispered; “sing it, won’t you? Maybe I’ll go to -sleep. I don’t ache any now.” - -With a mighty effort the soldier forced down his bitter grief, and in a -low, mournful tone, commenced our beautiful church chant, the dying -child for whom he sang, faintly joining with him for a time, but the -sweet voice ceased ere long, the curly head pressed heavier, the -bleeding stumps lay motionless, and when the chant was ended, Charlie -had gone to his last sleep. - -Carefully, reverently, the North Carolinian laid the little form upon -the grass, and kissed the stiffened lips for the sake of the mother, who -might never know just how Charlie died. - -Just then footsteps sounded near. Tom and Isaac were coming, and the -face of the soldier darkened when he saw them, as if they had been -intruders upon him and his beautiful dead. Their appearance, however, -disarmed him at once, and with a faint smile he pointed to his -companion, and said: - -“He was in the Federal army two hours ago; he has joined God’s army now. -Poor Charlie! I would have done much to save him!” and with his hand he -smoothed the golden hair, on which the flecks of western sunshine lay. - -Isaac knew it was a Rebel speaking to him, and for an instant he -experienced the same sensation he had felt in the midst of the fray, but -only for an instant, for though he knew it was a sworn foe, he knew, -too, that ’twas a noble-hearted man, and with a pitying glance at the -dead, he asked if aught could be done for the living. - -“No,” and the soldier smiled again; “my passport is sealed; I am going -after Charlie. Some one of your men did his work well—see!” and opening -his coat, he disclosed the frightful wound from which the dark blood was -gushing. - -Then, in a few words he had told them Charlie’s story, adding in -conclusion, - -“You will escape; you will go home again: and if you do, write to -Charlie’s mother, and tell her how he died. Tell her not to weep for him -so early saved. Her letter is in his pocket: take it as a guide where to -direct your own.” - -This he said to Isaac, for he saw Tom was disabled. Isaac did as he was -bidden, and the letter from Charlie’s mother, written but a week before, -was safely put away for future reference, and then Isaac did for the -North Carolina soldier what the North Carolina soldier had done for the -Yankee boy: he staunched the flowing blood as best he could, bathed the -throbbing head, and held the cooling water to the dry, parched lips, -which feebly murmured their thanks. - -The stranger saw the distinction there was between his new-found -friends, and feeling that Tom was the one to whom he must appeal, he -turned his glazed eyes upon him, and said: - -“Whose government will answer for all this, yours or the one that I -acknowledge?” - -“Both, both!” Tom replied vehemently; and the stranger rejoined: - -“Yes, both have much to answer for,—one for not yielding a little more, -and the other for its rash impetuosity. Oh, had we, as a people, know -each other; could we have guessed what brave, kind hearts there were -both North and South, we should never have come to this; but we believed -our leaders too much; trusted too implicitly in the dastardly falsehoods -of a lying press; and it has brought us here. For myself I am willing to -die in a good cause; and of course I think _ours_ is just; exactly as -you think of yours; but who will care for my poor Nellie I left in my -Southern home? What splendid victory can repay her for the husband she -will lose ere yonder sun has set, or what can compensate my daughter -Maude or my boy Charlie for their loss? - -The North Carolinian paused from exhaustion, and Tom essayed to comfort -him. - -Bending over him, and supporting the drooping head which dropped lower -and lower, the lips whispering of _Nelly_, of Maud and Charlie, and of -the Tar River winding past their door, until there seemed no longer life -in that once vigorous frame. - -“He’s dead,” Isaac was about to say, but the words froze on his lips, -for in the distance he caught sight of two other men coming towards -them,—one strong and powerful, the other slight and girlish-looking. Tom -saw them, too, and turning to Isaac, said hurriedly, - -“Run, my boy, and leave me. They will think far more of capturing an -officer than a private. You can escape as well as not,—run, quick.” - -But Isaac would share Capt. Carleton’s fate, whatever that might be, and -with a deep flush on his boyish face, he drew nearer to his companion -and stood gazing defiantly at the Rebels as they came up. - -“We have nothing to hope,” Tom whispered, “but we’ll sell ourselves -dearly as possible,” and bracing himself against the tree, he prepared -to do battle, refusing at once the bullying Rebel’s command, - -“Surrender or die.” - -“Never!” was the firm response, and while Isaac engaged hand to hand -with the smaller of the two, Tom parried skillfully each thrust of his -antagonist, who accused him of having murdered the North Carolina -officer lying near. - -Both Tom and Isaac had thought the stranger dead, but at this accusation -the white lips quivered, and whispered faintly, “No, no, they were kind -to me, the officer and the boy.” - -For an instant the Rebel’s uplifted hand was stayed, and it is difficult -to say what the result might have been had not another voice called -through the leafy woods, “No quarter to the Yankee!” - -Tom’s cheek blanched to an unnatural whiteness, as with partial lips and -flashing eyes he watched the new comer hastening to the rescue, the -handsome, graceful stranger, whose appearance riveted Isaac’s attention -at once, causing him to gaze spell-bound upon the face of the advancing -foe, as if it were one he had seen before. How handsome that young man -was, with his saucy, laughing eyes of black, his soft, silken curls of -hair, and that air of self-assurance, which bespoke a daring, reckless -spirit. Isaac could not remove his eyes from the young Rebel, and his -late antagonist met with no resistance, as he passed his arms around him -and held him prisoner at last. Isaac did not even think of himself; his -thoughts were all upon the stranger, at whom poor Tom sat gazing, half -bewildered, and trying once to stretch his arms toward him, while the -lips essayed to speak. But the words he would have uttered died away as -a sudden faintness stole over him, when he saw that he was recognized. -There was a violent start,—a fading out of the bright color on the -Rebel’s cheek, and Isaac, still watching him, heard him exclaim, “No, -no, not him, leave him alone,” while at the same time he attempted to -free Tom from the firm grasp the enemy now had upon him. - -With an oath the soldier shook him off, then rudely bade his -half-senseless victim rise and follow as a prisoner of war. And Tom, -unmindful of the pain, arose without a word, and leaning heavily upon -his captor, hobbled on, caring little now, it would seem, what fate was -in reserve for him. He seemed benumbed, and only an occasional groan, -which Isaac fancied was wrung out by pain, told that he was conscious of -anything. - -“He’s lame,” Isaac cried, the hot tears raining over his face, while he -begged of them to stop, or at least to _carry_ poor Capt. Carleton, if -they must go on. “I won’t run away,” he said, imploringly to his own -captor, feeling intuitively that his was the kinder nature. “Don’t be -afraid of me. I’ll help you carry him if necessary. Do have some pity. -He’s fainting, see!” and Isaac almost shrieked as poor Tom sunk upon the -grass, utterly unable to move another step. They must carry him now or -leave him there, and anxious for the honor a captured officer of Tom -Carleton’s evident rank in life would confer upon them, the Rebels -availed themselves of Isaac’s proffered aid, and the three, bearing -their heavy burden, moved slowly on until far beyond the bushes by the -stream, where the other soldier sat upon the ground, his laughing black -eyes heavy with tears, and his heart throbbing with a keener pain than -he had ever known before. - -“I was wrong to let him go,” he said aloud. “Three against two would -surely have carried the day, and that boy at his side was brave, I know. -But it cannot now be helped. He is their prisoner, and all that remains -for me to do is to see that the best of treatment comes to him until he -is released. But what! are the dead coming back to life?” and the -soldier started up as he caught a sound of bending twigs near by. - - - - - CHAPTER IX. - THE REBEL AND THE YANKEE. - - -Bill Baker was awake at last, and from his hiding-place had seen Capt. -Carleton and Isaac disappear beneath the trees in the distance. - -“They are goners,” he muttered to himself, “Won’t that snap dragon of a -widow be mad, though, when she hears how they’ve got Ike. Poor Ike, I’d -help him if I could, but ’taint no use interferin’ now,” and with this -reflection, Bill turned his attention toward the stranger, watching him -for several minutes, first to decide his politics, and second, to -calculate his probable strength. The soldier was at least a head taller -than Bill, who nevertheless far exceeded him in strength of muscle and -power of endurance. - -“I can manage him,” was Bill’s contemptuous comment, and feeling in his -pocket for the strong cord _Rose Mather_ had bound round his paper -parcel of turnovers and cheese, he prepared to spring upon his foe in -the rear and take him by surprise. - -The cracking twigs betrayed him, and changing his tactics he walked -directly in front of the astonished young man, who, with heightened -color, haughtily demanded “what he was doing there,—and whether he were -a friend or foe.” - -“What am I doin’ here?” Bill repeated, sticking his cap a little more to -one side, and half shutting one of his wicked grey eyes, “Kinder peekin’ -round to see what I can find. Be I friend or foe? You must be green to -ask that. Don’t you re-cog-nize my _regimentals_, made after the cut of -Uncle Sam, _siled_ some, to be sure, but then I’ve been at a dirty -job,—been lickin’ jest such scamps as you. Now, then, corporal, seein’ I -answered you civil, what are _you_ doin’ here? You won’t answer me, -hey?” he continued, as the stranger deigned him no other reply than a -look of ineffable disdain. “Wall, then, if you’re so ’fraid of your -tongue, s’posin’ we try a rastle, rough and tumble, you know; and the -one that gits beat is t’other’s prisoner. That’s fair, as these dead -folks will witness;” and Bill’s glance for the first time fell upon the -bodies lying near them,—upon Charlie’s childish face, with the golden -curls clustering around it. - -The sight touched a tender chord in Bill, and forgetting for a moment -his new acquaintance, he bent over the drummer boy, murmuring, - -“Poor child, your folks or’to have been ashamed to let you come to war.” - -Now was the Rebel’s time. He felt intuitively that he was no match for -the thick-set, brawny Bill. Safety lay alone in flight, and with a -sudden bound he fled like a deer. - -“Nuff said,” dropped from Bill’s lips, and the next instant he, too, was -flying through the woods in pursuit of the foe. - -It proved an unequal race, and Bill’s strong arms ere long closed like a -vice around the struggling soldier, who resisted manfully, until -resistance was vain, and then sullenly stood still, while Bill fastened -his hands behind him, with the cords unwittingly furnished by Rose -Mather! - -“Don’t squirm so, corporal,” Bill said, as he bound the knots securely, -with his knee upon the back of the stranger, whom he had thrown upon his -face. “Don’t squirm so like an eel and I’ll be done the quicker. I -calkerlate to tie you so you can’t git away, and you may as well hold -on. Got kinder delicate hands, haint you? Never done nothin’, I guess, -but lick niggers and shute your betters. There, you may stan’ up now if -you want tew.” - -The young man struggled to his feet, saying, proudly: - -“What do you intend doing next, sir?” - -“What do I intend doin’?” Bill replied, with imperturbable gravity. “I -intend leadin’ you by this string inter camp, and showin’ you up for -to’pence a sight. What d’ye s’pose I intended doin’?” - -The young man made one more desperate struggle to free himself, but the -twine only cut into his flesh, making the matter worse, so he finally -submitted to his fate, and suffered Bill to take him where he listed. -Bill was in no hurry to get to camp. He rather enjoyed being alone with -his prisoner, and leading him to a little thicket he made him sit down, -and placing one of his feet upon him he began to ask him innumerable -questions,—what was his name, where did he come from, what company was -he in, and so on, to none of which did the stranger vouchsafe a reply. - -With a haughty look upon his handsome face, he maintained a rigid -silence, while Bill continued: - -“Needn’t talk unless you want to. Speech is free with us, you know; but -seein’ you won’t tell who you be, maybe you wouldn’t mind hearing my -geneology. It’ll make you feel better, mabby, to know my reputation and -standin’ in society. Corporal, did you ever hear of a _Yankee_, a real -live mudsill Yankee, such as Southern gentlemen feel above fightin’ -with? Wall, I’m that critter. What do you think of me, take me as a -hull?” - -The stranger groaned in disgust, and Bill continued: - -“Them cords hurt you, I guess. Like enough I’ll ease ’em up a trifle, if -you say so. I ain’t hard-hearted, if I be rough as a nutmeg-grater. -Shall I loosen ’em so’s not to hurt them soft, baby hands of yourn?” - -“Thank you, sir. I don’t mind it in the least,” was the soldier’s -answer, though all the while the coarse twine was cutting cruelly into -the tender flesh. - -This Bill suspected, and muttering to himself: - -“Good grit, if he is a Rebel,” he went on: “Considerable top-lofty, -ain’t you, corporal? And as chaps of your cloth like to meet with their -equals, I’ll go on with my history. I was born in Massachusetts, not -over a day’s ride from Boston. Ever been to Boston?” - -No answer from the stranger, save a heightened color, and Bill -proceeded: - -“Tall old town. Got a smashin’ monument out to Charlestown. Heard on’t I -s’pose, as I take it some of you Southern dogs can read. Wall, father -died in State’s Prison down there to Charlestown, and then we moved to -Rockland, the old woman, Hal and me. Hal’s lyin’ up there where the -hottest of the fight took place, and I’m here tormentin’ you by tellin’ -you my character. I’ve been to the workhouse twice,—I have, I swan,—once -for gettin’ drunk, and once for somethin’ else a good deal wus. How do -you feel now?” and Bill leered wickedly at the young man, who seemed -bent on keeping silence. - -Only the expression of his face told the extreme contempt he felt for -his companion, and how it did wound to the quick one of his nature to be -held a prisoner by such as William Baker. But there was no help for it; -he must submit to be taken to Washington by the despised Bill, and -then,—oh, how his heart sank within him as he thought, what then? Was -there no method of escape? Couldn’t he get away, or better yet, couldn’t -he hire Bill to let him go? Strange he had not thought of this before. -Yankees were proverbially avaricious, and almost every man had his -price. He could try, at all events, and unbending his dignity, he -inquired what Bill would ask to let him go? - -“What’ll I ask?” repeated Bill, placing both feet instead of one upon -his prisoner. “I dun know. Le’ss dicker a spell and see. What’ll you -give, and where do you keep your traps?” - -“In my pockets,” the unsuspecting soldier answered; “there’s my watch -and chain, worth over three hundred dollars.” - -“Whew-ew!” whistled Bill, his face lighting up instantly, while hope -crept into the stranger’s heart. “A gold watch worth over three hundred! -Let’s see the critter.” - -“You forget that my hands are tied,” the stranger suggested. - -“So they be, but mine ain’t,” and the next moment Bill was holding to -his ear an elegant Parisian watch, and asking if the stranger were -positive sure it cost more’n three hundred dollars. “I had an old pewter -thing that I gin to mother,” he said, “and this concern jest comes in -play. It’s mine, you say, if I’ll let you cut stick and run?” - -“Yes, sir; I give you that in exchange for my liberty.” - -“Wall, now, kind a generous, ain’t you? But I want you should fling in -something to clinch the bargain. A chap of your cloth is of more valley -than three hundred. What else have you got, corporal?” and laying the -watch carefully upon the grass, Bill’s hand a second time sought the -stranger’s pocket, bringing out an expensive and exquisitely wrought -quizzing-glass. - -“Wall, now, if these ain’t the curisest spetacles!” he exclaimed. “I’ll -jest see how a Reb looks through ’em,” and adjusting them to his eyes, -Bill walked demurely around his prisoner, and then standing at a little -distance inspected him minutely, as if he had been some curious monster. -“Hanged if I can see in ’em, but mabby they’ll suit the old woman to -hum,” he said, placing the glass beside the watch, and adding: “Watch -and spetacles ain’t enough, corporal. What more have you got? Ain’t -there a ring on one of your hands?” - -“Yes, a costly diamond,” was the faint response, and Bill ere long was -trying in vain to push it over his large joints. - -“It don’t fit me, but I guess ’twill my gal, when I git one,” he said, -laying that, too, with the watch and eyeglass. - -A silver tobacco-box and handsome cigar-case followed next, the stranger -groaning mentally, as a faint suspicion of Bill’s real intentions -crossed his mind. There remained now but one more article, the dearest -of all the young Rebel possessed, and the perspiration started from -every pore as he felt the rough hand again within his pockets, and knew -he could not prevent it. - -“Oh, no, no, no, not that! Spare me that. Do not open it, please!” and -the haughty tone was changed to one of earnest supplication, as Bill -drew forth a small daguerrean case, and placed his dirty thumb upon the -spring. - -Something in the stranger’s voice made him pause a moment, but anything -like delicacy of feeling was unknown to the rough Bill, and the next -instant he was feasting his rude gaze upon the features which the Rebel -youth had guarded almost religiously, even from his equals in camp. How -beautiful that girlish face was, with its bright laughing eyes, and soft -chestnut curls falling in such profusion around the childish brow, and -upon the smooth, white neck. Even Bill was awed into silence, while a -feeling of bewilderment crept over him as if he had seen that face -before, and mingled with this feeling came remembrances of that last day -at home, when fair hands, which, ere he was a soldier, would have -scorned to touch such as he, had waved him an adieu. - -“Whew-ew!” he whistled, at last. “Ain’t she pretty, though? Your -sweetheart, I guess,” and he leered at the stranger, who made him no -reply; only the lips quivered, and in the dark eyes there was a -gathering moisture; but when Bill asked, “May I have this, too, if I’ll -let you go?” the stranger answered, promptly: - -“Never! I’ll die a thousand deaths before I’ll part with that! Liberty -is not worth that price. Give me back the picture, and I’ll go with you -willingly wherever you please. Do give it back,” he added, in an agony -of fear, as Bill continued gazing at it, and making his remarks. - -“Can’t a feller look at a gal on glass if he wants to? I wouldn’t hurt -the little critter if I could as well as not. So you won’t give her to -me, nor tell me who ’tis, neither?” - -“Stranger,” said the Rebel, “have you any feelings of refinement?” - -“Nary feelin’,” and Bill shook his head, but did not withdraw his eyes -from the picture. - -“Well, then, have you a wife?” - -“Nary wife. Nobody would have Bill Baker.” - -“Nor sister?” - -“Nary sister but a dead one that I never seen.” - -“Nor mother? You surely have a mother,” and the soldier’s voice shook -with strong emotion. - -“You’ve got me there,” and Bill’s eyes turned upon his prisoner. “I have -a mother, and you ought to hear the old gal take on when she comes home -from washin’ from Miss Martherses or some of the big bugs and finds Hal -dead drunk on the trundle-bed, and me not a great sight better. Handsome -old gal,—one of the kind that don’t wear hoops, but every time she steps -takes her gownd up on her heels, you know.” - -The Rebel groaned aloud. There was no tender point upon which his captor -could be touched, and the tears rained over his handsome face as he -begged of Bill to give him at least the ambrotype. - -“It’s the only thing which has prevented me from being a perfect -villain,” he said. “It has kept me from the wine cup, and from the -gambler’s den.” - -“Pity it hadn’t kept you out of the Southern army,” was Bill’s dry -response, and the stranger answered, eagerly: - -“I wish it had, I wish it had! Please give it back, and I’ll swear -allegiance to the veriest minion in Lincoln’s train.” - -“I never thought no great of a turncoat,” Bill replied, closing the -case, and still holding it in his hand. “If you’re a Southern dog, stay -so, not go to barkin’ on both sides. We don’t want no traitors. Honest, -though, corporal, where _was_ you born? There’s a kind of nateral look -in your face, as if I’d seen it afore,” and Bill laid the ambrotype upon -the grass. - -But with regard to his birthplace, the stranger was non-committal; and -Bill continued: - -“If I let you go, you’ll give me the watch?” - -“Willingly, willingly.” - -“And the spetacles?” - -“Yes, oh yes.” - -“And the glass bead ring?” - -“Yes, everything but the picture.” - -“Don’t be so fast,” Bill rejoined. “I’ll get to that bimeby. Watch, -spetacles, glass bead ring, tobarker-box, and this other thingumbob, but -not the picter, if I’ll let you go? And you’ll go with me to Washington, -and be showed up like a caravan if I’ll give up the picter? Them’s the -terms as I understand.” - -“Yes,” the stranger gasped, a shadow of hope stealing into his heart. - -Alas, how soon it was erased by Bill’s continuing: - -“Yankees ain’t generally very green. We can make you Southern bloods buy -wooden cowcumber-seeds any time of day, and do you s’pose I’m goin’ to -let you off at any price? _No_ SIR! If you go to war, you must take the -chances of war. I ain’t a-goin’ to hurt you, and I’ll ease up them -strings if you say so, but, corporal, you’re my prisoner; and these -traps,” laying his hand upon the various articles upon the grass, “these -traps, picter and all, I _con-fis-cate_ as _con-tra-band_! How do you -feel now?” and Bill coolly pocketed his contrabands, all save the watch, -which he adjusted about his neck. - -There was a fierce storm of tears, and sobs, and wild entreaties, and -then the poor discouraged soldier was still, his white face wearing -again its look of cold, haughty reserve, and his whole manner indicative -of the aversion he felt for the vulgar Bill, upon whom the feeling was -entirely lost, for though Bill knew the proud Southerner felt above him, -he could not appreciate the feelings which made the young man shrink -from him as from a loathsome reptile. Bill had no intention of treating -him cruelly, and as by this time the night shadows were creeping into -the woods, he sought out a dryer and more sheltered spot, and bade his -prisoner sleep while he sat by and watched. It seemed preposterous that -the stranger should sleep under so great excitement, but human nature -could endure no longer without rest, and when at last the stars came -out, they shone down upon that tired soldier, sleeping upon the grass, -with Bill sitting near, and watching as he slept. There were visions of -home, and of the battle, too, it would seem, mingled in the young man’s -dreams, for he talked sometimes with his mother, asking her to forgive -her boy, and take him back again to her love; then he was pleading for -another, a captive it would seem, asking that nought but the best of -care should come to the wounded officer; and then the picture flitted -across his mind, for he held converse with the original, and Bill, -listening to him, muttered: - -“’Twas his gal, or sister, sure; I’m sorry for him, I _vum_, but hanged -if I’ll give it up. It’s _contraband_ according to war. He needn’t of -jined the army.” - -And so the weary night wore on, the deep stillness of the Virginia woods -broken occasionally by the shouts of riders as they passed by, in search -of whatever there was to find. Once, as the shouts came near, the -soldier started up, but ere the scream for help had passed his lips, -Bill’s hand was laid firmly upon them, and Bill himself whispered -fiercely. - -“One yelp, and I gag you with the handkerchief the old woman took from -her pocket and gin me the mornin’ I come from home. She takes snuff, -too, the old woman does!” - -There was a gesture of disgust, and then the stranger became quiet -again, while the shouts died away in the distance and were not heard -again that night. The morning broke at last, and just as it was growing -light, Bill, aroused by the falling rain from the slumber into which he -had inadvertently fallen, awoke his prisoner, and led him safely through -the pickets of the enemy without encountering a human being. They were a -strange looking couple, and when, on the following day, they reached -Washington, they attracted far more attention than the prisoner desired, -for he shrunk nervously from the curious gaze fixed upon him, refusing -to answer all questions as to his name or birthplace, and appearing glad -when at last he was relieved from Bill’s surveillance and led to his -prison home. - - - - - CHAPTER X. - NEWS OF THE BATTLE AT ROCKLAND. - - -Great Battle at Manassas! - -Total Rout of the Federal Army! - -3,000 killed and as many more taken prisoners! - -Fire Zouaves all cut to pieces! - -Only three or four escape alive! - -N. Y. 13th completely riddled!!! - -Sherman’s Battery, and hosts of guns in the hands of the Rebels! - -Frightful Panic at Washington! - -The Capitol in imminent danger! - -Gen. Scott in convulsions, the President crazy, and Seward threatened -with softening of the brain! - -Women and children fleeing for their lives! - -Beauregard marching on with 500,000 men! - -The Baltimoreans in ecstasies, and the Philadelphians in despair! - -Such were some of the exaggerated reports which ran like lightning -through the streets of Rockland on the first arrival of the news, -throwing the people into a greater panic than was said to exist in -Washington. Hints of some terrible disaster, the exact nature of which -could not be known until the arrival of the evening papers, had early in -the afternoon found their way from the telegraphic station into the -village, creating the most intense excitement. Men left their places of -business to talk the matter over, while groups of women assembled at the -street corners, discussing the probabilities of the case, and each -hoping that _her_ child, _her_ husband, _her_ brother had been spared. - -Prominent among these was Widow Simms, holding fast to Susan’s hand, and -occasionally whispering a word of comfort to the poor child, whose eyes -were red with weeping over the possible fate of John. Rose Mather’s -carriage drove up and down, and from its window Rose herself looked -anxiously out, her face indicative of the anxiety she felt to hear the -worst, if worst there were. She knew her husband could not have been in -battle, for he was still in Washington, but she was conscious of a -feeling as if some dire calamity were impending over her, and among the -crowd collected in the street there was none who waited more impatiently -for the coming of the evening train than she. She had taken Annie Graham -to ride with her, and the two presented a most striking contrast, for -where Rose was nervous, impatient and excited, Annie, though feeling -none the less concerned, was quiet, submissive and resigned, exhibiting -no outward emotion until the shrill whistle was heard across the plain, -when a crimson flush stole into her cheek, deepening into a purple as -the carriage drew up in front of the office, where the throng was -growing denser,—men pushing past each other, and elbowing their way to a -stand-point near the door, where they could catch the first item of -news, and scatter it among the eager crowd. The papers came at last, and -the damp sheets were almost torn asunder by the excited multitude. - -“Me one,—me, please,” and Rose Mather’s hand was thrust from the window -in time to catch a paper destined for some one farther in the rear, but -ere she had found the column sought, she heard from those around her -that the worst was realized. - -There had been a battle. Our troops were utterly defeated, and worse -than all, disgraced. - -“But the 13th?” Annie whispered faintly. “Does it speak of the 13th?” - -Rose did not know. Her interest just then was centered in the -“Massachusetts——,” and in her eagerness to hear from Tom, she forgot for -a moment that such a regiment as the N. Y. 13th existed. But there were -others who did not forget, and just as the question left Annie’s lips, -the answer came in the despairing cry which rent the air as some -reckless person shouted aloud, - -“The 13th a total wreck! Not a man left of Company R.” - -“Oh, George,” poor Annie cried, and the next moment Rose held the -fainting form upon her lap. - -“Drive home,—to Mrs. Graham’s I mean,” she said to Jake, who, with some -difficulty made his way through the crowd, but not until the story so -cruelly set afloat was contradicted by those who had more coolly read -the sad intelligence. - -The news was bad enough, but the Rockland company was not mentioned, and -its friends had no alternative but to wait until the telegraph wires -should bring some tidings of the saved. Rose was the first to be -remembered. Will did his duty faithfully. - -“A terrible battle,” his message ran. “Soldiers are arriving every hour, -but Tom has not come yet.” - -A telegram for the Widow Simms came next, the mother’s quick eye taking -in at a glance that only Eli’s name and John’s were appended to it. -Isaac’s was not there. Where was he then, oh where? She asked this -question frantically, refusing to read the note lest it should confirm -her fears. - -“I’ll read it, mother. Let me see,” Susan said, wresting the paper from -her hands, and reading with trembling tones, - - “Eli and I are safe. Isaac was last seen leading Lieut. Graham from - the field.” - -Oh what a piteous wail went up to Heaven then, for Widow Simms, when she -received the news, was sitting in Annie’s door, and Annie was kneeling -at her side. George was wounded, of course, and if wounded, dead, else -why had he not thought of her ere this? Locked in each other’s arms the -two stricken women wept bitterly, the mother sobbing amid her tears, “My -boy, my boy,” while Annie moaned sadly, “My George, my husband.” - -Well was it for both that ere that dark hour came they had learned to -follow on, even when their Father’s footsteps were in the sea, knowing -the hand which guided would never lead them wrong. Annie was the first -to rally. - -“It might not after all be so bad,” she said. “George and Isaac were -prisoners, perhaps, but even that was preferable to death. It would -surely save them from danger in future battles. The Southerners would -not maltreat helpless captives. There were kind people South as well as -North.” - -Thus Annie reasoned, and the widow felt herself grow stronger as hope -whispered of a brighter day to-morrow. - -To Annie it was brighter, for it brought her news of George, wounded in -his right arm, an inmate of the hospital, and at present too weak to -write. This was all, but it comforted the young wife. He was not dead. -He might come home again, and Annie’s heart overflowed with grateful -thanksgiving that while so many were bereaved of their loved ones she -had been mercifully spared. The next mail brought her a second letter -from Mr. Mather, more minute in its particulars than any which had -preceded it. He had obtained permission to stay with George, had removed -him to a private boarding-house, far more comfortable than the crowded -hospital; and, at his request he wrote to Annie that her husband, though -badly wounded and suffering much from the terrible excitement of the -battle, was not thought dangerous, and had strong hopes of ere long -receiving his discharge and returning home where she could nurse him -back to life. - -This was Annie’s message, read by her eagerly, while the Widow Simms, -forgetting all formality in her anxiety to hear if there was aught -concerning her boy, looked over her shoulder, her eye darting from line -to line until she caught _his name_. There was something of him, and -grasping Annie’s arm, she whispered, - -“Read what it says of Isaac.” - -And Annie read how brave Tom Carleton had generously given place to the -poor wounded George, and staid behind him with Isaac, hoping to make his -way to Washington in safety. They had not been heard from since, and the -widow’s heart was sick as heart could be with the dread uncertainty. -Anything was preferable to this suspense, and in a state of mind -bordering upon distraction she walked the floor, now wringing her hands -and again declaring her intention to start at once for somewhere. She -knew not whither, or cared, provided she found her child. - -In the midst of her excitement the gate swung open, and Mrs. Baker -rushed up the walk, her sleeves above her elbows, and her hair pushed -back from her bonnetless head, just as she had left her washing at a -neighbor’s when she received _Bill’s letter_, which told of Hal’s sad -fate, and unravelled the mystery of Tom Carleton’s silence. - -“He’s took! The Rebels have got your Ike!” she shrieked, brandishing -aloft the soiled missive, and howling dismally. Then, putting her hand -into her bosom, she drew forth the lock of hair, and thrusting it almost -in to the widow’s face, cried out, “Look, ’tis Harry’s hair, all there -is left of Harry. That’s what I git for havin’ a boy two inches taller -than Ike, who stood in front, and would of been shot instead of Harry, -only he was shorter. Read it, Miss Graham,” and tossing the letter into -Annie’s lap, the wretched woman sank upon the doorstep, and covering her -face with her wet apron, rocked back and forth, while Annie read aloud -as follows: - - “WASHINGTON, _July 24th_, 1861. - - “DEAR MOTHER: We’ve met the rascals, and been as genteelly licked as - ever a pack of fools could ask to be. How it happened nobody knows. I - was fitin’ like a tiger, when all on a sudden I found us a-runnin’ - like a flock of sheep; and what is the queerest of all, is that while - we were takin’ to our heels one way the Rebels were goin’ it t’other, - and for what I know, we should of been runnin’ from each other till - now if they hadn’t found out the game, and so turned upon us. - - “But wust of all is to come. _Hal_ is dead,—shot right through the - forehead, and the ball that struck him down took off Ike Simmses cap, - so if Ike had been only a little taller, Hal would of lived to been - hung most likely.” - -“Oh, I wish he had, I wish he had!” poor Mrs. Baker moaned, still waving -back and forth and kissing the lock of hair, while the widow -involuntarily thanked her Heavenly Father that the two inches she once -so earnestly coveted for her boy had wisely been withheld. - -Then followed Bill’s account of cutting away the hair he inclosed, of -his flight into the woods, his sleep by the brook, and his waking just -in time to see Capt. Carleton and Isaac Simms disappear beneath the -trees, in charge of rebel soldiers. - -Now that she knew the worst the widow sat like one stunned by a heavy -blow, uttering no sound, as Annie read Bill’s account of capturing his -prisoner. Ere she reached this point, however, she had another auditor, -Rose Mather, who had come with a second letter from her husband, and -who, passing the weeping woman in the door, came and stood by Annie, and -listened with strange interest to the story of that captive parting so -willingly with everything save the picture. - -“Poor young man!” she sighed, when Annie finished reading. “I don’t -suppose it’s right, but I _do_ feel sorry for him. What if it had been -Jimmie? Perhaps he has a sister somewhere weeping for him just as I -cried for Tom. Dear Tom, Will writes he is a prisoner with Isaac Simms. -I’m glad they are together. Tom will take care of Isaac. He had a -quantity of gold tied around his waist,” and Rose’s soft hand smoothed -caressingly the widow’s thin, light hair. - -The widow had not wept before, but at the touch of those little fingers -the flood gates opened wide, and her tears fell in torrents. They were -bound together now by a common bond of sympathy, those four women, each -so unlike to the other, and for a time they wept in silence, one for her -wounded husband, one for a child deceased, one for a captured brother, -the other for a son. - -Now, as ever, Annie was the first to speak of hope, and her words were -fraught with comfort to all save Harry’s mother. She could not comfort -her, for from reckless, misguided Harry’s grave, there came no ray of -consolation, but to the others she spoke of One who would not desert the -weary captives. Neither bolt nor bar could shut Him out. God was in -Richmond as well as there at home, and none could tell what good might -spring from this seeming great evil. For a long time they talked -together, and the afternoon was half spent when at last they separated, -Rose going back to her luxurious home where she wrote to her mother the -sad news concerning Tom, blurring with great tears the line in which she -spoke of Jimmie, wondering what his fate had been. - -Slowly, disconsolately poor Mrs. Baker returned to her day’s work so -long neglected, but the suds she left so hot two hours before had grown -cold, the fire burned out, and with that weary, discouraged feeling -which poverty alone can prompt, she was setting herself to the task of -bringing matters up again, when her employer, touched with the sight of -the white, anguished face, kindly bade her leave the work until another -day, and seek the quiet she so much needed. Poor old woman! How desolate -it was going back to the squalid house where everything, even to the -bootjack he had once hurled at her head, reminded her of the Harry who -would come back no more! She did not think of his unkindness now. That -was all forgotten, and motherlike, she remembered only the times when he -was good and treated her like something half way human. He was her -boy,—her first-born, and as she lay with her tear-stained face buried in -the scanty pillows of her humble bed, she recalled to mind the time when -first he lisped the sweet word mother, and twined his baby arms about -her neck. - -He was a bright, pretty child, easily influenced for good or evil, and -the rude mother shuddered as she felt creeping over her the conviction -that she had helped to make him what he grew to be, laughing at his -fierce temper and at times provoking him on purpose, just to see him -bump his little round, hard head against the oaken floor. Then, as he -grew older, it was fun to hear him imitate the oaths his father used, -and she had laughed at that until the habit became so firmly fixed that -neither threats nor punishment could break it. And when the Sabbath -bells were pealing forth their summons to the house of prayer, she had -suffered him to stay away, offering but slight remonstrance when the -robin’s nest just without the door was pilfered of its unfledged -occupants, the mother-bird moaning over its murdered young, just as she -was moaning now over her ruined boy. Poor Harry! There was some excuse -for him, some apology found in the nature of his early training, but for -her who reared him,—none. She might have taught him better. She might -have sent him to the Sunday school across the way, where Sunday after -Sunday she had heard the hymns the children sang swelling on the Sabbath -air, Harry sometimes joining in as he sat in the cottage door, adjusting -the bait with which to tempt the unsuspecting fish playing in the brook -nearby. A mother’s fearful responsibility had been hers. She had not -fulfilled it, and it rolled back upon her now, stinging as only remorse -can sting, and making her wish amid her pain that the boy, once so -earnestly desired, had never been given her, or else had died in its -cradle bed, and so gone where she knew the hardened in sin never could -find entrance. - -So absorbed was she in her grief as not to hear the sound of wheels -stopping near her gate, nor the tripping footstep upon the floor. Rose -Mather, restless at home and wishing for something to do, had remembered -the miserable woman, and knowing how desolate her comfortless house must -seem that summer night, she had conquered her aversion to the place and -come to speak, if possible, a word of cheer. Mrs. Baker’s howls always -had the effect of making her laugh, they seemed so forced, so unnatural; -but there was something so new, so real in the stillness of that figure -crouching upon the bed, that Rose for a moment was uncertain how to act. -It was no feigned sorrow of which she was a witness now, and advancing -at last towards the untidy bed, she laid her hand upon the disordered, -uncombed hair, and whispered soothingly, “I am so sorry for you, Mrs. -Baker, and I’ll do all I can to help you. I’ll give you money to make -your cottage pleasanter, and by and by you won’t feel so badly, maybe.” - -This was Rose’s idea of comfort. Money, in her estimation, was to the -poor a panacea for nearly every evil, but all her wealth could not avail -to quiet the feeling of remorse from which Mrs. Baker was suffering. -With a sob she thanked the kind-hearted Rose, and then continued, -“’Tain’t the poverty so much, nor the knowin’ that he’s dead, though -that is bad enough. It’s the something that tells me I or’to have brung -him up better. I never sent him to meetin’, never went myself, never had -him baptized, though I did try once to learn him ‘Now I lay me—’ but he, -that’s my man, laughed me out of it. He said there wasn’t any God, that -we all come by chance, but I knew better. _I_ had a prayin’ mother, and -though I forgot what she learnt me, it ’pears to come back to me now. -Oh, Harry, I wish I’d done different, I do, I do,” and the repentant -woman buried her face again in the scanty pillows, while Rose looked -pityingly on. - -Here was a case she could not reach. Money would not cure that aching -heart, or quiet that guilty conscience. “Mrs. Graham would know exactly -what to say,” Rose thought, wishing more and more that she, too, -possessed the wisdom which would have told her what it was poor Mrs. -Baker needed. Sitting down beside her, Rose talked to her of _Bill_, -who, her husband said, was highly complimented for having captured a -rebel. Will had not seen the prisoner, she said, or heard his name; he -only knew the fact, and that Bill was greatly praised. This was some -consolation to Mrs. Baker, but it did not take the pain away, and as she -was not inclined to converse, Rose soon bade her good-bye and left her -there alone in her deep sorrow. - -The following Sunday, just as the notes of the organ were dying away in -the opening service, a bent, shrinking figure stole noiselessly in at -the open door, and Rose Mather recognized beneath the thin black veil, -the haggard face of Widow Baker, who, except on funeral occasions, had -never before been seen within the walls of the church. Annie saw her, -too, and while Rose, touched with the humble attempt she had made to put -on something like mourning for her child, thought how she would give her -an entire new suit of black, Annie thought how she would daily pray that -the blow which had fallen so crushingly might result in everlasting good -to the now stricken mother. - -Scarcely less keen, but of a far different nature, was the grief of -Widow Simms. There was no black upon her leghorn bonnet. She would not -have worn it if Isaac had been dead, but every expression of her stern -face told how constantly her heart was going out after her darling boy, -her captured Isaac languishing in his sultry prison, sick perhaps, and -pining for his mother. How savage she felt toward Beauregard and all his -clan, resolving at times to start herself for Richmond, and beard the -lion in his den. - -“She’d tell them what was what,” she said. “She’d let them know what an -injured mother could do. She’d turn a second _Charlotte Corduroy_, if -necessary, and free the land from such vile monsters,” and she actually -sharpened up her shears as a weapon of offence in case the pilgrimage -were made! - -This was the Widow Simms excited, but the Widow Simms when calm was a -very different woman, praying then for her boy, and even asking -forgiveness for the stirrers up of the rebellion. At Annie’s request she -had at last come to live altogether at the cottage in the Hollow, and it -was well for both that they should be together, for the widow’s stronger -will upheld the weaker Annie who, in her turn, imparted much of her own -trusting, childish faith to the less trusting widow. - -Greatly Annie mourned as the days went on, because no line came to her -from George himself, nothing in his own handwriting, when he knew how -she desired it, if it were but just his name. What made him always -deputize Mr. Mather to write his letters for him? Annie put this -question once to _Rose_, but the twilight was gathering over them, and -so she failed to see the heightened color on Rose’s cheek and the -moisture in her eye. Rose did not now, as formerly, bring her William’s -letters, and read to her every word he said of George. She only told her -how cheerfully George bore his illness, and how Will read to him every -day from Annie’s Bible, choosing always the passages she had marked, but -the rest was all withheld and Annie never dreamed the reason, or of the -effort it cost the talkative little Rose to keep back what William said -she must until the worst were known. - -Thus the August days glided by, one by one, until the summer light faded -from the Rockland hills, and September threw over them her rich autumnal -bloom, and then one day there came a note for Annie, written as of old -by William Mather, but signed by George himself. Poor Annie, how she -cried over and kissed that signature, to which George had added, “God -bless you, darling Annie.” Every letter was unnaturally distorted, and -few could have deciphered the words; but to the eye of love they were -plain as noonday, and Annie’s kisses dropped upon them until they were -still more blurred than when they came to her. - -It was very hard for Rose to keep from telling the dreadful story of -what had followed the penning of those brief words, “God bless you, -darling Annie.” But Will had said she must not, so she made no sign, -only her arms clung closer around Annie’s neck, and her lips lingered -longer upon the snowy forehead as she said good-night, and went away -with the secret which Annie must not know then. - - - - - CHAPTER XI. - THE WOUNDED SOLDIER. - - -How those polished, cruel-looking instruments sparkled, and glittered, -and flashed; and how the sick man shuddered as he glanced toward the -table where they lay, asking, with quivering lip, if there were no other -alternative save the one their presence suggested. - -“None but speedy death!” was the response of the attending surgeon, who -was too much accustomed to just such scenes as this, to appreciate the -feelings of that poor soldier, shrinking so painfully from what they -told him must be if he would live. - -“None but speedy death,”—George repeated the words slowly to himself, -dwelling longest upon the last, as if to accustom himself to thoughts of -it. - -“Wait a little, wait till I think the matter over,” he said, in reply to -the question, “are you ready?” and turning his face to the wall, so that -those about him should not see the fearful conflict going on, he thought -long and earnestly. Wasn’t it better to die than go back to Annie maimed -and disfigured for life? Better die than lose a portion of the manly -beauty of which he had been so proud. Would Annie love him just the -same, even though the strong right arm, which had toiled for her so -cheerfully, could never work for her again, never encircle her in its -embrace? Would the scarred stump be as dear to her as the well-moulded -limb had been? He did not know, and the tears, which all through the -weary days of his sickness had been kept back, now fell like rain upon -the pillow, as he fancied the meeting between his sweet young wife, and -her poor, crippled husband. The cottage on the hill so earnestly -coveted, would never be theirs now. He could not earn it. He could not -earn _much_ any way, with his left arm, and he groaned aloud, as he -thought of the poor unfortunate seen so often in the Rochester depot, -peddling daily papers. Would he ever come to that? He, who, but a few -months ago had so bright hopes for the future? Would the delicate Annie -he had meant to shield so carefully from every ill of life, yet be -compelled to earn the bread she ate? It was a sad, sad picture the -excited soldier drew of what the future might bring, and the fainting -spirit had almost cried out, “I would rather die!” when there came -stealing across his mind the memory of Annie’s parting words, - -“If the body you bring back has in it my George’s heart, I shall love -you all the same.” - -Yes, she would love him just the same, for, as it was not her fair, -sweet face alone which made her so dear to him, so it was not his -splendid form which made him dear to her. Annie’s love would not abate, -even though he went back to her the veriest cripple that ever crawled -the earth. But how different his going home would be from what he had -fondly hoped. No papers heralding his arrival; no dense crowd out to -meet him; no fife trilling a jubilee; no drum beating a welcome; no bell -ringing its merry peal; no carriage, no procession; nothing but the -curious gaze of the few who might come out to see how George Graham -looked without an arm, and whisper softly to each other, “Poor fellow, -how I pity him!” He didn’t want to be pitied; he would almost rather -die; and he did not want to die either, when he thought calmly of it. He -was not prepared; and forcing back the bitter tears, he turned his -white, worn face to William Mather, bending so sadly over him, and -whispered: - -“Tell them they may cut it off, but not till you’ve written to Annie, -and I have signed my name. You know how she has begged for a word from -me. Tell them to keep away; they shall not intrude on my interview with -Annie.” - -George was growing excited, but he became calm again when he found -himself alone with Mr. Mather, who wrote the letter which gave Annie so -much joy. There was nothing in it of the expected amputation; nothing -but encouragement that he should ere long come home to stay with her -always. - -“There, give me the pen,” he said, when the letter was finished, and the -trembling fingers grasped it eagerly, but quickly let it fall as the -purple, festered flesh above the elbow throbbed and quivered with the -pain the sudden effort caused. “Once more; I’ll do it if it costs my -life!” he whispered, nerving himself with might and main, and then, with -Mr. Mather guiding his hand, he wrote his name, and the words, “God -bless you, darling Annie!” “It’s done, and she must never know the agony -it cost me,” he moaned, as his bandaged arm fell heavily at his side, -while with his other hand he wiped away the sweat which stood so thickly -upon his face. “Bring Annie’s Bible,” he said, “and lay it on my pillow. -It will make me bear it better. Oh, Annie, Annie, if you could be here -to pray for me! Can’t _you_?” and the dim eyes turned imploringly toward -Mr. Mather who shook his head hesitatingly. - -Man of the world as he had been, he had not yet learned to pray, but he -could not resist that touching appeal, and bending down he answered: - -“I never learned to pray, but while the operation is going on, I’ll do -the best I can. Shall I call them now?” - -George nodded, and William admitted the two surgeons, who were growing -somewhat impatient at the delay. They were not naturally hard-hearted -men, but years of practice had brought them to look on amputations in a -mere business point of view. Still there was something about this case -which touched a chord of sympathy, and they spoke kindly to the -sufferer, telling him it would soon be over, and was not half so bad as -losing a leg would be. George made no reply except to shudder nervously -as he saw the cold, polished steel so soon to cut into his flesh. - -“You’ll need bandages,” he said, his mind flashing backward to the day -when he had looked in at Rockland Hall, where Annie, with others, sat -working for just such a scene as this. - -“It’s here,” Mr. Mather answered, pointing to a table where lay a ball -prepared for Company R. - -Without knowing why he did so, Mr. Mather took it up and began -mechanically to unroll it, pausing suddenly as traces of a pencil met -his view. There was something written there,—something which made him -start as he read, “Annie Howard. It’s your Annie, George. Try to think -I’m there. Rockland, April, 1861.” - -Was it a happen so, or a special providence that this bit of linen, over -which Annie’s prayers had been breathed, should come at last to him for -whom it was intended? Mr. Mather believed the latter, and pointed it out -to George, who, comprehending the truth at a glance, uttered a wild, -glad cry of joy as he pressed it to his lips. - -“Yes, Annie, I know you are here. I can feel your presence, and it will -help to ease the pain. Begin without delay. Don’t wait, if it must be -done.” - -There was a moment’s silence, a shutting of both William’s and George’s -eyes, and a shriek of anguish rang through the room as George cried out, -“Oh, Annie, Annie, stand up closer to me,—it makes me faint, it hurts me -so bad! Pray, Mr. Mather, pray!” and Mr. Mather did pray, the first -prayer which had passed his lips since his early boyhood,—not aloud, but -silently; and the writhing victim grew still at last, only shivering -once as the sharp saw glided through the splintered bone. Carefully they -bound up the bleeding stump with the soft linen Annie had sent, speaking -comforting words to the sufferer, who seemed to be stupefied, for he did -not notice what they said. - -It was done at last; and after few directions the operators hurried off -to do for others, what they had done for George. Poor George, how long -and weary were the days and nights immediately succeeding the -amputation, and how horrible the sensation which prompted him to fancy -the severed limb was there; to feel the hot blood tingling through his -finger tips, throbbing through his wrists, streaming into his elbow -joints, and then to know ’twas all a mere delusion, for the right arm -once so full of vigor, was nought now, save a putrifying mass buried -away beneath the sod. He would not have Annie know it yet, he said. He -would rather spare her as long as possible, and so the news was withheld -from her, while day after day George waited and watched for the -favorable change which should make it safe for him to undertake the -tedious journey. Three times was the travelling-bag packed, with the -hope of going to-morrow, and as often did the doctor’s stern mandate bid -him wait a little longer. - -At last the terribly nervous sensation passed away, taking with it all -the pain, and leaving no feeling save one of intense uneasiness and -languor, which the once strong man strove in vain to shake off, trying -day after day to sit up, if only for a moment, and as often falling back -upon his pillows from sheer exhaustion. He was only tired; he had never -been rested since the battle, he said, and if he could once go home to -Annie, and lie upon the lounge, where he last saw her kneeling, he -should get well so fast. Often in his troubled sleep he talked of her, -begging her not to spurn her poor, crippled husband, but to love him -just the same. - -“I never can work for you as I used to do,” he would say, “never can buy -that cottage on the hill, but God won’t let us starve, and I shall love -you so much, so much, when I find you do not shrink away from poor, -mutilated George.” - -It was a sad, but not unprofitable lesson, which William Mather was -learning by that bedside. At home in Rockland, where their positions -were so different, he had always respected George Graham, but he had -learned to love him now with a brother’s love, and gladly would he have -saved him for the sweet wife in whom his own darling Rose was so deeply -interested, and whose letters were silently working good in him as well -as George. Greatly his personal friends marvelled that he should stay so -closely immured within that sick-room, when he might, had he chosen, -have mingled much in the world without, and many were the attempts they -made to drag him away. But he withstood them all, and clung the closer -to his friend, who leaned upon him with all the trustful confidence of a -little child. Hour after hour he sat by his patient, reading to him from -Annie’s well-worn Bible, and when at last the heavy cloud was lifted, -and the pathway through the valley of death was divested of its gloom, -he was the first to whom the sick man imparted the joyful news, that -whether he lived or died, all was well,—all was peace within. - -In silence and in tears Mr. Mather listened to the story of what was so -strange to him, and in the next letter sent to Rose, he told her of the -new resolves awakened within him, tracing them back to that humble -cottage in the Hollow, where Annie Graham, unknown save to a few, was -wielding a mighty power for good. Everything which he could do for -George he did, and Annie herself could scarcely have been more gentle or -kind; and George,—oh how grateful he was to his noble friend, blessing -him so often for the kindly deeds. - -“God will surely let you go home unharmed,” he said one day when Mr. -Mather had been more than usually attentive. “I pray to Heaven every -hour, that you may never know the dreary heart-pang it costs one to die -away from home, and all that we hold dear, for I am dying. I have given -up the delusion that to-morrow will find me better. I shall never be -better until I wake in Heaven,—shall never go back to Annie,—never see -my old home again. It is a humble home, Mr. Mather, but you can’t begin -to guess how dear it is to me, because it is the spot where I brought -Annie after she was mine. How well I remember that first night of -housekeeping; how proud I felt, knowing it was my home, my table, my -wife sitting opposite—that her own darling hands had made the tea, and -cut the bread she passed me, and that I had earned it, too. The poor -have many joys to which the rich are strangers, and I’ve sometimes -thought we love each other more because there is little else to divide -our love. True it is that mortal man never loved a creature better than -I have loved my Annie. She was of gentler blood than I,—was far more -delicately reared, and I know it was an unequal match. She was far above -me in social position. Highly educated and accomplished, too; she was a -belle and favorite everywhere, while I was only George Graham,—a -mechanic and engineer. She kept nothing from me, and she told me of a -childish fancy when she was a mere girl of fourteen, but if she ever -sent a regret after the handsome, black-eyed boy,—the object of that -fancy,—it was not perceptible to me. Still, I think that may have had -its influence,—that, and the fact that her life was very wretched with -her proud, hard aunt, on whom she was dependent, and who wanted her to -marry a white-haired millionaire. But Annie chose me, and I have -worshipped her with an idolatry which I know was sinful in the sight of -Heaven, who will have the first place in our hearts. I have told you all -this because your wife has been a friend to Annie, and I want her to -know that Annie is her equal, if she did marry a poor mechanic. I am not -blaming any one. I know the distinctions there are in social life. I -should feel just so, too, perhaps, if I was rich and had been educated -as you were. Even as it is I always was proud to think my wife was a -lady-born, and I hoped one day to raise her to the position she ought to -fill. But that dream is over now. It matters little what becomes of the -body after the soul has left it, though I should rather lie in Rockland -graveyard, where Annie can sometimes come to see me, and I do so want to -hear her voice once more before I go,—to tell her with my own lips that -if in Heaven I find a place, she has led me there.” - -“Suppose we send for her,” Mr. Mather said, the glad thought flashing -upon his mind of the joy it would be to see his own darling once more, -for if Annie came, Rose, he knew, was sure to come also. “I’ll send for -both Annie and Rose at once. They can come on together.” - -Mr. Graham made no objection, and Mr. Mather set himself to the task of -writing the letter, which he hoped was to bring not only Annie, but his -own precious Rose. - -“Don’t say a word about my _arm_. I’d rather tell her myself. She won’t -mind it so much when she sees how sick and weak I am,” George suggested; -and so Mr. Mather bade Rose keep the amputation to herself as -heretofore. - -“You will defray Mrs. Graham’s expenses,” he wrote, “and come as soon as -possible, for her husband is nearer death than you imagine.” - -The letter was finished and read aloud to George, who faintly nodded his -thanks, and then the message was sent on its way to the North. - - - - - CHAPTER XII. - GETTING READY. - - -“Oh, I’ve such perfectly splendid news this morning. We are going to -Washington right away, you and I, for Will says so in his letter. You -see George is a great deal,—George can’t,—well, _George isn’t very -well_;” and quite delighted with the happy turn she had given her words, -Rose skipped around Annie’s cottage like a bird, lighting at last upon a -stool at Annie’s feet, and asking if she were not glad. “Why, how white -you are!” she exclaimed, as she observed the paleness of Annie’s cheek. -“What makes you? Don’t you want to go?” - -Annie was not deceived by Rose’s abrupt turn. She knew that George was -worse, else he had never sent for her: and hence the sudden faintness, -which Rose’s gay badinage could not shake off at once. - -“Did your husband write, or mine?” she asked, and Rose replied, - -“Will, of course. George has never written, you know.” - -“Yes, I know;” and in Annie’s voice there was a tone approaching nearer -to bitterness than any that Rose had ever heard from her. “Where is the -letter? Let me read it for myself.” - -But Rose had found it convenient to leave the letter at home, and so she -answered, - -“I did not bring it with me. I can tell you all there is in it.” - -“But will you?” and Annie grasped her shoulder firmly. “Win you tell me -all? Tell me what it is about my husband, and why he never writes? Is -George dying, and is that the reason why he sends for me? Tell me, Mrs. -Mather, for I will not be put off longer.” - -There was a look in the blue eyes before which Rose fairly quailed, and -turning her face away she answered truthfully, - -“Yes, George is very sick. He will never come home again; and he wants -you there when he dies.” - -Softly the quivering lips repeated, “When he dies!” poor Annie wondering -if it could be George who was meant. _Had_ the evil she most dreaded -come upon her at last? Must she give her husband up and live without -him? How dark, how cheerless the future looked, stretching before her -through many years it might be! Was there no hope,—no help? It was -Annie’s darkest hour of trial, and for a moment the spirit fainted, -refusing to bear the load which, though more than half-expected, had -come so sudden at the last. But Annie was not one to murmur long, and -Rose Mather never forgot the sweet submissive smile which played over -her white face as she said, - -“Whether George lives or dies, God will do all things well.” - -After this there was no more repining, no more bitterness of tone, -nothing save humble submission to whatever might be in store for her. - -Rose was very enthusiastic on the subject of the Washington trip, and -Annie listened eagerly to her suggestions. - -“It is absurd for two young ladies like us to travel alone,” Rose said. -“We must have some nice elderly woman to matronize the party. I mean to -write to mother to send up one from Boston.” - -“Miss Marthers,” interrupted the Widow Simms, who sat by the window -knitting for some soldier boy, “Miss Marthers, don’t be a simpleton, a -sendin’ down to Boston for somebody to marternize you and Miss Graham, -when you can find forty of ’em nearer home. Let _me_ go. Eli and John -are there, you know; and ’tain’t such a great ways to Richmond, where my -poor Isaac is. Did I tell you I got a letter last night from a strange -woman up in New Hampshire, whose boy was in the battle? The rascals let -your brother write to her, because there was something between her -Charlie and a rebel officer who was good to the child, when he was -dyin’. There’s now and then a streak of good amongst ’em.” - -“Yes; but what of _Tom_?” Rose asked eagerly, forgetting Washington in -her anxiety to hear from her brother, of whom not one word had been -known after his name had appeared in the paper as one of the prisoners -at Richmond, together with that of a boy called “Isaac Simpson.” - -The more humane of Captain Carleton’s captors had repeated what the -dying officer said of Tom’s kindness to him, and for this Tom had at -last found opportunity for sending a note to Charlie’s mother, telling -her how her darling died, and asking her to write for him to his mother, -his sister and the Widow Simms. This the grateful woman had done, but -Rose had not received her letter yet, and she listened eagerly while the -widow read the very words which Tom had written concerning himself and -Isaac. There was but little said of suffering or privation. Tom, it -would seem, was tolerably well cared for, but he told of days and nights -when his heart went out in earnest longings for the loved ones at home, -and then he spoke of Isaac, saying, - -“Tell his mother that he does not bear prison confinement well, and she -would hardly know her boy. He is very popular among his fellow -prisoners, and does more good, I verily believe, than half our army -chaplains. One poor fellow, who died the other day, blessed Isaac Simms -as the means of leading him to Heaven.” - -“Oh, I’m so glad he’s there, ain’t you?” and the tears shone in Rose’s -eyes as she involuntarily paid this tribute to Christianity. - -“On some accounts I am, and then again I ain’t,” was the widow’s reply, -as she wiped the moisture from her glasses and returned them to her -pocket. “I’m glad he’s doing good, but I don’t want him sick there -alone, without his mother. It’s hard to see why these things are so, but -that’s nothin’ to do with the goin’ to Washington. Will you take me, -Mrs. Marthers? I know I’m homespun and ignorant, but you may call me -waitin maid, or anything you like, if you’ll only take me.” - -The widow’s voice was full of entreaty, and Rose could not resist it. It -would be _grander_, she thought, to have a woman from Boston, but then -Mrs. Simms wanted to go so badly, while Annie, too, preferred her, she -was sure. So it was settled that as soon as the necessary arrangements -could be made, Mrs. Simms, Annie and Rose were to start for the Federal -Capital. Had the care of an entire regiment devolved upon Rose, she -could not have been busier or have felt a greater responsibility than -she did in planning and arranging the journey, and between times trying -to initiate Widow Simms into the mysteries of travelling, telling her -not to be frightened and think they’d run off the track each time the -whistle blew,—not to show undue anxiety about her baggage, as -she—Rose—should hold the checks, little brass pieces, which they would -get at the depot,—not to bother the conductor by asking questions, or -let the people know that she had never been further in the cars than -Rochester. - -To all these directions the widow gravely promised compliance, saying, -in an aside to Annie, “It does me good to see the little critter -patternize me, as if she s’posed I was a tarnal fool, and didn’t know a -steam _locofoco_ from a canal boat.” - -The day before the one appointed for the commencement of the journey -came at last. Rose’s three trunks, of the size which makes the porters -_swear_, were packed to their utmost capacity, for Rose meant to make a -winter’s campaign, and display her numerous dresses at parties and -levees. So everything which she could possibly and impossibly need, even -to her skating dress, was stowed away in the huge boxes, together with -various luxuries for her husband and George, and then, as the afternoon -was drawing to a close, she started for the cottage in the Hollow, to -see that everything there was in readiness. - -It had not taken the widow long to pack up her three dresses, and her -small, old-fashioned hair trunk, locked and tied round with a bit of -rope, was standing near the door ready for the morrow’s early train. On -Annie’s face there was a hopeful, expectant expression, which told how -glad she was at the prospect of meeting her husband so soon. - -“Two days more and I shall see him,” she thought, picturing to herself -the meeting, and fancying what she would do, what she would say, and how -carefully she would nurse him when once she was there with him. It was a -bright picture she drew of that meeting with her husband,—of the kisses, -the caresses, she would lavish upon him, and she was almost as impatient -as Rose herself to have the November day come to an end, knowing that -with the darkness she was nearer to the asked-for to-morrow. - -Just as the sun was setting, Rose took her leave, saying, as she bade -Annie good-bye, “I mean to drive round by the depot and get the tickets -to-night, so as to save time in the morning.” - -Annie smiled at the little lady’s restlessness, and after kissing her -good-night, stood by the window watching her, as she drove down the -street, and thinking to herself, - -“When I see her again it will be _to-morrow_.” - -Rapidly Rose Mather’s iron greys bore her to the depot, where but a few -idlers were lounging, as it was past the hour for the cars. The window -between the ladies’ sitting-room, and the office was closed, and Rose -knocked against it in vain. The ticket agent had gone to his tea, and -with a feeling of dissatisfaction Rose was turning away, when a sharp, -clicking sound from an adjoining apartment reached her ear, and stepping -to the open door, she stood looking in, while the telegraphic operator -received a communication. What was it that made him start so, and utter -an exclamation of surprise? Was it bad news the wires had brought to -him? Had there been another battle? Was Washington in danger? Rose -wished she knew, and she was about to inquire, when the operator turned -upon her, and asked if she knew _Mrs. Graham_, wife of the Lieutenant? - -“Yes, yes; has anything happened to him?” she answered, grasping the now -written message, which the agent handed her, saying: - -“Break it to her as gently as possible. He was the finest fellow in all -the company,” and the kind-hearted man, not yet accustomed to the -horrors entailed by the war, wiped a tear away, as he muttered to -himself, “Poor George!” - -There was no need for Rose to open the envelope, for she knew well -enough what it contained, but her fingers mechanically tore it apart, -and with streaming eyes she read the fatal message which would break -poor Annie’s heart. - -“Oh, I _cannot_ tell her,” she cried, sinking down upon the hard settee, -and sobbing bitterly. “How can I take this to her, when I left her so -happy half an hour ago?” - -But it must be done, and summoning all her courage she bade Jake drive -back to the Hollow, shivering as she saw the cheerful light shining from -the window, and shrinking more and more from the task imposed upon her, -when, as she drew nearer, she saw Annie’s bright, joyous face as she put -together the garments for to-morrow, pausing occasionally to speak to -Widow Simms, who sat before the blazing fire, dreaming visions of what -might be could she but get a pass to Richmond! - -“Don’t you hear wheels?” the widow asked as the carriage stopped before -the gate. - -Annie thought she did, and going to window she saw Rose as she came up -she walk. - -“Why, it’s Mrs. Mather,” she cried. “What can have brought her back -to-night?” and hastening to the door she led Rose in, asking why she was -there. - -“Oh, Annie,” Rose replied, winding her arms around Annie’s neck, “I wish -I did not have to tell, but I must, and I know it will kill you dead. -I’m sure it would me, and I don’t see why you should be served so -either. We shall not go to-morrow, for Will is going to bring him home. -Don’t you know now? Can’t you guess?” and Rose thrust the dispatch into -the hands of the bewildered Annie, who clutched it eagerly, and bending -to the lamplight, read what Rose had read before her. - -It came to her like a thunderbolt, striking all the deeper because it -found her so full of eager expectation; and the November wind, as it -swept past the door, and down the lonely Hollow, took with it one -wailing cry of anguish, and then all was still within the cottage, save -the sobbing whispers of Widow Simms and Rose bending over the -unconscious form which lay upon the bed, so white and still that a -terrible fear entered the hearts of both lest the stricken Annie, too, -were dead. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII. - THE DYING SOLDIER. - - -Backward now we turn, and stand again in the chamber where we saw the -glitter of the polished steel, and heard the bitter cry forced out by -pain from lips unused to give such sign of weakness. They were white now -as the wintry snow which covers the Northern hills, and the breath came -feebly from between them, as the sick man whispered faintly: - -“I shall not be here if Annie comes, for when the drum beats on the -morrow, calling my comrades to their daily drill, I shall be far away -where sounds of battle were never heard but once. Oh the peace, the -quiet, the rest, there is in Heaven. I hope you will one day come to -share it with me; you who have been kinder than a brother,” and the -long, white fingers grasped the hand which for so many days and weeks -had soothed the aching head and cooled the fevered pillows with all a -woman’s tenderness. - -Never for an hour had that faithful friend deserted his post. Day and -night had found him there, ministering to every want, and, as far as -human aid could do, smoothing the pathway leading so surely down to -death. But his vigils were almost over now; his release was just at -hand, for, as George had said, the morrow’s drum-beat would only find -there the body, which was so worn by suffering and disease, that William -Mather could lift it in his arms as easily as he could have lifted a -little child. He was greatly changed from the days when he had been -aptly called the Rockland Hercules. But as the outer man decayed, the -inner life grew strong and bright, shining forth at the last with all -the splendor which perfect faith in Christ’s Atonement can shed around a -death-bed. There was no repining now, no murmuring at the mysterious -dealings of Providence, nothing but sweet, childish confidence, and a -patient waiting for the end coming on so fast that George himself could -feel the irregular beat of his wiry pulse, and mark the death hue as it -came creeping on, settling first in purplish spots about his finger -tips, and spreading its ashen coloring over his clammy hands. - -A stormy November night had closed over Washington, and the rain beat -dismally against the windows of the room where Mr. Mather bent over the -dying soldier, listening to what he said. - -“You can’t tell Annie _all_,” George whispered, looking fondly up into -the face he had learned to love so well. “You must write it down so as -not to lose a single word. Bring pen and paper, and then sit where I can -see you, for the sight of you does me good; you have been so kind to -me.” - -The writing utensils were brought, and then sitting where George could -look into his face, Mr. Mather wrote as the dying man dictated: - - MY DEAR, DEAR, DARLING ANNIE:—It will be days, perhaps, before you see - this letter, and ere it reaches you somebody will have told you that - your poor George is dead! Are you crying, darling, as you read this? - Do the tears fall upon the words, ‘_poor George is dead_?’ Don’t cry, - my precious Annie. It makes my heart ache to think how you will sorrow - and I not there to comfort you. It’s hard to die away from home, but - not so hard as it would once have been, for I hope I am a different - man from the one who bade you good-bye a few short months ago; and, - darling, it _must_ comfort you to know that your prayers, your sweet - influence have led the wanderer home to God. We shall meet again in - Heaven, Annie,—meet where partings are unknown. It may be many years, - perhaps, and the grass upon my grave may blossom many times ere you - will sleep the sleep which knows no waking but at the last you’ll come - where I am waiting you. I _know_ I shall be there, Annie. All the - harassing doubts and fears are gone. Simple faith in the Saviour’s - promise has taken them away, and left me perfect peace. God bless you, - Annie darling, and grant that as you have guided me, so you may guide - others to that home above, where I am going so fast. You have made me - very happy since you have been my wife, and I bless you for it. It - makes my death pillow easier to know that not one bitter word has ever - passed between us,—nothing but perfect confidence and love. I was not - good enough for you, darling. None knows that better than myself. You - should have married one of gentler blood and higher birth than I, a - poor mechanic. I have always felt this more than you, perhaps, and - have tried so hard not to shame you with my homespun ways, had I - lived, I should have improved constantly beneath your refining - influence, but that is all past now, and it is well, perhaps, that it - is so. As you grew older you _might_ have felt there was a lack in me, - a something which did not satisfy the cravings of your higher nature, - and though you might not have loved me less, you would have seen that - we were not wholly congenial. I am well enough in my way, but I am not - a suitable companion for a girl of culture like yourself, and I’ve - often wondered that you should have chosen me. But you did, and again - I bless you for it. Never, never, was year so happy as the one I spent - with you, my darling, darling Annie, and I was looking forward to many - such, but God has decreed it otherwise, and what he does we know is - right. I shall never see you again! and though they will bring me back - to you, I shall not feel your tears upon my face, or see you bending - over my coffin-bed! Still I know you will do this, and that makes it - necessary for me to tell what, perhaps, has been too long withheld, - because I would spare you if possible. - - “Annie, had I lived, I never could have toiled for you as I once did, - for where the right arm, which has held your light form so often, used - to be, there is nothing now but a scarred stump, and this is why I - have not written. Does it make you sicken and shrink away from me? - Don’t, Annie. Your crippled husband’s heart is as full of tenderness - now as ever. I was too proud of my figure, Annie, and the thought that - you might love me less when you knew how maimed I was, hurt more than - the cold, sharp steel, cutting into my throbbing flesh. - - “And now, dear Annie, I come to the hardest part of all. I know just - how you’ll start and shudder at what you deem so cruel a - suggestion,—know just how keen the pang will be, for I have felt the - same and my spirit well nigh fainted as I thought of the time when - another’s caressess than mine would call the sweet love light to your - eye and kindle the soft blushes on your cheek. Listen to me, Annie. - You’ll be glad one day to remember that I told you what I did. You are - young and beautiful, and though you do not believe it now, the time - will surely come when my grave will not be visited as often as at - first, and the flowers you will plant above me when next spring’s sun - is shining will wither for want of care, and the rank grass growing - there will not be trodden down by your dear little feet, for they will - be waiting by another fireside than ours in the Hollow, and my Annie - will bear another name than mine. Do you discredit me, darling? It - will surely be, and I am willing that it should, but you will never - know the anguish it costs me to be willing. It is the bitterest drop - in all the bitter cup, but I drank it with tears and prayers, and now - I can calmly say to you what I am saying,—can even from my death-bed - give you to another, whoever he may be. You can never forget me, I - know; never forget your soldier husband, who fell in his country’s - cause, but by and by thoughts of him will cease to give you pain, and - our short married life will seem like some far-off dream. - - “I cannot say how it would be with _me_ were you taken and I left, but - I am much like other men, and judging from their example I should do - just as they do, so if in after years another asks you, as I once did, - to be his guiding star, don’t refuse for me. Think that from my low - grave I bless you in your new relations, and will welcome you to - Heaven all the same, though you come fettered and bound with other - links than those my love has thrown around you. - - “I am almost done now, Annie. There is a gathering film before my - eyes, and I feel the death chill creeping through my veins. It would - be sweet to have you here, as I go down the brink up which no traveler - has ever come; but it cannot be, and I will not repine. There is One - with me whose presence is dearer far than yours could be; One whose - everlasting arm will be beneath me as I pass over Jordan. Leaning on - Him I need no other stay, but shall go fearlessly down to death. There - is another with me, too,—an earthly friend, who has been kinder than a - brother, and my heart clings to him more fondly than he can ever - guess. Always respect William Mather, Annie, for what he has been to - me. Pray that prosperity may attend him all his days, and that at the - last he may find a place in Heaven. He is thinking of these things, I - know, and from the dreary hours spent with me there may yet spring up - plants of everlasting growth. - - “My mind begins to wander, darling. There’s a rushing sound in my - ears, while thoughts of you and thoughts of that terrible Sabbath - battle are blended together. Good-bye, my precious one. Don’t cry too - much when you read this. It is not good-bye forever. A few more years - of earth to you, a moment of heavenly bliss to me and then we meet - again, where golden harps are ringing. I can almost hear them - now,—almost see the shining throngs sent out to meet me, just as I - once vainly dreamed the Rockland people would come to welcome me home - from war. In fancy I put my arms around your neck just as I used to - do; in fancy hold you to my bosom; in fancy kiss your girlish lips, - and smooth your pale brown hair. - - “I don’t know how you’ll live without me; don’t know who will earn - your bread, but the God of the widow and fatherless will surely care - for my darling and keep her heart from breaking. With him I leave you, - knowing you are safer there than elsewhere. - - “Good-bye, good-bye.” - -There were great tear blots upon this letter, for Mr. Mather, as he -penned it, had wept over it like a child, forming a resolution which he -wondered had not suggested itself before. Kneeling by the dying George, -he said, “God _will_ care for your darling, and I shall be His -instrument. So long as I have a home, Annie shall not suffer. Rose’s -love was given to her long ago and mine will follow soon. She shall be a -sister to us both.” - -The glazed eyes lighted up with joy, and the white lips whispered the -thanks which ended in a prayer for blessings on one who had proved -himself so kind to the poor soldier. - -“Come closer to me,” they said; “take my hand in yours and keep it there -while I thank you for what you’ve been to me. You’ll forgive me, I know, -that I ever thought you proud, for I did, and sometimes there was a -bitter feeling in my heart when I saw your Rose surrounded with every -luxury, and thought of Annie, as highly educated as she, taking a far -lower place in Rockland, because her husband was a mechanic. There is -more of that feeling among the working classes than you imagine, and you -don’t know how much good a familiar word or a little notice from such a -you does to those who fill the humbler walks of life. Women feel this -more than men, and again I bless you for the care promised my Annie. I -do not ask that you should take her to your home as you suggest. You’ll -think differently of that bye and by, but see that she does not want; -see that no winter night shall find her hungry, no winter morning cold. -Oh, Annie, Annie, that you should ever come to this!” - -It was a bitter, wailing cry, embodying all the mighty love the sick man -had ever felt for his young wife. George had thought himself resigned, -but weak human nature, which clings so tenaciously to life, was making -one last effort for the mastery, and the worn spirit fainted for a time -in the fierce struggle which ensued. The mind began to wander, and was -in fancy back again at the cottage in the Hollow, where the soldier -clasped his Annie to his bosom, begging of her in piteous tones not to -love him less because he was a cripple. “I have only one arm to work -with now, but I won’t let you starve, for when there’s but one crust -left, I’ll give it all to you, and laugh so merrily that you will never -guess how the hunger pain is gnawing at my heart. I’ve felt it once, my -darling. I know just what it’s like. ’Twas on that terrible day when our -brave boys met the foe, way up there at Manassas. There were hours, and -hours, and hours, when we neither ate nor drank, and the July sun poured -down so hotly, drying the perspiration which dropped from my hair like -rain. ’Twas my very life I sweat away that awful day, fighting for the -Union. Did you hear the battle, Annie,—hear the cannon’s bellowing -thunder as it echoed through the Virginia woods? Wasn’t it grand the -yell the Highlanders gave, as, with the 69th, they bore down battery -after battery, and plunged into the enemy’s midst! How bravely our -company played their part, fighting their way through shot and shell, -and blood and brains, wading ankle-deep in human gore! Hurrah for the -Stars and Stripes, my boys! Three cheers for the Federal Flag! Yes, give -us three times three; and when it floats again over all the land, -remember the soldiers who helped defend it. Hurrah, hurrah!” - -Mr. Mather shuddered as the wild shout rang through the room. It seemed -so like a mockery, that dying soldier shouting for liberty, and trying -in vain to wave aloft his poor, scarred stump. Anon, however, the -patriotic mood was changed, and the voice was very sad which whispered: - -“But hush! what sounds are these, mingling in the glad notes of victory? -’Tis the widow, the orphan, the mother, weeping over the slain! There’s -mourning East and West; there’s weeping North and South, for the dead -who will return no more! A crushed rebellion is hardly worth the fearful -price. Oh, Annie, pray for the poor soldier,—everybody pray. Honor our -memory,—forget our faults,—speak kindly of us when we are gone. We gave -our life for freedom! ’Tis all that we can do. Speak kindly of the -soldiers slain!” - -Reason was struggling back again; and bending lower, Mr. Mather said: - -“George, we _will_ honor the soldiers dead, and care for the soldiers -living.” - -“Yes, yes!” George answered, faintly. “They need it so much,—more than -the people guess who stay at home and _read_ about the war. It will be -long, and the contest terrible. The North is strong, and the South -determined, and both will fight like fiends. But right must conquer at -last, and the Star Spangled Banner shall wave again even over misguided -Charleston, whose sons and daughters shall weep for joy as they greet -the joyful sight. God speed the happy day!” - -Mr. Mather could only press the hand which lay again in his. He could -not speak, for he knew there was a _third presence_ now in the -sick-room,—that its dark form was shading the bed whereon he sat, and -with that feeling of awe death always inspires, he sat silently watching -its progress, and thinking, it may be, of the future time when _William -Mather_ would be the dying one instead of George Graham. Slowly the -marble pallor and the strange chill crept on, pinching the nose, -contracting the lips, touching the forehead and moistening the soft -brown hair which William smoothed caressingly, as he bent down to catch -the last faint whisperings of a spirit nearly gone. - -“We fought the battle bravely. Tell them not to be discouraged because -of one defeat. Our cause is just. ’Twill triumph at the last. Don’t be -too bitter toward the South; there are kind hearts there as well as -here, and its daughters weep as sadly as any at the North. God help and -pity them all. Annie, darling, I am almost home; so near that I can see -the pearly gates which stand open night and day. It is not hard to -die,—no pain, no anguish now,—nothing but joy and gladness and -everlasting _rest, rest_,—perfect rest for the Redeemed.” - - * * * * * - -Drearily the November wind went sweeping down the street, and the -sobbing rain beat against the window, whilst the misty daylight came -struggling faintly into the silent room which held the living and the -dead; the one cold, and white, and still, his features wearing a smile -of peace as if he had indeed entered into everlasting rest,—the other -kneeling by his side, and with his face buried in the pillows, praying -that when his time should come, he, too, might die the death of the -righteous, and go where George had gone. - - - - - CHAPTER XIV. - MATTERS IN ROCKLAND. - - -With quivering lip Mr. Mather told the members of Company R that their -lieutenant was dead; and strong men as they were they did not deem -themselves unmanly that they wiped the big tears away, and crowding -around their informer anxiously asked for particulars of their departed -comrade, all speaking kindly of him, and each thinking of the sweet -girl-wife at home on whom the news would fall so crushingly. A soldier’s -dying was no novel thing in Washington, and so, aside from Company R, -there were few who knew or cared that another soul had gone to the God -who gave it,—that another victim was added to the list which shall one -day come up with fearful blackness before the provokers of the war. The -drums beat just the same,—the bands played just as merrily, and the busy -tide went on as if the quiet chamber in —— street held no stiffened -form, once as full of life and hope as the gay troops marching by. - -But away to the Northward there was bitter mourning, and many a bright -eye wept as the sad news ran along the streets that Rockland’s young -lieutenant, of whom the people were justly proud, lay dead in -Washington, and many a heart beat with sympathy for the young wife who, -ever since hearing the fatal news, had lain upon her bed, more dead than -alive, with a look upon her white face which told better than words of -the anguish she was enduring. - -Nothing could induce Rose to leave her for a moment. “_Will_ had staid -by George,” she said, “and she should stay by Annie.” - -With her sitting by, Annie grew stronger, and could at last talk calmly -of what was expected on the morrow. - -“It will be terrible,” she said, “to hear the tramp of feet coming up -the walk, and know they are bringing George! Oh, Mrs. Mather, you’ll -stay by me, won’t you, even if your husband is among the number?” - -Annie did not mean to be selfish. She was too much benumbed to realize -anything fully, and she never thought what it would cost Rose to stay -there, knowing her husband would seek her at home, and be so -disappointed at not finding her there. Rose could not refuse a request -so touchingly made, but just as the morning broke she went home for a -few moments to see that all necessary preparations were made for Will’s -comfort; then, penning him a note to tell why she was not there to meet -him, she returned again to the cottage, where Widow Simms was busily at -work setting things to rights for the expected arrival, her tears -falling upon the furniture she was dusting, and her chest heaving with -sobs as she heard in the distance the sound of a gathering crowd, and -thought, - -“It may be my boy they’ll go up next to meet.” - -Poor Annie, too, shuddered and moaned as she caught the ominous sounds, -and knew what they portended. - -“It would be better to bring him back quietly,” she said. “It seems -almost like mockery, this parade, which he can never know. I may be -glad, by and by that they honored him thus, but it’s so hard now,” and -covering her head with her pillow, Annie wept silently as she heard the -mournful beat of the muffled drum, and knew the march to the depot had -commenced. - -How Rose wanted to be in the street and see her husband when he came; -but with heroic self-denial, she forced down every longing to be away, -and sitting down by Annie, busied herself with counting off the minutes -and wondering if the clock would ever point to half-past ten, or the -train ever arrive. - -There was a great crowd out that morning to meet the returning soldier, -and George’s dream of what might be when he came back again was more -than realized. There were men and carriages upon the street, and groups -of women at the corners, while the little boys ran up and down. But in -the beat of the muffled drum there was a tone which made the hearts of -those who heard it overflow with tears, as they remembered _what_ that -dirgelike music meant. Around the jammed white hat of the man who played -the fife there was a badge of mourning, and in the notes he trilled a -mournful cadence far different from the patriotic strains he played as a -farewell to Rockland soldiers, going forth to battle, with hopes so -sanguine of success. One of that youthful band was coming back; not full -of life and fiery ambition as when he went away, dreaming bright dreams -of the glory he would win, and the laurels he would wear, when once -again he trod the streets at home. Not as a conquering hero, with the -crown of fame on his brow, though the crown indeed was won, and where -the golden light of Heaven shines from the everlasting hills, he was -wearing it in glory. But his ear was deaf to all earthly sounds, and the -tribute of respect his friends fain would bestow upon him, awakened no -thrill in his cold, pulseless heart. Still they felt that all honor was -due to the dead, and so they had come up to meet him, a greater throng -than any of which he had dreamed when ambition burned within his bosom. -There was a carriage waiting, too, just as he hoped there might be; a -carriage sent expressly for him, but the children on the sidewalk shrank -away and ceased their noisy clamor as it went by, its sombre appearance -somewhat relieved by the gay coloring of the Stars and Stripes laid -reverently upon it. - -Slowly up the street the long procession passed, unmindful of the rain -which, mingled with the snow and sleet, beat upon the pavements, and -dashed against the window-panes, from which many a tear-stained face -looked out upon the gloomy scene, made ten times gloomier by the sighing -of the wind and the rifts of leaden clouds veiling the November sky. -Over the eastern hills there was a rising wreath of smoke, and a shrill, -discordant scream told that the train was coming, just as the carriage -sent for George drew up to its appointed place. - -Gently, carefully, tenderly they lifted him out, and set him down in -their midst; but no loud cheering rent the air, no acclamations of -applause, nothing save that dreadful muffled beat, and the soft notes of -the fife, telling to the passengers leaning from the windows that the -dead, as well as the living, had been their fellow-traveller. The banner -upon the hearse told the rest of the sad story, and with a sigh to the -memory of the unknown soldier, the passengers resumed their seats, and -the train sped on its way, leaving the Rockland people alone with their -dead. - -Reverently they placed him in the carriage which none cared to share -with him. Carefully they wrapped around him the Stars and Stripes, and -dropping the heavy curtains, followed through the streets to the cottage -in the Hollow, which he had left so full of life and hope. Around that -cottage there was a gathered multitude next day, and though on the -unsheltered heads of those without, the driving rain was falling, they -waited patiently while the prayer was said, and the funeral anthem -chanted. Then there came a bustling moment,—people passing beneath the -Star Spangled Banner, and pausing to look at the dead. There were sobs -and tears, and words of fond regret, and then the coffin-lid was closed, -and once more that muffled beat was heard, as with arms reversed the -Rockland Guards marched up the walk, where, leaning upon their guns they -stood, while strong men carried out their late companion, and placed him -in the hearse, _the carriage sent for him_. There was no relative to go -with him to the grave,—none in whose veins his blood was flowing, so Mr. -Mather and Rose took the lead, followed by a promiscuous crowd of -carriages and pedestrians, the very horses keeping time to the solemn -music beaten by the drum, and played by the man in the jammed white hat. - -Slowly through the November rain,—through the November sleet, and -through the November mist they bore him on through the streets which he -so oft had trodden; on past the cottage he meant to buy for poor Annie, -whispering to herself with every note of the tolling bell, “George has -gone to Heaven.” Onward, still onward, till streets and cottage were -left behind, and they came to where the marble columns, gleaming through -the autumnal fog, told who peopled that silent yard. Just by the gate, -the bearers paused, and stood with uncovered heads while the solemn -words were uttered, “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust!” -Then, when it was all over, the long procession moved through the -spacious churchyard, past the tall monuments betokening worldly wealth; -past the less imposing stones, whose lettering told of treasure in -Heaven; past the group of cedar trees and pine; past the graves of the -nameless dead, and so out upon the highway, Rose Mather starting in -alarm as the band struck up a quicker, merrier march, whose stirring, -jubilant notes seemed so much like mockery. She knew it was the custom, -but the music grated none the less harshly, and drawing her veil over -her face, she wept silently, occasionally glancing backward to the spot -of freshly upturned earth where Rockland’s first soldier was buried,—the -brave, self-denying George,—who gave all he had for his country, and -died in her behalf. - -Four weeks after George’s death, Annie left the cottage in the Hollow, -and went to live for a time with Mrs. Mather. Early orphaned, and thrown -upon the charities of a scheming aunt, who, after her marriage with -George, had cast her off entirely, there was now no one to whom she -could look for help and sympathy save Rose, and when the latter insisted -that her home should be Annie’s also, while William, too, joined his -entreaties with those of his wife, and urged as one reason his promise -made to George, Annie consented on condition that as soon as her health -was sufficiently restored, she should do something for herself, either -as teacher, or governess in some private family. - -Amid a wild storm of sobs and tears she had read her husband’s dying -message, growing sick and faint just as he knew she would when first she -learned of his loss, and why it was he had never written to her himself. -But this was naught compared to the horror which crept round her heart -as she read what George had written of a coming time when the long grave -by the gate would not be visited as often as at first, or he who slept -there remembered as tearfully. - -“Oh, George, George!” she cried, “it was cruel to tell me so,” and -sinking to her knees, she essayed to breathe a vow that other love than -that she had borne for George Graham should never find entrance to her -bosom. But something sealed her lips,—the words she would have uttered -were unspoken, and the rash vow was not made. - -Still there was an added drop to her already brimming cup of sorrow, and -a sadder, more loving note in the tone of her voice when she spoke of -her husband, as if she would fortify herself against the possibility of -his prediction coming true. It was a sorry day when she finally left her -cottage home, and only God was witness to the parting; but the dim, -swollen eyes and colorless cheeks attested to its bitterness, as, with -one great upheaving sob, she crossed the threshold and entered the -carriage where Rose sat waiting for her, while the motherly Widow Simms -wrapped around her the pile of shawls which were to shield her from the -cold, and bade her god speed to her new home. - -Rapidly the carriage drove away, while the widow returned to the cottage -to perform the last needful office of fastening down the windows and -locking up the doors, then, with a sigh at the changes a few short -months had wrought, she went back to her own long deserted home. And the -busy tide of life rolled on in Rockland just the same as if in the -churchyard there was no new-made grave, holding the buried love of -Annie, who, in Rose Mather’s beautiful home, was surrounded with every -possible comfort and luxury, and treated with as much consideration as -if she were a born princess, instead of the humble woman, who, a few -months before, was wholly unknown to the little lady of the Mather -Mansion. - - - - - CHAPTER XV. - THE DESERTER. - - -Another had taken George’s place in Company R, and both the Widow Simms -and Susan Simms shed tears of natural pride when they read that _John_ -was the favored one, and bore the title of Lieutenant. It more than half -atoned for his long absence to the young wife, who, greatly to her -mother-in-law’s disgust, was made the happy possessor of a set of furs -bought with a part of the new lieutenant’s increased wages. - -“Better lay by for a wet day; but easy come, easy go. They will never be -worth a cent. Tain’t like them Ruggleses to save, and to think of the -silly critter’s comin’ round in the storm just to show ’em, late on -Saturday night; I’m glad I wan’t to hum,” was the widow’s muttered -comment, as on the Sunday following the receipt of the furs she pinned -around her high, square shoulders, the ten years’ old blanket shawl, and -tying round her neck the faded tippet of even greater age, started for -church, determining not to notice or speak to the extravagant Susan, if -she appeared, as she was sure to do, in her new finery. - -This was hardly the right kind of spirit for the widow to take to -church, but hers was a peculiar nature, and the grace which would have -sufficed to make Annie Graham an angel, would hardly have kept her from -boiling over at the most trivial matter. This the widow felt, and it -made her more distrustful of herself, more careful to keep down the -first approaches of her besetting sin. But the furs had seriously -disturbed her, particularly as they were said to have cost $35—“more -than she had spent on her mortal body in half-a-dozen years,” she -thought, as, with her well-worn Prayer Book in hand, and a pair of Eli’s -darned, blue socks upon her feet to keep them from the snow which had -fallen the night before, she walked rapidly on in the direction of St. -Luke’s. - -There was an unusual stir about the doors, a crowd of eagerly talking -people, and conspicuous among them was Susan, looking so pretty in her -neatly fitting collar, and holding her little muff so gracefully that -the widow began to relent at once, and to feel a kind of pride that -“John’s wife was as genteel lookin’ as the next one, if she did come of -them shiftless Ruggleses,” but inasmuch as it was Sunday, she shouldn’t -flatter Susan by speaking of the furs; but the first chance she got on a -week day she’d tell her “she was glad she got ’em, if they didn’t make -her vain; though I know they will,” she added; “it’s Ruggles natur’ and -she’s standin’ out there now, just to show ’em to the folks in the -street goin’ to the Methodis’ meetin’.” - -But the widow was mistaken, for Susan had scarcely a thought of her -furs, so absorbed was she in throwing what little light she could upon a -mystery which was troubling the people and keeping them outside the -door, while they talked the matter over. It seemed that the sexton, -when, at about ten o’clock on the previous night, he came to see that -the fire kindled in the furnace at sunset was safe, had stumbled over a -human form lying upon the pile of evergreens gathered for the Christmas -decorations, and placed for safe keeping in the cellar of the church. -There was a cry between surprise and terror, and a muttered oath, and -then the ragged, frightened intruder sprang to his feet, and bounding up -the narrow stairway, fled through the open vestry door ere the sexton -had time to collect his scattered senses. - -This was his story, corroborated by Susan Simms, who said that when, at -about seven o’clock the previous night, she was passing the church, she -saw a dark-looking object, which she at first mistook for a woman, but -as she came nearer she saw it was the figure of a man who, at the sound -of her steps, dropped behind a pile of rubbish, and thus disappeared -from view,—that feeling timid she did not return home that way, but took -the more circuitous route past her mother-in-law’s, where she stopped -for a moment and repeated the circumstance to the neighbor she found -staying there. - -“Then she didn’t come half a mile out of the way just to tell of her -finery,” thought the widow, coming nearer to Susan, and even smoothing -the soft fur, which, half an hour before, had so provoked her ire. - -Various were the surmises as to who the man could be, and why he had -entered the lonesome cellar; and the morning services had commenced ere -the knot of talkers and listeners at the door disbanded and took their -accustomed places in the church. Rose Mather was there as usual, but she -knelt in her handsome pew alone, for Will had been gone from her two -whole weeks, and Annie was still too much of an invalid to venture out. -With others at the door she heard of the intruder, and after asking a -few questions she had passed into the aisle, with a certain wise air -about her, as if she knew something which she should not tell! As one -after another came in, it might have been observed that she turned often -and curiously toward the door, glancing occasionally at the spot where -Mrs. Baker, now a regular attendant, was in the habit of sitting. She -was not there to-day, a fact which no one observed save Rose and the -Widow Simms, the latter of whom only noticed it because Annie, she knew, -was deeply interested in the repentant woman. “She’s sick, most likely,” -the widow thought, while Rose, too, had her own opinion as to what kept -Harry’s mother from church that Sunday morning. - -Meantime the object of their solicitude sat crouching over the fire of -wet green wood she had succeeded in coaxing into a blaze, now looking -nervously toward the half closed door of the small room her boys used to -occupy, and again congratulating herself that it was Sunday, and -consequently no one would be coming there to pry into the secret she was -guarding as carefully as ever tigress guarded its threatened young. The -half frozen, famished wretch, fleeing from the shadow of the church out -into the wintry storm which had come up since nightfall, had gone next -to the tumble-down shanty of a house which Mrs. Baker called her home. -It was late for a light to be there, for Mrs. Baker kept early hours; -but through the driving snow the wanderer, as he turned the corner, -caught a friendly gleam shining out from the dingy windows, and waking -in his breast one great wild throb of joy, such as some lost mariner -feels when he spies in the distance the friendly bark and knows there’s -help at hand. - -It was a desolate, dreary home, but to the wanderer hastening toward it, -and glancing so timidly around as if behind each rift of snow there were -bristling bayonets sent to stop his course, it seemed a splendid palace. -Could he gain that shelter he was safe. His mother would shield him from -the dreaded officers he fancied were on his track, and so, the sick, -fainting man kept on until the old board fence was reached, where, -leaning against the gate, he stood a moment, and with his feverish hand -scooped up the grateful snow to cool his burning forehead. The tallow -candle was burning yet within the cottage, but the fire was raked -together on the hearth and the stranger could see the glow of the red -embers and the broken shovel lain across the andiron. - -“I wonder what she’s doing up so late,” he whispered, and moving -cautiously up the walk to the uncurtained window, he started suddenly at -the novel sight which met his view. - -Years before, when he lived in New England, he remembered that one day -when playing in the garret he had found in a chest of rubbish, a large, -square book, which Hal had said was their grandmother’s Bible. Afterward -he had seen it standing against a broken light of glass, to keep out the -snow which sometimes beat in upon himself and Hal, and that was the last -he could remember concerning that Bible or any other belonging to his -mother. How then was he astonished to see it lying on the old round -stand, the dim tallow candle casting a flickering light upon the yellow -leaves and upon the figure of his mother bending over them, and loudly -whispering the words she was reading. It was not an entirely new -business to Mrs. Baker, the reading of the Bible, for after the news of -Harry’s death she had hunted up the long neglected volume which had -given her aged mother so much comfort. It might bring consolation to -her, she thought, and so with tearful eyes and aching heart she had -tried to read and understand the sacred pages, pencil-marked, some of -them, by a sainted mother’s hand, and fraught with so many memories of -the olden time when she was not the hard, wrinkled, desolate creature -people knew as Mrs. Baker. The way of life was still dark and dim to -that half heathenish woman, but she was determinedly groping on, -following the little light she had, and each night found her bending -over the Bible ere she sought the humble bed standing there in the dark -corner, just where it stood that morning when her two boys went away. - -It was far more comfortable-looking now than then, for there was a nice, -warm blanket on it, while the outer covering was clean and new. Rose -Mather had kept her promise given in the hour of the poor mother’s -bereavement, and scattered about the room were numerous articles which -once did duty in the servants’ apartments at the Mather mansion. But the -intruder did not notice these; he was too much absorbed with the -stooping figure, whispering a part of the 14th chapter of John, and -occasionally wiping away a tear as she came to some passage more -beautiful than the others. There were tears, too, in the eyes of the -rough man outside, but he forced them back, and pressing closer to the -window, watched the lone woman inside, as, sinking down upon her knees, -with the flickering candle shining on her wrinkled face, she prayed -first for herself and then for him, _the boy_ standing without the door, -and listening, while his heart beat so loudly that he almost feared she -would hear and know that he was there. But she paid no heed, and the -tremulous voice went on, asking that God would follow and bless, and -care for the Billy boy far away, and bring him back to the mother who -had never been to him what she ought. The name Billy boy touched a -tender chord, and stretching out his hands toward her, the man who bore -that name sobbed out, - -“Oh, mother, mother, I’m here, I’m here!” - -There was a sudden pause, and turning her head the startled woman -listened. - -Was it the wind moaning round her lonesome dwelling, or was it poor dead -Harry calling to her, as in her superstitious imagination she sometimes -believed he did when she was praying for Billy, reproaching her that no -prayer had ever been said for him, the lost one? Again the sobbing cry, -and a rustling movement by the door. It could not be the wind, for that -only shook the loosened timbers or screamed through some gaping crevice, -while this, whatever it might be, called: - -“Mother, mother, come.” - -Was it a warning from the other world,—a summons to follow her -first-born? Annie Graham had said there were no such messages sent to -us, and Annie was always right; so the frightened woman listened again -until the rattling of the latch, and a feeble, timid knock told her -there was more than the winter wind or spirits of the dead about her -house that night. There was a human being seeking to gain entrance, and -tottering to the door she asked who it was, and what they wanted there. - -“Mother, mother, let me in. I’m your Billy boy, come from the war.” - -The words were hardly uttered ere the door was opened wide, the frantic -woman dragging rather than leading in the worn-out man, who, staggering -forward, fell into her arms, sobbing piteously, - -“I’m so sick and tired. I’ve been weeks on the road, hiding everywhere; -for, mother,—shut the door tight, so nobody can hear,—I’ve run away; -I’ve had enough of war, and so I left one night. You know what they do -to deserters. They hang them, neck and heels. Oh, mother, mother, don’t -let them find me, will you? I’ve done my best in one dreadful battle. -They musn’t get me now. Will they, think?” and Billy cast a searching -glance around the room to see that no officer was there with power to -take him back. - -Would they get him from her? She’d like to see them do it, she said, as -she led the childish deserter to the hearth, he leaning heavily upon -her, and falling, rather than sitting upon the chair she brought. Weary -of a soldier’s life, and satisfied with one taste of battle, he had -stolen away one night when the rain and the darkness sheltered him from -observation. Greatly magnifying the value put upon himself, as well as -the chances for detection, he had not dared to take the cars, lest at -every station there should be one of the police waiting to secure him. -So he had made the entire journey from Washington on foot, travelling by -night and resting by day, sometimes in barns, but oftener in the woods, -where some friendly stump or leafless tree was his only shelter. He had -reached his home at last, but his haggard face, his blood-shot eyes, his -blistered feet and tattered garments bore witness to his long, painful -journey. - -With streaming eyes the mother listened to the story, then opening the -bed of coals, she warmed and chafed his half-frozen limbs, handling -tenderly the poor, blistered feet, from which the soles of the shoes had -dropped, leaving them exposed. But all in vain did she prepare the cup -of fragrant tea, sent her that afternoon by Mrs. Mather. Billy could do -little more than taste it. He was too tired, he said; he should be -better in the morning, after he had slept. So with eager, trembling -hands his mother fixed the bed in the little room which had not been -used since he went away, bringing her own pillows, and the nice rose -blanket given by Mrs. Mather, together with a strip of carpet which she -spread upon the floor so as to make it soft for Billy’s wounded, -bleeding feet. How sick he was, and how he moaned in his fitful sleep, -now talking of _Hal_, now of being shot, and again of the Bible on the -stand, and the prayer he heard his mother make. - -Mrs. Baker was not accustomed to sickness, but she knew this was no -ordinary case, and she suggested sending for the doctor; but Billy -started up in such dismay, telling her no one must know that he was -there unless she wanted him killed, that he succeeded in communicating a -part of his terror to her, and she spent the entire Sunday by her -child’s bedside, doing what she could to allay the raging fever -increasing so fast, and keeping watch to see that no one came near to -drag her boy away. - -The next morning it became absolutely necessary for her to leave him for -a time, as she must procure the few necessaries he needed, and taking -advantage of the heavy sleep into which he had fallen, she stole -noiselessly out, hoping to return ere he should wake. Scarcely, however, -had she left the lane and turned into Main Street, when Rose came -tripping to the gate, drawn thither by a curiosity to see if her -suspicions were correct. She had learned from her husband of Bill’s exit -from Washington, and for some days had been expecting to hear of his -arrival in town. That he had come she was certain, and telling Annie -where she was going, she had started rather early for Mrs. Baker’s. As -her knock met with no response she entered without further ceremony, and -passing on through the low dark kitchen came to the door of the little -room where Bill lay breathing heavily, and muttering about camps, and -guard-houses, and deserters. The sight of suffering always awoke a chord -of sympathy in Rose Mather’s bosom, and without a thought of danger she -bent close to the sick man, and involuntarily laid her soft, cool hand -upon his burning forehead. The touch awoke him, but in the wild eyes -turned upon her there was no glance of recognition, or look of fear. He -evidently fancied himself back in Washington, and asked the name of her -regiment. - -“Oh, I know,” he continued, still keeping his eyes fixed upon her, -“you’re the chap I took, but you’ve fell away mightily since then. -Yankee fare don’t set well on your Rebel stomach, I guess,” and a wild, -coarse laugh rang through the room, making Rose shudder and draw back, -for she felt intuitively that Billy was mad. - -She was not, however, afraid of him, and standing at a little distance, -she tried to reason with him, telling him she was not a Rebel,—she was -Mrs. Mather, come to do him good. - -Bill only laughed derisively. “Couldn’t cheat him. Guess he knew them -eyes and them hands, white as cotton wool. I’ll bet I’ve got a ring -that’ll fit ’em,” he continued, and reaching for his pantaloons, which -he had insisted should lie behind him on the bed, he took from the -pocket the costly diamond once worn by his Rebel captive, and -_confisticated_ by him as _con-tra-band_. “Try it on,” he said to Rose, -who mechanically obeyed, wondering why it should look so familiar to -her. - -It was too large for her slender fingers, and dropping off, rolled upon -the floor. Rose at once set herself to finding the missing ring, and had -just returned it to its owner when Mrs. Baker came in, terribly alarmed -at finding Mrs. Mather there. Rose, however, quieted her fears at once -by telling her she had known for some days past of Bill’s desertion, and -had kept it from every one but Annie, because her husband thought it -best. She did not believe he would be followed, she said, for Will wrote -that he had become so reckless and discontented that his absence was no -loss to the army, but for a while it might be well that his presence -should not be known in Rockland, as the people might be indignant at a -deserter, and perhaps in their excitement do him some injury. - -“He ought to have medical advice, though,” she added, “for I think he’s -very sick.” - -Mrs. Baker knew he was, and fear lest he should die overcame every other -feeling, making her consent that Rose should call their family -physician. It was nearly noon ere he arrived, and in the meantime Rose -had reported the case to Annie, and then returning to Mrs. Baker’s, took -her place by Billy, who called her “his little Rebel,” and ordered her -about as if he had been a commanding officer, and she his subordinate. -The novelty of the thing was rather pleasing to Rose, and -notwithstanding that the physician pronounced the disease typhus fever -in its most violent form, she persisted in staying, saying some one must -help Mrs. Baker, and she was not afraid. - -So day after day found her in that comfortless dwelling, while the -frequent callers at the Mather mansion wondered where she could be. It -came out at last that she was nursing William Baker, lying dangerously -sick of typhus fever in his mother’s dilapidated home, and then, as -villagers will, the Rockland people wondered and gossiped, and wondered -again how the aristocratic Rose Mather could sit hour after hour, in -that poverty-stricken cottage, ministering to the wants of despised Bill -Baker. Rose hardly knew, herself, and when questioned upon the subject -could only reply— - -“I guess it’s because he’s a soldier, and I must do something for the -war. Will knows it. He says I’m doing right, and Annie Graham, too.” - -And so, with her heart kept brave by thinking that Will and Annie -approved her course, Rose went every day to Mrs. Baker’s, doing more by -her cheerful presence and the needful comforts she supplied to arrest -the progress of the disease and effect a favorable change, than all the -physicians in the county could have done. Bill owed his life to her, and -it was touching to witness his childish gratitude when reason resumed -her throne, and he learned who it was he had sometimes called his -“little Rebel,” and again had fancied was some beautiful angel sent to -cure and comfort him. He had often seen Mrs. Mather in the streets -before he went away; but never as closely as now, and for hours after -his convalescence he would lie looking into her face, which seemed to -puzzle him greatly. Occasionally, too, he would take from his pocket a -picture, which he evidently compared with something about her person, -then, with a sly wink, which began to be very annoying, he would return -it to its hiding-place, and ask her sundry questions, which, under -ordinary circumstances, she would have resented as being too familiar. - -At last, one afternoon, as she was sitting by him, while his mother did -some errands in the village, he suddenly surprised her by dropping upon -her lap an elegant gold watch, which Rose knew at a glance must have -belonged to some person of taste and wealth. - -“What is it? Whose is it?” she asked, and Bill replied: - -“’Twas his’n, the chap’s I took, you know. He’s down to the old Capitol -now, shet up. Didn’t you never hear of him?” - -“You mean the young man you captured,” Rose replied. “Tell me about him, -please. Who was he, and where was his home?” - -“You tell,” Bill answered, with one of his peculiar winks. “He gave it -as _John Brown_; but a chap who knowd him said ’twas somethin’ else. He -wan’t a Rebel neither—that is, it wan’t his nater, for he came from -Yankee land.” - -“A _traitor_, then,” Rose suggested, and Bill replied: - -“You needn’t guess agin; and you and I or’to be glad that no such -_truck_ belongs to us.” - -Rose colored scarlet, but made no response, for recreant Jimmie flashed -across her mind, and she shrank from having even the vulgar Bill know -how intimately she was connected with a traitor. Bill watched her -narrowly, and thinking to himself, - -“I’m on the right track, I’ll bet,” he continued, “I hain’t no relations -in the Confederate army, I know, and I don’t an atom b’lieve you have.” - -No answer from Rose, except a heightened bloom upon her cheek, and her -inquisitor went on: - -“Have you any friends there?” - -Rose could not tell a lie, and after a moment’s silence, she stammered -out: - -“Please don’t ask me. Oh, Jimmie, Jimmie, I wish I knew where he was!” -and the great tears trickled through the snowy fingers clasped over her -flushed face. - -“I’ll be darned if I aint cryin’ too,” Bill said, wiping his eyes with -his shirt sleeve, “but bein’ I’m in for it I may as well see it -through.” - -“What might be your name before it was Miss Marthers?” - -“Carleton!” and Rose looked up quickly at Bill, who continued: - -“You came from Boston, I b’lieve?” - -“Yes, from Boston,” and Rose leaned eagerly forward while Bill, with his -favorite “Nuff said,” plunged his hand into his pocket, and taking out -the _picture_, passed it to Rose. - -Quick as thought the bright color faded from her cheek, and with ashen, -quivering lips, she whispered; - -“_It’s I!_ It’s mine, taken for Jimmie, just before he went away! How -came you by it? Oh tell me!” and in the voice there was a tone of -increasing anguish. “Tell me, was it,—was it,—_Jimmie_, my brother, whom -you took prisoner and carried to Washington?” - -“If James Carleton is your brother, I s’pose it was,” Bill said; “and -that’s the very picter he stuck to like a chestnut burr, begging for it -like a dog, and offerin’ everything he had if I’d give it up.” - -“Why didn’t you, then?” and Rose’s eye blazed with anger, making Bill -shrink before their indignant gaze. - -“’Twas rotten mean in me, I know,” he said timidly, “but they _was -con-tra-band_ according to law, and I felt so savage at the pesky Rebels -then. I didn’t know ’twas you he teased so for, actually cryin’ when I -wouldn’t give it up. I’m sorry, I be, I swan, and I’ll give you every -confounded contraband. You’ve got the watch, and there’s the ring, the -spetacles, the tobarker box, and the thingumbob for cigars, the sum -total of his traps, except a chaw or so of the weed that I couldn’t very -well bring back,” and Bill’s face wore a very satisfied expression as he -laid in Rose’s lap every article belongin’ to her brother. - -She knew now who the prisoner was in whom she had felt so strange an -interest. It was _Jimmie_, and the mystery concerning his fate was -solved. He was a captive at Washington, and her heart ached to its very -core as she thought of both her brothers languishing so many weary -months in prison. Very minutely she questioned Bill, eliciting from him -little or nothing concerning Jimmie’s present condition. He only knew -that he was a captive still, that he was represented as maintaining the -utmost reserve, seldom speaking except to answer direct questions, and -that he seemed very unhappy. - -“Poor boy, he wants to come home, I know,” and Rose sobbed aloud, as she -thought how desolate and homesick he must be. “I can’t stay any longer -to-day,” she said, as she heard Mrs. Baker at the door, and bidding Bill -good-bye, she hurried home, where, after a long passionate flood of -tears, wept in Annie’s lap, she wrote to her mother and husband both, -telling them where Jimmie was, and begging of the former to come at once -and go with her to Washington. - - - - - CHAPTER XVI. - NEWS DIRECT FROM JIMMIE. - - -That night, as Rose sat alone in her cheerful boudoir, musing upon the -strange events which had occurred within the last few months, a letter -was brought to her, bearing her mother’s handwriting. It had passed hers -on the road, and Rose tore it open, starting, as a soiled, tear-stained -note dropped from the inside upon the floor. Intuitively she felt that -it was from Jimmie, and catching it up, she read the homesick, -heart-sick, remorseful cry of penitence and contrition which the weary -Rebel-boy had at last sent to his mother. Stubborness and proud reserve -could hold out no longer and he had written, confessing his error, and -begging earnestly for the forgiveness he knew he did not deserve. - - “I am not all bad,” he said; “and on that quiet morning, when beneath - the cover of the Virginia woods I lay, watching the Union soldiers - coming so bravely on, there was a dizziness in my brain, and a - strange, womanly feeling at my heart, while a sensation I cannot - describe thrilled every nerve when I saw in the distance the Stars and - Stripes waving in the summer wind. How I wanted to warn them of their - danger, to bid them turn back from the snare so cunningly devised, and - how proud I felt of the Federal soldiers when contrasting them with - ours. I fancied I could tell which were the Boston boys, and there - came a mist before my eyes, as I thought how your dear hands and those - of little Rose had possibly helped to make some portion of the dress - they wore. - - “You know about the battle. You read it months ago, and wept, perhaps, - as you thought of _Jimmie_ firing at his own brother, it might be, - but, mother, _I did not_. I scarcely fired at all, and when I was - compelled to do so to avoid suspicion, it was so high that neither the - wounded nor the dead can accuse me as their murderer; and I’m glad now - that it is so. It makes my prison bed softer to know there is no stain - of blood upon my soul. - - “Poor Tom, I dare say, has written to you of our encounter in the - woods, but he does not know the shock it was to me to meet him there, - and know I could not help him. Dear Tom, my heart aches more for him - than for myself, for the Richmond Prison Guards are not like those who - keep watch over us. There are humane people there,—kind, tender - hearts,—which feel for any one in distress, but the jailers, the - common soldiers, and the rabble, are not, I fear, as considerate as - they might be. Many of them have been made to believe the war entirely - of the North’s provoking, that _Hamlin_ is a _mulatto_, and Lincoln a - foul-hearted knave, whose whole aim is to set the negroes free. But - enough of Southern politics. It will all come clear at last, and the - Star Spangled Banner wave again over every revolted State. - - “Write to me, mother. Say you forgive your Rebel-boy. Say that, when I - am exchanged, as I hope to be, I may come home, and that you will not - turn away from your sinful, erring - - “JIMMIE” - -There was a message of love for Rose, and then the letter closed with -one last, touching entreaty that the mother would forgive her child and -take him back again to her confidence and love. - -“Of course she’ll do it,” Rose said, vehemently, and seizing a pen and -paper she wrote to Will, inclosing a note to Jimmie, full of pardon and -tender love, bidding him when he should be released come directly to -Rockland, where their mother should be waiting for him, and where she, -forgetting all the past, would nurse him back to health. - -Nearly a week went by, and then there came a letter from Will, telling -how he had visited the Rebel Jimmie in his prison, and Rose wept -frantically as she read the particulars of that interview when her -brother first met the sister’s husband, of whom he had never heard. - - “I found him sitting apart from the others,” William wrote, - “apparently absorbed in disagreeable reflections, for there was an - abstracted look upon his face and deep wrinkles upon his forehead. If - he had not been pointed out to me, I should have known him by his - striking resemblance to your family. The Carleton features could not - be mistaken, particularly the proud curve about the mouth, and the - arching of the eyebrows, while I recognized at once the soft, curling - hair and brilliant complexion, which you will remember once attracted - me toward a certain little girl, who is now all the world to the old - bachelor Will. - - “But this isn’t a love letter, darling. I’m only going to tell you how - sorry your brother looked sitting there alone in that noisy multitude, - whose language and manners are not the most refined that could be - desired, and how my heart warmed toward the solitary being, and - forgave him at once for all his errors past. Very haughtily he bowed - to me when I was introduced, and then in silence awaited to hear my - errand, the proud curve around his mouth deepening as he surveyed me - with a hauteur which, under ordinary circumstances, would have annoyed - me exceedingly. As it was, I could almost fancy myself the prisoner - and he the freeman, he seemed so cool, so collected, while I was - embarrassed and uncertain how to act. - - “‘Is your visit prompted by curiosity to see how a so-called Rebel can - bear confinement, or did you come on business?’ he asked, and then all - my embarrassment was at an end. - - “‘I came,’ I said, ‘partly at your sister’s request, and partly to - ascertain how much you are willing to do toward the attainment of your - freedom.’ - - “I do not think he understood the last. He only caught at the words, - ‘your sister,’ and grasping my arm, he whispered hoarsely, ‘What of my - sister? Have you seen her? Do you know her, and does she hate me now?’ - - “I told him I was your husband, and with quivering lip, he asked me, - ‘Is she well, my precious little Rose, whom I remember as almost a - child, and mother—has she cast me off? Oh, if she only knew how I am - punished for my sin, she would forgive her wayward boy.’ - - “Here he broke down in such a wild storm of sobs and tears, that the - inmates of the prison gathered in groups around him, their looks - indicative of their surprise at witnessing so much emotion in one who - up to that moment had appeared haughtily indifferent to everything - around him. With an authoritative gesture he waved them off, and then, - passing him your note, I, too, walked away, leaving him alone while he - read it, but even where I stood I could hear the smothered sobs he - tried in vain to suppress. I am inclined to think he is right in - saying that joining the Confederate army was the best lesson he ever - learned. I am sure he must be greatly changed from the reckless, - daring boy, whose exploits you have described so often. He is very - anxious to swear allegiance to the Stars and Stripes, even though he - should be doomed to prison life for five more weary months, and as I - am not a mere private now, and have considerable influence in - Washington, I hope, ere long, to write that he is free, and on his way - to Rockland, whither he will go first. - - “Jimmie expresses the utmost sympathy for Tom, and says he would - gladly take his place, if that could be, for he fears the inmates of - those Richmond tobacco houses are not always cared for, as he has been - at Washington. Poor Tom, I hope he will be among the list of the - exchanged, and if so, you may expect soon to welcome both your - brothers.” - -No wonder Rose wept tears of joy over his letter, while her thoughts -went after her rebellious, but repentant brother, nor tarried there, -for, farther to the South, another weary captive pined, and every fibre -of her heart bleed with sympathy for Tom—poor Tom, she always called -him—and as the days of sickening suspense went by she grew so nervous -and so ill that her mother came up from Boston to attend her, while -Annie shook off her own feelings of weary languor, and did for Rose the -same offices which Rose had once done for her. - -“I do so wish you had been my sister,” Rose said to her one day, when -she had been kinder than usual “I know I should be a better woman, and -so would all of us.” - -Annie made no reply, except to twine around her fingers the coils of -chestnut hair, lying in such profusion upon the pillows. For a few -moments Rose lay perfectly still, with her eyes fixed upon the paper -bordering, as if counting the fanciful flowers, but her thoughts were -intent upon a far different subject. Turning to her mother, she suddenly -asked: - -“How _old_ is Jimmie, twenty-three, or twenty-four?” - -“Twenty-three last May,” was the reply, and, with rather a troubled -expression upon her face, Rose continued, “_Will_ is _thirteen_ years -older than I am,” and the little curly head shook doubtfully. - -“What are you talking about?” Mrs. Carleton asked, but Rose did not -answer at once. - -There was another interval of silence, and then starting quickly, Rose -called out, “Mother, don’t you remember that affair of Jimmie’s ever so -long ago, when he was a boy at school in New London? There was a little -girl that he fancied, and you took him home for fear of what would come -of it; when you found she was poor and nobody?” - -Glancing quickly at Annie, who was attentively examining the hem-stitch -of the fine linen pillow-case, Mrs. Carleton said, reprovingly: - -“You should not parade our family matters before strangers, my -daughter.” - -“Oh, Annie is no stranger,” Rose answered, laughingly. “She’s one of our -folks now, besides, she is not enough interested in the love affair of a -seventeen years old boy ever to repeat it.” - -“Love affair!” Mrs. Carleton rejoined, a little scornfully. “Not very -much love about it, I imagine. She was stopping with her aunt at the -Pequot House, and Jimmie saw her a few times, passing himself off by -another name than his own. If he had cared for this child he would never -have done that.” - -“He seems to have a _penchant_ for assuming names,” Rose rejoined, -playfully. “He called himself _John Brown_, at Washington, while to this -little Pequot girl he was, let me see, what was it? Can’t you think, -mother?” - -Rose was bent on talking about Jimmie and his Pequot girl, and knowing -that she could not stop her, Mrs. Carleton replied: - -“Richard Lee, or something like that.” - -“Oh, yes, ‘Dick!’ I remember now; and her name was,—what _was_ it, -mother? It makes my head ache so trying to recall it.” - -“If I ever knew, I’ve forgotten,” Mrs. Carleton said, and after trying -in vain to think, Rose dismissed the name, but not the subject. - -“How angry Jimmie was,” she continued, “when you brought him home, and -how awfully he swore. It makes you shudder, don’t it?” and she turned to -Annie, who had shivered either with cold or horror at Jimmie’s -profanity. “He was a bad boy once, but I most know he’s better now. -Maybe, mother, this was a real nice girl and if you’d let Jimmie alone -he might have become attached to her, and she have been his wife by this -time. Then he would not have joined the Rebel army. Don’t you think you -and Tom were a little too severe on Jimmie sometimes?” - -“Perhaps so,” was the faint response, as Mrs. Carleton looked out upon -the wintry landscape, seeing there visions of a handsome, boyish, -tearful face, flushed with anger and entreaty as its owner begged of her -not to take him back to Boston, which he hated, but leave him where he -was, saying that the little girl at the Pequot House had already done -him more good than all the sermons preached from the pulpits of the Bay -State Capital. - -But she had disregarded Jimmie’s wishes, and from that time forward he -had pursued a course of recklessness ending at last in prison. With a -half-regretful sigh Mrs. Carleton thought of all this, and in her heart -she blamed herself for some of her boy’s disobedience. But it could not -now be helped, and with another sigh, she turned toward Rose, still -speculating as to what the result might have been, had Jimmie been -suffered to follow up his first, and so far as she knew, only fancy. - -“What do you suppose would have happened if Jimmie had staid in New -London, and this scheming aunt, whom mother feared far more than the -Pequot, had staid there too?” she asked of Annie, forgetting that the -particulars of the affair had not been repeated. - -But it did not matter, for Annie answered all the same. She was sitting -now with her back to Mrs. Carleton, while, so far as Rose was concerned, -her face was in the shadow. Consequently Rose could not see its -expression, as she replied: - -“Nothing probably would have come of it. I imagine the _Pequot_, as you -call her, was not more than fourteen, and you know how easily we forget -the fancies of that age. She was undoubtedly pleased with the evident -admiration of your handsome brother, and watched anxiously it may be, -for the evenings when, with others of his comrades, he came to the -hotel; but a closer acquaintance would have resulted in her knowing the -deception about the name, and after that she would not have cared for -him. If he really liked her he would not have imposed upon her thus. -She’s forgotten him ere this, and is probably a married woman.” - -“Perhaps so,” Rose replied; “I wish I knew. Jimmie didn’t mean to -deceive her long. He took the name Dick Lee, partly in sport, and partly -because he didn’t wish his teacher to know how often Jim Carleton was at -the Pequot House, when he thought him somewhere else. After he began to -like her, and saw how pure and good and truthful she was, he hated to -tell her, but had made up his mind to do so when mother took him away.” - -“He might have written,” Annie said, “and she may have been silly enough -to cry over his abrupt and unexplained departure.” - -“Mother wouldn’t let him write,” Rose rejoined, laughingly. “She watched -him closely, and got Tom interested too. Poor Jimmie, I wonder if that -girl ever thinks of him now?” - -“She may, but I dare say she is glad your mother took him home. She has -outlived all that fancy,” and Annie’s white fingers, on one of which the -wedding ring was shining, worked nervously together. - -As if bent on tormenting both her auditors by talking of Jimmie, Rose -kept on, wondering how he looked, if she should know him, what he would -say, how he would act, and if he ever would come. - -“I’m so glad you are here, Annie,” she said, “for you do everybody good -you come in contact with, and I want you to talk to Jimmie, will you?” - -Annie only smiled, but her cheeks burned with excitement, and Rose was -about asking if her head didn’t ache, when a letter was brought in -bearing the Washington postmark. Eagerly Rose broke it open, screaming -with joy as she read that Jimmie had been released,—had taken the oath -of allegiance, and was coming home to Rockland. - -“He’ll be here,—let me see,—Thursday, on the three o’clock train. That’s -to-morrow. Oh, I’m so glad!” and in her delight the little lady forgot -that for the last week she had been playing _sick_, and leaping upon the -carpet, danced about the room, kissing alternately her mother and Annie, -and asking if they were ever so pleased in their lives. - -“Oh, I forgot!” she suddenly exclaimed, as she saw the great tears -dropping from Annie’s eyes, and guessed of what she was thinking. “I did -not mean to make you sorry contrasting Jimmie’s coming home with that of -poor George. Dear Annie, don’t cry,” and the chubby arms closed -coaxingly round the now sobbing Annie’s neck. “Don’t cry. You’ll like -Jimmie, I know, and if you don’t, I know you’ll like dear Tom. He’s -perfectly splendid, and he gave his place to George, you know.” - -Yes, Annie knew, but it only made her tears flow faster as she thought -of Rose, so full of hope, her husband yet alive, and her brothers coming -home, while she, without a friend on whom she could lean, was alone in -her desolate widowhood. Excusing herself from the room, she sought her -own pleasant chamber, and there alone poured out her grief into the ear -of One who almost since she could remember had been the recipient of all -her sorrows. And Annie had far more need of help than Rose suspected. -She could not stay there and meet Jimmie Carleton face to face after -what she had heard, while a return to the lonely cottage seemed -impossible. Widow Simms’s home suggested itself to her mind; but if the -prisoners were exchanged, and Isaac came home, she might be an intruder -there, and besides, what truthful reason could she give to Rose for her -strange conduct? It was a sad dilemma in which Annie found herself so -suddenly placed, and more than an hour of solitary and prayerful -reflection, found her still uncertain as to the course duty would -dictate in the present emergency. It seemed expedient that she should go -away, and when in the evening she joined Rose, who chanced to be alone, -she suggested leaving her house, at least during Jimmie’s stay, and -going either to the cottage in the Hollow, or to stay with Widow Simms. - -In the utmost astonishment Rose listened to the proposal, and then -replied: - -“_You_ go away because Jimmie is coming! Preposterous! Why, I want you -here on his account, if nothing more. Besides, where will you go? Widow -Simms has taken Susan to live with her at John’s request, and that -little _teenty_ place will not begin to hold three women with _hoops_!” - -“You forget the widow does not wear them,” Annie suggested, her heart -beginning to sink, notwithstanding her playful words. - -“Yes, I know,” Rose replied; “but you are not going there. If you are in -the way here with Jimmie, you’d surely be more in the way there with -Isaac. Don’t you see?” and Rose looked as if this argument were -altogether conclusive. - -“I can go home,” Annie said, faintly. “The cottage is mine till the -first of April.” - -Rose colored, and hesitated somewhat, as if a little uncertain how what -she had to say on this subject might be received; then, resolving to put -a bold face upon it, she said: - -“I ought to have told you before, I suppose. Don’t you remember the day -you had the sick headache, more than a week ago? Well, while you were -asleep, a man came to know if you’d let him into the cottage till -spring, as he was obliged to leave where he was, and could find no other -place. I did not wish to wake you, and as I knew you would not care, I -said yes on my own responsibility, and sent Bridget down to pack all -your things in the chamber, as he only wanted the lower rooms. She put -them away real carefully, Bridget did, for I’ve been myself to see,” -Rose added, quickly, as she saw the color mounting to Annie’s cheeks, -and feared she might be indignant at the liberty. - -“And is he there?” Annie asked, conquering all emotion, and speaking in -her natural tone. - -“Yes, he’s there,” Rose answered. “You are not angry, are you? He’s a -nice man, and so is his wife.” - -“I am not angry,” Annie replied, “but more sorry than I can express, -though, had I been consulted, I should undoubtedly have done as you -did.” - -“Oh, I’m so glad, for it has bothered me a heap, wondering what you’d -say!” Rose cried, throwing her arms around Annie’s neck. “And now you’ll -stay with us, for you see you have nowhere else to go; shan’t she, -mother?” and she appealed to Mrs. Carleton, who had just come in. - -“Of course Mrs. Graham will stay” was Mrs. Carleton’s reply; for, during -the few days of her sojourn at Rockland, she had become greatly -interested in the sweet young Annie, and already foresaw the benefit she -would be to Rose, who needed some such influence to keep her in check. - -Mrs. Carleton was proud, and at first her daughter’s growing intimacy -with the wife of a mechanic had given her pride a pang, but a closer -acquaintance had dispelled the foolish prejudice, for she saw in the -gentle Annie unmistakable marks of education and refinement, while she -was not insensible to the charm thrown round the beautiful stranger by -the lovely Christian character which shone so brightly now in the dark -hour of affliction. Coming nearer to her, and laying her hand in a -motherly way upon her pale brown hair, she said: - -“We all want you, Mrs. Graham, and as Rose, by an act which I will admit -was too presuming, has virtually closed your own doors against you, I -see no alternative but for you to stay with us. Rose needs you, and as -she says, you may do Jimmie good, while _Tom_, if he ever comes, will be -glad to meet the wife of one in whom he was greatly interested.” - -After this, Annie offered no further remonstrance, though in her heart -she hoped Jimmie’s residence in Rockland would not be very long. Of Tom -she had no dread. She rather wished to see him than otherwise, for he -had been kind to George, and in fancy she had enshrined him as a -middle-aged, greyish haired man, stooping a little, perhaps, and withal -very fatherly and venerable in his appearance! This was _Tom_,—but -_Jimmie_, handsome, saucy-eyed, mischievous Jimmie, putting angle worms -in Rose’s bosom, and frightening the little Pequot with a mud-turtle, -found on New London beach, was a very different thing, and though -trusting much to the lapse of years and change of name, Annie shrank -nervously from the dreaded to-morrow, which was to bring the Rebel home. - - - - - CHAPTER XVII. - THE CONFEDERATE SOLDIER’S WELCOME TO ROCKLAND. - - -Rose had fretted herself into a headache, and as Mrs. Carleton could not -think of meeting her returning prodigal in the presence of strangers, -there was no one to go up to meet him unless _Annie_ should consent to -do so! But greatly to Rose’s disappointment Annie obstinately refused, -while Mrs. Carleton, too, said it would not be proper for Mrs. Graham to -go alone and meet a stranger whom she had never seen. - -“Couldn’t she tell him she was Annie, my adopted sister?” Rose said, -half poutingly. “What will he think when he finds nobody there but Jake, -who, I verily believe, looks upon him as half a savage for having joined -the Southern army? I heard him, myself, tell Bridget that _Ben Arnold_ -was coming to-day, meaning that horrid traitor that gave up _Yorktown_, -or something,” and having thus betrayed her ignorance of Revolutionary -history, Rose bathed her aching head in eau-de-cologne, and lay back -upon her pillows, wondering what Jimmie would say, and how he would -manage to brave the gaping people who were sure to stare at him as if he -were some monster. She hoped there would not be many there, and of -course there wouldn’t, for who knew or cared for Jimmie’s coming? - -More cared for Jimmie’s coming than Rose suspected, and the streets were -full of men and boys of a certain class, hastening to the depot to see -the Rebel, as they persisted in calling him, in spite of Billy Baker’s -repeated suggestions that they soften it down somewhat by prefixing the -word “_reformed_.” Bill was very busy, very important, very -consequential that day, and quite inclined to be very patronizing, and -do the agreeable to the man he had captured at Manassas. “Folks or’to -overlook him,” he said, “and treat him half way decent, for the best was -apt to stumble, and there should neither be hootin’ nor hissin’, if he -could help it.” - -Indeed, so impressed was Bill with the idea that the responsibility of -Jimmie’s reception was pending upon himself, that he deliberately -knocked down two of the ringleaders, who announced their intention to -hoot and to hiss as much as they pleased. Bill’s warlike propensities -were pretty generally understood in Rockland, and this energetic -demonstration had the effect of quelling, to a certain extent, the Babel -which would otherwise have reigned, when at last the train stopped -before the depot, and the expected _lion_ appeared upon the platform, -his identity proven by Bill, who whispered, “That’s him, with the rowdy -hat,—that’s the chap;” then, with a proud air of self-assurance, he -stepped forward and offered his hand to the embarrassed stranger, who -was looking this way and that, in quest of a familiar face. - -“Halloo, Corporal!” he called out with the utmost _sang froid_, “you -re-_cog_-nize me, I s’pose. I’m the critter that took you in the -Virginny woods. I’ve gin all them contrabands to your sister, Miss -Marthers. She and I has got to be considerable intimate. I think a sight -on her,” he continued, as Jimmie showed no signs of reciprocating the -coarse familiarity other than by rather haughtily offering his hand. - -But Bill was not to be put down, for “wasn’t he as good as Corporal -Carleton? hadn’t they sustained to each other the relation of captor and -captive, and if there were any preference, wasn’t it in his favor?” He -thought so, and nothing abashed by Jimmie’s evident disgust, he was -about announcing to him that a carriage was in waiting, when Jake made -his way through the crowd to the spot where Jimmie stood. The sight of -him suggested a new idea to Bill, and bowing first to one and then to -the other, he said, “Ah, Mr. Jacob Sullivan, allow me to introduce you -to my friend, Corporal Carleton, late of the Confederate army, supposed -to be fitin’ for just such goods and chattels as you.” - -The African’s teeth were plainly visible at this novel introduction, -while the good-humored smile which broke over the hitherto cold, haughty -features of the stranger, changed into a general laugh the muttered -groans and imprecations which the words “Confederate Army,” had -provoked. It was strange what a difference that smile made in the looks -of Jimmie’s handsome face, removing its haughty, sarcastic expression, -and softening to a great extent the feelings of the crowd, many of whom -instinctively dropped the brick-bats, stones, and bits of frozen mud, -with which they were prepared to pelt the Rebel’s carriage so soon as -they should be in the rear. Still they must have some fun, even if it -were at _Bill’s_ expense, and just as the latter was button-holing the -persecuted Jimmie, and escorting him to the carriage, one, more daring -than the others, proposed “three groans and a tiger for the deserter.” - -Instantly, hats, caps, and fists were flourished aloft, and the air -resounded with the most direful sounds imaginable, as groan after groan -came heaving up from the leathern lungs of the crowd. With a fierce -gesture of impatience Jimmie turned upon them, his black eyes flashing -fire at what he deemed an insult offered to himself. Whatever his faults -had been, desertion was not among the number, and he was about to say -so, when Bill, with imperturbable gravity, whispered to him, “They don’t -mean you now, Corporal. It’s me they’re hittin’ a dig. You see, I did -leave Washington in a hurry. Don’t mind ’em an atom; they’re the -off-scourin’s of the town,” and having piloted Jimmie safely to the -carriage door, Bill took off his own cap, and swinging it around his -head, shouted aloud, “Three cheers for Corporal Carleton!” - -For an instant there was a silence, the crowd a little uncertain as to -how far their loyalty might be impeached by cheering for a Rebel; but -when the dark, handsome face, with its winning smile, was again turned -toward them, and they saw in it a strong resemblance to the patriotic -little lady whom even the lowest of them had learned to regard with -respect, their doubts were given to the winds, and the ringleader, who -carried in his pocket a quantity of questionable eggs, designed for use -as the occasion might require, led off the cheers, making the depot ring -with the loud huzzas, interlarded here and there by a groan or hiss from -those not yet won over to the popular party. - -Lifting his hat gracefully, Jimmie bowed an acknowledgment, and his lips -moved as if about to speak, while cries of “Hear, hear!” “Give us a -speech!” “Let’s have your politics!” ran through the excited throng. -Standing close to Jimmie, who would fain have dispensed with his -suggestive presence, Bill whispered in his ear, “Let ’er slide, Cop’ral. -Go in strong for Uncle Sam if you don’t want this new coat of yourn -sp’ilt. There ain’t a rotten hen’s nest in town but what was robbed this -mornin’ on your account, and if they once git fairly to work, it’ll take -mor’n me and Mr. Sullivan to stop em! Pitch in, then, to your sarmon.” - -Jimmie’s natural disposition prompted him to brave the purloined -contents of Rockland’s hen’s nests, but he would not endanger his -sister’s carriage, and besides that, he felt that submission to people -so infinitely beneath him was a part of his merited punishment; so, -forcing down his pride, he in a few well-chosen words, told his -breathless audience that though he had once proved faithless to his -country, none regretted it more than himself, or was now a firmer friend -to the Stars and Stripes, the brief speech ending with the proposal of -three cheers for the Star Spangled Banner. - -In a trice the whole crowd responded with might and main, prolonging -their yells with the cries of “Carleton! Carleton forever!” and promises -to make him police justice in the spring, should he want to run for that -very agreeable office! - -“Couldn’t of done much better myself,” said the delighted Bill, hovering -about the window of the carriage in which Jimmie had now taken his seat. - -Thoroughly tired of the scene, Jimmie intimated to Jake his wish to go -home, and the iron greys sprang quickly forward, but not until Jimmie -had caught Bill’s parting words, “Call round and see a feller, won’t -you? I’ll show you the old gal. You know you asked me about her in the -Virginny woods.” - - * * * * * - -It seemed like a new world to Jimmie when, after they had left the noisy -crowd, they turned into the pleasant, quiet street which wound up the -hill to where the handsome Mather mansion stood, every blind thrown back -and wreaths of smoke curling gracefully from every chimney, for Rose, -wishing to do something in honor of her brother’s return, had ordered -the whole house to be opened as if for a holiday, while every flower -which could possibly be spared from her conservatory, had been broken -from its stem, and fashioned into bouquets by Annie’s tasteful hands. - -“Wouldn’t it be splendid,” Rose said, as she lay watching Annie at her -task, “wouldn’t it be splendid to hang the Stars and Stripes in festoons -across the hall, where Jimmie will pass under them?” - -Annie did _not_ think it would. In her opinion Jimmie was not deserving -of such honor, and she said so, as delicately as possible, adding that -“were it Tom it would be a very different thing.” - -Rose knew that Annie was right, and so the Stars and Stripes were not -brought out to welcome the young man now rapidly approaching. Annie was -the first to catch the sound of the carriage wheels, and when Rose -turned to ask if she really supposed Jimmie was there, she found herself -alone. - -“She’s gone to meet him, of course,” she said, “but I most wish she had -staid here, for I wanted to introduce her myself. I hope she won’t -dislike him.” - -Meantime in the parlor below, Mrs. Carleton sat waiting for her boy,—not -as Spartan mothers were wont to wait for their sons returning from the -war, but with a yearning tenderness for the loved prodigal, blended with -loyal indignation for his sin. He was not coming to her as a hero who -had done what he could for his country, but with a traitor’s stain upon -his fair name, which she would gladly have wiped out. She heard the -carriage as it stopped, and heard the step on the piazza, not rapid and -bounding as it used to be, but slow and heavy, as if uncertain which way -to turn. - -“I must go out to meet him,” she said, but all her strength forsook her, -and sinking upon the sofa, she could only call out faintly, “Jimmie, my -boy.” - -He heard her, and almost before the words had left her lips her _Jimmie -boy_ was kneeling at her feet, with his face buried for an instant in -her lap; then, with one burning kiss upon her forehead, the proud James -Carleton, who in his early boyhood was scarcely ever known to -acknowledge that he was wrong, asked to be forgiven and restored again -to the confidence and love he had forfeited, and with her hand upon his -bowed head, the mother forgave her boy, bidding him look up, that she -might see again the face she had once thought so handsome. It was -tear-stained now, and worn, and Mrs. Carleton sighed as she detected -upon it unmistakable marks of reckless dissipation. Still it was -Jimmie’s face, and it grew each moment more natural as the flush of -excitement deepened on the cheeks, and lent an added brightness to the -saucy, laughing eyes. The lines upon the forehead and about the mouth -would wear away in time, Mrs. Carleton hoped, and parting the soft, -black curls clustering around the broad, white brow, she told him why -Rose was not there to meet him, and asked if he would go up then to see -her. - -Rose heard them coming, and at the sound of the familiar voice calling -her name, the tears flowed in torrents, and with her face buried in her -pillows she received her brother’s first embrace. Very gently he lifted -up her head, and taking in his the little hot hands, kissed again and -again her childish face, and wiping her tears away, asked, half -seriously, half playfully, “if they met in peace or war?” - -“Oh, in peace, in peace!” Rose answered, and winding her arms around his -neck, she hugged and cried over him, asking why he had been so naughty, -when he knew how badly they would feel, and why he had not interfered to -save poor _Tom_ from a prisoner’s fate. - -He explained to her how that was impossible, but for his treachery he -had no excuse; he could only answer that he was sorry, and ask again to -be forgiven. - -“I do not now believe the South _all wrong_,” he said. “Many of them -sincerely think they are fighting for their firesides; others hardly -know what they are fighting for; while others again are impressed into -the army and cannot help themselves. As for me, I would gladly blot out -the past, for which I have no apology; but as that cannot be, I would -rather talk as little of it as possible. Try, Rose, to forget that you -ever had a rebel brother. Will you?” - -Rose’s kisses were a sufficient answer. She was too happy just then to -remember aught save that he had always been the dearest brother -imaginable; besides that Annie taught that we must forgive as we would -be forgiven. Annie bore no ill will toward the South. She prayed for -_them_ as well as for the North, and cried most as hard over the sick, -suffering soldiers captured by our army as over our own prisoners, and -if she could forgive, Rose surely ought to do so too. - -“You have not seen Annie yet,” she said; “she ran away the moment she -knew you had come. I thought she might be going to meet you, but it -seems she did not. You must love her a heap, and I know you will. She’s -so beautiful in her mourning, and bears her trouble so sweetly. I wish -everybody was as good as Annie Graham. She has never been heard to say -one bitter thing against the South. She only pities and prays and says -they are misguided.” - -“And pray, who is this paragon of excellence that I must love a heap?” -Jimmie asked, when Rose had exhausted the list of Annie’s virtues, and -paused for a little breath. - -“Who was she? Hadn’t he heard of Annie? Had _Will_ failed to tell him of -her adopted sister?” Rose asked in some astonishment. - -Will had proved remiss in that one particular duty, and never, until -this moment, had Jimmie heard that Rose had an adopted sister; and if -_Rose_, why not himself? Wasn’t he Rose’s brother? - -“Certainly you are,” Rose replied; “but I’m not sure Annie will let you -call her sister, because you’re,—you’re,—well, you see, Annie is real -good, and, as I told you, prays, just as hard for Southern soldiers as -for ours, that is, prays that they may be Christians, and that their -sick and wounded may be kindly cared for, but of course she wants us to -beat, and knows we shall, but I guess she does not think of you just as -she does of Tom, though she never saw either. She would not go up to the -depot to meet you, and I wanted her to so much. She said, too, it was -not good taste, or something like that, to hang out our banner on a -_Rebel’s_ account, and she acts so funny generally about your coming -home that I hope you’ll do your best to be agreeable, and make her like -you. Will you Jimmie?” and Rose looked up at her brother in such a -comical, serious way, that he laughed aloud, promising to do his best to -remove all prejudice from _Miss_ Graham’s mind, and asking who she was -and where she came from. - -“I’m sure I don’t know where she came from,” Rose replied, a little -uncertain how to grapple with the Carleton pride, which existed in -Jimmie as well as the rest of them. “She’s a lady, as any one can see, -and possessed of as much refinement as we often find in Boston. She -can’t help it, Jimmie, if she is poor. It don’t hurt her one bit, and -I’m getting over those foolish notions cherished by our set at home. -Will says she came of a good family and might have married a -millionnaire, old enough to be her father, but she wouldn’t. She -preferred a mechanic, George Graham, the most splendid looking man you -ever saw. He’s dead now, poor fellow. Will took care of him, and brought -him home; that’s why Annie lives with me.” - -Rose’s explanations were not the plainest that could have been given, -but Jimmie extracted from the medley of facts a very prominent one. It -was not a _Miss_ but a _Mrs._, to whom he was to be agreeable. It had -not seemed a very unpleasant duty to change a beautiful young girl’s -opinion of himself, but a Mrs. was a very different affair, and for the -first time since his arrival his old, merry, half-sarcastic laugh rang -through the room, as with a mocking whistle, he said, - -“A widow, hey! How many children does she boast?” - -“Not a single bit of a one,” Rose answered, feeling that Jimmie had said -something very bad of Annie. - -He saw it in her countenance, and hastened to make amends by asking -numberless questions about Annie, whose history from the time of Rose’s -first acquaintance with her up to the present hour, he managed at last -to get, the result being that he was not as much interested in the Widow -Graham, as he mischievously called her, as he might have been in _Miss -Annie_. The easily disheartened Rose gave him up as incorrigible, and -mentally hoping Tom would not prove as refractory as Jimmie had done, -she turned the conversation upon Will, whose goodness she extolled until -the supper bell rang and Jimmie arose to leave her for a time, as she -was not prepared to go down that night and do the honors of the table. - - * * * * * - -The gas was lighted in the dining-room, and the heavy damask curtains -were dropped before the long French windows. A cheerful coal fire was -blazing on the marble hearth, while the table, with its snowy linen, its -china, silver and cut glass, presented a most inviting appearance, -making Jimmie feel more at home than he had through all the long years -of his voluntary exile from the parental roof. - -“This is nice,” he said, with a pleasant feeling of satisfaction not -unmingled with a certain degree of self-reproach, which whispered that -after what had passed he was hardly worthy to be the recipient of so -much luxury. - -Thoughts like these were about shaping themselves into words, when he -caught sight of a figure he had not before observed, and became aware -that he was not alone with his mother, as he at first supposed. It was a -delicate little figure, not as _petite_ as his sister’s but quite as -graceful, with its sloping shoulders and rounded waist, almost too small -to suit the theorems of a _Water Cure_, but looking vastly well to -Jimmie, whose first thought was that he could span it with his hands. -Around the well shaped head the heavy bands of pale brown hair were -coiled, forming a large square knot which, falling low upon the neck, -gave to the figure a more girlish appearance than Jimmie had expected to -find in his sister’s protégée, the _Widow Graham_. He knew it was Annie, -by the mourning robe fitting so closely around the slender throat, and -for an instant he wished she were not there as he preferred being alone -with his mother. But one glance at the sweet face turned toward him as -Mrs. Carleton repeated his name, dispelled all such desires, and with a -strange sensation, which he attributed to pleasant disappointment, he -took the soft, white hand which Annie extended toward him. It was a very -small, a very pretty hand, and trembled perceptibly as it lay in -Jimmie’s broader, warmer one, while on the pale cheek there was a deep, -rich bloom, which Mrs. Carleton herself had never observed before. - -“I have heard of Mrs. Graham from my sister,” Jimmie said, bowing to her -with his usual gallantry, while Annie tried to stammer out some reply, -making a miserable failure, and leaving on Jimmie’s mind the impression -that she was prejudiced against him, and so would not welcome him home. - -A dozen times in the course of the supper Jimmie assured himself that he -did not care what was the opinion held of him by such as Annie Graham, -while he as often changed his mind and knew that he did care, wondering -what it was about her face which puzzled him so much. She looked a -little like Tom’s wife, Mary, he thought, that is, as Mary had looked -just before her departure for Charleston, when she bade him good-bye, -whispering to him timidly of a world where she hoped to meet again the -friends she loved so well. And as, whenever he thought of Mary, he felt -that her angel presence was around him still, he now felt that another -angel spirit looked out at him from the soft eyes of blue raised to his -so seldom, and when raised withdrawn so quickly. What did she think of -him? He would have given something to have known, but he was far from -suspecting the truth or guessing what Annie felt, as she saw upon his -face the lines of dissipation, and thought of the debasing scenes -through which he must have passed since the days of auld lang syne, -when, with the little Pequot of New London, he sat upon the rocks and -watched the tide come in, telling her how, on the morrow night, his own -fanciful little boat, named for her should bear them across the placid -waters of the bay to where the green hill lay sleeping in the summer -moonlight. The Pequot’s reply had been that the morrow was the Sabbath, -and not even the pleasure of a sail with him could tempt her to steal -God’s time, and appropriate it to such a purpose. He had called her a -little Puritan then, asking where she learned so strict a creed, and -adding, “but I half believe you’re right, and if I’d known you sooner I -should have been a better boy;” then kissing her blushing cheek, he had -led her from the rocks over which the waves were breaking now, and that -was the last the Pequot ever saw of him. There was no sail upon the bay, -no more watching for the ebb and flow of the evening tide, no walks on -the long piazza, or strolls upon the beach, nothing but news one night -that the handsome, saucy-eyed boy was gone to his home in Boston, -leaving no message or word of explanation for her, the little Pequot, -whose step was slower for a few days, and whose headache was not -feigned, as the harsh aunt said it was, when she refused to join the -revellers in the parlor, and dance with the grey-haired man, four times -her age, who sought her for his partner. They had not met since then -till now, and Annie struggled hard to keep back the tears as she -remembered all that had come to her since that summer at New -London—remembered the childish fancy which died out so fast, and the -later love which crowned her early girlhood, finding its full fruition -at the marriage altar, and twining itself so closely around the fibres -of her heart, that when it was torn away, it left them sore and bleeding -with pain at every pore. - -Surely, with this sad experience, Annie, young and beautiful though she -was, could feel for Jimmie Carleton naught save the deference she would -have felt for any stranger who came to her as the brother of her -patroness. And still she was conscious of a deeper interest in him than -if he had been a perfect stranger, and his presence awoke within her an -uncomfortable feeling, making her wish more and more that she was away -where she would not be obliged to come in daily contact with him. Under -these circumstances it is not strange the conversation flagged, until -for Rose’s sake Annie felt compelled to make an effort. Suddenly -remembering Isaac Simms, she asked if anything was ever heard at -Washington of the Richmond prisoners? - -“Yes,” Jimmie replied; and eager to show his own willingness to talk of -the war and the Federal Army, he told how only the day before he left -for Rockland, news had come from Tom, saying he was well as could be -expected, considering his fare, but the boy captured with him would -surely die if not soon restored to purer air and better care than those -tobacco prisons afforded. - -“Oh,—it will kill Mrs. Simms if they should bring him back to her dead,” -and the hot tears gushed from Annie’s eyes as she heard in fancy the -muffled drum beating its funeral marches to the grave of another -Rockland volunteer. - -The tears once started could not be repressed, and Mrs. Carleton and -Jimmie finished their supper alone, for Annie excused herself, and -hastening to her room, poured out her grief in tears and prayers for the -poor sick boy, pining in his dreary prison home, while mingled with her -tears was a note of thanksgiving that to her had been given the comfort -of knowing that the death pillow of her darling was smoothed with -friendly hands, and that no harsh, discordant sounds of prison riot or -discipline had disturbed his peaceful dying. - -Meantime Jimmie had returned to his sister, whose first question was for -Annie. “What did he think of her? Wasn’t she sweet, and hadn’t she the -prettiest blue eyes he ever saw?” - -“I hardly saw them, for she is evidently coy of her glances at a -_Rebel_,” Jimmie answered, half playfully, half bitterly, for Annie’s -manner of quiet reserve had piqued him more than he cared to confess. - -“She’s bashful,” Rose replied; “and then, Jimmie, you can’t expect her -to forgive you as readily as your own sister, for you know she never saw -you till to-night, and she’s a true patriot; but say, did you ever see -so sweet a face—one that made you think so much of an angel?” - -“Rather too pale to suit my taste. I like high color better,” and Jimmie -pinched Rose’s glowing cheek until she screamed for him to stop. - -“It’s all going wrong, I know,” Rose began, poutingly. “You don’t like -Annie a bit, and she’s so good, too. You can’t begin to guess how good. -And there’s nothing blue about her, either. Why, she’s a heap more -cheerful than I could be if Will were dead, as George is. I’d die too,—I -know I should; but Annie’s a real Christian, and that does make a -difference. It seems to be all through her, and she lives it every -minute. I honestly believe I’m better than before she came. She has -actually persuaded me not to get up big dinners on Sunday, as I used to -do, but to let all the servants go to church, and every night she goes -for half an hour into the kitchen and teaches old black Phillis how to -read the Bible. She’s so truthful, too. Why, she said she presumed that -little Pequot girl would not have liked you any way after she heard that -Dick Lee was not your name.” - -“The Pequot girl! How came Mrs. Graham to hear of her?” Jimmie asked, -his face flushing crimson. - -“Oh, I happened to ask mother something about her one day, right before -Annie, and so, of course, explained a little. It would not have been -polite if I hadn’t,” Rose replied, adding, as she saw her brother’s -evident chagrin, “you need not mind one bit, for Annie never tells -anything.” - -It was not the fearing she would tell which affected Jimmie -unpleasantly; it was the feeling that he would rather Annie Graham -should not know of all his delinquencies, and so despise him -accordingly. How unfortunate it was that she was there, and yet he would -not have sent her away if he could, though he did wish she were not so -well posted with regard to his affairs, both past and present. What made -Rose tell her of the _Pequot_, and why had the Pequot haunted him ever -since he came into that house? Something had brought her to his mind, -and as the servant just then came in, bringing her mistress’s supper, he -left his seat by Rose, and walking to the window looked out upon the -starry sky, wondering within himself where she was now, the little girl -who had sat with him upon the rocks, and told him it was wicked to break -God’s fourth command. The scene which Annie saw at the supper table was -present with him now, remembered, for the first time, since the battle -at Bull Run. Then, as he lay waiting for the foe, he had in fancy heard -again a sweet, girlish voice, bidding him keep holy the Sabbath day, and -the tear which dropped upon his gun was prompted by the thought of all -he had passed through since the happy school-boy days when the Pequot -preached to him her gentle sermons. - -In the hall there was a rapid footstep, and Rose called out: - -“Annie, Annie, come here. Why, where are you going to-night?” she -continued, in much surprise, as Annie looked in, hooded and shawled as -for some expedition. - -“Going to see Mrs. Simms. It is not far, you know,” was Annie’s answer, -and the door closed after her in time to prevent her hearing Rose’s -reply. - -“It’s dark as pitch, and slippery too. Jimmie, do please see her to the -gate, but don’t go in, for the widow is awful against Rebels!” - -The next moment Jimmie was half way down the stairs, calling to Annie, -who held the door-knob in her hand. - -“Mrs. Graham, allow me to be your escort,—Rose is not willing you should -go out alone.” - -“Thank you, I am not at all afraid, and prefer going alone, as Mrs. -Simms might not care to meet a stranger,” Annie replied, with an air of -so much quiet dignity, that Jimmie knew there was no alternative for him -save to return to his sister’s chamber, which he did, feeling far more -crestfallen than he had supposed it possible for him to feel, just -because a widow had refused his escort. - -It was wholly owing to the taint of Rebeldom clinging to him, he knew, -for he was not accustomed to having his attentions thus slighted by the -ladies to whom they were offered, and all unconsciously the manner of -reserve which Annie assumed toward him was punishing him for his sin -quite as much as anything which had yet occurred, making him feel keenly -that by his traitorous act he had, for a time at least, built a gulf -between himself and those whose good opinion was worth the having. - -“Why haven’t you gone?” Rose asked, as he came into the room. “She -wouldn’t let you? I don’t believe you asked her just as you should. -Dear, dear, it’s all going wrong between you two, and if Tom don’t act -any better when he comes home, what shall I do?” - -“Send Mrs. Graham away,” trembled on Jimmie’s lips, but knowing, from -what he had seen, that so far as Rose was concerned, Annie’s tenure at -the Mather mansion was stronger than his own, he wisely kept silent, and -sitting down by the open grate, he went off into a fit of abstraction, -mingled with sad regrets for the past and occasional thoughts of the -little white-faced Annie, now essaying to comfort the Widow Simms, who -had extorted from her the intelligence brought by Jimmie of her boy, and -who, with her hard hands covering her face, was weeping bitterly, and -sobbing amid her tears, - -“My poor, poor boy! It’s the same to me now as if he was dead. I’ll -never see him any more. Oh, Isaac, my darling!” - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII. - THE RICHMOND CAPTIVES. - - -How close, and dirty, and terrible it was on that third floor of the -dingy tobacco house, where Isaac, as a private, was first confined, and -as the summer days glided by and the August sun came pouring into the -great, disorderly room, how the young boy panted and pined for a breath -of sweet, pure air, such as swept over the far-off Eastern hills, and -how full of wistful yearning were the glances he cast toward the grated -windows, seeking to catch glimpses of the busy world without, in which -he could not mingle. Not very near those windows did he dare approach, -for more than one had already paid the penalty of such transgression, -and in his dreams, Isaac saw yet the white death agony which stole over -the face of the Fire Zouave shot by the inhuman guard while looking from -the window. - -No wonder that the homesick boy grew sadder, wearier each day amid such -horrors as these, praying, sometimes, that he might die, even though he -must be buried far from the quiet Rockland churchyard, where the cypress -and the willow were growing so green and fair, and where a mother could -sometimes come and weep over her soldier boy’s grave. It would matter -little where he slept, he thought, or what indignities were heaped upon -his lifeless form, for his soul could not be touched; that would be safe -with Him, whom Isaac, in his captivity, had found to be indeed the -Friend which sticketh closer than a brother. The Saviour, honored since -early childhood, did not desert the captive, and this it was which made -him strong to bear, through the long summer days, during which there -came to him no tidings of his home, and his eye was greeted with no -sight of a familiar face, for Captain Carleton was yet an inmate of the -hospital. Neither did any friendly message come to tell he was -remembered by the man whose fortunes he had voluntarily shared, when he -might, perhaps, have escaped, for though _Tom_ thought often of the -generous lad, and sent to him many a word of comfort through mistake or -negligence only one brief message had ever reached its destination, and -so forsaken by every human aid, poor Isaac looked to Heaven for help, -finding there a peace which kept his heart from breaking. - -But as the summer days glided into September, and the heat grew more and -more intense, until at last September, too, was gone, and the Virginia -woods were blazing in the light of the October sun, and still there was -no token of relief, oh! who, save those who have felt it, can tell of -the loneliness, the dreary despair, which crept into the captive’s soul, -driving out all hope, and making life as it existed in those walls a -burden, which would be gladly shaken off. How Isaac paled and drooped as -the weary hours stole on; how he loathed the sickening food; and how at -night he shuddered with horror, and shrank away from the vermin-covered -floor, his only pillow unless he substituted the coat, now scarcely less -filthy than its surroundings! As Tom wrote to the New Hampshire woman, -Mrs. Simms would scarcely have recognized her son in the haggard, -emaciated boy, who, on one October afternoon, sat crouching in his -corner, grasping the little Testament given by the Rockland ladies, and -repeating its precious truths to the poor, sick, worn-out youth, whose -head lay on his lap, and whose eyes, blistered with homesick tears, were -fastened with a kind of hungry wistfulness upon the girlish face above -him, the face of Isaac Simms, pointing the dying soldier to the only -source of life. It was thus Tom Carleton found him, Tom, just released -from the hospital, and transferred to the first floor of that dark -prison. - -With Tom it had fared better, for Yankee-like in his precautions, he had -gone into the battle with a quantity of _gold_ fastened securely around -his person, and gold has a mighty power to unlock the hardest heart. As -a commissioned officer, and a man of wealth and rank, many privileges -were accorded to him which were denied the common soldiers, and his -first act after entering the tobacco house was to seek out his late -companion and ask after his welfare. He did not know him at first, -though directed to that locality as the one where the “_Preacher_” would -probably be found. He could not think he had ever seen either of these -famished, miserable looking creatures, but touched by the impressive -scene, he stood a moment listening, while Isaac read, - -“I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man cometh to the Father but -by me.” - -“Yes, but how shall I go to Him? Where is He?” the sick boy asked, and -bending lower, Isaac answered: - -“He’s here. He’s standing close by you. He hears all I say. He knows you -want him, and he will not cast you off, for he has said he wouldn’t. -Only believe, and take him at his word, that’s all.” - -There was an evident lifting up of both souls to God, and Tom felt that -even in that horrid place, there were angels dwelling. He knew now that -one was Isaac, and the great tears rolled down his cheeks as he saw the -fearful change wrought in little more than two short months. - -“Isaac,” he said, softly, “Isaac, my boy, don’t you know me?” - -Not till then had Isaac observed the tall figure standing near, but at -the sound of the well-remembered voice he looked quickly up, and putting -gently from him the head of his comrade, sprang to his feet with a -scream of joy, and threw himself into the open arms of Tom, who held and -soothed him, while he sobbed out his delight. - -“Oh, Captain Carleton!” he cried, his body quivering with emotion, “I am -so glad! I thought you had,—I didn’t know,—Oh, _why_ haven’t you come -before, I’m so sick, so sick and tired, that I almost want to die! Will -we ever be exchanged; have they forgotten us at Washington? Shall we -never go home again?” - -These were questions which more than one poor captive had asked, and -which none could answer. Tom, however, did the best he could, and -hushing Isaac as he would have hushed and quieted a grieving child, he -spoke to him many a word of comfort, promising to care for him as for a -younger brother, and speaking of various ways in which his forlorn -condition should be bettered, now that he was an inmate of the same -prison. It was a blissful interview, and its good effects were seen in -the brightness of Isaac’s face, and the cheerful smile which played -around his mouth, even after Tom had gone to his quarters below. - -Softer than downy pillow seemed the hard bare floor, that night, as with -his arm thrown round his invalid friend, Isaac lay dreaming of the -frost-tipped trees at home, and the brown nuts ripening on the hill, -where he, perhaps, might pick them yet, for Tom had given some -encouragement that an exchange would ere long be effected, and as each -believed his own name would be upon the list, so Isaac hoped his would, -and in slumber’s fitful fancy he was at home again, and saw his mother -come softly in to tuck the bed-clothes round him, or see if he were -sleeping, just as she used to do. How still he lay to make her think he -_was_ asleep! How real seemed the vision, how life-like the kiss pressed -upon his lips, and the tear-drop that came with it! In a corner of the -room there were groans and imprecations, and with a nervous start the -dreamer woke to find it all a horrid delusion. That stifling, fetid -atmosphere had in it no odor of Rockland’s healthful breezes, and the -star, shining on him through the iron bars, though familiar to him, was -not the same which he used to watch from the window beneath the eaves, -facing to the north. No home, no mother, no soft feathery pillow for his -head, or blanket for his body—nothing but that feverish hand still upon -his forehead, and that tear on his cheek, for _these_ were real, and the -sick soldier at his side, who gave the kiss and tear, was whispering in -his ear, that the way so tearfully sought was found at last; that the -gloomy, desolate prison was like the gates of Paradise, and death -disarmed of all its terror. - -“If mother could only know it,” he said, “I should be so glad, and -you’ll tell her, won’t you, when you get home again? Tell her it wasn’t -very hard to die, even in this dingy hole; that Heaven and Jesus are as -near to me here on the floor, as if I were lying on my own bed at home, -with her standing by. Tell her I’m glad I fought for the Stars and -Stripes, but sorry I ran away without her consent, for I did. I got out -on the wood-shed roof, and so came off unseen. She’s prayed for me every -day and every night, and God has heard her prayers. He sent you here to -lead me in the way, and after I am gone, he’ll let you go back again.” - -There were a few more whispered words on either side, and then the -exhausted but happy youth fell away to sleep, while Isaac wept with -thankfulness that his confinement there had not been all in vain. - -Faithful to his promise, Tom, as far as was possible, alleviated the -hardships so long and so meekly borne by Isaac, and with his gold bought -many a delicacy for Isaac’s end, the poor, sick Massachusetts boy, who, -one night ere the physician had fairly decided that he was in need of -medical care, laid his head on Isaac’s lap as he was wont to do, and -with another whispered message for the mother far away, and another -assurance of perfect peace, went where the wicked cease from troubling, -and the weary are at rest! - -While he lived there had been something to take Isaac’s mind—something -to excite his sympathy, and in ministering to Henry’s wants, he had more -than half forgotten his own, but now that he was gone, and the corner -where he had sat or lain was empty, Isaac, too, faded rapidly, and not -all Tom’s efforts had power to save him from the apathy which came -stealing over him so fast. Touched with pity at his forlorn, dejected -appearance, his comrades made him a little bed in the corner where the -dead boy had been, and there all the day long he lay, rarely noticing -any one except Tom Carleton, who came often to his side, and whose own -warm blanket formed the pillow for his head. From the first floor to the -third there was not one who was not more or less interested in the pale -invalid, bearing his pain so patiently, never complaining, never -repining, but thanking those about him for any kindness rendered with -such childlike, touching sweetness, that even the rough jailer regarded -him with favor, and paused sometimes to speak to him a word of -encouragement. - -In this state of feeling it was not a difficult matter for Tom to obtain -permission for Isaac to be removed from the dirty corner above to his -own comparatively comfortable cot in the officers’ apartments below. But -this did not effect a cure. Nothing could do that save a sight of home -and mother. - -“Could I see _her_,” Isaac said one day, “or even stand again beneath -the Federal Flag, I might get better, but here I shall surely die, and -if I do, oh, Captain Carleton, you’ll get them to send me home, won’t -you? I don’t care for myself where I am buried, but my mother—it would -break her heart to hear I was put with the negroes. She’s a rough woman, -and folks who don’t know her much, thinks she’s cross and queer, but -she’s been _so_ good to me, and I love her so much! Oh, mother, mother, -I wish she was here now,” and the sick boy turned his white face to the -wall, sobbing out choking sobs which seemed to come from the lowest -depths of his heart. - -Cries for home and mother were not uncommon in that prison house, but -there was something so piteous in his childlike wail that other officers -than Tom bent over the poor lad, trying to comfort him by telling of an -exchange which, it was hoped would ere long be effected, and by painting -happy pictures of the glad rejoicing which would greet the returning -captives. For an instant the great tears, dropping so fast from Isaac’s -lids, were staid in their course, and a smile of hope shone on his -pallid face, but quickly passed away as he suggested, - -“Yes, but who knows if _I_ will be on the list?” - -No one could tell him that. All would not go, they knew, and they could -only wait patiently, each hoping _he_ would be the favored one. At last -there came a day, never to be forgotten by the inmates of that tobacco -house, a day on which was read the names of those who were to be -released and breathe again the air of freedom. Oh, how anxiously the -sick boy listened as one after another was called. “Captain Thomas -Carleton” was among the number, and a deep flush stole to the young -man’s face as uncertainty was thus made sure. _He_ was going home, and -like waves upon the beach, the throbs of joy beat around his heart, -making him glad as a little child when returning to its mother after a -long separation. - -But oh, who shall tell Isaac’s emotions as name after name was called, -and none that sounded like his. Would they never reach it, never say -_Isaac Simms?_ Could it be he was not there? Larger and thicker grew the -drops of sweat, quivering about his mouth, and standing upon his -forehead. Whiter, more death-like grew his face: heavier, sadder, more -mournful the eyes, fixed so wistfully upon the caller of that roll, -growing less so fast. There could not be many more, and the head drooped -upon the heaving bosom, with a discouraged, disheartened feeling, just -as the last was read, not _his_, not Isaac Simms. _He was not there_, -and with a moan, which smote painfully on Tom’s ear, the disappointed -boy turned away, and wept bitterly, while his pale lips moved feebly -with the prayer for help he essayed to make. To be left there alone, -with no kind Captain Carleton to soothe the weary hours, to be returned, -most likely, to the noisy floor above, to die some night when nobody -knew or cared,—it was terrible,—and Widow Simms would have shrieked in -anguish could she have seen the look of despair settling down on her -darling’s face. - -But though she did not see it, there was one who did, and guessing at -the thoughts which prompted it, he walked away to be alone, and gather -strength for the sacrifice he must make. Tom Carleton could not desert -the boy who had clung so faithfully to him, and as Isaac had once staid -by him in the Virginia woods, when he might have gone away, so he now -would stay with Isaac. Still it was hard to give up going home, and for -a moment he felt as if he could not. There was a fierce struggle between -duty and inclination,—a mighty combat between Tom’s selfishness and his -better nature,—and then the latter conquered. He must stay. It would not -be difficult to find some person to take his place clandestinely, for -already were the unfortunate ones seeking to buy such chances, and -offering every possible inducement to any who would accept. A young -lieutenant about his age and appearance, and whose wife and child were -suffering from his absence, was the one selected by Tom as his -substitute, and the matter soon arranged. Then, with a forced -cheerfulness he did not feel, Tom went back to Isaac, who was still -weeping silently on his couch, and whispering to an unseen presence, -“_You’ll_ never leave me, will you? and when I die you’ll take me up to -Heaven?” - -Here was a faith, a trust, to which Tom Carleton was a stranger, and -wishing himself more like that sick boy, he bent over the cot, and said -cheerily, - -“Isaac, are you asleep?” - -In the tone of his voice there was something so kind and sympathetic, -that Isaac started up, and winding his feeble arms around Tom’s neck, -sobbed out, - -“Forgive me, Captain Carleton; I’m glad you are going home, but I wasn’t -at first; the bad, hard lumps kept rising in my throat as I thought of -staying here alone without you, but they’re gone now. I prayed them all -away, and I am glad you are going. I shall miss you dreadfully, but God -will not forsake me. And, Captain Carleton, if you ever -do,—see—my,—my”—— - -Isaac’s voice was choked with tears, and he could not at first -articulate that dear word, but soon recovering, he went on—“see my -mother, you’ll tell her about me. Tell her everything except how I’ve -suffered. That would do no good—’twould only make her cry, and when she -hears, as she maybe will, that I am dead, tell I wasn’t afraid, for the -Saviour was with me. I’d rather you shouldn’t say good-bye at the last. -It would make me feel so bad, only sometime before you go I want to tell -you how much I love you for your goodness, and to ask you to be a”—— - -He did not finish the sentence, for Tom knew what he would say, and -wiping both sweat and tears from off the worn face, looking so lovingly -at him, he answered, “I _will_ try to be a better man. I never felt the -need of it so much till I came here, and Isaac, I am going to stay till -you, too, are exchanged. Did you think I would desert the boy who, but -for me, would not have been a prisoner?” - -Isaac did not reply; only the soft, blue eyes lighted up with sudden, -eager joy; the lips trembled as if they would speak, there was a -perceptible shudder, and then Tom held in his arms a fainting, -unconscious form. The revulsion of feeling was too great, and for many -minutes Isaac gave no sign of life, but when at last he was restored -again, he tried to dissuade Tom from making so great a sacrifice, but -all in vain. Tom silenced every objection, and when the 3d of January -came, and prisoners were released, another than Tom Carleton answered to -his name, and marched from Richmond in his stead. - -Tom had once spent several months in Richmond, and in the higher circles -he numbered many personal friends, who, until quite recently, were -ignorant of the fact that he was a prisoner in their midst. Of these the -more loyal to the new Confederacy ignored him entirely. Others, -remembering his genial humor, and quiet, gentlemanly manner which had -won their admiration for the elegant Bostonian and his gentle wife, -threw their prejudice aside, and respecting him because he had stood -firmly by his own State, visited him in his prison, while others sent -playful messages that though they denounced him as an intruder upon -their rights, they owned him as a friend, and would gladly ameliorate -his condition. To these acquaintance it was soon known how great a -sacrifice Tom had made for the sake of a young boy, and the result was a -gradual abatement of the surveillance held over Tom, while many -privileges hitherto denied by the strict jail discipline, were accorded -to him. Isaac, too, was benefited through him, and more than one fair -lady visited the invalid, growing strangely interested in the gentle -“Yankee boy,” and bringing many a delicacy with which to tempt his -capricious appetite. But no amount of kindness could win him back to -health so long as he breathed the atmosphere of prison walls. To go home -was all he desired, and day after day the flesh shrivelled from his -bones, and the blue veins stood out round and full upon his wasted hands -until there came a night when the physician told the jailer, whom he met -upon the stairs, that “the Yankee boy was dying.” - -There were not many now in prison, and ere long the sad news was known -throughout the building, causing the riotous ones to hush their noisy -revels, and tread softly across the uncovered floor, lest they should -disturb the sufferer below. The jailer, too, remembering his own son, -afar in Southern Tennessee, wiped a tear from his rough face, and drew -nearer to the humble cot where Tom sat watching the panting and -seemingly dying boy. There were moments of feverish delirium, when the -prison, with its surrounding horrors, faded away, and Isaac was at home, -bathing his burning brow with the snow covering the Northern hills, or -talking to his mother of all that had transpired since the April morning -when, followed by her prayers and tears, he left her for the battle. -Then, reason came back again, as clear as ever, and with Tom Carleton’s -hand pressed between his own he dictated what Tom should say to the -mother when he went back to her alone and left her boy behind. - -“I shall never go home any more,” he said, “and I’ve built such bright -castles about it, too, fancying how nice it would seem to lie on -mother’s soft, warm bed, and watch the sun shining through the windows, -or the grass springing by the door. The snow will melt from the garden -before long, and the flowers I used to tend come up again, but I shan’t -be there to see them. I shall be lying here so quiet and so still that I -shall not even hear the cannon’s roar, or the loud huzzahs when peace is -at last declared, and the cruel war is ended. Oh, if all the dead ones -could know, it would be something worth fighting for, but when the -troops are marching home, and the bells ring out a welcome, there’ll be -many a one missing in the ranks, and almost every graveyard, both North -and South, will hold a soldier’s grave, but you will not forget us, will -you?” and the sunken eyes turned pleadingly on Tom. “When the bonfires -are kindled at the North, and the glad rejoicings are made, you will -think of the poor boys who fought and died that you might enjoy just -such a holiday?” - -Tom could only answer by pressing the thin hands he held, and Isaac -continued: - -“Tell mother not to fret too much for me. I guess she did love me best, -because I was the youngest, but Eli and John will comfort her old age. -Tell them, too, how much I love them, and how proud I was of them that -day at Bull Run. They used to plague me sometimes, and call me a girl -baby, but I’ve forgiven that, for I know they did not mean it. I hope -they’ll both be spared. It would kill mother to lose us all. Tell her -how I bless her for the lessons of my childhood, the prayers said at her -knee before I knew their meaning, the Sunday School she sent me to, and -the Bible stories told in the winter twilight. Tell her I was not afraid -to die, only I wanted her so much, but everybody’s been good. There are -kind folks here in Richmond, and God will bless them for it. Oh, Captain -Carleton, I’m a poor ignorant boy, and you a proud, rich man, but you -will heed me, won’t you, and when I’m gone, you’ll take my little -Testament and read it every day. Read it first for Isaac’s sake, but it -won’t be long before you’ll read it for its precious truths, and you -will come to Heaven where we can meet again—promise, won’t you?” - -There was a moment’s silence, during which Tom choked down the tears he -could scarcely suppress, so strongly this scene reminded him of another, -when he sat by Mary’s side, and heard her dying voice urging him to meet -her. Four years the Southern sun had shone upon her grave, and he had -made no preparation yet, but now he would put it off no longer, and -bending over Isaac, he replied: - -“I promise; and if you see my darling in the better land, tell her, God -helping me, I’ll find my way to where she has gone.” - -The white lips feebly murmured their thanks, and then suddenly asked: - -“Do you think mother’s got the letter you sent, and knows how sick I am? -If so, she’s praying for me now, and maybe her prayers will save. I’m -not afraid to die, but if I could go home to Rockland first, it would -not seem so bad. Pray, mother, pray—pray, pray hard,” and too much -exhausted to talk longer, the half-delirious boy turned upon the pillow -furnished by some kind lady, and fell into a heavy sleep, from which the -physician said he would never waken. - - * * * * * - -Midnight in Richmond, and Tom, counting off the strokes, bent lower to -watch for the expected change. There was no color in the parted lips, -and about the nose there was a pinched, contracted look, which Tom -remembered to have seen in Mary’s face, when by her bedside he had sat, -just as he sat by Isaac’s, but where Mary’s hands were cold and dry -Isaac’s were moist and warm, while the rapid pulses were not as wiry, -and irregular as hers had been. There was hope, and falling on his -knees, Tom Carleton asked that the life almost gone out might be -restored, and promised that if it were he would not forget this lesson -as he had forgotten the one learned by Mary’s death-bed. He would be a -better man, he said, and God, as he sometimes does, took him at his -word. Gradually the sharp expression passed away, the hair grew damp -with a more healthful moisture, the pulses were slower, the breathing -more regular, and when at last the heavy slumber was broken, and Isaac -looked up again, Tom knew that he would live. - -There was a murmured prayer of thanksgiving, a renewal of his pledge, -and then he bent every energy to sustain the life coming so slowly back. -Softly the morning broke over the prison walls, and they who had -expected to look on Isaac dead, rejoiced to hear that he was better. - -“It may be I shall see mother yet,” he whispered, faintly, when Tom told -him that the dreaded crisis was past; “and if I do, I’ll tell her of -your kindness.” - -“Would you like very much to go home to your mother?” Tom asked, and -with a quivering lip and chin Isaac answered: - -“Yes, oh, yes, if I only could! I was willing to die, but I guess we all -cling to life at the last, don’t you?” - -Tom did not reply to this, but spoke instead of a rumor that all were -soon to be discharged and sent back to Washington. - -“We’ll go together, then,” he said, “you and I, for I shall visit -Rockland first and see my sister Rose.” - -The prospect of release was meat and drink for Isaac who rallied so fast -that when the joyful news of an exchange _did_ come, he was able, with -Tom’s help, to walk across the floor of what had been his home so long. - -Haggard, wasted, weary, and worn were those prisoners as they filed down -the stairs and out into the streets, but with each moment which brought -them nearer home, their spirits rose, and when at last they stood again -on Federal soil and saw the Stars and Stripes waving in the morning -breeze, long and deafening were the huzzas which rent the air as one -after another gave vent to his great joy at finding himself free once -more. Isaac, however, could neither shout, nor laugh, nor speak, and -only the large eyes, brimming with tears, told of joy unutterable, but -when arrived at Washington, his two stalwart brothers took him in their -arms, hugging and crying over him as over one come back to them from the -grave, his calmness all gave way, and laying his tired head on Eli’s -bosom, while John held and caressed his wasted hands, he sobbed out the -happiness too great to be expressed in words. To him a full discharge -from service was readily accorded, while to Tom a furlough of several -weeks was given, and after a few days at Washington both started -northward to join the friends waiting so impatiently for their arrival. - - - - - CHAPTER XIX. - TOM’S RECEPTION. - - -The people of Rockland had become somewhat accustomed to the “Rebel -lion,” as they had playfully called Jimmie Carleton, and the latter -could now go quietly through the streets without attracting attentions -which at first had been vastly disagreeable to the sensitive young man. -Gradually, as he mingled more with the people, they had learned to like -him, and were fast forgetting that he had ever joined the ranks of the -foe and struck at his mother country. With the rabble who had met him at -the depot on his first arrival at Rockland he was vastly popular, for -forcing down his pride, he had been very conciliatory toward them, and -they still adhered to their olden promise of making him their next -police justice, provided he would consent to run. - -With his usual impudence, Bill Baker continued to annoy the proud -Bostonian with his good-humored familiarities, some of which Jimmie -permitted, while others he quietly repulsed, for Bill’s constant -allusions to the past were exceedingly disagreeable, and as far as -possible he avoided his quondam associate, who, without the least -suspicion that his manner was disgusting in the extreme, would hail him -across the street, addressing him always as “Corp’ral,” and if strangers -were in hearing, inviting him to “call ’round and see a fellar once in a -while for old acquaintance sake.” - -At the Mather mansion matters remained about the same as when Jimmie -first came home. Mrs. Carleton was still there, waiting for her other -son, and Rose, as usual, was ever on the alert, seeking ways and means -by which the soldiers might be benefited, compelling Jimmie to be -interested in all her plans, dragging him from place to place, sending -him on errands; and once, when in a great hurry to get a box in -readiness for the hospitals at Washington, actually coaxing him into -helping _tie_ a _comfortable_, which was put up in her back parlor, and -which she “must send immediately, for some poor fellow was sure to need -it.” “Jimmie could learn to tie as well as herself,” she said, when he -pleaded his ignorance as an excuse for refusing his services. “She -didn’t know how once, but Widow Simms and Annie had taught her a heap, -and Annie would teach him, too. All he had to do was to put the big -darning needle through twice, tie a weaver’s knot, cut it off, and the -thing was done; besides that, ’twas a real pretty quilt, made from -Annie’s calico dress, which she used to wear last summer and look _so_ -sweetly in. Annie was tying on one side and Jimmie must tie on the -other; he needn’t be so lazy. He ought to do something for the war.” - -By the time Rose had reached the last points in her argument, Jimmie had -closed the book he was reading, and concluded that there might be duties -required of him a great deal worse than tying a soldier’s comfortable -with Annie to oversee! It was strange how much teaching he needed, and -how often Annie was called to the rescue. The needle would stick so in -the cotton, and he could not remember just how to tie that knot. So -Annie, never dreaming that he knew how to tie the knot as well as she, -would come to his aid, her hands sometimes touching his, and his black -curls occasionally brushing her pale, brown braids as he bent over her -to see how she did it so as to know himself next time! There was a world -of mischief in Jimmie’s saucy eyes as he demurely apologized to Mrs. -Graham for the trouble he was giving her, but Annie never once looked -up, neither did the color deepen in the least upon her cheek, and when -Jimmie, on purpose to draw her out, suggested that “he was more bother -than help,” she answered that he “had better return to his reading, as -she could get on quite as well alone.” - -After this, Jimmie thought proper to learn a little faster, and soon -outstripped his teacher, who rewarded him with no word of approval save -a cool “Thank you,” when the comfortable was done and taken from the -awkward frames. And this was a fair specimen of the nature of the -intercourse existing between Jimmie and Annie. Secure now in the belief -that she would never be recognized as the “Pequot of New London,” Annie -regarded Jimmie as any ordinary stranger, in whom she had no particular -interest, save that which her kind heart prompted her to feel for all -mankind. She could not dislike him, and she always defended him from the -aspersions of the widow, who could not quite conquer her repugnance to a -Rebel, and who frequently gave vent to her ill will toward Jimmie, whom -she thought so proud. - -“Stuck-up critter!” she said, “struttin’ round as if he was good as -anybody, and feelin’ above his betters. Of course he felt above her, and -Susan, and Annie, she knew he did; and if she’s Annie she _vummed_ if -she’d stay there, and be looked at as Jim looked at her.” - -Although making due allowance for the widow’s prejudice, these remarks -were not without their effect upon Annie, who, imperceptibly to herself, -began to feel that probably Jimmie did regard her as merely a poor -dependent on his sister’s bounty, and she unconsciously assumed toward -him a cool reserved manner, which led him to fancy that she entertained -for him a deep-rooted prejudice on account of his past error. Twenty -times a day he said to himself he did not care what she thought of him, -and as many times a day he knew he did care much more than was at all -conducive to his peace of mind. Where this caring might end he never -stopped to consider. He only felt now that he respected the Quaker-like -Annie more than he ever respected a woman before, and coveted her good -opinion more earnestly than he ever remembered to have coveted anything -in his life, unless, indeed, it were his freedom when a prisoner in Bill -Baker’s power. - -In this state of affairs it required all Rose’s tact to sustain anything -like sociability between her brother and Annie, and the little lady was -perfectly delighted when the joyful tidings was received that _Tom_ was -coming home. Annie would like Tom, for everybody did; besides, Tom had -written as if he were _almost_ a good man himself, and Annie was sure to -be pleased with that; they, at least, would be fast friends; and secure -on this point. Rose, with her usual impulsiveness, plunged into the -preparations for Tom’s reception. Even Annie did not think any -reasonable honor too great for him, particularly after Isaac wrote from -Washington to his mother, telling her of Tom’s generous sacrifice, and -how he might have been home long before if he had not chosen to stay and -care for a poor, sick boy. How the widow’s heart warmed toward the -Carletons, taking the whole family into its hitherto rather limited -dimensions. Even Jimmie was not excluded, the widow admitting to Mrs. -Baker, between whom and herself there had been many a hot discussion -touching the so-called Rebel, that when he laughed, “he was uncommon -handsome for a Secessioner,” and she presumed that “at the bottom he was -as good they would average.” - -But if the widow were thus affected by Tom’s kind act, how much more -were the mother and sister pleased to know how noble and good he was, -while Annie, amid the tears she could not repress, said to Rose, - -“You should be proud of such a brother! There are few like him, I am -sure!” - -How Jimmie envied Tom, as he heard, on all sides, praises for his noble -unselfishness, and the resolution to welcome him and Isaac with military -honors. Once more in his element, Bill Baker industriously drilled _his_ -clique, who were to answer no earthly purpose save to swell the throng -and prolong the deafening cheers. Bill began to feel related to the -Carletons, and regularly each day he called at the Mather mansion to -keep Rose posted with regard to the progress of affairs. They were to -bring out the new gun, he said, and as it was minus a name, the -villagers had concluded to call it the “_Thomas Carleton_,” asking “how -she thought the _’Square_ would like it, and how many times it ought to -be fired. The band would serenade Tom in the evening,” he said, “and -_we_ shall have bonfires kindled in the streets,” talking as if instead -of being merely cannon-tender, he were head manager of the whole, and -that all the responsibility was resting on himself. Rose understood him -perfectly, and with the utmost good nature listened to his suggestions, -and scolded Jimmie for calling him her prime minister and confidant. - -From the cupola of the Mather mansion the Stars and Stripes were to be -hung out, and on the morning of Tom’s expected arrival, Jimmie and Annie -climbed the winding stairs and fastened the staff securely to its place. -There were tears in Annie’s eyes as the graceful folds shook themselves -to the breeze, for she remembered the coming of another soldier when -this same banner was wrapped around a coffin. Across the valley and -beyond the confines of the village she could see where that coffin with -its loved inmate was buried, and as the past came rushing over her, she -suddenly gave way, and sitting down beneath the flag wept bitterly, -while Jimmie, with a vague idea as to what might have caused her tears, -stood looking at her, wishing he could comfort her. But what should he -say? As yet they had scarcely passed the bounds of the most scrupulous -politeness to each other, and for him to attempt to comfort her seemed -preposterous, while to leave her without a word, seemed equally unkind. -Perhaps it was the beautiful glossy braids of hair which brought him at -last to a decision, causing him to lay his hand involuntarily upon the -bowed head, while he said: - -“I am sorry for you, Mrs. Graham, for I know how much the contrast -between my brother’s return and that of your husband must affect you, -and gladly would I spare you the pain, if I could. I am not certain but -the good people of Rockland, in their intended kindness to Tom, are -doing you an injury, and surely Lieutenant Graham, having been a -resident of this place, should receive their first thought with all -pertaining to him.” - -There was no mistaking the genuine sympathy which thrilled in every tone -of Jimmie’s voice, and for a moment Annie wept more passionately than -before. It was the first time he had ever spoken to her of her husband, -and his words touched a responsive chord at once. - -“It is not that so much,” she answered, at last. “I am glad they are -honoring your brother thus; he richly deserves it for his noble -adherence to his country in her hour of peril, and for his generous -treatment of poor Isaac Simms. I would do much myself to show him my -respect; but oh, George, George, I am so desolate without him!” and -covering her face with her hands, Annie wept again, more piteously than -before. - -Here was a point which Jimmie could not touch, and an awkward silence -ensued, broken at last by Annie, who, resuming her usual calm demeanor, -frankly offered Jimmie her hand, saying: - -“I thank you, Mr. Carleton, for your sympathy. It has made me believe -you are my friend, and as such I would rather consider you.” - -“Your friend! Did you ever deem me other than that?” Jimmie replied in -some surprise, involuntarily pressing the little hand which only for an -instant rested in his, and then was quietly withdrawn just as Rose from -the foot of the stairs called out to know “what they were doing up there -so long.” - -It was strange how differently Jimmie felt after this incident, and how -fast his spirits rose. The few words said to him by Annie up in his -sister’s cupola had made him very happy, for he felt that a better -understanding existed between himself and Annie, that she did not so -thoroughly despise him as he had at first supposed, and that the winning -her respect was not a hopeless task. - -As early as two the crowd began to gather in the streets, and half an -hour later Rose’s carriage, with Jimmie in it, was on its way to the -depot. Mrs. Carleton did not care to go, and so Rose, too, remained at -home, and mounting to the cupola, watched for the first wreath of smoke -which should herald the approach of the train. - -“I see it,—he’s coming!” she screamed, as a feathery mist was -discernible over the distant plains, and in a few moments more the cars -swept round the curve, while a booming gun told that Bill Baker was -faithful to his duty. - -There was a swaying to and fro of the throng at the depot, a pushing -each other aside, a trilling of fife, a beating of drums, and then a -deafening shout went up as Tom Carleton and John Simms appeared upon the -platform, carefully supporting the tottering steps of the weak, excited -boy, who stood between them. At sight of Isaac, there was a momentary -hush, and then, with a shriek such as a tigress might give when it saw -its young in danger, the Widow Simms rushed frantically forward, and -catching the light form of her child in her arms, tried to bear him -through the crowd, but her strength was insufficient, and she would have -fallen had not Jimmie relieved her of her burden, which he sustained -with one hand, while the other was extended to welcome the stranger who -came near. - -Half bewildered, Tom looked around upon the multitude, asking in a -whisper what it meant. He could not think they had come to welcome him, -and when assured by Jimmie that such was the fact, his lip quivered for -an instant, and his tongue refused its office. Then, in a few -well-chosen words, he thanked the people for the undeserved surprise, so -far as he was himself concerned. _Isaac_ was more worthy of such -welcome, he said, and more than half of it was meant, he knew, for their -townsman, who had shown himself equally brave in camp, in battle, and in -prison, while, had they known that Lieutenant Simms, too, was coming, he -was sure they would not have thought of him a stranger to them all. - -The brief speech ended, and Rose, listening at home, clapped her hands -in ecstasy as she heard the terrific cheers and caught the name of -“Carleton” mingled with “Isaac Simms.” - -“Poor boy!” she said, “I wonder how he’ll get home? I wish I had told -Jimmie to drive that way, and take him in the carriage.” - -She need have given herself no uneasiness, for what she had forgotten -was remembered by Jimmie, who, after a hurried consultation with Tom, -insisted that both Isaac and his mother should take seats in the -carriage, while he and Tom mingled with the crowd. - -“And your other son, there’s room for him,” he said, looking round in -quest of John, who, at the last moment, had obtained permission to visit -his bride, and so came on with Isaac. - -At a glance his eye had singled out _Susan_, and the young couple were -now standing apart from the rest, exchanging mutual caresses, and words -of love, the tall lieutenant kissing fondly the blushing girl who could -not realize that she stood in the presence of her husband. After a -little it was decided that Tom and Jimmie, Mrs. Simms and Isaac, should -occupy the carriage, while John and Susan walked, and so from her lofty -stand-point, Rose watched the long procession winding down the streets, -amid the strains of music and the cannon’s bellowing roar. It was very -exciting to Isaac, and by the time the cottage was reached he was glad -to be lifted out by Jimmie, who bore the tired boy tenderly into the -house and laid him down on the soft, warm bed he had dreamed about so -many nights in the dark, filthy prison corner. How faint and weak he -was, and how glad to be home again! Winding his arms around his mother’s -neck, he sobbed out his great joy, saying amid his tears, “God was so -kind to let me come back to you.” - -It was a very happy group the villagers left behind in that humble -cottage, and neither John nor Susan thought it out of place when the -mother called on them to kneel with her and thank the Giver of all good -for his great mercy in granting them this blessing. - -Meantime the procession passed on until it reached the Mather mansion, -where, with three cheers for Captain Carleton, the crowd dispersed, -leaving Tom at liberty to join the mother and sister waiting so -impatiently for him, one on the steps, and the other in the parlor just -where she had welcomed Jimmie. - -“If _Will_ were only here, it would be the happiest day I ever knew,” -Rose said, as, seating herself on Tom’s knee with her chubby arm around -his neck, she asked him numerous questions concerning her absent -husband. Then, as she saw in him signs of weariness she said, “You are -tired, I know. Suppose you go to your room till dinner-time. It’s the -one right at the head of the stairs,” she continued, and glad of an -opportunity to rest, Tom went to the room where Annie Graham just then -chanced to be. She had discovered that the servant had neglected to -supply the rack with towels, and so she had brought them herself, -lingering a moment after they were arranged, to see if everything were -in order. She did not hear Tom’s step, until he opened the door upon -her, and uttered an exclamation of surprise and apology. He had no idea -who the little black-robed figure was, for though he knew the wife of -George Graham was an inmate of his sister’s family, he had her in his -mind as a very different person from this one before him. Mrs. Graham -was young, he supposed, and possibly good-looking, but she did not bear -the stamp of refinement and elegance which this graceful creature did, -and fancying he had made a mistake and stumbled into the apartment of -some city visitor, he was about to withdraw, when Annie came toward him, -saying: - -“Excuse me, sir, I came in to see that all was right in your room. Mr. -Carleton, I presume?” - -This last Annie spoke doubtingly, for in the tall, handsome stranger -before her there was scarcely a vestige of the “greyish haired, oldish, -fatherly-looking man” she had in fancy known as Captain Carleton, and -but for the eyes, so much like Mrs. Mather’s, and the unmistakable -Carleton curve about the mouth, she would never have dreamed that it was -_Tom_ to whom she was speaking. As it was, she waited for him to confirm -her suspicions, which he did by bowing in the affirmative to her -interrogation, “Mr. Carleton, I presume?” - -Then holding the door for her to pass out, he stood watching her till -she disappeared at the extreme end of the hall, wondering who she was, -and why a mere visitor should take so much interest in his room. Once he -thought of Annie Graham; but this could not be a widow, though the deep -mourning dress told of recent bereavement. Still Annie Graham was a -different personage, he knew; and thus perplexed, Tom, instead of -resting, commenced his toilet for dinner, determining, as soon as it was -completed, to go down and have the mystery unravelled. - -Restless and impatient to know just what his brother thought of his late -treachery to the Federal Flag, Jimmie paced the parlors below until he -could wait no longer and knowing by the sounds which came from the -chamber above, that Tom was not trying to sleep, he finally ran up the -stairs, and knocking at the chamber door, was soon closeted with Tom. It -was an awkward business to speak of the past, but Jimmie plunged into it -at once, stating some reasons which had led him to abjure his own -government, expressing his contrition for having done so, and ending by -saying he hoped Tom, if possible, would forget that he ever had a rebel -brother. - -It had taken Tom a long time to recover from the shock of meeting his -brother in the Virginia woods, and knowing he was a traitor to his -country, but the same generous feeling which led him to refrain from any -allusion to that meeting in the messages sent to his mother and sister -from his Richmond prison, now prompted him to treat with kind -forbearance the brother whom he had loved and grieved over since the -days of his mischievous boyhood. - -“I should have found it very hard to forgive you if you had staid in the -Southern army,” he said, “but as it is we will never mention the subject -again.” - -Jimmie knew, by the warm pressure of Tom’s hand, that he was forgiven, -and with a burden lifted from his mind he was about leaving the room, -when Tom, with a preliminary cough, said: - -“By the way, Jimmie, who has Rose got here,—what visitor, I mean?” and -Tom tried to look vastly indifferent as he buttoned his vest and hung -across it the chain made from Mary’s hair. - -But the ruse did not succeed. Jimmie knew he had seen Annie, and with a -sudden uprising of something undefined he answered in apparent surprise: - -“Visitor! what visitor! He must have come to-day, then. Where did you -see him?” - -“I saw _her_ in here,” Tom replied, and Jimmie laughingly rejoined: - -“A pretty place for a _her_ in _your_ quarters! Pray, what was she -like?” - -“Some like Mary, as she used to be when I first knew her,—a little body -dressed in black.” - -“With large, handsome, blue eyes?” interrupted Jimmie, while Tom, -without suspecting that his brother’s object was to ascertain how -closely he had observed the figure in black, replied: - -“Yes, very handsome, dreamy eyes.” - -“And pale, brown _curls_?” was the teasing Jimmie’s next query, to which -Tom quickly responded: - -“Curls, no. The hair was braided in wide plats and twisted around the -head, falling low in the neck.” - -“Not a very white neck, was it?” Jimmie continued, with imperturbable -gravity. - -“Indeed, it was,” Tom said, industriously scraping his thumb nail with -his penknife. “White as snow, or looked so from the contrast with her -dress. Who is she?” - -“One question more,—had she big feet or little, slippers or boots?” and -this time Jimmie’s voice betrayed him. - -Tom knew he was being teased, and bursting into a laugh, he answered: - -“I confess to having observed her closely, but not enough so to tell the -size of her slipper. Come now, who is she? Some lady you spirited away -from Secessiondom? Tell me,—you know you’ve nothing to fear from steady -old Tom.” - -For an instant the eyes of the two brothers met, with a curious -expression in each. Both were conscious of something they were trying to -conceal, while a feeling akin to a pang shot through Jimmie’s heart as -he thought how much more worthy of Annie Graham’s respect was steady old -Tom than a rollicking young scapegrace like himself. - -“From your rather minute description I think you must have stumbled upon -the _Widow Graham_,” he said. “Rose has taken her up, you know, and as a -word of brotherly advice, let me say that if you wish to raise Rose to -the seventh heaven you have only to praise her protégée. We, that is the -widow and I, do not get on very well, for she is a staunch patriot, and -until this morning I verily believe she looked on me as a kind of -monster. She’s a perfect little Puritan, too, and if she stays here -long, will make a straight-laced Methodist of Rose, under the garb of an -Episcopalian, of course, as she is the strictest kind of a church -woman.” - -“I shall not esteem her less for that,” Tom said, and in rather a -perturbed state of mind, as far as the Widow Graham was concerned, he -went with Jimmie to the parlor, half hoping his brother had -mischievously misled him, and that the stranger would prove after all to -be some visitor from Boston. - -But the first object he saw on entering the parlor was the dainty figure -in black, standing by the window, and on the third finger of the hand -raised to adjust the heavy curtain glittered the wedding ring. Tom knew -now that Jimmie had not deceived him, and with a feeling of -disappointment he addressed _Mrs. Graham_, when introduced by Jimmie, -making some playful allusion to their having met before, but saying -nothing to her then of George, for remembering his own feelings when -Mary died, he knew that Annie would not thank him, a stranger, to bring -up sad memories of the past by talking of her husband. Still, in his -manner toward her there was something which told how he pitied and -sympathized with her, and Annie, grateful always for the smallest -kindness threw off her air of quiet reserve and talked with him freely, -asking many questions concerning Isaac Simms and the condition of the -Richmond prisoners generally. - -“She was going round after dinner to call on Isaac,” she incidentally -said, whereupon Tom rejoined that wishing to know how Isaac bore the -journey and the excitement, he had intended going there himself, and -would, with her permission, time his visit to suit her convenience, and -so accompany her. - -Instantly Jimmie’s black eyes flashed upon Annie a look of inquiry, -which brought the bright color to her cheeks, for she knew he was -thinking of the night when she had refused his escort, and she felt her -present position a rather embarrassing one. Still the circumstances were -entirely different. There was a reason why Tom should call on Widow -Simms, while with Jimmie there was none, and bowing to Captain Carleton, -she replied that “she presumed Mrs. Simms would be glad of an -opportunity to thank him for his kindness to Isaac, and that, though not -in the least afraid to go alone, she had no objection to showing him the -way.” - -“What! going off the first night, and they are coming to serenade you, -too? You must not go, Tom. Shall he, mother?” cried Rose, who at first -had been too busy with her duties as hostess, clearly to comprehend what -Tom was saying to Annie. - -“It will look as if you do not appreciate the people’s attention,” Mrs. -Carleton replied, while Jimmie vehemently protested against the -impropriety of the act, and so Tom was compelled to yield, thinking the -while that a walk to the Widow Simms’ might possibly afford him quite as -much satisfaction as staying at home for a serenade. - -“I always surrender to the majority,” he said, playfully, while Jimmie’s -spirits rose perceptibly, and Annie had never before seen him so witty -or gay since he came home from Washington as he was during the dinner. - -It was joy at his brother’s return, she thought, never suspecting that -Tom’s decision had anything to do with it, and Jimmie hardly knew -himself that it had. He only felt relieved that Tom was not to receive a -favor which had once been denied to himself, and glad also that Annie -was to spend the evening with them. But in this he was mistaken. There -was no necessity for Annie’s deferring her visit. The serenade was not -for her, and with that nice sense of propriety which prompted her to -shrink from anything like intrusion, she felt that on this first night -of their reunion, the Carleton family would rather be alone. This rule -would apply also to Mrs. Simms, but Annie knew she was always welcome to -the widow, and wishing to see the boy who had led her husband from the -battle-field, she went to her room, and throwing on her cloak and hood, -stole quietly down stairs just as Jimmie was crossing the hall. He -guessed where she was going, and coming quickly to her side, said, - -“I supposed you had given up that call, but if you persist in going, it -must not be alone, this night of all others, when the streets are likely -to be full of men and boys. You accepted my brother’s escort, you -cannot, of course, refuse mine,” and seizing his hat from the hall stand -he led her out upon the steps and placed her arm in his with an air of -so much authority that Annie had no word to offer in remonstrance. - -It was not a very comfortable walk to either party, or a very sociable -one either, but ere it was ended Annie had reason to be glad that she -was not alone, for as Jimmie had predicted, the streets were full of men -and boys, following the band up to the Mather Mansion, and as they met -group after group of the noisy throng, Annie timidly drew closer to her -companion, who pressed more tightly the arm trembling in his own. - -“I am glad you came with me,” she said, when at last the friendly gleam -of the widow’s candle appeared in view, “but if you please I think you -had better not go in to-night. You are so much a stranger to the family, -and Mrs. Simms’ boys have but just returned. John will see me safely -home, and I’ll excuse you now. You must feel anxious to rejoin your -brother.” - -But Jimmie was not to be disposed of so easily. He had no intention of -entering the house, but he should wait outside, he said, until Annie’s -visit was over. Annie had no alternative save submission, and parting -from Jimmie at the gate, she hurried up the walk and was soon bending -over the couch of the sick boy, whose eyes beamed the welcome his pale -lips could scarcely speak. How many questions she had to ask him, and -how much he had to tell her of that day when her husband received his -fatal wound. Altogether it was a sad interview, and Annie’s eyes were -nearly blistered with the hot tears she shed while listening to Isaac’s -touching account of George ere the woods were gained, and Tom Carleton -generously gave up his seat to the bleeding man, thereby becoming -himself a prisoner. Much, too, was said in praise of Tom, and Annie felt -that she could not do too much for one who had shown himself so generous -and brave. Talking of _Tom_ reminded her of Jimmie stalking up and down -the icy walks, waiting patiently for her, and when at last the music of -Tom’s serenade had ceased she arose to go, wishing to get away ere the -band came there, as she knew they were intending to do. As John arose to -accompany her, she had to say that “Jimmie Carleton was waiting for her -by the gate.” Instantly the sharp eyes of the widow shot at her a -curious glance, which brought the hot blood to her cheek, while John and -Susan exchanged a smile, the meaning of which she could not fail to -understand. Poor Annie! How her heart throbbed with pain as she guessed -of what they were thinking! Could they for a moment believe her so -heartless and cold? The mere idea made her dizzy and faint, and scarcely -articulating her good-night, she hastened out into the cool night air, -feeling half tempted to refuse outright the arm offered for her support. -If she only dared tell him to leave her there alone,—leave her to flee -away through the dark, lonely streets to the still more lonely yard, -where on George’s grave she could lay herself down and die. But not thus -easily could life’s heavy burden be shaken off, she could not lay it -down at will,—and conquering the emotions which, each time she thought -of John Simms’ significant smile, threatened to burst out into a fierce -storm of passionate sobs, she apologized for having kept Jimmie waiting -so long, and taking his arm left the cottage gate just as the throng of -serenaders turned into that street. Jimmie knew she had been crying, and -conjecturing that she had been talking of her husband, he, too, began to -speak of George, asking her many questions about him, and repeating many -things he had heard in his praise from the Rockland citizens. It seemed -strange that this should comfort her, but it did. The hard, bitter -feeling insensibly passed away while listening to Jimmie, and by the -time the Mather Mansion was reached the tears were dried on Annie’s -cheeks, and outwardly she was cheerful and patient as ever. - -After that night Rose had no cause for complaint that Jimmie was rude to -Annie, or Annie cool toward him, for though Annie talked to him but -little, she did not forget the sympathy so delicately manifested for -her, and treated him with as much respect as she awarded Tom, who grew -each day more and more interested in the black-robed figure, reminding -him so much of his lost Mary. Jimmie _knew_ he did, and watched narrowly -for the time when she would know it, too; but such time did not come, -for Annie had no suspicion that either of the brothers regarded her with -the shadow of a feeling save that of ordinary friendship. As much of her -time as possible was spent with the Widow Simms, and a great part of -Isaac’s visible improvement was owing to her gentle care and the -sunshine of her presence. John’s furlough had expired, and now that he -was gone, the disconsolate Susan turned to Annie for comfort, while -Isaac watched daily for the sound of the little feet coming up the walk, -and bringing with them so much happiness to the lonely cottage. - -“I wish you’d stay home more; we miss you so much, and it’s so dismal -without you. Mother nods over her knitting, Tom just walks the floor, or -reads some stiff Presbyterian book, while Jimmie thrums the piano and -teases my kitten awfully,” Rose said to Annie one night when the latter -came in from a tour of calls, the last of which had been on Mrs. Baker, -now a much happier, better woman, than when we first made her -acquaintance. “It’s so different when you are here,” Rose continued, as -Annie came and sat down by her side. “Tom is a heap more entertaining, -while Jimmie is not half so mischievous and provoking.” - -“I did not suppose my absence could affect your happiness, or I would -certainly have staid with you more,” Annie replied; and Rose continued: - -“Well, it just does, and now that both Tom and Jimmie are going so soon, -I shall need you to oversee the things I must get ready for them.” - -“Captain Carleton and Jimmie going away soon!” Annie repeated, in some -surprise. “Where are they going? The Captain’s furlough has not yet -expired.” - -“I know it,” Rose continued, “but as he is perfectly well, he thinks it -right to go back, and has fixed on one week from to-day.” - -“Yes, but Jimmie. You spoke of his leaving, too,” Annie said, and Rose -rejoined: - -“Jimmie is going with Tom to join the Federal Army on the Potomac, and, -as he says, retrieve, if possible, the character he lost by turning -traitor once.” - -“Oh, I am _so_ glad! and I like him so much for that!” Annie exclaimed, -her white face lighting up with a sudden animation, which made it seem -very beautiful to the young man just entering the door. - -“I would brave the cannon’s mouth for another look like that,” was -Jimmie’s mental comment as he stepped into the room, and advanced to the -ladies’ side. “So you are glad I am going?” he said, half playfully, to -Annie, who answered frankly: - -“Yes, very glad.” - -“And won’t you miss me a bit? Folks like to be missed, you know, if they -are ever so bad. It makes one think better of himself, and consequently -do better if he knows that his absence will cause a feeling of regret, -however slight, to the friends left behind,” Jimmie remarked, while in -his eyes there was a peculiar expression which Annie failed to see, as -he stood looking down upon her. - -She would miss Jimmie, she knew, for she had become accustomed to his -merry whistle, his ringing laugh, his teasing jokes at Rose’s expense, -and his going would leave them very lonely, and so she frankly admitted, -adding that “it was not because she wished to be rid of him that she was -glad; it pleased her to see him in the path of duty, even though that -path led to danger and possible death.” - -“Oh, don’t, Annie, don’t talk of death to Jimmie!” Rose cried, with a -shudder. “You can’t begin to guess how it makes me feel, or how terrible -it would seem if either he or Tom should die!” - -“Can’t I?” Annie asked, with such a depth of mournful pathos, that -Rose’s tears flowed at once. - -Of course Annie knew how it felt, and every fibre of her heart was -bleeding now, as she remembered one who left her as full of life and -hope as either Tom or Jimmie, but who came back no more, save as the -dead come back, shrouded and coffined for the grave. But Annie would not -give way to her own feelings then. She would comfort Rose, and encourage -the young man, who, she felt, shrank from the perils spread out before -him. So she told how few there were, comparatively, who died on the -battle-field, while the chances for life in the hospitals were greater -now that better care and skill had been procured. - -“Annie,—excuse me, Mrs. Graham?” and Jimmie spoke vehemently, while his -eyes kindled with a strange gleam. “Why don’t you go as nurse? You might -be the means of untold good to the poor fellows who need such care as -you could give.” - -“I have thought of it,” said Annie, while Rose exclaimed: - -“_You_ turn hospital nurse,—ridiculous! You never shall, so long as I -can prevent it. Shall she, Tom?” And she appealed to the latter, who had -just come in. “Shall Annie go into those horrid hospitals?” - -“I am not Mrs. Graham’s keeper,” Tom replied, “but I should be sorry to -see her acting in the capacity of hospital nurse, even though I know -that some of our noblest, best women are engaged in that work.” - -“Yes, old chap,” and Jimmie laughed a merry laugh. “It’s mighty easy -talking that way now, but suppose _you_ Captain Carleton, are some day -among the terribly wounded, thigh shot through, arm splintered above the -elbow, jaw-bone broken, and all that, wouldn’t the pain be easier to -bear, if the nurse should happen to be Mrs. Graham, or somebody just -like her?” - -“Undoubtedly it would,” Tom answered. “Still I should be sorry to have -her there amid the sickening horrors.” - -“Please stop, I can’t bear to hear about it!” Rose exclaimed. “I know it -would be nice to be a Florence Nightingale, and Annie would make a -splendid one, but I’ll never let her go, unless you, or Jimmie, or Will -are wounded, and then we’ll come together, won’t we, Annie?” - -There was no response from Annie, until Jimmie said: - -“Say, Mrs. Graham, if I am ever wounded, and you hear I am suffering in -some dismal hole, will you come and care for me?” - -He did not join Will’s or Tom’s name with his own. It was “Jimmie -Carleton” whom Annie was to nurse. But it did not matter. Lifting up her -head so that her soft, blue eyes looked into his, Annie answered, -unhesitatingly: - -“Providence permitting, I will, and I would do the same for any brave -fellow who follows, as my husband did, where duty to his country leads.” - -“So you see you will fare no better than I, after all,” Tom laughingly -rejoined, while Jimmie thought within himself: - -“Why need she always bring that husband in? It’s bad enough to know -she’s had one, without eternally hearing about him.” - -Foolish Jimmie. It was folly for him to lie awake so long as he did that -night, or to dream, when at last he slept, of hospital walls expanding -into a palace as an angel form with hair and eyes like Annie’s bent over -his feverish pillow, while soft, white hands dressed some gaping wound -where the enemy’s bullet had been. Sheer folly, too, was it for -“dignified old Tom,” to watch from his window the young moon, until it -set in the western sky, thinking of _Mary_, as he tried to make himself -believe, wondering why it was that Annie reminded him so much of her, -and why he should be so deeply interested in one who, until a few weeks -past, had been to him a stranger. - -To Annie, Captain Carleton and Jimmie were nothing more than friends, -and if, during the week preceding their departure, she was quite as busy -as Rose, and apparently as much interested in the various preparations -for their comfort, it was only because they were soldiers, and not, as -Widow Simms once suggested to Susan, “because they were Carletons, and -handsome and rich, and,—and,—well, there’s no tellin’ what will happen, -when a widder’s young and handsome, but this I know, _I’ve_ never -married, and my man’s been dead this nineteen years! Nobody need tell me -she’d be so busy for anybody but them Carletons. If ’twas the Cap’n, I -wouldn’t mind, but that _sassy_-faced _Jeems_. Ugh!” and in her ire at -Annie’s supposed preference for “sassy-faced Jeems,” the widow spilled -more than half of the spiced chocolate she was carrying to Isaac. - -Never was the widow more mistaken. Annie Graham would have done for Eli, -John, and Isaac Simms, or possibly William Baker, the same offices she -was doing for “the Carletons,” and her voice would have been just as -sweet and hopeful when she bade them farewell, as it was that bright -spring morning, when, in the parlor of the Mather mansion, Tom and -Jimmie were waiting to say good-bye. - -At the very last moment Bill Baker had announced his intention of going -too. - -“Thirteen dollars a month and dog’s fare was better than layin’ round -hum,” he said; “and livin’ on the old gal, who was gittin’ most too -straight and blue for his notions. Besides that, he felt kinder ’tached -to the Corp’ral, and wanted to be where he could see him and wait on him -like any other nigger.” - -Jimmie would gladly have dispensed with such a singular attaché, but -Bill could not be shaken off, and as he did in various ways evince a -strong regard for his former captive, Jimmie was forced to submit to -what he termed “his thorn in the flesh,” giving from his own purse money -for Billy’s outfit, and furnishing the mother with means to repair her -dwelling and make it far more comfortable than at present. This he was -sure pleased Annie, and no sacrifice was too costly if it won her -regard. She had prayed for him, he knew, for Rose had told him so, and -prayers like hers, though they did not avail to save her George’s life, -would surely shield him from danger. _He_ should come back again when -the war was over,—come back to find an _older_ grave by Rockland’s -churchyard gate, while the wife, who daily watered that grave with -tears, would be as young, as beautiful, and far more girlish-looking -than now, when, in her widow’s weeds, she offered him her hand at -parting, bidding God speed to him and the noble Tom, who stood beside -him. - -There were tears, and kisses, and blessings from Rose and her mother, a -few low-spoken words of sympathy and good will from Annie, and then the -two young men were gone. - -Half an hour later, and the eastern train thundered through the town, -bearing away to the fields of bloody carnage, three more young, vigorous -lives, and leaving desolate two homes, one the lonely cottage, where -Bill’s mother wept alone, the other the Mather mansion, where Mrs. -Carleton and Rose sobbed bitterly, while Annie strove in various ways to -comfort them. - - - - - CHAPTER XX. - AT THE MATHER MANSION. - - -It was very lonely at the Mather mansion after the departure of the -soldiers, and it required all Annie’s tact to keep Rose from sinking -entirely under the sense of desolation which crept over her as she began -more and more to realize what the war meant, and to tremble for the -safety of her husband and her brothers. They were still in Washington, -but they might be ordered to advance at any moment; and, in a tremor of -distress, Rose waited and watched for every mail which could bring her -tidings of them. Next to her husband’s letters, Jimmie’s did her the -most good, for Jimmie had in his nature a world of hopefulness and -humor; and his letters were full of fun, and quaint description of the -life he was leading. And still of the three young men,—Will Mather, Tom -Carleton, and Jimmie,—the latter suffered the most acutely, for in -addition to his dislike of military life he was compelled to endure the -jokes and jeers which the coarser and more unfeeling of his comrades -heaped upon him when, from Bill Baker, they heard that his first -experience in arms-bearing had been learned in the army of the enemy. To -one of Bill’s instincts it seemed a great thing that he had captured and -brought to Washington so illustrious a prisoner as the “Corp’ral,” as he -persisted in calling him, and the story was repeated with such wonderful -additions, that Jimmie, when once by accident he was a listener to the -tale failed utterly to recognize himself in the “chap who had run so -many miles, _from_, and then fought so many hours _with_, the -redoubtable Bill,” who, while annoying his quondam captive so terribly, -still, under all circumstances, evinced for him an attachment as -singular as it was sincere. Everything which he could do for Jimmie he -did, becoming literally his servant and drudge, and thus saving him from -many a hardship which, as a private, he would otherwise have -encountered. It was a fancy of Jimmie’s that by serving as a private in -the army against which his hand had once been lifted, he should in some -way expiate his sin, and, perhaps, be surer of winning favor from Annie -Graham, whose blue eyes were constantly before him just as they had -looked when, in her dress of black, she stood in the spring sunshine, -bidding him good-bye. Soon after his arrival in Washington, he had been -offered a second lieutenancy in Captain Carleton’s company, but he -steadily declined the office, giving no explanation to any one except -his brother and his sister Rose, to whom he wrote: - - “Perhaps I was foolish to decline the offer, and for a moment I was - horribly tempted to accept it, especially when, by doing so, I could - to some degree escape my ‘thorn in the flesh,’ who, notwithstanding - that he does me many a kindness, annoys me excessively. But I could - not feel that I deserved that post. It ought to belong to some one who - had never spurned the Old Flag, and so I stood firm, and suggested as - a substitute that other Simms chap from Rockland, _Hophni_, or - _Phineas_, or _Eli_,—hanged if I know what his name is. Any way, he is - that crabbed widow’s son, that used to pucker her mouth so when she - saw ‘_that young reb_ of a Carleton,’ and snatch away her gown for - fear it should hit me. I reckon he’ll get the office, with its twelve - hundred a year, which he can use for his mother’s support. One of her - sons, you know, is married, and as good as lost to her; while that boy - Isaac is not long for this world. Prison life at Richmond did the - business for him, or I’m mistaken, so let Eli be lieutenant, and James - Carleton only a private. Do you think I did right, and will that - paragon of yours, Mistress Graham, think so, too?” - -This was what Jimmie wrote to Rose after he had been gone for three or -four weeks, and what Rose, with her usual impetuous thoughtlessness, -read to her mother and Annie, who were both in her room when the letter -came. Annie had made an attempt to leave, but Rose had insisted that -there could be no secret in Jimmie’s letter. If there was, she would -skip it, she said, and she read on, stumbling dreadfully, and -mispronouncing words, for Jimmie’s handwriting was never very plain: and -this letter, written with a soft lead pencil, with a bit of slate-stone -for a table, was his very worst. She made out, however, that he had -declined the office of second lieutenant because he thought he did not -deserve it; that he had named Eli Simms as a fitter person for it than -himself, and that he had called the widow a “crab-apple,” or something -like it. All this was _very_ clear; and, after exclaiming against -Jimmie’s morbid sense of justice in one breath, and pronouncing him -“perfectly splendid” in another, she kept on till she reached the -“paragon,” which she rendered “Pequot,” making the sentence read, “Will -that Pequot of yours, Mistress Graham, think I did right?” - -“What did he call me?” Annie exclaimed, her face turning very white, as -she leaned toward Rose, who, startled at her vehemence, tried again to -make out the word, which was strangely distorted, from the fact that -just as Jimmie was writing it, his shadow, Bill, had struck him -familiarly upon the shoulder, saying, with a laugh, - -“Writin’ to your gal, I s’pose? Give her Bill Baker’s regrets.” - -“It looks like Pequot, and some like Patagonian,” Rose said, deciding at -last that it was _paragon_, and adding by way of an explanation to -herself of Annie’s evident surprise, “you did not like the idea of his -calling you a Pequot, did you Annie? It wouldn’t have meant anything if -he had, and it was natural that I should make the blunder, for that’s -the name he gave the young girl at the Pequot House,—the one he liked, -and to whom he passed himself off as Dick Lee. You remember I told you -about her.” - -“Yes, I remember,” and Annie’s voice was a little husky—“the little girl -who was not happy with her aunt, and so listened the more willingly to -the boy’s kind winning words.” - -Annie did not know why she said that, unless it were wrung from her by -some sudden and bitter memory of what had been a bright sun-spot in her -cheerless childhood. When the Pequot girl was mentioned in her presence -once before, she had gathered that it was mostly Mrs. Carleton’s pride -which had taken the boy away from any more rambles on the beach or -moonlight sails upon the bay, and perhaps it was a desire to defend and -excuse the girl which prompted her to advance a reason why Dick Lee’s -attentions had been so acceptable. She would have given much to recall -her words, which made Mrs. Carleton dart a quick, curious glance at her, -while Rose exclaimed: “How do you know she was not happy with her aunt? -Did Jimmie ever tell you about her?” - -“Never,” Annie replied, feeling glad that a servant appeared just at -that moment, telling Rose a little girl was in the kitchen asking to see -her. - -It was a daughter of one of the soldiers whose mother was sick and had -sent to Mrs. Mather for some little delicacy. Such calls were frequent -at the Mather house, for the soldiers did not receive their pay -regularly, and there was much destitution among their families, who, but -for Rose’s liberality, would have suffered far more than they did. As -freely as water, her money was used to relieve their wants, and now, -forgetting Jimmie and his Pequot, she entered at once into the little -girl’s story, and when told that the sick woman had expressed a wish to -see her she said, “I’ll go now; there’s Jake just come in. I’ll have him -harness the horses and take you home. It must be a mile or more to your -house.” - -Rose usually acted upon her impulses, and was soon in her carriage, with -a huge basket at her feet and the little girl opposite, enjoying her -ride so much, and enjoying it the more for the unmistakable signs of -envy and wonder which she detected in the faces of her companions as she -neared her humble home in the hollow. Rose had asked both her mother and -Annie to accompany her, but they had declined, and for a time after -Rose’s departure they sat together in perfect silence, while a curious -train of thought was passing through the minds of each. Annie’s -agitation when Rose read “Pequot” for “paragon” had surprised Mrs. -Carleton, while what she had said of the girl and her aunt had awakened -a feeling of disquiet and suspicion. Mrs. Carleton was proud of her own -and her husband’s family,—proud of her wealth, and proud of her -position. Not offensively so, but in that quiet, assured kind of way so -natural to the highly bred Bostonian. It was this pride which had -prompted her to resort to so extreme measures with the boy Jimmie, when -she found how much he was interested in the little Pequot, and when, -during Jimmie’s brief stay in Rockland, she, with a mother’s quick -intuition, detected in him signs of interest in Annie Graham, her pride -again took fright, and she was half glad to have him go from the -possible temptation. Something in the nobler part of the woman’s nature -told her how wrong the feeling was, while each day some new development -of Annie’s gentle Christian character, made the desolate young creature -dearer to her. That she was superior to most people in her rank of life -Mrs. Carleton knew, and she had more than once wondered how one like her -had ever become the wife of a mechanic. She was not thinking of this, -however, on the afternoon when she was alone with Annie, while Rose was -away on her errand of mercy. She was thinking rather of the suspicion -which had just found a lodgment in her mind, and was devising some means -of testing its reality. To this end she at last made some casual remark -about Rockland and its people, asking if Annie had always lived there. - -“Only since I was married,” was the reply. And Mrs. Carleton continued, - -“You seem more like Eastern people than like a New Yorker. Were you born -in New England?” - -“Yes,—in Connecticut,” Annie said. And then Mrs. Carleton made a great -blunder by asking next, - -“Were you born in or near New London? I have been there several times, -and may know your family.” - -At mention of New London Annie’s eyes flashed upon Mrs. Carleton with a -startled look, as if she felt that there was a deeper meaning in the -questioning to which she was being subjected than appeared on the -surface, and her voice trembled a little as she replied, - -“I was born in Hartford, and lived there till I was eight years old, -when my parents both died of cholera in one day, and I went to live with -my aunt in New Haven.” - -“Yes,” Mrs. Carleton answered slowly. - -Thus far there was quite as much to prove as there was to disprove the -correctness of her surmise, and thinking to herself, - -“I may as well go further now I have commenced with being rude,” she -continued, “Pardon me, Mrs. Graham, if I seem inquisitive, but I cannot -help feeling interested in one to whom Rose is so greatly attached, and -I do not remember that I ever heard any of your history before your -husband went to war. I do not even know your maiden name.” - -Annie’s heart beat almost audibly, and her cheeks were very red, as she -replied, - -“My father was Dr. Howard, and I was Annie Louise Howard. Excuse me, -Mrs. Carleton, if I cannot talk much of my girl-life after my parents -died. It was not a happy one. I was wholly dependent upon my aunt, who, -while giving me every advantage in the way of education, kept before me -so constantly the fact that I was an object of charity that it -embittered every moment of my life, and when George offered me his love -I accepted it gladly, finding in him the only real friend I had known -since the day I was an orphan.” - -Annie was crying now, and excusing herself she left the parlor and -repaired to her own room, where her excitement spent itself in tears and -sobs as she recalled all the dreadful years when she was subject to the -caprices of the most capricious of women, who had attempted to force her -into a marriage with a millionnaire of sixty, and had driven her to -accept the love which George Graham had offered her. George had _not_ -been her equal in an intellectual point of view, and none knew this fact -better than Annie herself. But he was the kindest, tenderest of -husbands, and she had loved him devotedly for the manly virtues which -made him the noble, unselfish man he was. Capt. Carleton and Jimmie both -could sympathize with her tastes and inclinations far better than George -had done; but never once during her brief married life had she allowed -herself to wonder what her lot might have been had it been cast with -people like the Carletons. And since her husband’s death anything which -looked away from that grave by the churchyard gate seemed so terrible to -her that now, as she recalled Mrs. Carleton’s questionings, and guessed -what had prompted them, every nerve quivered with pain, which could only -be soothed by a visit to George’s grave. There, on the turf which -covered him, she had wept out many a grief, and she started for it now, -the villagers watching her as she passed their doors, and curiously -speculating, as people will, upon the time to come when the long black -dress and graceful, girlish form would not be so often seen among the -Rockland dead. - -Already the gossips of the town were coupling her name with the -Carletons, the majority giving her to Tom, the elder, and more worthy of -the two. A whisper of this gossip had been borne to Mrs. Carleton, who, -while pretending to ignore it, had felt troubled as she recalled all the -incidents of Jimmie’s visit at home. Then, when the suspicion came to -her that the woman whom Rose had taken into her household was possibly -identical with the girl of New London, whose name she could not -remember, she felt for a moment greatly disturbed. There was a fierce -struggle with her pride, a close reasoning with herself, and then her -better nature triumphed, and her heart went out very kindly toward poor -Annie, at that moment standing by her husband’s grave, and wondering why -her thoughts would keep straying away to the wayward young man who had -been a traitor to his country, but was trying to atone by voluntarily -bearing the hardships of a private’s life when a better was offered him. -He had asked if she would think he did right, and the question had shown -that he cared for her good opinion. Yes, she did think he was right, and -she resolved to send him a message to that effect when Rose wrote to him -next. There was no wrong to the dead in the thought, and her tears -dropped just as fast upon the marble as she stooped to kiss the name cut -upon it and then left the silent graveyard. - -Meantime Rose had visited her sick woman in the Hollow,—had fed the -hungry children, and dropped upon the floor the six weeks baby which she -tried to hold, then, gathering her shawl about her and holding up her -skirts, just as she always did when in the homes of the poor, she -re-entered her carriage and bade Jake drive her next to Widow Simms’. - -Everything there was neat and clean as soap and sand and the widow’s two -hands could make it, while Susan made a very pretty picture, in her dark -stuff gown with the scarlet velvet ribbon in her black hair. There was a -saucer of English violets on the round deal table, and their sweet -perfume filled the room into which Rose came dancing, her eyes shining -like stars, and her cheeks so brilliant a color that the widow began -directly to wonder “if there wasn’t some paint there.” - -The widow was not in her best mood, for she was very tired, having done -a heavy washing in the morning before Rose Mather had thought of opening -her bright eyes; then, after the coarser, larger pieces were dried and -ironed, she had tried to spin, a work to which she clung as tenaciously -as if on every stream in New England there were not a cotton or woolen -factory capable of doing the work so much easier and better than -herself. The widow was fond of spinning, and she had turned the wheel -with a right good will, until Isaac had complained that the continuous -humming hurt his head, and made him think of the wind as it howled so -dismally around the dreary prison in Richmond. Libby, they called it -now, and Isaac always shuddered when he heard the name and thought of -what he suffered there. - -Isaac was very weak and pale, and his face looked like that of some -young girl as he lay among his pillows, in the pretty dressing-gown -which Rose had bought and Annie had made for him. He was sleeping when -Rose came in, and the widow’s “Hsh-sh,” came warningly as a greeting, -but came too late, for Rose’s blithesome voice had roused him, and his -glad, welcoming smile more than counterbalanced the frown which settled -on the widow’s face when she saw her boy disturbed. Rose was accustomed -to the widow’s ways, and throwing off her shawl and untying her hat, she -sat down on the foot of Isaac’s bed, and drawing Jimmie’s letter from -her pocket began: - -“I’ve got such splendid news for you, Mrs. Simms,—at least, I think I -have. Yes, I know it’s sure to come true. Eli is going to be a -lieutenant, with twelve hundred dollars a year. Such a heap of money for -him; and it’s all Jimmie’s doings, too. He would not have the office -because he did not think he deserved it. Listen to what he says.” - -Both the Widow and Susan were close to Rose now, the frown all gone from -the widow’s brow, and the pucker from her mouth; but both came back in a -trice, as blundering Rose read on about “Hophni,” and “Phineas,” and -“Eli,” till she came to the “_crabbed_,” which she called -“_crab-apple_,” and then stopped short, her face a perfect blaze, as she -tried to apologize. - -“’Tain’t wuth while to soap it over,” the widow said, fiercely. “I _be_ -a crab-apple, I s’pose, and a gnarly one at that, but I am as I was -made, and I’d like to know if _crabs_ wan’t as good as _Secessioners_.” - -“Please, mother, never mind,” Isaac said, pleadingly, and his voice -always quieted the fiery woman, who listened while Rose read of Eli’s -good fortune, and made another terrible mistake by stumbling upon -Jimmie’s opinion of Isaac’s sickness. - -She only read, “He is not long for this world,” but that was enough to -bring a flush to his brow, and blanch his mother’s cheek; while, with a -gush of tears, Rose hid her face in Susan’s lap, and sobbed: - -“I wish I had not come. I’m always doing wrong when I mean to do the -best. Oh, I wish the war had never been, and I don’t believe Isaac is so -sick. Jimmie has no right to judge. He don’t know.” - -Rose’s distress was too genuine not to touch the widow, who tried to -appear calm and unconcerned, and even said something kind of Jimmie, who -had so generously preferred Eli to himself. But there was a restraint -over everything, and, after a few awkward attempts at something like -natural conversation, Rose bade a hasty good-bye, and went out from the -house to which she had brought more sorrow than joy. - - - - - CHAPTER XXI. - “NOT LONG FOR THIS WORLD.” - - -The sick boy whispered the words a great many times to himself, as with -his face to the wall, where neither his mother nor Susan could see it, -he thought of what Rose had read, and wondered if it were true. He was -not afraid to die. He had been very near death once before, and had not -shrunk from meeting it _as_ death. It was only the dying from home he -had dreaded so much, asking to live till he could see his mother again, -and the grass growing by the cottage door, and the violets by the well. -And God had taken him at his word. He had lived to see his mother, to -feel the touch of her rough hands upon his hair; to hear her voice, -always kind to him, calling him her “Iky boy;” to see the green grass by -the door, and the violets by the well. But this, alas! did not suffice. -He wanted to live longer,—live to be a man, like Eli and John; live to -do good; live to take care of his mother; live to hear the notes of -victory borne on the northern breeze, as the Federal Flag floated again -over land and sea. All this was worth living for, and Isaac was young to -die,—only nineteen, and looking three years younger. It was very hard, -and the dark eyelashes closed tightly to keep back the tears as the -white lips tried to pray, “Thy will be done.” That was what they meant -to utter, but there came instead the first words of the prayer the -Saviour taught, “Our Father!” that was all; but the very name of father -brought a deep peace into Isaac’s heart. - -God was his father, and he had nothing to fear; living or dying, it -would be well with the boy who would not tell a lie even for promotion. -And so, while the mother whose heart ached and throbbed with this new -fear, and still found time to feel a thrill of pride in Lieutenant Eli, -moved softly around the room, preparing the dainty supper for her child, -Isaac slept peacefully, nor woke until the delicate repast was ready, -and waiting for him on the little table by the bed. There was spiced -chocolate to-night, and nice cream toast, with grape jelly, and a bit of -cold baked chicken, and the highly-seasoned cucumber pickles Isaac had -craved so much since his return, and which the physician said were good -for him. And the best china cup was brought out, and the silver spoons -marked with the widow’s maiden name, and a white napkin was on the tray; -and Isaac, who enjoyed such things, knew why it was all done that -particular night, just as the widow knew why, at bed-time, he asked -Susan to read from Revelation, vii. 16, “They shall hunger no more, -neither thirst any more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor any -heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst of the throne shall feed them, -and shall lead them unto living fountains of waters, and God shall wipe -away all tears from their eyes.” - -He was thinking of his heavenly home, while the mother was thinking of -the time when he, who Jimmie Carleton had said “was not long for earth,” -would be gone, and she could no longer do for him the little offices -which gave her so much comfort. Since the dreadful days when she knew -her boy was in prison, the widow had not felt so keen a pang as that -which stirred her heart-strings now, when alone in her room she dropped -in her quick, defiant way into the high-backed chair, and sitting stiff -and straight, tried to face the future. It could not be that Isaac had -only come home to die,—God would not deal thus harshly with her. He had -spared Eli and John, He had promoted them both and He would not take -Isaac from her. The boy was getting better, he was mending every day, -or, at least, she had thought so, until Rose Mather came with her -message of evil. Why could not Rose have stayed at home? Why need she -come there and leave such a sting behind? The widow was growing very -hard and wicked toward poor little thoughtless Rose, and her heart lay -like a stone in her bosom, as for an hour or more she sat in her -high-backed chair, thinking of the boy whose low breathings she could -hear from the next room. He was sleeping, she thought, and she would -steal softly to his side and see if it was written on his face that his -days were numbered. But Isaac was not asleep, and he knew the moment his -mother bent over him, and turning toward her, he whispered, - -“I know why you are up so late, mother; and what you are here for. You -are thinking of what Mrs. Carleton said, and wondering if it is true. I -guess ’tis, mother, for I don’t get any stronger, and my cough hurts me -so. But I’m not a bit afraid to die now, with you beside me up to the -very last minute. In Richmond it was different: and I prayed so hard -that God would let me come back, if only to drink from the well and then -die on the grass beside it. He did let me come, and now we mustn’t say -anything if He does not let me stay but a little bit of a while. I’ve -been thinking it over since Mrs. Mather went away, and at first it -seemed hard that Eli and John should both have such good luck, and only -‘Stub,’ be the one to suffer.” - -He said this last playfully, using his old nickname of “Stub,” because -he saw by the dim light burning on the table the bitter look of anguish -upon his mother’s face, and he would fain remove it. At the mention of -the name which her more stalwart sons had given to her baby, the widow’s -chin quivered, and her rough hand smoothed the thin light hair, but she -did not speak, and Isaac went on: - -“Then, too, I want to live till the war is over. I want to hear the -joyful shouts, and see the bonfires they will kindle in the streets. -There’s a big box in the barn. I hid it there the morning I went away, -and I said when the peace comes we can burn that box, and mother will -look out from the window, and the church bells will ring, and there’ll -be such rejoicings. Now I ’most know I shan’t be here to see it. But, -mother, you’ll burn the box,—you and Susan, with Eli and John,—and -you’ll think of me, who did what I could to bring the peace.” - -There was a choking sound like the swallowing of a great sob, and that -was all the answer the widow made; only her hands moved faster through -the threads of light brown hair, and her rigid form sat up straighter, -more rigid than ever. She was suffering the fiercest pangs she would -ever know, for she was giving Isaac up. She was coming to the knowledge -that he was really going from her,—that Jimmie Carleton was right, and -Isaac was not long for this world. When at last her mind reached that -point, the tension of nerve gave way for a little, and her hot tears -poured over the white face she kissed so tenderly. - -The moon was looking in at the low west window ere the widow went back -to her own bed, and Isaac, nestling down among his pillows, fell away to -sleep, dreaming of the bonfire in the street, when the hidden box was -burned, and dreaming, too, of that other world which lies so near this -that he could almost see the loving hands stretched out to welcome him. - -After that night the widow’s mouth shut together more firmly than ever, -and the frown between her eyes was more marked and decided, while her -manner to all save Isaac and Annie Graham was sharper, and crisper than -before. When Eli’s letter came telling of his promotion and lauding -Jimmie Carleton, whose generous act was a by-word in the company, her -face relaxed a little, and she said to Annie Graham: “The Lord is good -to my two oldest boys, but if he’d give me Isaac I wouldn’t care for all -the titles in Christendom.” - -As the warm weather came on, Isaac did not get up any more to sit by the -open door, but lay all day on his bed, sometimes sleeping, sometimes -thinking, and sometimes listening while Annie read to him from the -Bible. Isaac was very fond of Annie. She had been George Graham’s wife, -and he evinced so much desire to have her constantly with him that at -last she stayed altogether with Mrs. Simms, only going occasionally to -the Mather Mansion, where they missed her so much. Rose was nothing -without her, and had at first opposed her going to the Widow Simms. - -“If help was needed,” she said, “she would hire some one, for Annie must -not tire herself out just as she was beginning to grow plump and -beautiful again.” - -But when Isaac said to her: “Please let Mrs. Graham come; it will not be -long she’ll have to stay, and she is so full of hope and faith that it -makes me more willing to die and to go away alone across the Jordan,” -she withdrew her opposition, and Annie was free to go and come as she -liked. It suited Annie to get away from the Mather Mansion just then, -for she could not help feeling that there was a purpose in Mrs. -Carleton’s questioning her of her early history, and she hailed any -excuse which removed her from the scrutiny with which since that -conversation touching her early home and maiden name Mrs. Carleton had -evidently regarded her. Jimmie had written to her once, inclosing the -unsealed note in a letter to Rose, and Annie’s cheeks had been all -ablaze as she read it, for she knew the mother’s eyes were fastened upon -her. It was nothing but a simple acknowledgment of some article Annie -had made and sent to him in a box filled for all three of the soldiers, -Will Mather, Tom and Jimmie. There was also mention made of Annie’s -kindly message, to the intent that she did think he was right in giving -the office to Eli, and a wish expressed that she would write to him. - - “You don’t know how much good letters from home do such scamps as we - privates are, or how we need something from the civilized world to - keep us from turning heathens.” - -Tom, too, had sent thanks to Annie Graham for the needle-book made for -him, but he did not write to her, though every letter had in it more or -less of “Mrs. Graham,” and Mrs. Carleton, while saying to herself: “Both -my boys have fallen under the spell,” felt her pride gradually giving -way and her heart growing warmer toward the woman whom she missed so -much during the weeks spent at Isaac’s bedside. - -They were not many, for when the dry days of August came on, and the -grass withered by the door, and the flowers drooped for want of rain, -and the sun rose each morning redder, hotter, than on the previous day, -the sick boy began to fail rapidly, and one night, just as the wind was -beginning to blow from the west, where a bank of dark clouds was lying, -he whispered to Annie: - -“Call mother and Susan, for I know I am going now.” - -The widow was in the back yard, putting out the barrels and tubs to -catch the rain if it came, for the well and the cistern were nearly dry, -just as her dim eyes were, when a few minutes after she bent over her -boy, and saw the change coming so rapidly. She could not weep, and -Susan’s sobs annoyed her. “’Twas like them Ruggleses to go into -hysterics and make a fuss,” she thought, with a kind of bitter scorn for -her daughter-in-law, who loved Isaac as a brother, and wept that he was -leaving them. Perhaps the dying boy detected the feeling, for he said, -feebly: - -“Go out, Susan and Mrs. Graham both. I want to be alone with mother a -minute.” Then when they were alone, he said: “I am dying, mother, and I -know you won’t be angry at what I say. I want you to be kind to Susan, -and pet her some and love her for John’s sake. She is a good girl, and -Mr. Carleton’s good too, the one they call Jimmie, I mean. Don’t say -harsh things of him because he was once a rebel. Don’t speak against him -to Mrs. Graham. Maybe she will like him sometime, and if so, help her, -mother, instead of hindering it.” - -Jimmie Carleton, on his lone picket-watch that night on the banks of the -Potomac, and thinking, alas! more of a black-robed figure, with braids -of pale brown hair, than of a lurking foe, little dreamed of the good -word spoken for him by the dying boy, whose eyes turned lovingly to -Annie when she came back to him, and held his clammy hand. - -“It is not dark; it is not hard; I am not afraid, for the Saviour is -with me,” he kept repeating, and then he sent messages to his absent -brothers,—to Captain Tom Carleton, who had been so kind to him in -prison, and to Jimmie, too, and all the boys who had been with him in -battle; and then, just as the wind began to roar down the chimney, and -the refreshing rain to beat against the windows, Isaac’s spirit went out -into the great unknown expanse beyond this life, and only the pale, -emaciated body was left in the humble room, where the lone women stood -looking upon the boyish face, which seemed so young in death. - -The widow uttered no sound when she knew he was dead, and it was her -hand which drew the covering decently about him, and then picked up from -the floor a loose _feather_, which had dropped from the worn pillow. - -Susan must speak to their next-door neighbors, she said, and ask them to -care for the body. Then, when the men came in, she remembered an open -window in the back chamber where the rain must be driving in, and stole -up there on the pretence of shutting it; but she did not return till the -men were gone, and Isaac was lying on the calico-covered lounge with a -look of perfect peace upon his face, and the damp night air blowing -softly across his light hair. - -Kneeling at his side, and laying her hard cheek against the icy face of -her last-born, the mother gave vent to her grief in her own peculiar -way. There were no tears, or sobs; but loving, tender, cooing words -whispered over the boy, as if he had been a living baby, instead of a -soldier dead. And yet the fact that it was a soldier, lying there before -her, was never lost sight of, and the bitter part of the woman’s nature -was stirred to its very depths as she remembered what had brought her -boy to this. It was the _war_. And fierce were the mental denunciations -against those who had stirred up the strife, while with the bitterness -came pitying thoughts of the poor boys who died in the lonely hospitals, -or on the battle-fields; and with her cheek still resting against the -pale, clammy one, and her fingers threading the light hair, the widow -vowed that all she was, and all she had, should henceforth be given to -the war. She would work for the soldiers, give to the soldiers, deny -herself food and raiment for the soldiers; aye, even _die_ for them, if -need be; and whispering the vow into her dead boy’s ear, she left him -there alone, just as the early summer dawn was breaking. And when, next -morning, her friends came in to see her, they found her sitting by the -body, and working upon the shirt she had a few days before taken from -the Aid Society to make for some poor wretch. - -She should not wear mourning, she said. She had other uses for her -money; and so the leghorn of many years’ date, with the old faded green -veil, followed Isaac Simms to the grave, and the widow’s face was still -and stony as if cut from solid marble. - -They made him a great funeral, too, though not so great as George -Graham’s had been; for Isaac was not the second, nor the third, nor the -fourth soldier buried in Rockland’s churchyard. But he was _Isaac -Simms_,—“Little Ike,”—“Stub,”—whom everybody liked; and so the firemen -came out to do him honor, and the Rockland Guards, and the company of -young lads who were beginning to drill, and the boys from the Academy, -and Rose Mather was chief directress, and her carriage carried the -widow, and Susan, and Annie, and herself up to the newly-made grave, -where they left the boy who once had sawed wood for the little lady now -paying him such honor. - -The war was a great leveler of rank, bringing together in one common -cause the high and the low, the rich and the poor, and in no one was -this more strikingly seen than in the case of Rose Mather, who, utterly -forgetful of the days when, as Rose Carleton, of Boston, she would -scarcely have deigned to notice such as the Widow Simms, now sought in -so many ways to comfort the stricken woman, going every day to her -humble home, and once coaxing her to spend a day at the Mather mansion, -together with Susan, whom Rose secretly thought a little insipid and -dull. Susan’s husband was alive, and in the full flush of prosperity; so -Susan did not need sympathy, but the widow did, and Rose got her up to -the “Great House,” as the widow called it, and ordered a most elaborate -dinner, with soups and fish, and roasts and salads, prepared with oil, -which turned the widow’s stomach, and ices and chocolate, and -Charlotte-russe, and nuts and fruit, and coffee served in cups the size -of an acorn, the widow thought, as very red in the face and perspiring -at every pore, she went through the dreadful dinner which lasted nearly -three hours, and left her at its conclusion, “weak as water, and -sweatin’ like rain,” as she whispered to Annie, who took the tired woman -for a few moments into her own room, and listened patiently to her -comments upon the grand dinner which had so nearly been the death of -her. - -Susan, on the contrary, enjoyed it. It was her first glimpse of life -among the very wealthy, and while her mother-in-law was wondering “how -Annie could stand such doins every day, and especially that ’bominable -soup, and still wus _salut_,” Susan was thinking how she should like to -live in just such style, and wondering if, when John came home with his -wages all saved, she could not set up housekeeping somewhat on the -Mather order. At least she would have those little coffees after dinner; -though she doubted John’s willingness to sit quietly until the coffee -was reached. - -It was a long day to the widow, and the happiest part of it was the -going home by the cemetery, where she stopped at Isaac’s grave, and -bending over the turf, murmured her tender words of love and sorrow for -the boy who slept beneath. There was a plan forming in the widow’s mind, -and it came out at last to Annie, who was visiting her one day. - -The hospitals were full to overflowing, and the cry all along the lines -was for more help to care for the sick and dying, and the widow was -going as nurse, either in the hospital or in the field. She should -prefer the latter, she said, “for only folks with _pluck_ could stand it -there.” - -And Annie encouraged her to go, and even talked of going too, but the -first suggestion of the plan brought such a storm of opposition from -Rose, that for a little time longer Annie yielded, resolving, however, -that ere long she would break away and take her place where she felt -that she could do more good than she was doing in Rockland. - - - - - CHAPTER XXII - THE WOUNDED SOLDIER. - - -Widow Simms was going to the army, and Jimmie Carleton, who was coming -home for a few weeks, was to be her escort to Washington. During the -summer Jimmie had seen a good deal of hard service. He had been in no -general battle, but had taken part in several skirmishes and raids, in -one of which he received a severe flesh wound in his arm, which, -together with a sprained ankle, confined him for a time to the hospital, -and finally procured for him a furlough of three or four weeks. Rose was -delighted, and this time the Federal Fag was actually floating from the -cupola of the Mather mansion in honor of Jimmie’s return but there was -no crowd at the depot to welcome him. That custom was worn out, and only -the Mather carriage was waiting for Jimmie, whose right arm was in a -sling, and whose face looked pale and thin from his recent confinement -in hospital. Altogether he was very interesting in his character as a -wounded soldier, Rose thought, as she made an impetuous rush at him, -nearly strangling him with her vehement joy at having him home again. -And Jimmie was very glad to see her,—glad, too, to meet his mother,—but -his eyes kept constantly watching the door, and wandering down the hall, -as if in quest of some one who did not come. During the weary days he -had passed in the Georgetown Hospital, Annie Graham’s face had been -constantly with him, and as he watched the tall, wiry figure of the -nurse, who always wore a sun-bonnet and had a pin between her teeth, he -kept wishing that it was Annie, and even worked himself into a passion -against his sister Rose, who, in one of her letters, had spoken of -Annie’s proposal to offer herself as nurse, and her violent opposition -to the plan. - -“If Rose had minded her business Annie might possibly have been in this -very ward, instead of that old maid from Massachusetts, who looks for -all the world like those awful good women in Boston, who don’t wear -hoops, and who distribute tracts on Sundays in the vicinity of Cornhill. -Why can’t a woman look decent, and distribute tracts, too? Annie, in her -black dress, with her hair done up somehow, would do more good to us -poor invalids than forty strong-minded females in paste-board bonnets, -with an everlasting pin between their teeth.” - -Thus Jimmie fretted about Rose, and the Massachusetts woman, who, in -spite of her big pin and paste-board bonnet, brought him many a nice -dish of tea or bowl of soup, until the order came for him to go home, -when, with an alacrity which almost belied the languor and weakness he -had complained of so bitterly, he packed his valise and started again -for Rockland. This time he wore the “army blue;” but the suit which at -first had been so fresh and clean, was soiled, and worn, and hateful to -the fastidious young man, who only endured it because he fancied it -might in some way commend him to Annie Graham. Rose had written that she -worshiped the very name of a soldier, especially if he were a _poor -private_, her sympathies being specially enlisted for that class of -people. And Jimmie was a poor private, and a wounded one at that, with -his arm in a sling, and a cane in his hand, and his curly hair cut -short, and his coat all wrinkled and soiled, and his knapsack on his -back; and he was going home to Annie, who surely would welcome him now, -and hold his hand a moment, and possibly dress his wound. That _would_ -be delightful; and Jimmie’s blood went tingling through his veins as he -felt in fancy the soft touch of Annie’s fingers upon his flesh, and saw -her head crowned with the pale brown hair bending over him. He felt a -little disappointment that she was not at the depot to meet him, while -his chagrin increased at the tardiness of her appearance after his -arrival home, but she was coming at last, and Jimmie’s quick ear caught -the rustle of her garments as she came down the stairs and into the -room, smiling and blushing, as she took his offered hand, and begged him -not to rise for her. - -“You are lame yet, I see. I had hoped your ankle might be well,” she -said, glancing at his cane, which he carried more from habit, and -because it had been given him by an officer, than from any real -necessity. - -His sprained ankle _was_ almost well, and only troubled him at times; -but after Annie’s look of commiseration at the cane, and her evident -intention to pity him for his ankle rather than his arm, he found it -vastly easy to be lame again, and even made some excuse to cross the -room in order to show off the _limp_ which had not been very perceptible -when he first came in. And Annie was very sorry for him, and inquired -with a great deal of interest into the particulars of his being wounded, -and kindly sat where he could look directly at her, and thought, alas! -how much he was changed from the fashionably-dressed, saucy-faced young -man who went from them only a few months before. Short hair was not -becoming to him,—neither was his thin, burnt face,—neither was that -soiled blue coat; and he looked as little as possible like a hero whom -maidens could worship. Some such thought passed through Annie’s mind, -while Rose, too, felt the change in her handsome brother, and, with a -puzzled expression on her face, said to him, as she stood by his side: - -“How queer you do look, with your hair so short, and the hollows in your -cheeks! Does _war_ change all the boys so much? Are Tom and Will such -frights?” - -“Rose!” Mrs. Carleton said, reprovingly, while Annie looked up in -surprise, pitying Jimmie, whose chin quivered even more than his voice, -as he said: - -“Tom and Will have not been sick like me; and then,—there’s no denying -it,—officers have easier times, as a general thing, than privates. I do -not mean, by that, that I regret my position, for I do not. Somebody -must take a private’s place, and it would better be I than a great many -others; but, Rose, I shall regret it, perhaps, if by the means my looks -become obnoxious to my sister and friends.” - -There was a marked emphasis on the word _friends_, and Jimmie’s eyes -went over appealingly to Annie, who remembered how proud the boy Dick -Lee used to be of his beauty, and guessed how Rose’s remarks must have -wounded him. Rose suspected it, too, and winding her arms around his -neck she tried to apologize. - -“Forgive me, Jimmie,” she said; “I did not mean anything; only your hair -_is_ so short,—just like the convicts at Charlestown,—and your coat is -so tumbled and dirty; but Hannah can wash that, or I can buy you a new -one,” and Rose stumbled on, making matters ten times worse, until Mrs. -Carleton succeeded in turning the conversation upon something besides -her son’s personal appearance. - -Annie was very sorry for him, and her sympathy expressed itself in the -soft light of her blue eyes which rested so kindly upon him, and in the -low, gentle cadence of her voice when she addressed him, and her eager -haste to bring him whatever she thought he wanted, and so save him the -pain of walking! - -Mrs. Carleton saw through that _ruse_ at once. She had noticed no limp -when Jimmie first came in, and she readily suspected why it was put on. -But it was not for her to expose her son. From a lady who had spent a -few days at the Mather House, and who once lived near Hartford, Mrs. -Carleton had learned that the Dr. Howard, who had died of cholera in -‘49, was highly respected, both as a gentleman and a practising -physician, and this had helped to reconcile her in a great measure to -whatever might result from her son’s evident liking for Annie Graham, -_née_ Annie Howard, and as she more than half suspected, the heroine of -Jimmie’s boyish fancy. - -How very beautiful Jimmie thought Annie was, after he had had time to -recover himself a little and look at her closely. She was in better -health, and certainly in better spirits than when he saw her last. Her -cheeks were rounder, her eyes were brighter, and her hair more -luxuriant, and worn more in accordance with the prevailing style. This -was Rose’s doings, as was also the increased length of Annie’s dress, -which swept the floor with so long a trail that the Widow Simms had made -it the subject of sundry invidious remarks. - -“Needn’t tell her that a widder could wear such long switchin’ gowns, -and think just as much of the grave by the gate. She knew better, and -Miss Graham was beginnin’ to get frillicky. She could see through a -millstone.” - -This was Mrs. Simms’ opinion of the long gored dress which Jimmie -noticed at once, admiring the graceful, symmetrical appearance it gave -to Annie’s figure, just as he admired the softening effect which the -plain white collar and cuffs had upon Annie’s dress. When he was home -before, everything about her was black of the deepest dye; but now the -sombreness of her attire was relieved somewhat, and Jimmie liked the -change. He could look at her without seeing constantly before him the -grave by the churchyard gate, where slept the man whose widow she was. -She did not seem like a widow, she was so young; only twenty-one, as -Jimmie knew from Rose, who, delighted with the friendly meeting between -her brother and friend, was again building castles of what might be. -Could Rose have had her choice in the matter, she would have selected -Tom for Annie. He was older, steadier, while his letters seemed very -much like Annie. Tom had found the Saviour of whom Isaac Simms once -talked so earnestly in the prison house at Richmond. He was better than -Jimmie, Rose reasoned, and more likely to suit Annie. Still, if it were -to be otherwise, she was satisfied, and in a quiet way she aided and -abetted Jimmie in all his plans to be frequently alone with Annie. It -was Annie who rode with him when Mrs. Carleton was indisposed, and Rose -did not care to go,—Annie who read to him the books which Rose -pronounced too stupid for anything,—Annie who brought his cane, and -Annie who finally attended to his wounded arm. The physician did not -come one day; Mrs. Carleton was sick; and Rose positively could not -touch it and so Annie timidly offered her services, and Jimmie knew from -actual experience just how her soft fingers felt upon his arm, his pulse -throbbing and the blood tingling in every vein as she dressed his wound -so carefully, asking anxiously if she hurt him very badly. He would have -suffered martyrdom sooner than lose the opportunity of feeling those -soft fingers upon his flesh, and so it came about that Annie was his -surgeon, and ministered daily to the wound which healed far too rapidly -to suit the young man, who began to shrink from a return to the life he -had found so irksome. - -Tom had written twice for him to come as soon as possible, and now only -one day more remained of the month he was to spend at home. The Widow -Simms was ready to go with him; Susan had gone to her mother, and the -cottage was to be closed, subject to a continual oversight from Mrs. -Baker and an occasional inspection from both Rose and Annie. The _box_ -which Isaac had hidden in the barn, waiting for the bonfire which should -celebrate our nation’s final victory, had been brought from its -hiding-place, and baptized with the first and only tears the widow had -shed since she went back to her humble home and left him in the -graveyard. Sacred to her was that box, and she put it with her best -table and chairs, bidding Annie Graham see that no harm befell it, and -saying to her, “In case I never come back, and peace is declared, burn -the box for Isaac’s sake, right there on the grass-plat, which he -dreamed about in Richmond.” - -And Annie promised all, as she packed the widow’s trunk, putting in many -little dainties which Rose Mather had supplied, and which were destined -for the soldiers whom the widow was to nurse. She had been all day with -Mrs. Simms, and Rose had been back and forth with her packages, -curtailing her calls because of Jimmie, with whom she would spend as -much time as possible. - -Jimmie was not in a very social mood that day; the house was very lonely -without Annie, and the young man did nothing but walk from one window to -another, looking always in the direction of Widow Simms’, and scarcely -heeding at all what either his mother or sister were saying to him. When -it began to grow dark, and he heard Rose speak of sending the carriage -for Annie as she had promised to do, he said: - -“I ought to see Mrs. Simms myself to-night, and know if everything is in -readiness for to-morrow. I will go for Mrs. Graham, and Rose,—don’t -order the carriage,—there is a fine moon, and she,—that is,—I would -rather walk.” - -Jimmie spoke hurriedly, and something in his manner betrayed to Rose the -reason why he preferred to walk. - -“Oh, Jimmie!” she exclaimed, “I’m so glad; tell her so for me. I thought -at first you did not like each other, and everything was going wrong. I -am so glad; though I had picked her out for Tom. I ’most know he fancied -her, and then he is a widower. It would be more suitable.” - -Rose meant nothing disparaging to Jimmie’s suit. She did think Tom, with -his thirty-two years, better suited to Annie, who had been a wife, than -saucy-faced teasing Jimmie of only twenty-four. But love never consults -the suitability of a thing, and Jimmie was desperately in love by this -time. It was not possible for one of his temperament to live a whole -month with Annie as he had lived, and not be in love with her. Her -graceful beauty, brightened by the auxiliaries of dress and improved -health, and the thousand little attentions she paid him just because he -was a soldier, had finished the work begun when he was home before, and -he could not go back without hearing from her own lips whether there was -any hope for him,—the scamp, the scapegrace, the rebel, as he had been -called by turns. What Rose said of Tom brought a shadow to his face, and -as he walked rapidly toward Widow Simms’, not limping now, or scarcely -touching his cane to the ground, he thought of Tom,—_old Tom_ he called -him,—wondering how much he had been interested in Annie Graham, and -asking himself if it were just the thing for him to take advantage of -Tom’s absence, and supplant him in the affections of one whom he might, -perhaps, have won had he an opportunity. - -“But Tom has had his day,” Jimmie thought. “He can’t expect another wife -as nice as Mary was, and it is only fair for me to try my luck. _I_ -never loved any one before.” - -Jimmie stopped suddenly here; stopped in his soliloquy and his walk, and -looking up into the starry sky, thought of the boy at New London, and -the hills beyond, and the hotel on the beach, and the white-robed little -figure with the blue ribbons in the golden hair, and the soft light in -the violet eyes, which used to watch for his coming, and look so bright -and yet so modest withal when he came. _Louise_ her aunt had called her, -and he had designated her as _Lu_, or _Lulu_, just as the fancy took -him. - -“I _did_ love _her_ some,” Jimmie thought. “Yes, I loved her as well as -a boy of seventeen is capable of loving, and I deceived her shabbily. I -wonder where she is? She must be twenty or more by this time, and a -woman much like Annie. If I could find her, who knows that I might not -like her best?” And for a moment Jimmie revolved the propriety of -leaving Annie to Tom, while he sought for his first love of the Pequot -House. - -But Annie Graham had made too strong an impression upon him to be given -up for a former love, who might be dead for aught he knew, and so Tom -was cast overboard, and Jimmie resumed his walk in the direction of -Widow Simms’ cottage. - -The widow’s trunks were all packed and ready: every thing was done in -the cottage which Annie could do, and with a tired flush on her cheek, a -tumbled look about her hair, and a rent in the black dress, made by a -nail on one of the boxes, Annie was waiting for the carriage, and half -wishing, as she looked out into the bright moonlight, that she was going -to walk home instead of riding. The fresh air would do her good, she -thought, just as Jimmie appeared at the door. He had come to see if -there was anything he could do for Mrs. Simms, he said, and to escort -Mrs. Graham home. - -Annie’s cheeks were very red as she went for her shawl, and then bade -good-bye to Mrs. Simms, whom she did not expect to see on the morrow. As -soon as they were outside the gate, Jimmie drew her shawl close round -her neck, and taking her arm in his, said to her: “The night is very -fine and warm, too, for the first of November. You won’t mind taking the -longest route home, I am sure, as it is the last time I may ever walk -with you, and there is something I must tell you before I go back to -danger and possible death.” - -He had turned into a long, grassy lane or newly opened street, where -there were but few houses yet, and Annie knew the route would at least -be a mile out of the way, but she could not resist the man who held her -so closely to his side. She must hear what he had to say, and with an -upward glance at the clear blue sky where she fancied George was looking -down upon her, she nerved herself to listen. - -“Annie,” he began, “I’ve called you Mrs. Graham heretofore, but for -to-night you must be Annie, even if you give me no right to call you by -that name again. Annie, I have been a scamp, a wretch, a rebel, and -almost everything bad. I deceived a young girl in New London years ago -when I was a boy. Rose told you something about it once. Her name was -Louise,—_Lulu_ I called her,—and I made her think I loved her.” - -“And didn’t you love her?” Annie asked suddenly, her voice ringing clear -in the still night and making Jimmie start, there was something so quiet -and determined in its tone. - -Still he had no suspicion that the woman beside him was the girl he had -left on the beach at New London, and he continued: “Yes, Annie, I did, -as boys of seventeen love girls of fourteen. She was pretty and soft, -and pure and good, and I kissed her once on her forehead, and then I -went away and never saw her after, or knew what became of her. And I am -telling you this by way of confessing my misdeeds, for I’ve been a fast -and reckless young man. I’ve gambled, and sneered at the Bible, and -broken the Sabbath heaps of times, and flirted with more than forty -girls, some of them not very respectable either, and none as pure as -little Lulu. I ran away from home and nearly broke my mother’s heart. I -joined the rebel army and fought against my brother at the battle of -Bull Run. I was captured by Bill Baker and led with a halter to -Washington and there shut up in prison. A fine character I give myself, -and yet after all this I have dared to love you, Annie Graham, and I -have brought you this way to ask if you will be my wife. Not now, of -course: not before I go back; but if I come through the war alive will -you be mine then, Annie? Tell me, darling, and don’t tremble so, or turn -your face away.” - -Annie was shaking in every joint, and the face which Jimmie tried in -vain to see was white as ashes. She had expected something like this -when he led her down that grassy lane, but nevertheless it came to her -with a shock, making her feel as if in some way she had injured her dead -husband by listening to another’s love. And still she could not at once -repulse the young man whose arm was around her, and who had drawn her to -a gap in a stone wall, where he made her sit down while she answered -him. Strange feelings had swept over her as she heard Jimmie Carleton’s -voice telling her how much she was beloved,—how from the first moment he -saw her he had been interested in her, and asking her again if she had -anything to give the “recreant Jim.” - -He said the last playfully, but there was a great fear at his heart lest -her silence portended evil to him. - -“No, Mr. Carleton. I have no heart to give you. I buried it with George; -I can never love another. Forgive me if in any way I have misled you. I -was only kind to you as I would be to any soldier.” - -“Bill Baker, for instance,” came savagely from Jimmie’s lips. - -He was cruelly disappointed, for he had not believed Annie would refuse -him as she had done. He thought a good deal of himself as a _Carleton_. -Nay, he believed himself superior to the man who was standing between -him and the woman he coveted, and to be so decidedly refused by one who -had been content with a person in George Graham’s position angered him -for a moment. Annie knew he was offended, and when he spoke of Bill -Baker, she said to him gently: - -“You mistake me, Mr. Carleton. If necessary, I could do for William -Baker more than I have done for you; but it would only be from a sense -of duty,—there would be no pleasure in it; while caring for you was a -pleasure, because you are Mrs. Mather’s brother, and because,—because—” - -She did not know how to finish the sentence, for she could not herself -tell why it had of late been so pleasant for her to do for Jimmie -Carleton those little acts of kindness which had devolved on her. She -was only interested in him as a soldier, she insisted, and she tried to -make him understand that her decision was final; that were George dead a -dozen years, she should give him the same answer as she did now. She -could not be his wife. And Jimmie understood it at last, and by the -terrible pangs of disappointment which crept over him, the Pequot girl -was fully avenged for the many times she had watched from her window of -the hotel, or walked sadly along the road by the bay to see if Dick Lee -were coming. But Annie had no wish for revenge. She was only sorry for -him, and she tried to comfort him with the assurance of her interest in -him, and by telling him that, if ever he was sick in hospital or camp, -and unable to come home, she would surely go to him as readily as if he -were her brother. - -Jimmie did not particularly care for such comforting then, and his face, -when he reached home, wore so dark and sorry a look that Rose, knew at -once that something was wrong; but she refrained from asking any -questions then,—feeling intuitively that both Annie and her brother -would prefer to have her do so. - -It was a very grave, silent party which met at the breakfast table next -morning, and only Annie was at all inclined to talk. She tried to be -cheerful and appear as usual to the silent young man who never looked at -her as she sat opposite him, with her smooth bands of hair so becomingly -arranged, and her eyes so full of pity for him. She could not revoke her -decision, but she was sorry to send him from her with that look upon his -face; and when, after breakfast, she met him for a few moments alone in -the library, she laid her hand timidly upon his arm, and said, -“_Jimmie_, don’t be angry with me. Try to think of me as your -sister,—your best friend, if you like. It grieves me that I have made -you so unhappy.” - -She had never called him _Jimmie_ before, in his hearing, and as she did -it now, the dark, handsome face into which she was looking, flushed with -a sudden joy, as if he thought she were relenting. But she was not; she -could only be his friend,—his best friend, she repeated, and her face -was very pale, as she told him how she should remember him, and work for -him, and pray for him, when he was gone. And then she gave him her hand, -saying to him, “It is nearly time for you to go. I would rather say -good-bye here.” - -And Jimmie took her hand, and, pressing it between his own, said to her: - -“You have hurt me cruelly, Annie Graham, for I believed you cared for -me; but I cannot hate you for it, though I tried to do so all night -long. I love you just the same as ever, and always shall. Remember your -promise to come to me when I am sick, and let me kiss you once for the -sake of what I hoped might be.” - -She did not refuse his request; and when at last he left her there was a -red spot on her cheek where Jimmie Carleton’s lips had been. From her -window she watched him going down the walk; and while with widow Simms -he waited at the depot for the coming of the train, she on her knees was -praying for him and his safety, just as, eighteen months before, she -prayed for George when he was going from her. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIII. - TOM AND JIMMIE. - - -Jimmie’s journey was performed in safety, and he won golden opinions -from his traveling companion, for whom he had cared as kindly as if it -had been his mother instead of the “crabbed widow” in her eternal -leghorn, with the vail of faded green. He had left her at one of the -hospitals in Washington, where she was to begin her work as nurse, and -hastened on to join his regiment. Captain Carleton was glad to welcome -back the brother whom he had missed so much, but he saw that something -was wrong; and that night, as they sat around the tent fire, he asked -what it was, and why the face, usually so bright and cheerful, seemed so -sober and sad. Tom had made minute inquiries concerning his mother, and -Rose, and Susan Simms, and even poor old Mrs. Baker. But not a word of -Annie. He could not speak of her, with that unfinished letter lying in -his little travelling writing-case,—that letter commencing “My dear Mrs. -Graham,” and over the wording of which Tom had spent more time by far -than he did over the first epistle sent to Mary Williams. That had been -dashed off in all the heat of a young man’s first ardent passion, just -as Jimmie two weeks ago would have written to Annie. But Tom was eight -years older than Jimmie. His first love had met its full fruition, and -Mary, the object, was dead. Tom had always been old for his years. He -looked, and seemed, and felt, full forty now, save when he thought of -Annie, who was only twenty-one. Then he went back to thirty-two, glad -that he had numbered no more birth-days. He had made up his mind to -write to her. A friendly letter the first should be, he said,—a letter -merely asking if she would correspond with him, and hinting at the -interest he had felt in her ever since he saw how much she was to Rose, -and how constant were her labors for the suffering soldiers. If her -answer was favorable, he should ere long ask her to be his wife, and -this is the way he took to win the woman whose name he would not mention -to his brother. He had been a little uneasy when Jimmie first went home, -for he knew how popular the wayward youth was with all the ladies; but -as Rose had never written a word to strengthen him in his fears, he had -thrown them aside and commenced the letter which to-night, after Jimmie -was gone, he was intending to finish for the morrow’s mail. He changed -his mind, however, as the night wore on, for in reply to his question as -to what was the matter, Jimmie had burst out impetuously with, - -“It is all over with me and the widow. I went in strong for her, Tom. I -told her all my badness, confessed everything I could, and then she said -it could not be. I tell you, Tom, I did not know a man could be so sore -about a woman!” And with a great choking sob Jimmie Carleton laid his -head upon Tom’s lap, and moaned like some wounded animal. - -Tom, who had been as a father to this younger brother, was touched to -his heart’s core, and felt as if by having that unfinished letter in his -possession he was in some way guilty, and as a pitying woman would have -done, he smoothed the dark curly hair, and tried to speak words of -comfort. - -“What had Annie said? Perhaps she might relent. Would Jimmie tell him -about it?” - -Then Jimmie lifted up his head, and looking straight in Tom’s eyes, -said, - -“Forgive me, old Tom. I was inclined to be jealous of you. Rose said you -were more suitable, and I know you are; but, Tom, I did love Annie so -much, after I had swallowed the first husband, which cost me a great -effort, for a widow is not the beau ideal I used to cherish of my future -wife. Tom, you don’t care for Annie, do you?” he continued, in a -startled tone, as something in Tom’s face affrighted him. - -Tom would not deceive him then, and he replied, - -“I have,—that is,—yes, I do care for her, and I had commenced a letter, -but——” - -“Don’t finish it, Tom. Do this for me,—don’t finish it!” Jimmie -exclaimed, eagerly, knowing now how the hope that Annie might relent had -buoyed him up, and kept him from utter despondency. “Don’t send it, Tom; -leave her to me, if I can win her yet. She may feel differently by and -by: her husband is only one year dead. Let me have Annie, Tom,” and -Jimmie grew more vehement as he saw plainly the struggle in Tom’s mind. -“You’ve had your day with Mary. Think of your years of married life, -when you were so happy, and leave Annie to me. At least don’t try to get -her from me,—not yet,—wait a year. Will you, Tom?” - -Few could resist Jimmie Carleton’s pleadings when they were so earnest -as now; and generous Tom yielded to the boy, whom he had scolded, and -whipped, and disciplined, and loved, and grieved over, ever since the -day their father died and left him the head of the family. - -“I will wait a year and see what that brings to us; and you, Jimmie, -must do the same, then Annie shall decide,” he said at last, and his -voice was so steady in its tone, and his manner so kind, that Jimmie -never guessed how much it cost the man who “had had his day,” to unlock -the little desk and take from it the letter intended for Annie Graham -and commit it to the flames. - -They watched it together as it crisped and blackened on the coals, -neither saying a word or stirring until the last thin flake had -disappeared, when Tom bent to pick up something which had dropped from -the desk, when he took out the letter. It was _Mary’s_ picture, and in -her lap the baby which had died when six months old. - -“Yes, I have had my day,” Tom thought, as he gazed upon the fair, sweet -face of her whose bright head had once lain where he had thought to have -Annie’s lie. “I have had my day, and though it closed before it was -noon, I will not interfere with Jimmie.” - -And so the compact was sealed between them, and Jimmie slept sounder on -his soldier bed that night than he had slept before since Annie’s -refusal. Jimmie was not selfish, and as the days went by and he -reflected more and more upon Tom’s generosity, his conscience smote him -for having allowed his brother to sacrifice his happiness for a whim of -his. “She might have refused him, too, and then again she might not; at -all events he had a right to try his luck,” Jimmie reasoned, until at -last his sense of justice triumphed and he wrote to Annie an account of -the whole transaction. - -“It was mean in me to let Tom burn the letter,” he said, “but I could -not bear the thought of his winning what I had lost, and so like a -coward I looked on and felt a thrill of satisfaction when I saw his -letter crisping on the coals. But as proof that I have repented of that -selfish act, I ask you plainly, ‘Would you have replied favorably to -that letter, had it been sent?’ If so, tell me truly, and without ever -betraying the fact that I have written to you on the subject, I will -manage to have Tom write again, and if the fates shall so decree I will -try to forget that gap in the stone wall where we sat that night when I -told you of my love.” - -His letter found Annie sick in bed from the effects of a severe cold -which kept her so long in her room that it was not till just on the eve -of the battle of Fredericksburg that Jimmie received her answer, “I -should say No to your brother just as I did to you.” - -This was what Jimmie read, and with a feeling of relief as far as Tom -was concerned, he crushed the few lines into his pocket and went on with -his preparations for the contest at Fredericksburg, which seemed -inevitable, with a kind of recklessness which characterized many of our -soldiers. Jimmie had heretofore felt no fears of a battle. The bullet -which might strike down another would not harm him, and he charged his -preservation mostly to Annie’s prayers for his safety; but in this, her -last brief note, she had not said so much as “God bless you,” and -Jimmie’s heart beat faster as he thought of the impending danger. Jimmie -seldom prayed, but if Annie had failed him he must try what he could do -for himself, and when the night came down upon that vast army camping in -the woods and on the hillside, it looked on one young face upturned to -the wintry sky, and the moaning winds carried up to heaven the few words -of prayer which Jimmie Carleton said. - -Oppressed with a strange feeling of foreboding, he prayed earnestly that -God would blot out all his manifold transgressions, and if he -died,—grant him an entrance into heaven where Annie was sure to go. -Close beside him crouched Bill, who listened with wonder to the -“Corp’ral,” a feeling of terror beginning to creep into his own heart as -he detected the accents of fear in his companion. - -“I say, Corp’ral,” he began, when Jimmie’s devotions were ended, “be you -’fraid of somethin’s happenin’ to you when they set us to crossin’ that -darned river, and if there does, shall I write to the folks and the gal -you mentioned and tell ’em you prayed like a parson the night before?” - -Jimmie was terribly annoyed with Bill’s impertinence, and for a man who -had just been praying did not exercise as much Christian forbearance as -might have been expected. A harsh “Mind your business!” was his only -reply, which Bill received with a good humored, “Guess you’ll have to -try agin, Corp’ral, before you get into the right frame;” and then there -was silence between them, and the night crept on apace, and the early -morning began to break and the wintry sky was obscured by a thick, dull -haze, which hid for a time our soldiers from view, then a deadly fire of -musketry from the opposite bank of the Rappahannock was opened upon -them, till they fled to the shelter of the adjacent hills, where, -forming into line, they again went back to the laying of the pontoon -bridges, while the roar of the cannon shook the hills and told to the -listeners miles away that the battle of Fredericksburg was begun. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIV. - RESULTS OF THE BATTLE. - - -The streets of Rockland were full of excited people when the news first -reached the town of the terrible battle which had left so many slain -upon the field, and desolated so many hearths both North and South. Rose -Mather was nearly frantic, for Will she knew was in the battle, together -with her two brothers, and it was not probable that all three would -escape unharmed. Eagerly she grasped the paper to see who was killed, -wounded, or missing, but neither of the three names was there, and she -began to hope again, and found time to comfort poor Susan Simms, whose -husband was also in the fight, and who had gone almost mad with the fear -lest he should be killed. - -Two days passed, and then there came a telegram from Tom, and Mrs. -Carleton, who read it first, gave a low, moaning cry, while Rose, who -read it next, uttered a piercing shriek, and fell sobbing into Annie’s -arms. - -“Oh, Will!—oh, Will!—my husband!” was what she said, while Mrs. Carleton -uttered Jimmie’s name, and then Annie knew that harm had come to him, -and placing Rose upon the sofa, she took the paper from Mrs. Carleton’s -hand, and read: - - “Will was badly wounded,—lay on the field all night;—Jimmie - missing,—supposed to be a prisoner. I am well. - - “T. CARLETON.” - -“Poor Jimmie!” Annie whispered, sadly, her heart throbbing with pity for -the young man who had gone back in time to meet so sad a fate. - -Never had so dark a day dawned upon Rose Mather as that which followed -the arrival of Tom’s telegram, but ere its close there came a message of -hope to her. Will had been taken to Washington, where he had -providentially fallen into the hands of Mrs. Simms, who sent the joyful -news that “no bones were broken, and he was doing well.” - -“Oh, Annie, God is so much better to me than I deserve; I must love Him -now, and I will, if He will only send Jimmie back,” Rose said, while -Annie’s heart went up in a prayer of thanksgiving for Mr. Mather’s -comparative safety, and then went out after the poor prisoner, whose -destination was as yet unknown. - -That night Rose started for Washington, and three days after there came -to Annie a soiled, queer-looking missive, directed to “Miss Widder Anny -Graam, At Miss Martherses,” the name written at the top of the letter, -and the superscription spreading over so much surface, that, had there -been another word, it must, from necessity, have been written on the -other side of the letter. It was from Bill Baker, and it read as -follows: - - “Army of Potomac, and about as licked out an army as you ever seen. To - all it may concern, and ‘specially Miss Anny Graam. I send you my - regrets greetin’, and hopin’ this will find you enjoying the same - great blessin’. Burnside has made the thunderinest blunder, and more’n - a million of our boys is dead before Fredericksburgh. Mr. Mathers was - about riddled through, I guess, and the Corporal,—wall, may as well - take it easy,—I fit for him like a tiger, till they nocked me endways, - and I played dead to save my life. But the Corporal’s a goner,—took - prisoner with an awful cut on his neck; and now what I’m going to tell - you is this: the night before the battle I came upon him prayin’ like - a priest, kneelin’ in an awful mudpuddle, and what he said was - somethin’ about Heaven, and _Anny_, whitch, beggin’ your pardon, I - think means you, and so I ast him in case of bad luck, if I should - write and tell you. I don’t think he could have ben in a vary - sperritual frame of mind, for he told me to mind my bisiness, but I - don’t lay it up agin him, and when them too tall, lantern-jawed sons - of Balam grabbed him as he was tryin’ to skedaddle with the blood a - spirtin’ from his neck, I pitched inter ’em, and give ’em hale columby - for a spell, till they nocked me flat and I made bleeve dead as I was - tellin’ you. Don’t feel bad, Miss Graam. Trust luck and keep your - powder dry, and mabby he’ll come back sometime. - - Yours to command, - “BILL BAKER.” - - “Tell the old woman I’m well, but pretty well tuckered out.” - -“God soften the hearts of his captors. God keep him in safety!” Annie -whispered, and then, as Mrs. Carleton came in, she passed the note to -her, and tried to comfort the poor mother, who, in Rose’s absence, -leaned on her as on a daughter. - -Annie seemed very near the sorrowing woman, who wept bitterly for her -poor boy, and in the first hours of her sorrow she spoke out what was in -her mind. - -“I believe Jimmie loved you, Annie, and that makes you very dear to me. -We can mourn for him together, and, Annie, you will pray for him night -and day, that God will bring him back to us.” - -Annie could only reply by pressing the hand which sought hers, for her -heart was too full to speak. Had Jimmie been dead she would scarcely -have mourned for him more deeply than she did now. The country was -already rife with rumors of the sufferings endured by our prisoners, and -death itself seemed almost preferable to months and years of privations -and pain in the Southern prisons. - -“Sent to Richmond, and probably from thence further South, probably to -Georgia.” - -This was all the intelligence they could procure from him, until spring, -when there came news direct that he was at Salisbury, and there for a -time the curtain dropped, leaving his face shrouded in darkness, while -in his Northern home tears were shed like rain, and prayers went up to -heaven from the quivering lips of a mother, who was just learning to -pray as she ought, and into Annie Graham’s heart there gradually crept a -wish that the poor, weary prisoner might know how much and how kindly -she thought of him, feeling at times half sorry that she had not given -him some little hope as a solace for the weary hours of his prison life. - - - - - CHAPTER XXV. - GETTYSBURGH. - - -Rose Mather had brought her husband home as soon as it was safe to move -him, and with the good nursing of Mrs. Carleton and Annie, he grew -strong enough to rejoin his regiment in May, and the last which Rose -heard from him directly was a few words hastily written and sent off to -Washington just as the Army of the Potomac was moving on to Gettysburgh. -Then came the terrible battle, when the summer air was full of smoke, -and dust, and flying splinters, with clouds of torn-up earth which -blinded the horror-stricken men, who vainly sought for shelter behind -the trees and the headstones of the graveyard, where the dead must -almost have heard the fierce commotion around them as wail after wail of -human anguish, mingled with the awful shrieks of dying horses, went up -to the blackened heavens and then died away in silence. Where the battle -was the hottest, and the carnage the most terrible, Will Mather -followed, or rather led, and when the fight had ceased he lay upon his -face, unconscious of the pitiless rain beating upon his head, or the two -savage looking Texans bending over him, and turning him to the light. - -Among the list of killed, the Rockland _Chronicle_ of July 10th had the -name of William Mather, while in another column, designated by long -lines of black, was a eulogy upon the deceased, who was known to have -fought so bravely. Then every blind of the Mather mansion was closed, -and knots of crape streamed from the door-knob, and the villagers missed -the roll of the carriage wheels which were wont to carry so much comfort -and sunshine to the hearts of the poor soldiers; and the little airy, -dancing creature, whose bright smile and rare beauty had done quite as -good service as her generous gifts, lay in her darkened room, never -weeping, never speaking, except to moan so piteously, “Oh, Will, my -darling, my poor, poor husband.” - -They could not comfort her, for she did not seem to hear, or at least to -understand one word they said, and the soft, dark eyes had in them a -wild, scared look, which troubled the watchers at her side, and made -them tremble for her safety. - -The knots of crape were taken from the doors, and the blinds were opened -at last, and the light of heaven let into the dreary house; but there -came no change to poor little Rose, whose white face grew so thin that -Tom, when in September he came home to see her, would scarcely have -known the little sister, of whose beauty he had been so proud. As if the -sight of him in his uniform had brought back the horror of the past, she -uttered a piercing shriek, and hid her face for a moment in her pillows; -then, with a sudden movement lifted her head, and shedding back her -tangled curls from her pale forehead, she stretched her arms toward him -and whispered: - -“Take me, Tom; hold me as you used to do; let me be a little girl again -in the old home in Boston, for Will, you know, is dead.” - -And Tom took her in his strong, brotherly arms, and laid her head -against his breast, and caressed and smoothed her tumbled hair, and -petted and loved her just as he did when she was a little child, with no -shadow around her like that which enfolded her now. And then he spoke of -Will, and the dark eyes fastened eagerly upon his as he told her how the -very night before the battle, Will knelt down with him and prayed that -whether he lived or died, all might be well with him. - -“And Rose,” he continued, “he bade me tell you, in case he was killed, -that all was well, and you must think of him as in Heaven, not far, as -some suppose, but near to you,—with you,—he said, and you must meet him -there. You must bear bravely what God chooses to send; not give up like -this when there is so much to be done. Will my darling little sister -heed what poor Will said? Will she try to rally and be a brave woman?” - -“Yes, Tom, I’ll try,” came gaspingly from the white lips, and Rose’s -voice was broken with sobs, as the first tears she had shed since she -heard the fatal news, ran in torrents down her face. - -Tom only staid a week, but he did them a world of good, and Annie felt -she had never known one half how noble a man he was until she saw how -tender he was with Rose, and how kind to his mother, whose heart was -aching to its very core for her youngest son. He had been removed from -Salisbury to Andersonville when they last heard from him, and was dead, -perhaps, by this time. Poor Jimmie! The year he had asked Tom to wait -would be up before very long, but Tom would still keep faith with him. -Annie was sacred to Jimmie’s memory, and once, when talking with her of -the captive, he alluded to what would probably be when Jimmie came home -again. And Annie did not turn from him now, as she would once have done -had such a thing been suggested. - -“God only knows how I might feel,” she said, and by the look in her blue -eyes, and the tone of her voice, Tom knew there was no hope for _him_. - -With many kisses and loving words of sympathy, he bade his sister -good-bye when his leave had expired, and then in the hall stood a moment -while his mother whispered something to him which made him start, and -turn pale as he said: - -“Poor Will! he would have been so glad!” - -Then, as if the news had brought Rose nearer to him, and made her more -the object of his special care, he went back to her a second time, and -wound his arms about her lovingly, as he said, “Poor little wounded -dove! God’s promises are for the widow and fatherless, and He will care -for you;” and Rose guessed to what he referred, but there was no -answering joy upon her face, and her hands were pressed upon her heart -as she watched him from the window, going from her just as Will had -gone, and whispered to herself, “It would have been too much happiness -if Will had lived; but now I cannot be glad.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXVI - COURSE OF EVENTS. - - -With a howl of despair, Mrs. Baker came rushing into the kitchen of the -Mather mansion, one morning in November, startling Annie with her -vehemence as she thrust into her hand a dirty, half-worn envelope, which -she said was from Bill, who had been missing since August, and who, it -now appeared, was at Andersonville. - -“Might better be dead,” his mother said, and then she explained that the -letter she brought Annie had come in one to herself received that -morning from Bill. - -How he ever got it through the lines was a mystery which he did not -explain; nor did Annie care, inasmuch as it brought news direct from -Jimmie. He had written to her with the pencil and on the sheet of paper -Bill had brought him, for Bill Baker was employed outside the prison -walls, and allowed many privileges which were denied to the poor -wretches who crowded that swampy pen. In short, Bill had taken the -Confederate oath,—“had done some tall swearin’,” as he wrote to Annie, -giving as an excuse for the treasonable act, “that he couldn’t _stan’_ -the racket” in that horrible place, where twenty thousand human beings -were crowded together in a space of twenty-five acres, and part of that -a marshy swamp, teeming with filth and scum, and hideous living things. -Another reason, too, Bill gave, and that was pity for the “Corp’ral,” to -whom he could occasionally take little extras, and whom he would have -scarcely recognized, he said, so worn and changed had he become from his -long imprisonment. - - “I mistrusted he was there,” Bill wrote; “and so when me and some - other fellow-travellers was safely landed in purgatory, I went on an - explorin’ tower to find him. But you bet it want so easy gettin’ - through that crowd. Why, the camp-meetin’ they had in the Fair Grounds - in Rockland, when Marm Freeman bust her biler hollerin’, was nothin’ - to the piles of ragged, dirty, hungry-lookin’ dogs; some standin’ up, - some lyin’ down, and all lookin’ as if they was on their last legs. - Right on a little sand bank, and so near the dead line that I wonder - he didn’t get shot, I found the Corp’ral, with his trouses tore to - tatters, and lookin’ like the old gal’s rag-bag that hangs in the - suller-way. Didn’t he cry, though, when I hit him a kelp on the back, - and want there some tall cryin’ done by both of us as we sat there - flat on the sand, with the hot sun pourin’ down on us, and the sweat - and the tears runnin’ down his face, as he told me all he’d suffered. - It made my blood bile. I’ve had a little taste of Libby, and Bell - Isle, too; but they can’t hold a candle to this place. Miss Graam, you - are the good sort, kinder pius like; but I’ll be hanged if I don’t - bleeve you’ll justify me in the thumpin lies I told the Corp’ral that - day, to keep his spirits up. Says he, ‘Have you ever ben to Rockland - since Fredericksburg?’ and then I tho’t in a minute of that nite in - the woods when he prayed about Anny; and ses I to myself, ‘The piusest - lie you ever told will be that you have been home, and seen Miss - Graam, with any other triflin’ additions you may think best;’ so I - told him I had ben hum on a furbelow, as the old gal (meanin’ my - mother) calls it. And I seen her, too, says I, Miss Graam, and she - talked an awful sight about you, I said, when you orto have seen him - shiver all over as he got up closer to me, and asked, ‘What did she - say?’ Then I went on romancin’, and told him how you spent a whole - evenin’ at the ole hut, talkin’ about him, and how sorry you was for - him, and couldn’t git your natural sleep for thinkin’ of him, and how, - when I came away, you said to me on the sly, ‘William, if you ever - happen to meet Mr. Carleton, give him Anny Graam’s love, and tell him - she means it.’ Great Peter! I could almost see the flesh come back to - his bones, and his eyes had the old look in ’em, as he liked to of - hugged me to death. I’d done him a world of good, he said, and for - some days he seemed as chipper as you please; but nobody can stan’ a - diet of raw meal and the nastiest watter that ever run; and ses I to - myself, Corp’ral will die as sure as thunder if somethin’ don’t turn - up; and so, when I got the hang of things a little, and seen how the - macheen was worked, sez I, ‘I’ll turn Secesh, though I hate ’em as I - do pizen.’ They was glad enuff to have me, bein’ I’m a kind of - carpenter and jiner, and they let me out, and I went to work for the - Corp’ral. I’ll bet I told a hundred lies, fust and last, if I did one. - I said he was at heart Secesh; that he was in the rebel army, and I - took him prisoner at Manassas, which, you know was true. Then I said - his sweetheart, meanin’ you, begging your pardon, got up a row, and - made him jine the Federals, and promise never to go agin the flag, and - that’s how he come to be nabbed up at Fredericksburg. I said ‘twan’t - no use to try to make him swear, for he thought more of his gal’s good - opinion than he did of liberty, and I set you up till I swan if I - bleeve you’d a knowed yourself, and every one of them fellers was - ready to stan’ by you, and two of ’em drinked your helth with the wust - whisky I ever tasted. One of ’em asked me if I was a fair specimen of - the Northern Army, and I’ll be darned if I didn’t tell him _no_, for I - was ashamed to have ’em think the Federals was all like me. I guess, - though, they liked me some; anyway, they let me carry something to the - Corp’ral every now and then, and I bleeve he’d die if I didn’t. I’ve - smuggled him in some paper and a pencil, and he is going to wright to - you, and I shall send it, no matter how. The rebs won’t see it, and I - guess it’s pretty sure to go safe. I must stop now, and wright to the - old woman. - - “Yours to command, - “WILLIAM BAKER, ESQUARE.” - -It was with great difficulty that Annie could decipher the badly-written -scrawl; but she made it out at last, and then took Jimmie’s letter next, -shuddering as she saw in it marks of the horrors which Bill had -described but faintly, and which were fully corroborated by Jimmie -himself. - - “My dear Annie,” he wrote, “I do not know that this letter will ever - reach you. I have but little hope that it will. Still it is worth - trying for, and so here in this terrible place, whose horrors no pen - or tongue can adequately describe, I am writing to you, who I know - think sometimes of the poor wretch starving and dying by inches in - Andersonville. Oh, Annie, you can never know what I have suffered from - hunger and thirst, and exposure and filth, which makes my very blood - curdle and creep, and from that weary homesickness which more than - aught else kills the poor boys around me. When I first came here I - thought I could not endure it, and though I knew I was not prepared, I - used to wish that I might die; but a little drummer boy from Michigan, - who took to me from the first, said his prayers one night beside me, - and the listening to him carried me back to you, who, I felt sure, - prayed for me each day. And so hope came back again, with a desire to - live and see your dear face once more. My little drummer boy, Johnny, - was all the world to me, and when he grew too sick to sit or stand, I - held his poor head in my lap, and gave up my rations to him, for he - was almost famished, and ate eagerly whatever was brought to us. We - used to say the Lord’s Prayer together every night, when a certain - star appeared, which he playfully called his ‘mother,’ saying it was - her eye watching over him. It was a childish fancy, but we grow - childish here, and I, too, have given that star a name. I call it - ‘Annie,’ and I watch its coming as eagerly as did the little boy, who - died just as the star reached the zenith and was shining down upon - him. His head was in my lap, and all there was left of my coat I made - into a pillow for him, and held him till he died. His mother’s address - is ——, Michigan. Write to her, Annie, and tell her how Johnny died in - the firm hope of meeting her again in heaven. Tell her he did not - suffer much pain,—only a weakness, which wasted his life away. Tell - her the keepers were kind to him, and brought him ice-water several - times. Tell her, too, of the star at which he gazed so long as he had - strength. - - “It was all the companion I had after he was gone until Bill Baker - came. I shall never forget that day. I had crawled up to my sand bank, - and drawn my rags around me, and was beginning to wish again that I - could die, when a broad hand was laid upon my shoulder, and a voice - which was music to me then, if it never had been before, said to me - cheerily, ‘Hallo, old Corp’ral! Such are the chances of war! Give us - your fist!’ But when he saw what a sorry jaded wretch I was, his chin - began to quiver, and we cried together like two great babies as we - were. - - “Oh, Annie, was it a lie Bill Baker told me, or did you really send me - your _love_, and say that you meant it? He told me such a story, and I - grew better in a moment. Have you relented, and if I could ask you - again the question I asked a year ago, when we sat together beneath - the moonlight, would you tell me _yes_? Darling Annie, Andersonville - is not so terrible since I am kept up by that hope. I do not mind now - if my shoes and stockings are all gone, and my trowsers nearly so, and - I watch for that star so eagerly, and make believe that it is you, and - when the dark clouds obscure it, and the rain is falling upon my - unsheltered head, I say that it is Annie’s tears, and do not mind that - either. I pray, too, Annie,—pray with my heart, I hope, though my - prayers have more to do with you than myself. - - “Bill Baker said he should write and tell you about his taking the - oath, which I believe he did almost solely for my sake, and greatly - have I been benefited by it. Rough as he is, and disgusting at times, - he seems to have gained friends outside, and he does us many a - kindness, confining his attentions mostly to me, who am his especial - care. It is a strange Providence that he who took me a prisoner at - Bull Run and annoyed me so terribly, should now be caring for me here - at Andersonville, and literally keeping the life within me, for I - should die without him. - - “I have not written half I want to say, but my paper is nearly used - up, and not one word have I said to mother or Rose. Tell them they - would not know me now, and tell them, too, that in my dreams, when I - am not with you, I am with them, and mother’s face is like an angel’s, - while Rose’s sparkling beauty makes my heart beat just as it used to - beat when I first began to realize what a darling sister I had. Dear - Annie, you _did_ send that message by Bill Baker, I _will_ believe, - and thus believing, shall gain strength maybe to bear up until the day - of release. - - “Good-bye, my darling. From my crowded, filthy, terrible prison I send - you a loving good-bye.” - -Notwithstanding the sickening details of this letter the day succeeding -its receipt was a brighter one at the Mather house than the inmates had -known for a long time. Jimmie was still alive, and with Bill Baker’s -care he might survive the horrors of Andersonville and come back to them -again. Annie showed both letters to Mrs. Carleton, who, when she read -them, wound her arms around Annie’s neck and whispered, “Is it wrong for -me to be glad that Bill Baker told that lie, when by the means our -prisoner boy is so greatly benefited.” - -Annie could not tell. She was not sorry that Jimmie should think of her -as he did, and that night when the stars came out in the sky she looked -tearfully up at them wondering which was the one watched for by the -childish young man, and the little boy who died. Mrs. Carleton had taken -it for granted that if Jimmie came back Annie would be her daughter, and -she clung to her with a love and tenderness second only to what she felt -for Rose. Poor Rose! She had listened with some degree of interest to -such portions of Jimmie’s letter as Annie chose to read to her, but it -had no power to rouse her from the state of apathy into which she had -fallen. She never smiled now, and rarely spoke except to answer a -question, but sat all day by the window in her own room, and looked away -to the southward, where all her thoughts were centered. It was very -strange that nothing could be heard of her husband except that he was -shot down dead. A dozen corroborated that fact, but his body had not -been found on the field, nor was any mention ever made of him in any -official accounts. Once Rose had been startled from her stupor by a -soldier, who pretended to have seen her husband in one of the Southern -prisons, but a closer examination proved that the man was intoxicated, -and had told what he did in the hope that money might be given him for -the intelligence, and then Rose sank back into her former condition, the -same hopeless look in her eyes which had been there from the moment she -heard her husband’s name among the killed, and the same look of anguish -upon her face which never relaxed a muscle, as she watched indifferently -the preparations made by her mother and Annie for an event which under -other circumstances would have stirred every pulsation of her heart. But -when on Christmas morning, the bell from St. Luke’s was sending forth -its joyous peal for the child born in Bethlehem more than eighteen -hundred years ago, there came a softer, more natural look to Rose’s -eyes, and her lip quivered a little as she said to Annie, who was -bending over her, “What is that sound in the next room like the crying -of a baby?” - -“It is your baby, Rose; born last night. Don’t you remember it,—a -beautiful little boy, with his father’s look in his eyes, and Jimmie’s -dimple in his chin?” - -Annie hoped, by mentioning both the father and Jimmie, to awaken some -interest in the little mother, whose eyes grew larger, and rounder, and -brighter, as she whispered: - -“My baby, I can’t understand. It is all so strange and mysterious. How -came I with a baby, Annie? Bring it to me, please.” - -They brought it to her, and laid it in her arms, and then stood watching -her as the first tokens of the mother’s love came over her face and -crept into her eyes, which gradually began to fill with tears, until, at -last, a storm of sobs and moans burst forth, as Rose rocked to and fro, -whispering to her child: - -“Poor darling! to be born without a father, when he would have been so -proud of his boy. Poor, murdered Will! Poor, fatherless baby! I am glad -God gave you to me. I did not deserve it. I’ve been so thoughtless and -wicked, but I will be better now. Dear little baby, we will grow good -together, so as to go some day where papa has gone.” - -She would not let them take the child from her. It was hers, she said. -God had sent it to make her better, and she would have it. There was -something in the touch of its soft, warm hands, which kept her heart -from breaking. And so they left it with her, and from the day that -little life came to be one in the household, Rose began to amend, and, -in her love for her child, forgot in part the terrible pain in her -heart. Once her mother said to her: - -“Will you call your baby, William?” And she replied. - -“No; there is but one Willie for me, and he is in Heaven. Baby will be -called for brother Jimmie.” - -And so one bright Sunday morning in March, when St. Luke’s was decked -with flowers from the Mather hot-house, and the children of the Sunday -School sang their Easter carols, Rose Mather, in her widow’s weeds, went -up the aisle, with her mother, Annie, and brother Tom, the latter of -whom gave her bright-eyed, beautiful boy to the rector, who baptized him -“James Carleton.” And all through the congregation there ran a thrill of -pity for the widowed mother, whose face, though it had lost some of its -brilliant color, was more beautiful than ever, for there was shining all -over it the light of a new joy, the peace which comes from sins -forgiven, and, after the baptism was over and the morning service read, -Rose knelt with her mother, brother, and Annie, to receive, for the -first time, the precious symbols of a Saviour’s dying love. - -Rose had ceased to oppose Annie in her wish to join Mrs. Simms, who was -then at Annapolis; and when Tom, a few days after the baptism, went back -again, Annie would go with him as a regular hospital nurse. - -It might be that Jimmie would be among the number of skeletons sent up -to “God’s land,” as the poor fellows called it; and Annie’s heart -throbbed with the pleasure it would be to minister to him, to call the -life back to his heart, to awaken an interest in him for olden times, -and then, perhaps, whisper to him that the decision made that moonlight -night, more than a year and a half ago, had been revoked and where she -had said no, her answer now was yes. Between herself and Mrs. Carleton -there had been a long talk, of which Jimmie and the little Pequot girl -were the subjects, and the proud lady had asked forgiveness for the -wrong done to that girl, if wrong there were. - -“Something tells me you will find my boy,” she said; “and if you do, -tell him how freely I give him this little Lulu, and God bless you -both!” - -A few weeks later, and news came to the Mather House that when the -battle of the Wilderness was over, Captain Tom Carleton was not with his -handful of men who came from the field. “A prisoner of war,” was the -next report, and then, as if her last hope had been taken from her, Mrs. -Carleton broke down entirely, and, secluding herself from the world -without, sat down in her desolation, mourning and praying for her two -boys,—one a prisoner in Andersonville, and one in Columbia. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVII. - THE HUNTED SOLDIER. - - -The sun was just rising, and his red beams gilded the summits of the -Alleghany Mountains, which in the glory of the early morning seemed as -calm and peaceful as if their lofty heights had never looked down upon -scenes of carnage and strife, or their tangled passes and dark ravines -sheltered poor, starving, frightened wretches, fleeing for their lives, -and braving death in any form rather than be recaptured by their -merciless pursuers. There were several of these miserable men hiding in -the mountain passes now, prisoners escaped from Salisbury and other -points, but our story now has to do with but one, and that a young man, -with a look of determination in his eye, and the courage of a Samson in -his heart. He had suffered incredible hardships since the day of his -capture. He had been stripped at once of his handsome uniform by the -brutal Texans, who found him upon the field. His gold, which he carried -about his person into every battle, had been taken from him, and in this -condition he had been sent from one prison to another, until Salisbury -received him. At first he had suffered but little mentally, for the ball -which struck him down had left him with his reason impaired, and to him -it was all the same whether friend or foe had him in keeping. Deprived -of everything which could mark his rank as an officer, and always -insisting that his name was “Rose,” he passed for a demented creature, -whom the brutal soldiery delighted to torment. Gradually, however, his -reason came back, and he woke to the full horrors of his condition. -Then, like a caged lion he chafed and fumed, and resolved to be free. He -could not die there, knowing that far away there was a blithesome little -woman waiting for his coming, if, indeed, she had not ceased to think of -him as among the living,—a state of things which he thought very -probable, as he became aware of the fact that no one of his companions -was acquainted with his real name. Rose was the only cognomen by which -he was known, and the proud man shivered every time he heard that dear -name uttered by the coarse, jesting lips around him. A horrid suit of -dirty grey had been given him in place of the stolen uniform, and though -at first he rebelled against the filthy garments, he began ere long to -think now they might aid him in his escape, inasmuch as they were the -garb of the Confederates. Day and night he studied the best means of -escape, until at last the attempt was made and he stood one dark, rainy -night, out on the highway a free man, breathing the pure breath of -heaven, and ready to sell his life at any cost rather than go back again -to the prison he had left. He had put his trust in God, and God had -raised him up a friend at once, who had seen him leave the prison, and -greatly aided him in his escape, just as he had aided others, knowing -the while that by so doing he was putting his own life in jeopardy. But -a staunch Unionist at heart, he was willing to brave everything for the -cause, and it was through his instrumentality and minute directions that -Will Mather had finally reached the shelter of the mountains which -separate North Carolina from Tennessee. He had found friends all along -the route, true, loyal men, who had periled their lives for him; brave -tender women, whose hands had ministered so kindly to his wants, and who -had so cheerfully divided with him their scanty meals, even though -hunger was written upon their thin, haggard faces, and stared in their -sunken eyes. And Will had taken down each name, and registered a vow -that if ever he reached the North, these noble self-denying people -should be rewarded, and if possible removed from a neighborhood where -they suffered so much from privation and from the hands of their former -friends, who, suspecting their sentiments, heaped upon them every -possible abuse. Ragged, bareheaded, footsore and worn, he came at last, -at the close of a June day, to the entrance of a cave in the hills to -which he had been directed, and where, on the damp earth, he slept so -soundly from fatigue and exhaustion that the morning sun was shining -through the entrance to the cave, and a robin, on a shrub growing near, -was trilling its morning song ere he awoke. The air, though damp from -the water which trickled through the rocks, was close and stifling, and -Will crept cautiously out from his hiding-place, and sitting down upon -the ground drank in the beauty and stillness of the summer morning. -Exactly where he was he did not know, but he felt certain that his face -was toward the land where the Stars and Stripes were waving, and a -thrill of joy ran through his veins as he thought of home and Rose, -whose eyes by this time had grown so dim with looking for him. “God take -me safely to her,” he whispered, when up the mountain side came the -sound of voices and the tramp of feet. Creeping to the farthest side of -the cave, and crawling down beneath the shelving rock where the cool -waters were dripping, he hoped to avoid being seen. Up to this moment -Will’s courage had never flagged, but now, when the Federal lines were -not many miles away, and Rose and home seemed certain, he felt a great -pang of fear, and his white lips whispered, “God pity me! God help me, -God save me, for his own glory, if not for Rose’s sake,” then, knee-deep -in the pool of water, he stood with his body nearly double, while the -voices and the feet came nearer, and at last stopped directly in front -of his hiding-place. - -There were terrible oaths outside, and bitter denunciations were -breathed against any luckless Union man who might be lurking near, and -then the light from the entrance of the cave was wholly obscured, and -Will saw that a man’s back was against the opening, as if some one were -sitting there. _Did_ they know of the cave? Would they come in there, -and if they did would they find him? Will kept asking himself these -questions and his breath came gaspingly as he knew that the man whose -back barred the entrance to his hiding-place was the bitterest in his -invectives against the Yankees, and the most anxious to find them. -Something in his voice and language indicated both education and -position superior to his companions, who evidently looked up to him as -their leader, calling him “_Square_,” and acquiescing readily when, -after the lapse of ten or fifteen minutes, he suggested that they go -higher up the mountain to a gorge where some of the fugitives had -heretofore taken refuge. - -Five minutes more and the footsteps and voices were heard far up the -mountain, and Will breathed more freely again, and kneeling down in the -pool of water, thanked God who had turned the danger aside, and kept him -a little longer. He did not dare leave the cave, but he came out from -under the rock, and stretching himself upon the ground tried to wring -and dry the tatters which hung so loosely upon him. - -It was two days since he had tasted food, and the long fast began to -make itself felt in the keen pangs of hunger. Surely he could venture -out toward the close of the day, he thought, and see if there were not -berries growing in the ledges, and when the sun was setting he crawled -to the mouth of the cavern, where just in the best place for him to see -it lay a huge corn-cake and slice of bacon, wrapped nicely in a bit of -paper. - -How it came there he did not stop to ask. That it was there was -sufficient for him then, and never had the costliest dinner, served on -massive silver, tasted to him half so well as did that bit of bacon with -the coarse corn bread. - -Refreshed and encouraged he went back to his hiding-place, intending to -start again on his perilous journey when the mountain path grew dark -enough to warrant him in doing so. But soon after the sunsetting a -fearful storm came up, and in the pitchy darkness of the cave Will -listened to the bellowing thunder roaring through the mountain gorges, -and saw from the opening the forked lightning which struck more than one -tall tree near the place of his concealment. Fed by the rain which had -fallen in torrents, the stream under the projecting rock was beginning -to rise and spread itself over the surface of the cave. It was up to his -ankles now, and it rose so rapidly that Will was thinking of leaving the -cave and groping his way as well as he could to the westward, when his -quick ear caught the sound as of two or more persons coming stealthily -up the mountain side. Whoever they were they seemed to move with the -utmost caution, and Will’s heart beat high as he hoped it might be some -brother fugitives seeking the shelter of the cave. The gleam of a -lantern, however, and the same voice he had heard in the morning cursing -the Yankees so bitterly dispelled that illusion, and in a tremor of -terror he drew back in his watery quarters, crawling in the darkness to -the farthest end of the cavern, and feeling the rising water flow over -his knees as he waited for what might come next. - -“Stay here, Charlie, while I go in. I know he must be here, and if he -isn’t drowned by this time it’s just a special Providence, that’s all I -have to say.” - -Surely that was no unfriendly voice, notwithstanding the oaths of the -morning, but still Will did not move until the stranger, who evidently -knew every turn and nook of the cavern, was so near to him that the -light from the dark lantern fell full upon his face and betrayed him at -once. There was a thought of Rose, and the freedom he had almost -regained, and then forgetting the friendly tones, Will gave a low, -bitter moan and stretching out his hands, said imploringly, - -“Kill me here as well as anywhere, and let the suspense be ended.” - -“Kill you, my boy?” and the stranger spoke cheerily as he bent over poor -Will and rubbed his clammy hands. “What should I kill _you_ for? I’ve -had my eyes on you ever since yesterday evening, when I saw you creeping -under the brushwood, and knew you were hunting for this cave. The -‘Refuge of Safety,’ I call it, and it has proved so to many a poor devil -who like yourself has taken shelter here. I have never known one to fail -of reaching the happy land when once they got so far as this, so cheer -up, my man. Paul Haverill can swear a string of swears about the Yanks -which will reach from here to Richmond, if necessary, and then when the -hounds are thrown off the track he can turn round and save the poor -hunted rascal’s life. You are among your friends, so come out from this -puddle. You must be wetter than a rat. There’s a spring under the rocks, -and it rises in a rain so as to fill the cave sometimes. Here, Charlie, -give us that shawl, his teeth are fairly chattering.” - -Thus talking, the stranger, who had announced himself as Paul Haverill, -led Will out to where the boy Charlie stood, holding a bright plaid -shawl in his hand, and looking curiously at the worn, drooping, sorry -figure emerging from the cave. It was a woman’s shawl, Will knew, but it -was very soft and warm, and he wrapt it closely round him, for he was -shaking with cold, and his tattered garments were wringing wet. Very few -words were spoken, and those in a whisper, as they went cautiously down -the mountain until they reached what seemed to be a road winding among -the hills. This they did not follow, but, striking into the field or -pasture land beside it, kept to the right, and at a safe distance from -it, lest some straggler might be abroad, and meet them face to face. -Will Mather was enough acquainted with Southern customs not to be -surprised to find here in the mountain wilds a substantial and even -handsome-looking building, which, with its white walls and green blinds, -seemed much like the farm-houses in New England. There was a light -shining from the windows, and a woman’s brisk step was heard as they -went toward the door; Paul Haverill coughing, to give warning of his -approach. - -“All right!” was the pass-word by which they entered, and Will soon -stood in the wide hall which ran through the entire building, and opened -in the rear upon a broad piazza. - -“Better take him to Miss Maude’s room,” the woman said, and Will -followed on to an upper chamber, which, he would have known at once -belonged to a young lady. - -It was not as elegantly furnished as his own sleeping apartment at home, -but it bore unmistakable marks of taste and refinement; while the air of -pure gentle womanhood, which pervaded it, brought Rose very vividly -before him. - -“This is my niece’s room, Maude De Vere,” Mr. Haverill explained, when -they were alone, and Will was drying himself before the fire, kindled by -the woman who had admitted them, and who, Will saw, was a mulatto. “My -niece is not at home now,” he continued. “She is in South Carolina; has -been gone several months on a visit to old Judge Tunbridge, her mother’s -uncle. I’m her mother’s brother, and she and the boy Charlie have lived -with me since the first year of the war. Their father was Captain De -Vere, from North Carolina, and was killed at the first Bull Run. Nelly, -their mother, never held up her head after that. I was with her when she -died, and brought the children home. Maude is twenty now, and Charlie -fourteen. I am their guardian. Maude is Union, Charlie secesh, but safe. -They have a great deal of property here and there, though how it will -come through the war, the Lord only knows.” - -Will was glad to see that his host was inclined to talk on without -waiting for answers, and he kept quiet, while Mr. Haverill continued: - -“I dare say you wonder to find a chap like me among people who are so -bitter against you Yankees, and I sometimes wonder at myself. I am South -Carolina born, and ought to be foremost in the rebellion; but hanged if -I can see that it is right. Why, _I_ might as well set up a government -of my own, here on the Oak Plantation, and refuse to come under any -civilized laws. Mind, though, I don’t think the South all wrong,—not a -bit of it. The North _did_ bully us, and the election of Mr. Lincoln was -particularly obnoxious to the majority here, but we had no right to -secede, and you did your duty trying to drive us back. For a spell I -kept quiet,—didn’t take either side; or if I did, I wanted the South to -beat, as all my interests are here. But when our folks got to abusing -their prisoners so shamefully, and told so many lies by way of deceiving -us fellows who live among the hills and only get the news once or twice -a week, I changed my politics, and after the day when I found one of my -neighbors, and the best man that ever breathed, too, _hung_ to a tree -like a dog, with the word ‘Abolitionist’ pinned to his coat, I made a -vow that every energy I had should be given to caring for and helping; -just such wretches as you, and if I’ve helped one I’ve helped a -thousand. Why, at least a hundred have slept in this very room,—Maude’s -room; for, as I told you, she is Union to the backbone, and led one chap -across the mountain herself. She is a regular Di Vernon, and is not -afraid of the very de’il. When she went away she bade me put them in -here, as the room least liable to suspicion. To the folks around me I am -the roughest kind of a Secessionist, and I suppose nobody can beat me -swearing about the Yankees, just to hoodwink ’em, you know. I suppose -that’s wrong; my wife would say so; she was a saint when she was -here,—she is an angel now. She died five years ago,—before the war broke -out; and _Lois_, the woman you saw, has been my housekeeper since. I -shouldn’t like the North to take her from me. They tried it once,—when a -squad of ’em ransacked my house,—and I was sick in bed. Maude threatened -to blow their brains out: and, sir, she would have done it, too, if the -scamps hadn’t let Lois alone. - -“I don’t agree with your folks on the nigger question, though none of -mine has run away since the Proclamation, which I did not like. They -know, too, they are free, or will be when the Yankees come, for I took -pains to tell them, and gave them liberty to cut stick for the Federal -lines as soon as they pleased; but they staid, and great help I find -them in the business I’m carrying on. They are constantly on the lookout -for runaways or refugees, and are quite as good as bloodhounds to scent -one. They told me about _you_, and I watched and saw you go into that -cave, which is on my land, and which few know about, or if they do they -think it a springhole, and never dream that anybody can hide in there. -Somebody else must have seen you, too, for word came that a man was -hiding in the mountains, and as the acknowledged leader of as hard a set -as ever hunted a Yankee, I went with ’em to find you, and carried in my -pocket that bacon and corn bread which I managed to drop into the cave -when I sat with my back against it. I knew you must be hungry, and it -might be some time before I could come to your aid. We didn’t find the -chap; but to-morrow they’ll be at it again, and so, while I help ’em -hunt for a man about your build, you will stay in the room in Lois’s -charge. Maude has a good many gimcracks here, such as books and things, -which may amuse you. She is coming home by and by. The house is very -different then. You ought to see Maude. We are very proud of her. That’s -her picture, only not half so good-looking,” and he pointed to a small -oil painting hanging above the mantel. - -It was a splendid head, and the glossy black hair bound about it in -heavy braids gave it a still more regal look. The eyes, too, were black, -but very soft and gentle in their expression, though something about -them gave the impression that they might flash and blaze brilliantly -under excitement. It was a beautiful face, and Will did not wonder that -his host was proud of his niece,—prouder even than of the pale-faced, -delicate boy, who next day, while the hunt for the runaway went on among -the mountains, tried to entertain Will Mather by telling him of his old -home in North Carolina, and how happy they were there before the war -came and took his father away. - -“I don’t see it in the light Uncle Paul and sister do,” Charlie said. “I -don’t want them to catch and torment the prisoners, or murder folks who -don’t think as they do; but I _do_ want our side to succeed, and when I -hear of a victory I say ‘Hurrah for the Confederacy!’ I can’t help it -when I think of father, who was killed by the Yankees, and all the -trouble the war has brought. I’m willing to work like a dog for the -refugees and prisoners, and I’d die sooner than betray one, but if I was -a man I’d join Mr. Davis’s army sure.” - -The pale face of the boy was flushed all over, and his dark eyes burned -with Southern fire as he frankly avowed his sentiments, and Will Mather -could not repress a smile at this noble specimen of a Southern rebel. - -“I like you, my boy, for your frankness,” he said, “and when the war is -over, I shall have to send for you to come North and be cured of your -treason.” - -“It is not _treason_,” and the boy stamped his girlish foot. “It is not -treason any more than the views held by the Revolutionary soldiers. -Didn’t the colonies secede from England, and does anybody call -Washington a traitor now? I tell you it is _success_ which decides the -nature of the thing. If we succeed, future historians will speak of us -as patriots, as a persecuted people, who gave our lives in defence of -our homes and firesides.” - -“You won’t succeed, my poor boy. The Confederacy is gasping its last -breath. You will be conquered at the last, and then what have you -gained?” - -“Nothing,—nothing but ruin!” and the tears poured over the white face of -this defender of Southern rights. - -Soon recovering himself, however, he exclaimed, proudly: - -“We may be conquered, but not subjugated. You can’t do that with all -your countless hordes of men, and your millions of money. The North can -never subjugate the South. We may lay down our arms because we have no -other alternative, but we shall still think the same, and feel the same -as we do now.” - -Here was a curious study for Will Mather, who was surprised to find such -maturity of thought and so strong determination in one so young and -frail. - -“No wonder it is hard to conquer a people composed of such elements,” he -thought, and he was about to continue the conversation when he was -startled by a loud blast from a horn among the hills. - -“They’ve caught some one. They always do that as a kind of exultation,” -the boy exclaimed, wringing his hands, and evincing as much distress as -he had heretofore shown bitterness against the opposing party. - -It was a poor refugee from a neighboring county, whom, in spite of Paul -Haverill’s precautions, they had found in a hollow tree, and whom they -brought more dead than alive down to the Oak Plantation, amid vociferous -cries of “Tar and feather him!” “Hang him to a sour-apple tree!” “Give -him a taste of the halter!” “Make him an example to all other sneaking -Yankee sympathizers!” - -With his face as white as marble, and his lips set firmly together, Paul -Haverill stood in the midst of the noisy group which he tried to quiet. - -“Let us try him by jury,” he said, and something in his voice reassured -the frightened, haggard wretch, who had seen his house burned down and -his son shot before his very eyes, and of course expected no mercy. - -The trial by jury proved popular, and then Paul Haverill suggested that -a judge be chosen in the person of some one who had lost a near friend -in the war, and was of course competent to mete out full justice to the -criminal—“Charlie, for instance,” and his eye fell on the boy, who had -joined the crowd and was standing close by the prisoner. The boy caught -his uncle’s meaning at once, and exclaimed: - -“Yes, let _me_ be the judge. My father was killed at Bull Run. My mother -died of grief. Surely I may decide.” - -Charlie De Vere was a favorite with the men, who knew how staunch a -Confederate he was, and, waiving the trial for want of time, they said: - -“Charlie shall decide whether we hang, drown, whip, or tar and feather -the prisoner at the bar.” - -Then, with far more energy and fire than had characterized his -vindication of the South, Charlie De Vere pleaded for the criminal, that -they would _let him go_. “Just this once, for father’s sake, and mine, -and Maude’s,” he said; and, at the mention of Maude, the dark brows -began to clear, and the scowling faces grew more lenient in their -expression, for Maude De Vere was worshiped by the rough men of the -mountains, who, though they knew her sympathies were on the Union side, -made an exception in her favor, and held her person and opinions sacred. -For _her_ sake, they would let their captive go, giving him warning to -leave the neighborhood at once, nor let himself be seen again in their -midst while the war lasted. - -And thus it chanced that Will Mather had a companion in his wanderings, -which were renewed the following day; the boy Charlie acting as guide -through the most dangerous part of the way, and at last bidding him -good-bye, with great tears in his eyes, as he said: - -“I hope you won’t be caught; but I don’t know, the woods are full of our -soldiers. Travel at night, and hide through the day. Trust no one, but -the negroes; and if you are captured, ask for mercy in sister’s name. -Everybody knows Maude De Vere.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXVIII - THE DEAD ALIVE. - - -It was the night of the third of July, the anniversary, as she supposed, -of her husband’s death, and Rose was sitting up unusually late. She -could not sleep for thinking of one year ago, and the white-faced man -who lay upon the battle-field with the rain falling upon him. - -It was a clear starlight night, and she leaned many times from her open -window and looked up at the kindly eyes keeping watch above her. But she -did not see the figure coming down the street and up the walk to their -own door; the figure of a worn-out soldier, who from the prison at -Salisbury had escaped to Tennessee, and had come from thence straight on -until the midnight train dropped him at the Rockland station. - -The light was behind her, and Will saw _her_ distinctly as he went up -the avenue, and he stopped a moment to look at her. She was very pale, -and much thinner than when he saw her last, but never, even on her -bridal day, had she seemed so beautiful to him as then, when leaning -from her window, and apparently listening for something. - -It was the sound of his footsteps as he came up the walk which had -attracted her attention, and when it ceased so suddenly as he stopped -under the trees, she felt a momentary pang of fear, for burglars had -been very common in the town that summer. Possibly this was one of the -robbers, and Rose was thinking of alarming the house, when the figure -emerged from under the shadow of the trees, and came directly up beneath -the window, while a voice which made Rose’s blood curdle in her veins, -called softly, - -“Rose, darling, is it you?” - -Had the dead come back to life? Was that her husband’s voice, and that -his step in the lower hall? Rose had supposed the front door bolted. She -had not heard it open, and now, when the steps sounded upon the stairs, -her heart gave one throb of fear, as all the old superstitious stories -of New England lore rushed to her mind. Perhaps on this anniversary of -his death he _had_ come back to see her. And perhaps—— - -Rose did not finish the sentence, for the opening of her own door -disclosed the wasted figure of a man wearing the army blue, his face -very pale, but lighted up with perfect joy as he stretched his arms -toward the shrinking woman by the window, and said: - -“Come to me, darling; I am no ghost.” - -Then she went to him, but uttered no sound. Her heart was too full for -that, and seemed bursting from her throat as she laid her head upon the -bosom of her husband, and felt his arms around her waist and neck. Her -stillness frightened him, it was so unlike her, and lifting her from the -floor, he took her in his lap, and said to her: - -“Speak to me, Rose. Let me hear your voice once more. You thought I was -dead, and you’ve been so sorry.” - -“Yes, killed at Gettysburgh,” came gaspingly at last; and then a storm -of tears and kisses fell upon Will’s face, and Rose’s arms were thrown -about his neck as she tried to tell him how great was her joy to have -him back again. - -“I have been so lonely,” she said, “for everybody is gone. Jimmie and -Annie, and poor Tom, too, is a prisoner at last, so mother and I are all -alone, except”—— - -Just then it occurred to her that her husband had no suspicion of the -great joy in store for him. - -“How shall I tell him?” she thought, and her eyes went from his face to -the basket and chair where baby’s clothes were lying. - -The little white dress, with its shoulder knots of blue; the flannels -and the soft wool socks were all there in plain sight, and Will saw -them, too, as his eye followed Rose’s. - -“Rose, tell me, what is that? What does it mean?” he asked, and then, -without a word, Rose led him into the adjoining room, where in his crib -slumbered her beautiful boy,—_their_ beautiful boy rather. He was hers -alone no longer, for the father was there now, and the happiest moment -he had ever known was that when he knelt by his baby’s cradle, and felt -how much he had for which to thank his Maker. He could not wait till -morning before he heard the sound of his first-born’s voice, and he took -him at once in his arms, every pulse thrilling with pride and exquisite -delight, as he felt the soft, baby hands in his own, and looked into the -beautiful dark eyes which met his so wonderingly as baby awoke and gazed -up into his face. It was not afraid of him, and Rose almost danced with -joy as she saw it smile in its father’s face, and then turn slily away. - -“It was so terrible till baby came last Christmas,” she said, beginning -to explain how they believed him dead, and how much she had suffered. -“Even baby did not make me as glad as it ought,” she continued, “for I -could not forget how happy you would have been to come home and find him -here, and now you’ve come. God is very, very good; I love him now, Will, -better, I hope than I love you, or baby, or anything. I’ve given baby to -Him and given myself, too, but he had to punish me so hard before I -would do it.” - -Then together the re-united couple knelt and thanked the Father who had -remembered them so mercifully, and asked that henceforth their lives -might be dedicated to his service, and all they had be subject to his -will. There was no more sleep in the Mather mansion that night, for by -the time Mrs. Carleton and the servants had recovered from their -surprise and joy, the early morning was red in the east, and the sun was -just beginning to show the returned soldier how pleasant and beautiful -his home was looking. - -The people of Rockland had not intended to have much of a celebration on -that Fourth of July. The churchyard was too full of soldiers’ graves, -and the war-clouds were still too dark over the land, while the battle -of the Wilderness, where so many had perished, was too fresh in their -minds to admit of much festivity; but when it was known that Will Mather -had come home the town was all on fire with excitement. Every bell was -rung, and the cannon of Bill Baker memory bellowed forth its welcome, -while in the evening impromptu fireworks attested to the people’s -delight. Then followed many days of delicious quiet in which Will told -his wife and mother the story of his wanderings, but said very little of -his life in Salisbury. That was something he could not mention without a -shudder, and so he passed it over in silence, choosing rather to tell of -his journey across the mountains, where so many friendly hands had been -stretched out to help him. He had every name upon paper, and was only -waiting for an opportunity to show his gratitude in some tangible form. -Especially was he grateful to Paul Haverill, whose name became a -household word, together with that of Charlie and Maude De Vere. Of her -Rose thought so often, wishing she could see her, and resolving when the -war was over either to write at once or go all the way to the Mountains -of Tennessee to find her. - -“Poor Tom!” she often sighed. “If he could only fall into so friendly -hands.” - -But everything pertaining to Tom was shrouded in gloom. The last they -heard he was in Columbia, while Jimmie still pined in Andersonville, if -indeed he had not died amid its horrors. Exchanged prisoners were -constantly arriving at Annapolis, where both Mrs. Simms and Annie were, -and every letter from the latter was eagerly torn open by Rose in hopes -that it might contain some news of her brothers. But there was none, and -the mourning garments which, with her husband’s return, were exchanged -for lighter, airier ones, seemed only laid aside for a few weeks until -word should come that one or both of her brothers were with the dead -whose graves were far away beneath a Southern sky. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIX. - THE HEROINE OF THE MOUNTAIN. - - -Of the three captives, Will Mather, Jimmie, and Tom, the latter had -suffered the least as a prisoner of war. A strong Freemason, he had -found friends at Columbia, where chance threw in his way a near relation -of his dead wife and a former classmate. Though firmly believing in the -Southern cause, Joe Haskell from the first befriended Captain Carleton, -whom he finally helped to escape, giving him money, and so far as he was -able, directions where to go and whom to ask for aid. Tom’s imprisonment -had been of short duration, and thus it was, with vigor unimpaired and -spirits unbroken, that he found himself free on that very night when -Will Mather lay sleeping in the cave among the mountains of Tennessee. -But that “Refuge of Safety” was many, many miles away, and Tom’s route -to the land of freedom was a longer and far more dangerous one than -Will’s had been. Still Tom had in his favor health and strength, -together with a knack of passing himself off as a Southerner whenever an -opportunity was presented, and so for a week or more he proceeded with -comparatively little trouble; but at the end of that time dangers and -difficulties beset him at every step, while more than once death or -recapture stared him in the face, either from the close proximity of his -pursuers, or the pertinacity of the bloodhounds which were set upon his -track. Escape at times seemed impossible, and Tom’s courage and strength -were beginning to give way, when one night, toward the last of June, he -found himself in a negro cabin, and an occupant of a bed whose covering, -though impregnated with the peculiar odor of the sable-hued faces around -him, seemed the very embodiment of sweetness and cleanliness to the -tired and footsore man, who nearly all his life had slept in the finest -linen, with lace or silken hangings about his bed. For linen now there -was a ragged quilt, and the bed was festooned with cobwebs, while from -the blackened rafters hung bundles of herbs and strings of peppers, -alternated here and there with the grimy articles of clothing which old -Hetty had washed that day for her own “boys,” and in consequence of the -rain had hung in her cabin to dry. Coarse, heavy shirts they were, but -Tom, as he watched them drying on the pole, fell to coveting the uncouth -things, and thought how soft and nice they would feel on his rough -flesh. Then he thought of home and Rose, and wondered what she would say -could she look in upon him in that negro hut, with all those stalwart -boys sitting by, while Hetty, their mother, cooked the corn-cake, and -fried the slice of bacon for supper. Two sat just where Tom could see -them, while the third was near the door, keeping a constant watch on the -circuitous path leading from the cabin to a large dwelling on the -knoll,—“Marsr’s house,”—where to-night a number of young people were -assembled in honor of the return of the son and heir, Lieut. Arthur, who -had been in so many battles, and had a taste of prison life at the -North. - -Though bitterly opposed to the Unionists, Arthur was truthful, almost to -a fault, as some of his auditors thought to whom he was recounting the -incidents of his prison life. Comfortable beds, decent bread, -well-cooked meat, with plenty of pure air and water, _he_ had received -from the hands of his enemies; and once, when for a few days he was -sick, he had been fed with toast and jelly, and tea quite as good as -Hetty could make, he said. And while he talked more than one present -thought of the Southern prisons, where so many men were dying from -starvation and neglect; and one young girl’s eyes flashed angrily, and -her nostrils quivered with passion as she burst out with the -exclamation: - -“That’s the story most of our prisoners tell when they come back to us. -Think you a like report will be carried North, if the poor wretches ever -live to get there! I think it a shame to allow such suffering in our -midst.” - -This speech, which had in it the ring of Unionism, did not startle the -hearers as much as might be expected. They were accustomed to Maude De -Vere’s outspoken way, and they knew that when she first came among them -she was on the Federal side, and had opposed the secession movement with -all the force of her girl nature. As yet no harm had been threatened -her, for Maude was one to whom all paid deference, and her clear -arguments touching the right of secession had done much toward keeping -alive a feeling of humanity for our prisoners in the family where for -months she had been a guest. - -Squire Tunbridge—or Judge, as he was frequently called—was her near -relative, and as his only daughter had died only two years before, and -he was very lonely in his great house, he had invited Maude to visit -him, and insisted upon her staying as long as possible. At first he had -laughed at her Yankee preferences, but when the deaths at Salisbury and -Andersonville increased so fast, he shook his head sadly and protested -against the cruelty and neglect of the government. “He did not believe -in killing men by inches,” he said; “better shoot them at once.” And -still he would not willingly have harbored a runaway on his premises, -for fear of the odium which would attach to him if the fact were known. - -And so, when late that night, while Tom lay sleeping in Hetty’s cabin, -and Hetty, up at the big house, was waiting upon the guests and making -secret signs to Maude De Vere, there came a band of men into the yard in -pursuit of an escaped Yankee, the Squire roused at once, saying that no -one could possibly be hidden on his plantation unless the blacks had -secreted him. The negro houses were close by; they could look for -themselves. He had supposed his servants loyal, but there was no telling -in these perilous times; and the old man’s face flushed as his Southern -blood fired his zeal for the Southern cause. - -In her evening dress of white, with her bands of glossy black hair bound -like a coronet around her regal brow, Maude De Vere stood leaning upon -the piano, her eyes shining like burning coals, and her lips slightly -parted as she listened to the conversation, and then darted an anxious -glance toward the spot where Hetty had been standing a moment before. -But Hetty had disappeared, and under cover of darkness was running and -rolling and slipping down the steep wet path, which led to her cabin -door. - -Arrived there, she seized the sleeping Tom by the arm, and exclaimed: - -“Wake up, mars’r, for de dear lord’s sake! De Seshioners is come, and -will be here in a minute! I’m mighty ’fraid even Miss Maude can’t save -you!” - -Tom was awake in a moment and fully alive to the danger of his -condition. From the house on the knoll, he could hear the excited voices -of his pursuers, and the sound made every pulse throb with fear. - -“Tell me what to do,” he said, and Hetty replied, - -“Kin you bar smotherin’ for a spell? If you kin, git under de ole straw -tick, and lie right still and flat, and you, Hal, buckle into marsr’s -place, as if ’twas you who’ve been lyin’ here all the time.” - -Tom did not hesitate a moment, and had just straightened himself under -the straw bed, and drawn a long breath as he felt Harry’s body settling -down above him, when steps were heard coming down the path, and a young -man’s voice asked of Hetty if she had any strangers there—“any Yankees, -you know; because if you have—” the young man paused a moment and peered -out into the night to make sure that no one was listening, then, in a -whisper, he added, “Keep them safe, and remember, Fleetfoot knows all -the passes of the mountains between here and Tennessee.” - -A suppressed “thank God!” might almost have been heard beneath the straw -bed, while old Hetty exclaimed, - -“The Lord bless Mars’r Arthur, and Miss Maude, too! I know it is her -doins.” - -And Hetty was right, for Tom Carleton owed his escape from that great -peril, to Maude De Vere rather than to Lieutenant Arthur. “When the -order was given to search the negro quarters, Arthur had seen that in -Maude’s face which constrained him to follow her when she beckoned to -him to come out upon the piazza. - -“Arthur,” she said, putting her lips to his ear, “remember the kind -treatment you received from your enemies, and be merciful. Don’t let -them find him, for there _is_ a Yankee soldier down in Hetty’s cabin. -She told me to-night. Search her house yourself. Throw them off the -track. Anything to mislead them. Be merciful. Do it, Arthur, for _my_ -sake.” - -Always beautiful, Maude De Vere was dazzlingly so now, as she stood -before the young officer pleading for Tom Carleton, and Arthur Tunbridge -was more influenced by her beauty, than by any party feelings. Assuming -a fierce, determined manner, he went back to the pursuers and said, - -“It’s perfectly preposterous that one of those Unionists should come -here for protection, when it is well known what we are. Still it may be. -There’s no piece of effrontery they are not capable of. I know them -well, just as I knew every nook and corner of the negro cabins. Stay -here, gentlemen, and take some refreshment while I search the quarters -myself.” - -Arthur Tunbridge wore a lieutenant’s uniform. He had been in the army -from the very first; he had fought in many a battle; had been a prisoner -for four months, while his father was known to be a staunch -secessionist, who was ready to sacrifice all he had for the success of -the cause he believed to be so just and righteous. There could be no -cheating in such a family as this, and so, while Maude De Vere wore her -most winning smile, and with her own hands served cake and coffee to the -soldiers, Lieutenant Arthur went on his tour of investigation, and -brought back word that not a trace of a runaway had he found, -notwithstanding that every cabin on the premises had been visited. A -savage oath was the answer to this report, but something in Maude’s eyes -kept the soldiers in check and made them tolerably civil, as they -mounted their horses, and with a respectful good-night, rode off in an -opposite direction. - -With a feeling of security after hearing from Hetty of Maude De Vere, -Tom came out from his hiding-place and ventured to the open door of the -cabin, where he stood looking at the “big house” on the hill, from which -the guests were just departing. He could hear their voices as they said -good night, and fancied he could detect the clear, well-bred tones of -Maude De Vere, in whom he began to feel so deeply interested. He could -see the flutter of her white dress as she stood against a pillar of the -piazza, with Arthur at her side, but her back was toward him, and he -could only see her well shaped head, which sat so erect and proudly upon -her shoulders. She was very tall, Tom thought, comparing her with Mary, -Annie, and petite Rose as she walked across the piazza with Arthur, who, -from comparison seemed the shorter of the two. Profoundly grateful to -her as his probable deliverer, Tom went back into the cabin and began to -question Hetty with regard to the young lady. Who was she, and where did -she live, and how came she so strong a Unionist? - -“She’s Miss Maude De Vere, bred and born in the old North State, -somewhars near Tar Run.” Aunt Hetty said “Her father was killed at first -Bull Run, and then her mother died, and she went to live with her uncle -off toward Tennessee in de hills. She’s got an awful sight of money, and -heaps of niggers,—lazy, no count critters,—who jest do nothing from morn -till night. She and Miss Nettie, Mars’r Tunbridge’s gal, was great -friends at school, and Miss Maude was here when she died, and has been -here by spells ever since. Young mars’r think she mighty nice, but dis -chile don’t ’zactly know what Miss Maude do think of him. Reckon he’s -too short, or too sessionary to suit her.” - -This was Hetty’s account of the young lady, who at that very moment was -listening with a defiant look upon her face to Arthur Tunbridge’s -remonstrance against what he termed her treasonable principles. - -“They will get you into trouble yet. The war is not over, as some would -have you think. The North is greatly divided. Be warned of me, Maude, -and do not run such risks as you do by openly avowing your Union -sentiments. Think what it would be to me if harm should befall you, -Maude.” - -Arthur spoke very gently now, while a deep flush mounted to his -beardless cheek, but met with no reflection from Maude De Vere’s face. -Only her eyes kindled and grew blacker, if possible, as she listened to -him, first with scorn, when he spoke of treason, and then with pity when -he spoke of himself, and the pain it would cause him if harm should come -to her. - -Maude knew very well the nature of the feelings with which her kinsman, -young Arthur Tunbridge, regarded her. At first she had been disposed to -laugh at him, and his preference for an Amazon, as she styled herself; -but Arthur had proved by actual measurement that in point of height he -excelled her by half an inch, while the register showed that in point of -age he had the advantage of her by more than four years, though Maude -seemed the elder of the two. - -“Don’t be foolish, Arthur, nor entertain fears for me,” she said. “I am -not afraid of Gen. Lee’s entire army, nor Grant’s either, for that -matter. My home at Uncle Paul’s has been beset alternately by either -party, and I have held a loaded pistol at the heads of both Federal and -Confederate, when one was for leading away Charlie’s favorite horse, and -the other for coaxing off old Lois to cook the company’s rations. No, I -am not afraid, and if necessary I will guide that poor wretch down in -Hetty’s cabin safely to Tennessee.” - -Arthur’s face grew dark at once, and he said, half angrily: - -“Maude, let that man alone; let them all alone. It is not womanly for -you to evince so much interest in such people. For your sake I’ll help -this one get away, but that must be the last; and remember, it is done -for _your_ sake, with the expectation of reward. Do you consent to the -terms?” - -Maude’s nostrils quivered as she drew her tall figure to its full -height, and answered back: - -“I could not prize the love I had to buy. No, Arthur; I have told you -once that you are only my brother, just as Nettie was my sister. Believe -me, Arthur, I cannot give you what you ask.” - -She spoke gently, kindly, now, for she pitied the young man whose -sincerity she did not doubt, but whose love she could not return. He was -not her equal, either physically or mentally, and the man who won Maude -De Vere must be one to whom she could look up to as a superior. Such an -one she would make very happy, but she would lead Arthur a wretched, -miserable life, and she knew it, and would save him from herself, even -though there were many kindly, tender feelings in her heart for the -young lieutenant. - -She saw that he was angry with her, and as further conversation was -useless, she left him and repaired to her room, the windows of which -overlooked Hetty’s cabin. - -And there until daylight the noble girl sat watching lest their -unwelcome visitors of the previous night, failing to find their victim, -should return and insist upon another search. As Maude De Vere said, she -had held a loaded pistol at the head of both Federal and Confederate, -when her uncle was sick, and the house was beset one week by one of the -belligerent parties and the following week by the other. She was afraid -of nothing, and Tom Carleton, so long as she stood his sentinel, had -little to fear from his pursuers. But she could not ward off the fever -which for many days had been lurking in his veins, and which was -increasing so fast that when the morning came he was too sick to rise, -and lay moaning with the pain in his eyes and complaining of the heat, -which, in that dark corner of the close cabin, and on that sultry summer -morning, was intolerable. - -“Mighty poorly, with face as red as them flowers in yer ha’r, and the -veins in his forehead as big as my leg,” was the word which Hetty -brought up to Maude De Vere the next morning, and half an hour later -Maude, in her pale buff cambric wrapper, with her black hair shining -like satin, went down to Hetty’s cabin and stood beside Tom Carleton. - -He was sleeping for a few moments, and the drops of perspiration were -standing on his forehead and about his lips. He was not worn and -emaciated, like the most of the prisoners and refugees whom Maude had -seen. His complexion, though bronzed from exposure, had not that -peculiar greyish appearance common to so many of the returned prisoners, -while his forehead was very white, and his rich brown hair, damp with -the perspiration, clung about it in the soft, round curls so natural to -it. - -There was nothing in his personal appearance to awaken sympathy on the -score of ill-treatment, and yet Maude felt herself strangely drawn -toward him, guessing with a woman’s quick perception that he was -somewhat above many whom it had been her privilege to befriend. And -Maude, being human, did not like him less for that. On the contrary, she -the more readily brushed away the flies which were alighting upon his -face, and with her own handkerchief, wiped the moisture from his brow, -and then felt his rapid pulse. - -“He ought not to stay in this place,” she said, and she was revolving -the propriety of boldly asking Squire Tunbridge if he might be removed -to the house, when Tom awoke and turned wonderingly toward her. - -He knew it was Maude De Vere, and something in her face riveted his -attention, making him wonder where he had seen somebody very like her. - -“You are sick,” she said to him kindly, as he attempted to rise on his -elbow, and fell back again upon the squalid bed. “I am afraid you are -very sick, but you are safe here,—that is,—yes,—I know you are safe. -None but fiends would betray a sick man.” - -She spoke rapidly, and Tom saw the bright color deepen in her cheek, and -her eyes flash with excitement. She was very beautiful, and Tom felt the -influence of her beauty, and tried to draw the ragged quilt over him so -as to hide the coarse, grey shirt Hetty had given him, and which was as -unlike the immaculate linen Tom Carleton was accustomed to wear as it -was possible to be. - -“You are Miss De Vere, I’m sure,” he said, “and you are very kind. I -shall not tax your hospitality long. I hope to go on to-night. Don’t -stay here, Miss De Vere; you must be uncomfortable. It’s hotter here -than in Massachusetts.” - -“You are from New England, then?” Maude asked, and Tom replied: - -“From Boston,—yes,—your people hate us most of all I believe,” and Tom -tried to smile, while Maude answered him, - -“It makes no difference to me whether you are from Maine or Oregon. You -are sick and have come to us for succor. I’ll do what I can to help -you.” - -With the last words she was gone, her tall, lithe figure bending -gracefully under the low doorway, and the rustle of her fresh, clean -garments leaving a pleasant sound in Tom Carleton’s ears. - - * * * * * - -“A sick Yankee down in Hetty’s cabin,—a Boston one at that, with his -Wendell Phillips notions, and you want me to let him be brought up to -_this house_, the house of a Southern gentleman, who, if he hates one of -the dogs worse than another, hates the Massachusetts kind, whose women -have nothing to do but to write Abolition books about our niggers. No, -indeed; he shall not come an inch, and by the Harry I’ll send for the -authorities and have him bundled off to jail before night, with his camp -fever, and his Boston airs. Needn’t talk. See if I don’t do it, and I’ll -have Hetty strung up and whipped for harboring the villain. Treason -under my very nose, and a Yankee, too! Go away,—go away, I tell you. I -won’t hear you. I hate ’em all for the cussedness there is in ’em.” - -This was Squire Tunbridge’s reply to Maude De Vere, who had told him of -Tom Carleton, and asked permission to have him moved up to the house. -Nothing daunted, Maude went close up to him, and her beautiful eyes -looked straight into his as she said: - -“Think if it was Arthur sick among his enemies. They were kind to him, -he says, and remember Nettie, too. Had she lived she would have married -a Northern man. You liked Robert, and Nettie loved him. For her sake let -this man be brought to the house. He will die there, where it is so -close.” - -“Serve him right for coming down here to fight us; wish they were all -dead. How are you going to get the rascal up that confounded hill? Can -he walk?” - -Maude had gained her point, and with Mrs. Tunbridge, who had a soft, -kind heart, she hastened to make ready a large, airy chamber, somewhat -remote from the rooms occupied by the family and their frequent guests. -It was not the best room in the house, but he would be safer there than -elsewhere, and Maude made it as inviting as possible, by pulling the bed -out from the corner to the centre of the room, covering the plain stand -with a clean, white towel, and the table with a gaily-colored shawl of -her own. Then with Hetty and one of Hetty’s sons she started for the -cabin, followed by the Squire himself. Since the war began he had not -seen a Yankee, and curiosity as much as anything took him to Tom -Carleton, whom he assailed with a string of epithets, telling him “to -see what he’d got by making war on people so much better than himself. -Good enough for you,” he continued, as, assisted by Hetty and Claib, Tom -tried to walk up the winding path, with Maude in front and the Squire in -the rear. “Yes, good enough for you, if you die like a dog, and I dare -say you will. Fevers go hard with you Bunker Hill chaps. _Claib_, you -villain, you are letting him fall. Don’t you see he hasn’t strength to -walk? Carry him, you rascal!” And thus changing the nature of his tirade -the Squire thrust his cane against Tom’s back by way of assisting him up -the hill. - -He was human if he was not quite consistent, and his face was very red, -and he was very much out of breath when the house was reached at last, -and Tom was comfortably disposed in bed. - -“For thunder’s sake, Hetty, take that grey, niggery thing off from him,” -the Squire said, pointing to the coarse shirt Tom had thought so nice, -when he exchanged it for his dirty uniform. “If you women are going to -do a thing, do it decent. Arthur’s shirts won’t fit him, I reckon, for -Arthur ain’t bigger than a pint of cider, but mine will. Fetch him one, -and for gracious sake souse him first in the bath-tub. He needs it bad, -for them prison pens ain’t none the neatest according to the tell.” - -In spite of his aversion to the Boston Yankees, the Judge had taken the -ordering of this one into his own hands, and it was to him that Tom owed -the refreshing bath which did him so much good, and abated the force of -the fever, which nevertheless ran high for many days, during which time -Maude nursed him as carefully as if he had been her brother. Arthur was -absent when the moving occurred, but when he found that it was done, and -the Yankee was actually an inmate of his father’s house, he concluded to -make the best of it, merely remarking that “they would be in a pretty -mess if the story got out of their harboring a prisoner.” - -The Judge knew that, and in fancy he saw his house burned down, and -himself, perhaps, ridden on a rail by his justly incensed neighbors. The -fear wore upon him terribly, until a new idea occurred to him. Maude, as -everybody knew, had long been talking of going back to Tennessee, and -what more natural than for Paul Haverill to send an escort for her in -the person of some cousin or other, who was foolish enough to fall sick -immediately after his arrival. This was a _smart_ thought; and as that -very day at least a dozen people called at the Cedars, as the Judge -called his place, so the dozen were told of “John Camp,” sick abed up -stairs, “kind of cousin to Maude, and sent to see her home, by her Uncle -Paul.” - -“Right smart chap,” the Judge said, feeling amazed at the facility with -which he invented falsehoods when once he began. “Been a _guerrilla_ -there in the mountains, and done some tall fightin’, I reckon.” - -This was the Judge’s story, which his auditors believed, wondering, some -of them, why the visitor should occupy that back chamber in preference -to the handsome rooms in front. Still they had no suspicion of the -truth. “John Camp” was accepted as a reality, and kind inquiries were -made after his welfare, as, day after day, the fever ran its course, and -Maude De Vere bent over him, bathing his forehead, smoothing his -pillows, and brushing his hair, her white fingers insinuating queer -fancies into his brain, as, half unconscious, he felt their touch upon -his face, and saw the soft eyes above him. - -At first Arthur had kept aloof from Tom, but as the latter grew better, -he yielded to Maude’s entreaties and went in to see him, feeling -intuitively that he was in the presence of a gentleman as well as of a -superior. He could not dislike him, for there was something about Tom -Carleton which disarmed him of all prejudice, and many a quiet, friendly -talk the two had together on the all-absorbing topic of the day. - -“He is a splendid fellow, if he is a Yankee,” was Arthur’s mental -verdict, “and fine looking, too,—finer a hundred times than I,” and then -there crept into his heart a fear lest Maude should think as he did, and -ere he was aware of it, he found himself fiercely jealous of one who was -at his mercy, and whom, if he chose, he might have removed so easily. - - - - - CHAPTER XXX. - ARTHUR AND MAUDE. - - -Tom Carleton was able to start on his journey westward. Twice he had -left his room and joined the family below, making himself so agreeable, -and adapting himself so nicely to all the Judge’s crotchets that the old -man confessed to a genuine liking for the _Yankee rascal_, and expressed -himself as unwilling to part with him. He had inquired into his family -history, and, to his infinite delight, found that the elder Carleton, -Tom’s father, was the very lawyer whose speech years ago, had been -instrumental in sending back to bondage the Judge’s runaway negro, -Hetty’s husband, whose grave was out by the garden wall, and whose wife -and sons had rendered so different a service to the lawyer’s son. - -Tom’s face was scarlet when he thought of the difference, and remembered -how his father had worked to prove that the master was entitled to his -property wherever it was found. The Judge suspected the nature of his -thoughts, and with a forced laugh, said, goodhumoredly: - -“You are more of an abolitionist than your father was, I see. Well, -well, young man, times change, and we change with them. Old man Carleton -did me a good turn, for Seth was worth two thousand dollars. I never -abused him, nor gave him a blow when I got him back. I only asked him -how he liked freedom as far as he had gone, and he didn’t answer. He -seemed broke down like, and in less than a year he died. He was the best -hand I ever had, more’n half white. I cried when he died. I’ll be hanged -if I didn’t. I told him to live and I’d set him free, and when I see how -his eyes lighted up I made out his papers on the spot, and brought ’em -to him, and he died with ’em in his hand, held so tight we could -scarcely get ’em out, and I had ’em buried with him in his coffin. - -“‘Thank you, mars’r, God bless you for letting me die free, but it’s -come too late. I would worked for you, mars’r, all the same, if you’d -done this before. I wanted to be a _man_, and not a _thing_, a brute. -You have been kind to me mars’r; thank you, thank you for liberty.’ - -“These are Seth’s very words. I got ’em by heart, and I said them so -much that I began to wonder if freedom wasn’t better than slavery. But, -bless you, my niggers was about all I had. I couldn’t give ’em up, -though I used to go out to Seth’s grave and think how he hugged the -papers to the last, and wonder if the clause ‘all men are born free and -equal,’ didn’t mean the blacks. But the pesky war broke out, and drove -all this from my head. I hate the Yankees,—I hate Lincoln. I hate the -whole Union army, though I’ll be blamed if I can hate _you_. Got a wife, -hey?” - -He turned abruptly to his guest, who had listened with so breathless -interest to the story of poor Seth, that he did not see Maude De Vere, -her eyes shining, and her cheeks flushed, as if she were under some -strong excitement. - -Between herself and Arthur there had been a long conversation concerning -Captain Tom Carleton, and other matters of greater interest to Maude. -The “John Camp” ruse had succeeded well, and Maude had a fancy for -making it do still more, by taking her patient in safety as far as her -Uncle Haverill’s. She had received several letters from her uncle, -urging her to come home, and in a week at most she was going. As one who -had been expressly sent as her escort, Mr. Carleton would of course go -with her, and in order to make the journey with perfect safety she would -have Arthur go too, and it was of this that she had spoken to him that -morning when she found him in a little summer-house at the rear of the -long garden. There was a dark shadow on Arthur’s face, as he listened to -Maude’s proposition, and when she had finished speaking, he replied: - -“I intend to go with you, provided I am not ordered back to the army, -but, Maude, I will not have that Yankee soldier hanging on to us. We -have done that for him which imperils our lives, and now that he is able -to go on, let him take his chance alone. If he is one half as keen as -Yankees think themselves to be, he will get through unharmed. No, I -won’t have him in our way.” - -“But think of the dangers to be encountered, the hordes of guerrillas -which infest the mountains,” Maude pleaded, and in her earnestness she -laid both her hands on Arthur’s shoulder, and stood leaning over him. - -“Maude De Vere,” and Arthur spoke very decidedly, “_why_ are you so much -interested in this man? Tell me, and tell me truly, too,—have you -learned to care for _him_ more than you would for a _common soldier_, -had such a one come to you as a runaway Yankee? If you have, Maude,” and -Arthur’s face was white with determination, “if you have, by the heavens -above us, I’ll put a bullet through him myself, or worse than that, send -him back to where he came from.” - -“That would be an act worthy of a Tunbridge and a Southern gentleman,” -Maude said, bitterly, and something in her tone warned Arthur that he -had gone too far, so changing his tactics, he said more gently: - -“Sit here beside me, Maude, and listen to what I have to say. You know -that I have loved you ever since I knew the meaning of the word, and it -is not in my nature to give up what my heart is set upon. You have -refused me, but that does not matter. I want you for my wife; I must -have you for my wife. I know you are my superior, and I am willing it -should be so. You can fashion me into anything you like. I have -screened, and hidden, and _lied_ for that Yankee Carleton, just to -gratify you. And when I first consented to act the traitor’s part, I -supposed he was most likely some coarse, ignorant boor, but he is not. -Returning health shows him to be a well-bred gentleman, and decidedly -good-looking, so much so that I have been jealous of him, Maude, not -knowing to what your strange opinions might lead you.” - -“You know of course he has a wife,” dropped scornfully from Maude’s -lips, and Arthur started quickly. - -“No, Maude, I did not know it. How came you by the knowledge? Did he -tell you so?” - -“Not directly, but when he was out of his head, or asleep, he talked of -Rose, and Annie, and Mary, and he called the latter his wife. That is -the way I know,” Maude said, and Arthur’s face cleared at once. - -“Forgive me, Maude. I was a fool to be jealous of him. And now let us -come to a final understanding. You have laughed at, and browbeaten, and -queened it over me for years, but I have never despaired of winning you -at the last. Once for all, then, will you be my wife? I must have you. I -cannot be denied.” - -Arthur was in earnest now, and his pleadings were eloquent with the love -he felt for the girl, who listened in silence, and then said to him: - -“Arthur, it cannot be. I should make you very unhappy. We do not agree -in any one point.” - -“But we will agree. I promise to conform to your opinions in everything. -I’ll guide this man to Tennessee, and give myself in future to the work -of saving and helping the entire Yankee army. I’ll be a second _Dan -Ellis_ if you like. I’ll do anything but take the oath to the Union. -I’ve sworn to stand by the other side. I cannot break my word even for -you, Maude.” - -Maude did not like him less for that last. There was Southern fire in -her heart as well as his, and Southern blood in her veins, and though -she clung to the old flag, there were moments when she felt a flush of -pride in her misguided brothers, who fought so like heroes and believed -so heartily in their cause. - -“Say, Maude,” Arthur continued, “will you be my wife if I will do all -this. Think how many lives I might save, and how much suffering relieve; -there are so many chances where I could do good, for no one would -suspect _me_. Give me some hope, Maude. Speak to me.” - -She was sitting with her face buried in her hands, as many another -maiden has sat, “counting the cost.” All her life long, Arthur Tunbridge -had followed her with his love, till she was tired of the contest. -Nothing she had ever said disheartened him. No rebuff, however severe, -had availed to keep him quiet. She knew he loved her, and perhaps she -might in time love him. It would make the old Judge and his wife so -happy, while Charlie liked Arthur so much. Other people liked him, too. -He was very popular, and she well knew that she was envied by many a -proud maiden for the attentions of the agreeable Lieut. Tunbridge. -Besides, if Arthur pledged himself to help the escape of prisoners, he -would keep his word, and so through her much good might be done, and -hearts made happy perhaps. Others had willingly sacrificed their lives -for their country, and why should she shrink from sacrificing her -happiness, if by it so many lives could be saved? Was it not her duty to -cast self aside and think only of the suffering she could relieve with -Arthur as her ally. Maude was selling herself for her country, and with -one great throb of bitter pain, she said at last: - -“I will deal frankly with you, Arthur, as I always have. You are not -disagreeable to me. I like you very much as a friend. I miss you when -you are away, and am glad when you come back; still, you are not just -what I have imagined my future husband to be. I like you for the good I -know there is in you, and I may learn to love you. I shall lead you a -horrid life if I do not, for it is not in my nature to affect what I do -not feel. If I cannot love you, I shall learn to hate you, and that will -be terrible.” - -She was looking at him now, and though he winced a little beneath the -blazing eyes, she looked so grand, so beautiful, that, foolish youth as -he was, he fancied her hate would be preferable to losing her, and so he -said: - -“Go on, Maude, I am not afraid of the hatred if you always look as you -do now.” - -Something like contempt leaped to her eyes then, but she put it aside, -and continued: - -“I will promise only on conditions. You shall see this Mr. Carleton -safely to my Uncle Paul’s. You shall befriend and help every runaway you -chance to find. You shall relieve every suffering Union soldier when an -opportunity occurs. You shall use your influence for the prisoners, and -seek to ameliorate their wretched condition. If you do this, Arthur, and -do it faithfully, when the war is over I will try to answer yes. Are you -satisfied?” - -It was a very one-sided affair, and Arthur knew it; but love for Maude -De Vere was the strongest passion of which he was capable, and he -answered: - -“I am satisfied,” and kissed the cold hand which Maude placed in his, -and thought what a regal creature he had won, and thought, too, how -implicitly he would keep the contract, even if it involved a giving up -of Jefferson Davis himself into the enemy’s hands. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXI. - MAUDE AND TOM. - - -It was then that Maude left him and went back to the house, where, -standing in the door, she scanned the face and person of the man for -whose safety in part she had pledged her heart and hand. - -Tom’s _tout ensemble_ was good, and there was about him a certain air of -grace and culture which showed itself in every movement. A stranger -would have trusted him in a moment, and recognized the true manhood in -his expressive face. And Maude recognized it, as she never had before, -and the contrast between him and Arthur struck her painfully. - -“If Arthur were more like him, I could love him better,” she thought, -just as the Judge asked the abrupt question: - -“You have a wife, hey?” - -“Of course he has,” Maude thought, and still she listened for the -answer. - -“My wife died some years ago, before the war broke out. She was a Mary -Williams, a near relative of the Williamses of Charleston. Perhaps you -know them?” - -“Know ’em! I’ll bet I do!—the finest family in the State. And you -married one of them?” the old Judge said, his manner indicating an -increased respect for the man who had married a Williams of Charleston. - -Maude knew the family, too, or rather knew of them, and remembered how, -some years before, when she was at St. Mary’s, she had heard a -Charleston young lady speaking of a Mrs. Carleton from Boston, who had -recently died, and whose husband had been so kind and patient and -tender, and was “the most perfectly splendid looking man she ever saw.” - -Maude remembered this last distinctly, because it had called forth a -reproof from the teacher who had overheard it, and who asked what kind -of a man “the most perfectly splendid looking” one could be. Maude had -not thought of that incident in years, but it came back to her now as -she stood close to the man who had been so kind and tender to his sick, -dying wife. He would be all that, she knew, for his manner was so quiet -and grave and gentle, and then a great throb of pain swept over Maude De -Vere as she thought of Arthur and the pledge she had given him. Maude -could not analyze her feelings, or understand why the knowing who Tom -Carleton was, and that he was also free, should make the world so -desolate all on a sudden, and blot out the brightness of the summer day -which had seemed so pleasant at its beginning. - -“I did it in part for him,” she said, feeling that in spite of her pain -there was something sweet even in such a sacrifice. - -She was still standing in the door, when Tom, turning a little more -toward his host, saw her, his face lighting up at once, and the smile, -which made him so handsome, breaking out about his mouth and showing his -fine teeth. - -“Ah, Miss De Vere, take this seat,” and with that well-bred politeness -so much a part of his family, he arose and offered her his chair. - -But Maude declined it, and took a seat instead upon a little camp stool -near to the vine-wreathed columns of the piazza. - -It was very pleasant there that morning, and Maude, sitting against that -back-ground of green leaves, made a very pretty picture in her pink -cambric wrapper, trimmed with white, white pendants in her ears, and a -bunch of the sweet scented heliotrope in her hair, and at her throat -where the smooth linen collar came together. And Tom enjoyed the picture -very much, from the crown of satin hair, to the high-heeled slipper, -with its bright ribbon rosette. It was not a little slipper, like those -which used to be in Tom’s dressing-room in Boston, when Mary was alive, -nor yet like the fairy things which Rose Mather wore. Nothing about -Maude De Vere was small, but everything was admirably proportioned. She -wore a _seven_ glove and she wore a _four_ boot. She measured just -twenty-five inches around the waist, and five feet six from her head to -her feet, and weighed one hundred and forty. A perfect Amazon, she -called herself; but Tom Carleton did not think so. He knew she was a -large type of womanhood, but she was perfect in form and feature, and he -would not have had her one whit smaller than she was, neither did he -contrast her with any one he had ever known. She was so wholly unlike -Mary and Rose and Annie, that comparison between them was impossible. -She was Miss De Vere,—Maude he called her to himself, and the name was -beginning to sound sweetly to him, as he daily grew more and more -intimate with the queenly creature who bore it. He had buried his pale, -proud-faced, but loving Mary; he had given up the gentle Annie, and -surely he might think of Maude De Vere if he chose; and the sight of her -sitting there before him with the rich color in her cheek, and the -Southern fire in her eyes, stirred strange feelings in his heart, and -made him so forgetful of what the Judge was saying to him, that the old -man at last rose and walked away, leaving the two young people alone -together. Tom had never talked much to Maude except upon sick-room -topics, and he felt anxious to know if her mind corresponded with her -face and form. Here was a good opportunity for testing her mental -powers, and in the long, earnest conversation which ensued concerning -men, and books, and politics, Tom sifted her thoroughly, experiencing -that pleasure which men of cultivation always experience when thrown in -contact with a woman whose intelligence and endowments are equal to -their own. Maude’s education had not been a superficial one, nor had it -ceased with her leaving school. In her room at home there was a small -library of choice books, which she read and studied each day together -with her brother Charlie, whose education she superintended. Few persons -North or South were better acquainted with the incidents and progress of -the war, than she was. She had watched it from its beginning, and with -her father, from whom she had inherited her superior mind, she had held -many earnest argumentative discussions concerning the right and wrong of -secession. Maude had opposed it from the first, but her father had -thought differently, and carrying out his principles, had lost his life -in the first battle of Bull Run. Maude spoke of him to Tom, and her fine -eyes were full of tears as she told of the dark, terrible days which -preceded and followed the news of his death. - -“The ball which struck him down went further than that; it killed -mother, too, and made us orphans,” Maude said, and something in the tone -of her voice, and the expression of her face, puzzled Tom just as it had -many times before, and carried him back to Bull Run, where it seemed to -him he had seen a face like Maude De Vere’s. - -“Was your father killed in battle?” Tom asked, and Maude replied: - -“No, sir; that is, he did not die on the battle-field. He was wounded, -and crawled away into the woods, where they found him dead, sitting -against a tree, with a little Union drummer boy lying right beside him, -and father’s handkerchief bound round the poor bleeding stumps, for the -little hands were both shot away. I’ve thought of that boy so often,” -Maude said, “and cried for him so much. I know father was kind to him, -for the little fellow was nestled close to him, Arthur said. He was -there, and found my father, though he did not at first recognize him, as -it was a number of years since he had seen him.” - -Tom was growing both interested and excited. He was beginning to find -the key to that familiar look in Maude De Vere’s face, and, coming close -to her he said: - -“Were any prisoners taken near your father, Miss De Vere? Union -prisoners, I mean?” - -“Yes,” Maude replied. “Arthur was a private, then, and, with another -soldier, was prowling through the woods when they came upon father, and -two Union soldiers near him,—one a boy, Arthur said, and one an officer, -whose ankle had been sprained. In their eagerness to capture somebody -they forgot my father, and carried off the man and boy. Then they went -back, and Arthur found, by some papers in the dead soldier’s pocket, -that it was father, and he had him decently buried at Manassas, with the -little boy. I liked Arthur for that. I would never have forgiven him if -he left that child in the woods. When the war is over, I am going to -find the graves.” - -She was not weeping now, but her eyes had in them a strange glitter as -they looked far off in the distance, as if in quest of those two graves. - -“Maude De Vere,” Tom Carleton said, and at the sound, Maude started and -blushed scarlet, “you must forgive me if I call you Maude this once. -It’s for the sake of your noble father, by whose side _I_ stood when the -spirit left his body, and went after that of the little drummer boy, -whose bleeding stumps were bound in your father’s handkerchief. I -remember it well. I had sprained my ankle, and, with a lad of my company -was trying to escape, when I heard the sound of some one singing that -glorious chant of our church, ‘Peace on earth, good will toward men.’ It -sounded strangely there, amid the dead and dying, who had killed each -other; but there was peace between the Confederate captain and the -Federal boy, as they sang the familiar words. As well as we could, we -cared for him. I wiped the blood from your father’s wound, and the boy -brought him water from the brook, while he talked of his home in North -Carolina; of his children who would never see him again; and of Nellie, -his wife. It comes back to me with perfect distinctness, and it is your -father’s look in your eyes and face which has puzzled me so much. Two -soldiers wearing the Southern grey came up and captured us, and we were -taken to Richmond. Surely, Miss De Vere, it is a special providence -which has brought me at last to you, the daughter of that man, and made -you the guardian angel, who has stood between me and recapture. There is -a meaning in it, if we could only find it.” - -Tom’s fine eyes were bent upon Maude, and in his excitement he had -grasped her hand, which did not lie as cold and pulseless in his as an -hour before it had lain in Arthur’s. It throbbed and quivered now, but -clung to Tom’s with a firm hold, which was not relaxed even when Arthur -came up, his face growing dark and threatening as he saw the position of -the two. - -Maude did not care for Arthur then, or think what that look in Tom’s -kindling eyes might mean. She only remembered that the man whose hand -held hers so firmly, had ministered to her dying father, had held the -cup of water to his parched lip, had wiped the flowing blood from his -face, and spoken to him kindly words of sympathy. - -Here was the answer to her prayer, that God would send her somebody who -could tell her of her father’s last minutes. The somebody had come, and, -in her gratitude to him, she could almost have knelt and worshiped him. - -“Oh, Arthur!” she cried, “Captain Carleton is the very man you and Joe -Newell captured at Bull Run. He was with father when he died; he took -care of him, and was so kind until you came and took him.” - -And Maude’s eyes flashed with anything but affection upon her lover, who -for a moment could not speak for his surprise. - -Curiously he looked at Tom, seeking for something on which to fasten a -doubt, for he did not wish Maude to have a cause for gratitude to the -Northern officer. But the longer he gazed the less he doubted. The face -of the lame officer in the Virginia woods came up distinctly before him, -and was too much like the face confronting him to admit of a mistake, -especially after Maude repeated the substance of what she had heard from -Captain Carleton. Arthur was convinced, and as Maude dropped Tom’s hand, -he took it in his, and said: - -“It is very strange that my first prize, over whose capture I felt so -proud, should fall again into my power. But this time you are safe, I -reckon. I am older than I was three years ago, and not quite so thirsty -for a Yankee’s blood. You did Maude’s father good service, it seems, and -to prove that we _rebels_ can be grateful and generous even to our foes, -I will take you under my protection as one of my party, when I escort -Maude home to Tennessee, as I intend doing in a few days.” - -Maude’s face was white with passion as she listened to this patronizing -speech, which had in it so much of assumed superiority over the man who -smiled a very peculiar kind of smile, as he bowed his acknowledgment of -Arthur’s kind attentions. Not a hint was there that Maude was head and -front of the arrangement,—that for Tom’s sake she had pledged herself to -one whose inferiority never struck her so painfully as now, when she saw -him side by side with Captain Carleton. Arthur did not care to have -Captain Carleton know how much he was indebted to Maude for his present -pleasant quarters, and his prospect of a safe transfer to the hills of -Tennessee. But Tom, though never suspecting the whole truth, did know -that his gratitude for past and present kindness received from that -Southern family was mainly due to Maude, whom he admired more and more, -as the days wore on, and he learned to know her intimately. The shy -reserve which since his convalescence she had manifested toward him, -passed with the knowledge that he had stood by her dying father, and she -treated him as a friend with whom she had been acquainted all her life -long. Occasionally, as something in Tom’s manner made her think that but -for Arthur she might perhaps in time bear that relation toward him, -which Mary Williams had borne, she felt a fierce throb of pain and a -sense of such utter desolation, that she involuntarily rebelled against -the life before her. But Maude was a brave, sensible girl. She had -chosen her lot, she reasoned, and she would abide by it, and make Arthur -as happy as she could. He was fulfilling his part of the contract well, -as was proven by the terror-stricken creature, whom he had found hiding -on the plantation, and had brought to Hetty’s cabin, where he now lay so -weak, that it was impossible to take him along on that journey to -Tennessee. - -“His time will come by and by,” Arthur said, when Maude expressed -anxiety for him. “I’ll land him safely at your Uncle Paul’s some night -when you least expect it. My business now is with you and your Yankee -captain.” - -Maude had asked that for the present nothing should be said with regard -to their engagement. And so, though the Judge suspected that some -definite arrangement had been made between his son and Maude, he did not -know for certain, even when she stood before him attired for the -journey. - -The Judge was sorry to part with Maude, and he was sorry to part with -Tom. He liked him because he was a gentleman if he _was_ a Yankee, and -because his father had sent _Seth_ back, (poor Seth, with his free -papers in his coffin,) and because he had been kind to Maude’s father, -and married Mary Williams, of the Charleston Williamses, and could smoke -a cob-pipe, and enjoy it. These were the things which recommended Tom to -the old man, who shook his hand warmly at parting, saying to him: - -“I hate Northern dogs mostly, but hanged if I don’t like you. May you -get safely home, and if you do, my advice is to stay there, and tell the -rest of ’em to do the same. They can’t whip us,—no, by George, they -can’t, even if they have got some advantage. The papers say it was all a -strategical trap, and we’d rather you’d have the places than not. You -can’t take Richmond,—no, sir! We will die in the last ditch, every -mother’s son of us; and what is left will set the town on fire, and let -it go to thunder!” - -The old Judge was waxing very eloquent for a man who had one Union -soldier recruiting in Hetty’s cabin, and was bidding good-bye to -another; but consistency was no part of war politics, and he rambled on, -until Arthur cut him short by saying they could wait no longer. With -Arthur as a safeguard in case of an attack from Confederates, and Tom -Carleton in case of an assault from the Unionists, Maude felt perfectly -secure, and in quiet and safety she accomplished her journey, and was -welcomed with open arms by Paul Haverill and Charlie. Arthur could only -stop for a day among the hills. He might be ordered back to his regiment -at any time, and if he got that _other chap_ through he must be bestir -himself, he said; and so he bade good-bye to Maude, in whom he had -implicit faith, and whose sober, quiet demeanor he tried to attribute to -her sorrow at parting with him. - -“She does like me some, and by and by she will like me better,” he said, -as he went his way, leaving her standing in the doorway of her uncle’s -house, her face very pale, and her hands pressed closely together, as if -forcing back some bitter thought or silent pain. - -Turning once ere the winding road hid her from view Arthur kissed his -hand to her gayly, while with a wave of her handkerchief she re-entered -the house, and neither guessed nor dreamed how or when they would meet -again. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXII. - SUSPICION. - - -Maude De Vere had insisted that Captain Carleton should have her room, -inasmuch as he would be more secure there; for, if the house was -suspected and searched, a catastrophe Paul Haverill was constantly -anticipating, no one would be likely to invade the sanctity of her -apartment. - -And Tom found it so very pleasant, and quiet, and home-like, that he was -not at all indisposed to linger for several days, particularly after -Paul found an opportunity for sending to the Federal lines a letter, -which would tell the anxious friends in Rockland of his safety. This -letter, which was directed to Mrs. William Mather, had been the direct -means of Tom’s ascertaining that his brother-in-law was not only alive, -but had once shared in the hospitalities now so freely extended to -himself. After learning this, Tom could not forbear tearing open the -envelope, and adding in a postscript: - - “I have just heard that Will was, not many weeks since, a guest in - this very house where I am so kindly cared for. God bless the noble - man who has saved so many lives, and the beautiful girl, his niece. I - cannot say enough in her praise. I do believe she would die for a - Unionist any day. Will, it seems, did not see her, as she was away - when he was here; and perhaps it is just as well for you, little Rose, - that he did not. There is something in her eye, and voice, and - carriage, which stirs strange thoughts and feelings in the hearts of - us, savages, who have so long been deprived of ladies’ society. She is - a very queen among women.” - -That postscript was a most unlucky thought. The first part of Tom’s -letter had been so guarded with regard to the people who befriended him, -that no harm to them could possibly have accrued from its falling into -hostile hands; but in the postscript he forgot himself, and assumed -forms of speech which pointed directly to Paul Haverill and his niece, -Maude De Vere. And so the guerrillas, who caught and half killed the -refugee entrusted with the letter, set themselves at once at work to -find the “noble man who had the beautiful niece.” It was not a difficult -task; and Paul Haverill, who had been looked upon as so rank a -Secessionist, was suddenly suspected of treason. - -Paul was popular and dangerous; while Maude De Vere, whose principles -were well known, was too much beloved by the rough mountaineers, to -allow of harm falling upon her at once. But the writer of that -letter,—the “Yankee Carleton”—should not go unpunished, and just at -sunset one afternoon, Lois, who had been at a neighboring cabin, came -hurrying home, with that ashen hue upon her dark face which is the -negro’s sign of paleness. - -“Mass’r Paul was suspicioned of harborin’ somebody,” she said; and -already the hordes of mountaineers were assembling around the Cross -Roads, and concerting measures for surprising and entrapping the Yankee. -“Chloe tell me she hear ’em say if they was perfectly sure ’bout mass’r, -and it wasn’t for Miss Maude, they’d set the house on fire; and they -looks mighty like they’s fit to do it. The wust faces, Miss Maude, and -they does _swar_ awful ’bout the Yankee. They’s got halters, and tar and -feathers, and guns” - -Lois was out of breath by this time, and even if she had not been, she -would have paused with wonder at the face of her young mistress. Maude -had listened intently to the first part of Lois’s story, but felt no -emotion save that of scorn and contempt for the men assembled at the -Cross Roads, and whom “Uncle Paul could manage so easily;” but when it -came to the halter for the Yankee, her face turned white as marble, and -in that moment of peril, she realized all that Captain Carleton was to -her, and knew what had been the result of the last week’s daily -intercourse with one so gifted and so congenial. She knew too that he -was not for her. Arthur Tunbridge stood in the way of that. She would -keep her faith with him, but she would save Captain Carleton, or die. - -“Lois,” she said, and there was no tremor in her voice, “bring that -dress I gave you last Christmas,—the one you think is so long. Your -shawl and bonnet, too, and shoes; bring them to Captain Carleton’s -room.” - -Lois comprehended her mistress at once, and hurried away to her cabin -after the dress, whose extra length she had so often deplored, saying -“it wasn’t for such as her to wear switchin’ trains like the grand -folks.” - -Meanwhile Maude had communicated with her uncle, who manifested no -concern except for his guest, and even for him he had no fears provided -he could reach the cave in safety. To accomplish that was Maude’s -object, and as the Cross Roads lay in that direction a great amount of -tact and skill was necessary. But Maude was equal to any emergency, and -half an hour later there issued from Paul Haverill’s door, two figures -clad in female garments, and whom a casual observer would have sworn -were Maude De Vere and her servant Lois. Maude had a revolver in her -pocket, and another in the basket she carried so carefully, and which -was supposed to contain the cups of jelly and custard she was taking a -poor sick neighbor, whose house was up the mountain path. At her side, -with the shuffling gait peculiar to Lois, Tom Carleton walked, his -nicely blackened face hidden in the deep shaker which Lois had worn for -years, and his calico dress flopping awkwardly about his feet. Lois -fortunately was very tall, and so her skirts did good service for the -young man, whose powers of imitation were perfect, and who walked and -looked exactly like the old colored woman watching his progress from an -upper window, and declaring that she would almost “swar it was herself.” - -At her side stood Charlie, a round spot of red burning on either pale -cheek, and his slender hands grasping a revolver, while occasionally his -blue eyes looked eagerly along the mountain road, which as yet was quiet -and lonely. - -“I never thought to raise my hand against my own people,” he said, “but -if they harm Uncle Paul I shall shoot somebody.” - -The sun had been gone from sight for some little time, and the tall -mountain shadows were lying thick and black across the valley, when up -the road several horsemen came galloping, and Paul Haverill’s house was -ere long surrounded by a band of as rough, savage looking men as could -well be found in the mountains of Tennessee. - -Calmly and fearlessly Paul Haverill went out to meet them, asking why -they were there, and why they seemed so much excited. - -For a moment his old power over them asserted itself again, and they -hesitated to charge him with treason, as they intended doing. But only -for a brief space was there a calm, and then amid oaths and -imprecations, and taunting sneers, and threats, they told him of the -letter, and deriding him as a traitor, demanded the sneaking Yankee who -had written that letter, and was now hidden in the house. To reason with -such people was useless, and Paul Haverill did not try it. Standing upon -his doorstep, with his grey hair blowing in the evening wind, and his -hands deep in his pockets, he said, - -“I admit your charge in part. There _has_ been a Union soldier in my -house,—an escaped prisoner from Columbia. I _did_ care for him, and I am -neither ashamed nor afraid to own it. Fear is a stranger to old Paul -Haverill, as any of you who tries to harm him will find.” - -“Never mind a speech, Paul,” said the leader of the men. “Nobody wants -to hurt _you_, though you deserve hanging, perhaps. What we want is the -Yankee. Fetch him out, and let’s see how he’ll look dangling in the -air.” - -“Yes, fetch him out,” yelled a dozen voices in chorus. “Bring out the -Yankee, we want him. Hallo, puny face, are you a bad egg, too?” they -continued, as Charlie appeared in the door. - -“Shall I fire, Uncle Paul?” Charlie asked, and his uncle replied, - -“By no means, unless you would have them on us like wolves. Friends,” -and he turned to the mob, which had been increased by some twenty or -more, “friends, that man is gone; he is not here; he has left my house. -You can search it if you like.” - -“Where’s Miss De Vere?” a coarse voice cried. “We know her to be Union. -She never tried to cover that as you, hoary old villain, did. She was -out and out. Let her come and say the Yankee is gone and we will believe -her.” - -“My niece, I regret to say, is not just now in either. She is gone with -Lois to take some nicknacks to a sick neighbor.” - -“That’s so, boys. I met her myself as I came down the mountain,” called -out a young man of the company, who seemed to be superior to his -associates. - -“Gone with Lois, hey? Then whose woolly pate is that?” responded a -drunken brute, who, rising in his stirrups, fired a shot toward the -garret window from which Lois in an unguarded moment had thrust her -head. - -Others had seen her, too, and as this gave the lie to the story that -Lois was gone, the maddened crowd pressed against the house, declaring -their intention to search it and hang any runaway they might find -secreted here. It never occurred to them that the runaway could have -been with Maude in Lois’s clothes; but the young man who met the two -lone women saw the ruse at once, and influenced by Maude’s beauty and -the remembrance of the sweet “Good evening, Mark,” with which she had -greeted him as he passed, he made his way to Charlie’s side and -whispered, - -“If you know where your sister has gone, and can warn her, do so at -once. Tell her if she is tolerably safe to stay there and not return -here to-night.” - -Charlie needed no second bidding, and stealing from the rear of the -house he was soon speeding up the mountain path in the direction of the -cave. Meanwhile the search in Paul Haverill’s house went on. Closets -were thrown open; beds were torn to pieces; cellars were ransacked, and -old Lois was dragged from the ash-house, where she had taken refuge, -while, worse than all, Tom Carleton’s boots were found in the chamber -where he had dressed so hurriedly, and the sight of these maddened the -excited crowd, which, failing of finding their victim, began to clamor -for Paul Haverill’s blood. But Paul kept them at bay. In the rear of the -house was a small, dark room, to which there was but one entrance, and -that a steep narrow stairway. Here Paul Haverill took refuge, and -standing at the head of the stairs threatened to shoot the first man who -should attempt to come up. They had not yet reached that state when they -counted their lives as nothing, and so amid yells and oaths, and riding -up and down the road, and drinking the fine grape wines with which the -cellar was stocked, the hours of the short summer night wore on until -just as the dawn was breaking in the east, the marauders put the -finishing touch to their night’s debauch by setting fire to the house, -and then starting in a body up the mountain side in the direction of the -cave. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXIII. - IN THE CAVE. - - -The cave was dry and comparatively comfortable, and Tom felt as he -entered it almost like going home. Will Mather had spent a day and a -night there, while better than all, Maude De Vere was with him, her -bright eyes shining upon him through the darkness, and her hands -touching his as she groped around for the candle her uncle had said was -on a shelf in the rock. - -It was presently found, and with the aid of the match Maude had brought -with her a light was soon struck, its flickering beams lighting up the -dark recesses of the cavern with a ghastly kind of light, which to Maude -seemed more terrible than the darkness. She was not afraid, but her -nerves were shaken as only threatened danger to Tom Carleton could shake -them, and she felt strangely alone on the wild mountain side and in that -silent cavern. - -Tom did not seem like much of a protector in that woman’s garb, but -when, with a shake and a kick and a merry laugh, he threw aside the -bonnet, shawl and dress, and stood before her in his own proper person, -minus the boots, she felt all her courage coming back, and with him -beside her could have defied the entire Southern army. There was water -enough in the spring to wash the black from his face, and Maude lent her -own pretty ruffled white apron for a towel, and then, when his toilet -was completed, began to speak of returning. - -“At this hour, and alone, with the road full of robbers? Never, Maude, -never! You must either stay here with me, or I shall go back with you,” -Tom said, and he involuntarily wound his arm around the waist of the -young girl, who trembled like a leaf. - -She did not think of Arthur then, or her promise to him, for something -in Tom’s voice and manner as he put his arm about her and called her -Maude, brought to her a feeling such as she had never experienced -before. Perhaps Tom suspected that he was understood, for he held her -closer to him, and passing his hand caressingly over her burning cheek, -he whispered: - -“Dear Maude, I cannot let you incur any danger which I must not share. -You understand me, don’t you?” - -She thought of Arthur then, and the thought cut like a knife through her -heart. She must _not_ understand; she must _not_ listen to words like -these; she must not stay there to hear them, and with a quick gesture -she was removing Tom’s arm from her waist, when his wary “Hist!” made -her pause and stand where she was, leaning against him, and heavily, -too, as terror overcame every other feeling. Footsteps were coming near, -and coming cautiously, too, up to the very entrance of the cave, where -they stopped as some one outside seemed to be listening. - -It was a moment of terrible suspense, and Maude could hear the throbbing -of her heart, while Tom strained her so close to him that his chin -rested on her hair, and she felt his breath upon her cheek. - -“Maude,—sister Maude,” came reassuringly in a low whisper, and with a -cry Maude burst away from Tom, exclaiming: - -“Charlie, what brings you here?” - -He explained to her why he was there, and that she must stay all night, -and with a shudder as she thought of what might befall her uncle, Maude -acquiesced in the decree, feeling glad that Charlie was with them, a -hindrance and preventive to the utterance of words she must not hear. A -hindrance he was, it is true, but not a total preventive, for by and by -the tired boy’s eyes began to droop as drowsiness stole over him, and -when Tom made him a bed with Lois’s dress and shawl, and bade him lie -down and sleep, he did so at once, after first offering the impromptu -couch to Maude. - -Seen by the dim candle-light, Maude’s face was very white, and her eyes -shone like burning coals as she watched Captain Carleton, and guessed -his motive. Had there been no Arthur in the way, she would not have -shrunk from Captain Carleton; but with that haunting memory she could -have shrieked aloud when she saw the weary lids droop over Charlie’s -eyes, and knew by his regular breathing that he was asleep. - -Tom knew it as soon as she did, but for a time he kept silence; then he -came close to her, and sitting down by her side, said, softly: - -“Maude, you and I have been very strangely thrown together, and as I -once said to you, there is a meaning in it, if we will but find it. -Shall I try and solve it for you, or do you know yourself what is in my -mind?” - -She did know, but she could not answer; and her face drooped over her -brother, whose head she had pillowed upon her lap. - -“Perhaps this is not the fitting place for me to speak,” Tom continued, -“but if the morning finds me in safety, I must be gone, and no one can -guess when we may meet again. Let me tell you, Maude, of my early life -before ever I saw or dreamed of you.” - -Surely she might hear this, and the bowed head lifted itself a little, -while Captain Carleton told first of his home in Boston, of beautiful -little Rose, and saucy, dark-eyed Jimmie, and then of the pale, proud -Mary, his early manhood’s love, who at the last had lost the pride and -hauteur inherited from her race, and had died so gentle and lowly, and -gone where her husband one day hoped to meet her. Then there came a -pause, and Tom was thinking of a night when poor Jimmie sat by his side -before the lonely tent fire, and talked with him of Annie Graham. Should -he tell Maude of that? Yes, he would; and by the even beating of his -heart, as he made that resolve, and thought of Annie, he knew he had -outlived his fancy for one of whom he spoke unhesitatingly, praising her -girlish beauty, telling how pure and good she was, and how once a hope -had stirred his heart that he, perhaps, might win her. - -“But I gave her up to Jimmie. Annie will be my sister, and I know now -why it was so appointed. God had in store for me a gem as beautiful as -Annie Graham, and better adapted to me. I mean you, Maude. God intends -you for my wife. Do you accede willingly? Have you any love for the poor -Yankee soldier who has been so long dependent upon you?” - -He had her head now on his arm, and with his hand was smoothing her -bands of satin hair, while he waited for her to speak. He had dealt -honestly with her. She would be equally truthful with him, and she -answered at last: - -“Oh, Mr. Carleton, you don’t know how much it pains me to tell you what -I must. I might have loved you once, but now it is too late. I promised -Arthur, if he would be kind to the poor prisoners and help the escaped -ones to get away, and,—oh, I don’t know what, but I am to be his wife -when the dreadful war is over. Pity me, Mr. Carleton, but don’t love me. -No, no, don’t make me more wretched by telling me of a love I cannot -return.” - -“Could you return it, Maude, if there were no promise to Arthur?” - -Tom spoke very low, with his lips close to her burning cheek, but Maude -did not reply, and Tom continued: - -“Maude, was the getting me here in safety any part of the price for -which you sold yourself?” - -She did not answer even then, but by the low, gasping sob she gave as -she shed back from her hot brow the heavy hair Tom knew the truth, and -to himself he said, “It shall not be.” And then from his heart there -went up a silent prayer that God would give him the brave, beautiful -girl, who drew herself away from him, and leaning over her sleeping -brother, sat with both hands clasped upon her face. They did not talk -together much more, and once Tom thought Maude was asleep, she sat so -rigid and motionless, with her face turned toward the entrance of the -cave. - -But she was not asleep, and her dark eyes were fixed wistfully upon the -one bright star visible to her, and which seemed whispering to her of -hope. Perhaps Arthur would release her from her promise, and -perhaps,—but Maude started from _that_ thought as from an evil spirit, -and her white lips whispered faintly, “God help me to keep my promise.” - -The night was very still, and as the hours wore on, and the faint dawn -of day came over the mountain tops, Maude’s quick ear caught the echo of -the fierce shouts in the valley below, and laying Charlie’s head from -her lap she went out of the cave, followed by Captain Carleton, who -wondered to see how that one night had changed her. The brilliant color -was gone from her cheek, which looked haggard and pale, as faces look -when some great storm of sorrow has passed over them. Her hair had -fallen down and lay in masses upon her neck, from which she shook it off -impatiently, and then intently listened to the sounds which each moment -grew louder. Shoutings they were, and tones of command, mingled with the -distant tramp of horses’ feet, while suddenly, above the tall tree-tops -which skirted the mountain side, arose a coil of smoke. Too dark, too -thick to have come from any chimney where the early morning fire was -kindled, it told its own tale of horror, and Maude’s eyes grew so black -and fierce that Tom shrunk back from her, as pointing her finger toward -the fast increasing rings of smoke and flame, she whispered: - -“Do you see that, Captain Carleton? It’s Uncle Paul’s dwelling; they -have set it on fire. I never thought they would do that, though I have -watched more than one burning house in these mountains, and have almost -felt a thrill of pride as I thought how dearly we were paying for our -love to the old flag; but when it comes to my own home, the pride is all -gone, the fire burns deeper, and one is half tempted to question the -price required for the Union.” - -Tom was about to speak to her, when she turned abruptly upon him, and -said: - -“Captain Carleton, do you believe your Northern we men,—your Rose, your -Annie would bear and brave what the loyal women of the South endure? -They may be true to the Union,—no doubt they are, and they think they -know what war means; but I tell you they do not. Did they ever see their -friends and neighbors driven to the woods and hills like hunted beasts, -or watch the kindling flames devouring their own houses, as I am doing -now? for I know that is my Uncle Paul’s, and whether he still lives, or -is hung between the earth and heavens, God only knows, and perhaps _he_ -has forgotten. I sometimes think he has, else why does he not send us -aid? Where are your hordes of men? Why do they not come to save us, when -we have waited so long, and our eyes and ears are weak and weary with -watching for their coming?” - -She was talking now more to herself than to her companion, and she -looked a very queen of tragedy, as, with her hair floating over her -shoulders, and her hands pressed tightly together, she walked hurriedly -the length and breadth of the long flat rock which bordered a precipice -near to the cave - -Tom was about to answer her, when a ball went whizzing past him, while -the loud shouts of the men, whose heads were visible beneath the distant -trees, told that he had been discovered. - -To return to the cave and take Maude with him, was the work of a moment, -and amid yells of fury the drunken mob came on to where Maude, -forgetting everything now except Tom Carleton, stood waiting for them. -They would not harm her, she knew, and like a lioness guarding its -young, she stood within the cave, but so near the entrance that her face -was visible to the men, who at sight of her stopped suddenly, and asked -what she was doing there, and who she had with her. - -“My brother Charlie and Captain Carleton, the man whom you sought at -Uncle Paul’s,” she answered, fearlessly, as she held with a firm grasp -the dangerous-looking weapon, which she knew how to use. - -“And pray, what may you be doing with the Yankee? asked one of the -coarser of the men; and Maude replied - -“I am standing between him and just such creatures as you are.” - -While Tom, grasping her shoulder, said: - -“Step aside, Maude; I cannot endure this. You, a girl, defending me! I -must go out. Let me pass.” - -“To certain death? Never!” Maude replied, thrusting him back with a -strength born of desperation. - -Charlie, who had roused from his sleep, and fully comprehended what was -going on, caught Tom around the neck, and nearly strangled him, as he -said: - -“Let Maude alone, Captain Carleton. They’ll not harm her. They would -only shoot you down for nothing.” - -Thus hampered and importuned, Tom stood back a little, while Maude held -a parley with her besiegers threatening to shoot the first man who -should attempt to pass her. She did not think of danger to herself, and -she stood firmly at her post; while the men consulted together as to the -best course to be pursued. And while they talked, and Maude stood -watchful and dauntless the flames of Paul Haverill’s house rose higher -in the heavens, and strange, ominous sounds were heard in the -distance,—sounds as of many horsemen riding for dear life, with shouts -and excited voices; and Maude became aware of some sudden influence -working upon the crowd around her. - -Then a band of cavalry dashed into sight, and all was wild hurry and -consternation. But, above the din of the strife without, Tom Carleton -caught sounds which made his heart leap up, and springing forward past -Maude De Vere, he exclaimed: - -“Thank God, the Federals have come! We are saved! Maude, we are saved!” - -As his tall form emerged into view, a brutal soldier, maddened by the -surprise and unavoidable defeat, leveled his gun and fired, recking -little whether Tom or Maude was the victim. The ball cut through the -sleeve of Maude’s dress, and grazing her arm enough to draw blood, -lodged harmlessly in the rocks beyond. - -At that sight all Charlie’s fire was roused, and the shot which went -whizzing through the air made surer work than did the one intended for -Tom Carleton. Tom was out upon the ledge of rocks by this time, grasping -the hands of the blue coats, who were a part of a company sent out to -reconnoiter, and who had reached Paul Haverill’s house just after the -rebels had left it. At first they had tried to extinguish the flames, -but finding that impossible, they had followed the enemy, most of whom -were made prisoners of war. - -Some months before, John Simms had been transferred from the Army of the -Potomac to the Army of the Cumberland, and he it was who led his men to -the rescue, doing it the more daringly and willingly when he heard who -was in danger. _He_ was a captain now, and he stood grasping Tom -Carleton’s hand, when a piercing shriek rose on the air, and turning -round, the young men saw Maude De Vere bending over the prostrate form -of a soldier, whose head she gently lifted up, as she moaned bitterly: - -“Oh, Arthur, Arthur! how came you here?” - - - - - CHAPTER XXXIV. - POOR ARTHUR. - - -He had kept his word, and piloted safely across the mountains the -prisoner left in Hetty’s cabin. His arrival at Paul Haverill’s burning -home had preceded that of the Federal troops by twenty minutes or more, -and when he heard of Maude’s danger, he followed our soldiers up the -hillside to where Maude held the entrance to the cave. He saw her, and -tried to make his voice heard, but it was lost amid the strife and noise -of the conflict, and she only knew of his presence, when Charlie, with -chattering teeth, and a face as white as ashes, clutched her dress -frantically, and said: - -“Come, sister, come this way to Arthur,—somebody—shot him. Do you think -he will die?” - -Quick as lightning the remembrance of the thought, which had yet -scarcely been a thought, of just such a contingency as this, flashed -over Maude, sweeping away all the pain, the terror, the shrinking she -had felt when she contemplated the fulfillment of her promise to Arthur -Tunbridge. He was lying there at her feet, and the grass beneath him was -all a pool of blood, while his dim eyes showed that the objects around -him were now but faintly discerned. He saw Maude, though, and when her -loud cry met his ear he smiled a glad, grateful smile, and said to her, -as she knelt beside him and took his head in her lap— - -“You are sorry, Maude. It was a mistake. You did love me some.” - -She pressed her quivering lips to his, and said again, - -“Oh Arthur! Arthur! how came you here?” - -Arthur knew he was dying, but, shaking off all thought of his own pain, -he explained to Maude how he came there. - -“The man,—you remember. I got him through, and I am not sorry, for he -told me of a blind mother and six little children dependent upon him -away off somewhere among the Ohio hills. Think if they had been left -with out support. I am glad I saved him even if it cost my life. And -still it is hard to die, Maude, just as you are beginning to love me, -for you are, and if I had lived you would have kept your promise to me. - -“Yes, Arthur, I would,” and Maude’s white fingers threaded the bloody -hair and moved softly over the ghastly face. “Who did it, Arthur?” she -asked, and Arthur’s face flushed to a purple hue as with a moan he said: - -“Don’t ask me,—there was a _mistake_. I had taken no part in the fray, -except to knock down the ruffian who fired at you. I was standing right -behind him. Yes, there was a mistake. Oh Maude, it _was_ a mistake.” - -He kept repeating the words, while Maude tried to stop the blood flowing -so freely from the wound in his temple. The ball had entered there, but -had not penetrated to the brain, and he retained his consciousness to -the last, smiling once kindly on Charlie, who, half frantic, bent over -him, and said: - -“Yes, Arthur, it _was_ a mistake, oh Arthur, oh Maude, and you two were -engaged. I did not know it before.” - -Then a bright flush crept into Maude’s white face, for she knew the tall -shadow on the grass beside her belonged to Capt. Carleton, and he, she -guessed, was thinking of last night in the cave. He did think of it, but -only for a moment, and then his thoughts were merged in his great -anxiety for Lieutenant Arthur, who he saw was dying. Arthur knew he was -there, and smiled when he asked if he felt much pain. - -“None with Maude beside me. She was to have been my wife, wern’t you, -Maude?” - -“Yes, Arthur. I was to have been your wife.” - -She spoke it openly, frankly, as if by so doing she was seeking to atone -for an error, and the eyes lifted to Tom’s face had in them something -defiant, as if she would say “I mean it. I would have been his wife.” - -But she met only pity in Tom’s looks—pity for her, and pity for the -young man dying among the mountains on that soft, summer morning, when -the whole world seemed so at variance with a death like that. It was a -strange scene, and one which those who witnessed it never could forget. -The broad, level plat on the mountain side, the mounted horsemen, the -group of prisoners, the beautiful, queenly girl, whose lap pillowed the -head of the dying soldier, while her brilliant eyes wept floods of tears -which, with quick, nervous movements of her fingers, she swept away. -Beside her was Charlie, his face whiter than that of the dying man, and -his muscles working painfully as if he was forcing back some terrible -pang or cry of agony. Tom Carleton, too, and Paul Haverill, who had -later joined the group and stood looking sadly on, while toward the -south the smoke and flame of his own house was ascending, and in the -east the early morning was bright and fresh with the summer’s golden -sunshine. And there on the mountain side they waited and watched, while -the young lieutenant talked faintly of his distant home where the news -would carry so much sorrow. - -“Tell father I died believing in our cause, and were I to live my life -over I should join the Southern army; but it’s wrong about the -prisoners. We ought not to abuse those who fall into our hands. I’ve -loved you Maude, so long. Remember me when I am gone, not for anything -brilliant there was about me, but because I loved you so well, and died -in carrying out the work you gave me to do.” - -“Oh, Arthur! Arthur! speak some word of comfort to me or I shall surely -die. It _was_ a mistake,” Charlie whispered, as he crept close to -Arthur’s side. - -The dying man’s eyes rested inquiringly for a moment in Charlie’s face, -then lighted up with a sudden joy. - -“Charlie! Charlie! come close,” he whispered. “Bend your ear to my lips. -Maude must not hear me.” - -His head was still lying on Maude’s lap, but he spoke so low to Charlie -that she did not hear the question asked. She only knew that Charlie -started quickly, and throwing one arm across her neck as if to save her -from some evil, said, promptly, energetically: - -“No, no, Arthur; no!” - -Then the quivering lips went down again to Arthur’s ear, and Maude -caught the word “mistake,” and that was all. She did not know or think -what it really meant. It was _all_ a mistake, the terrible war which had -brought her so much pain and suffering. - -“I die easier now. It was so horrible before. Poor Charlie! Don’t let it -trouble you. Care for Maude. She would have been my wife. Stick to our -cause. You never forsook it,” came faintly from Arthur, and his eyes, -when again they rested on Maude’s face, had lost the strange, frightened -look which she had observed when she first came to his side. He was -dying very fast, and his mind seemed groping for some form of prayer -with which to meet the last great foe. - -“Pray, somebody,” he moaned, and Paul Haverill, who, wholly overcome -with all he had passed through during the last few hours, had stood dumb -and motionless, replied in a choking voice: - -“I am not a praying man, but God be with you, my boy, and land you -safely on t’other side, where there’s no more fighting.” - -“Yes, but that isn’t ‘Our Father.’ I used to say it at home,” came -feebly from the white lips, and then Tom Carleton knelt beside the youth -whose path had crossed his own so often and so strangely, and with deep -reverence and earnest entreaty commended the departing spirit to the God -who deals more gently, and mercifully, and lovingly with his children -than they dealt with each other. - -Tom thought of Isaac Simms, and the noisome, filthy room in Libby where -he had first learned to pray, and the thought gave fervor to his prayer, -to which Arthur listened intently, his lips motioning the amen he could -not speak, for he had no power of utterance. Once again they moved with -a pleading kind of motion, and Maude stooped over to kiss them, her long -hair falling across the pallid brow, where the blood stains were, and -when she lifted her head up, and pushed back her heavy locks, there was -the seal of death on Arthur’s face. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXV. - THE DEAD AND THE LIVING. - - -Of all Paul Haverill’s comfortable buildings, house, stables, barn and -negro quarters, there was left him only one cabin which the fire had not -consumed. That stood a little distant from the rest, and had been -occupied by Lois before her husband died. It was superior to the other -cabins then; it was neat and tidy now, and there they laid the dead -lieutenant, in his grey uniform, with a little flag of stars and bars -across his breast. This was Charlie’s thought, and it was very mete that -he who to the last had believed in the righteousness of the Confederacy -should have her sign above him. There was no other spot except the cabin -where Maude could stay, and the entire day and night she sat by her dead -Arthur, whom, now that he _was_ dead, she cherished in her heart as a -martyr and a hero, questioning even the ground on which she had hitherto -stood so firmly, and asking herself if, after all, the South was so very -far out of the way, or if the Union were worth the fearful price the -Southern people were paying for it. Maude did not know herself in this -mood. It was so unlike all her former theories, and more than once she -pressed her hot hands to her still hotter head, and asked if she was -going mad. - -Crouched beside Maude, with his blue eyes fixed upon her with a pitying, -remorseful look, was Charlie. - -“Poor Maude,—poor sister! I am so sorry. I never thought,—I did not -know; you used to laugh about him so to Uncle Paul. I’d give my life to -bring him back for you. Did you love him so very much?” Charlie said, in -broken sentences, and then Maude shivered from head to foot, but made -him no reply. - -She had not loved him so very much, but his violent death and all the -horrors attending it had shaken her terribly, and could he have come -back to life she would have tried to love him, and with her iron will -would have crushed that other love, the very knowledge of which had made -her heart throb with so much joy. - -But the dead come not to life again, and the next morning they buried -Arthur Tunbridge in the grassy enclosure where Paul Haverill’s wife was -sleeping with the infant son who, had he lived, would have been just -Arthur’s age. The blue coated soldiery, who had been his deadly foes, -paid him every military honor possible within their means, even marching -to his grave behind the stars and bars which lay upon his coffin; but -when they came back from the burial, they bore the national flag, whose -folds that peaceful summer night floated in the breeze from the top of -Lois’s cabin. - -Very kind, and gentle, and pitiful was Tom’s demeanor toward Maude. -During the day and the night, when she had sat by Arthur in Lois’s -cabin, he had not been near her; but, after all was over, he went to -her, and, with the authority of a friend and brother, insisted that she -should take the rest she needed so much. And Maude gave way at the sound -of his soothing, quieting voice, and, with a flood of tears, did what he -bade her do. And then Tom sat by her, and bathed her throbbing head, and -smoothed her beautiful hair, and paid back in part the services she had -rendered him when he lay sick in Squire Tunbridge’s house. - -Maude was not ill,—only exhausted,—both physically and mentally the -exhaustion showing itself in the quiet, listless state into which she -lapsed, paying but little attention to what was passing around her, and -offering no suggestion or remonstrance when told of her uncle’s plan to -accompany Captain Simms and his men to Knoxville. - -Over Paul Haverill, too, a change had passed. The attack upon him by his -old friends and neighbors, though long expected, had been sudden and -terrible when it came, and as he watched the burning of the house which -had been his so long, he felt that every tie which bound him to the old -place was severed. Then came swiftly the fearful tragedy of the -mountains, when Arthur was brought to him dead. Stunned and bewildered -by the startling events which had followed each other so rapidly, Paul -was hardly able to counsel for himself, and assented readily to the plan -which had really originated with Captain Carleton, who had another -scheme underlying that, but who suggested both so skillfully that Paul -Haverill fancied they were his own ideas, and gave them as such to -Maude. They would go to Knoxville with the soldiers, he said; thence to -Nashville. They had some relatives living there, and, after resting for -a little, they would continue their journeyings North, going, perhaps, -as far as New York. - -“I always wanted to travel North,” he said, “but my affairs kept me at -home. Now I have no affairs. My neighbors have relieved me of such -commodities and I want to get away from a spot where I have witnessed -such dreadful things. We all need change. You, Maude, more than I, and -Charlie more than either. I don’t know what has come over the boy. That -horrible night and morning were too much for him.” - -Maude knew that so far as Charlie was concerned, her uncle had spoken -truly. Charlie was greatly changed, and his eyes had in them a scared -look, as if every detail of the horrors of the fight on the mountain had -stamped itself indelibly upon his mind, and was never for an instant -forgotten. - -He needed a change of place and scene; and as she could not return to -Arthur’s desolate home, whither the sad news had been sent at once, -Maude assented to the Nashville arrangement, and in three weeks was -comfortably settled at a Nashville hotel, with Lois as her attendant. -Her uncle, Charlie, and Captain Carleton were with her, the latter -constantly putting off his journey to Rockland, where they were so -anxiously waiting for him. He had written to Rose immediately after his -arrival at Nashville, telling her of all that had transpired, and -speaking of Maude De Vere as one whom he hoped to make his wife. This -time the letter went safely, and Rose replied at once, urging Tom to -come, and insisting that Mr. Haverill, Maude and Charlie should -accompany him. - -“They saved Will’s life as well as yours,” Rose wrote. “I have a right -to them all, and especially to the noble Maude. Bring her to me, Tom, -and let me coax back the color to her dear face and the brightness to -her eyes. I shall come myself and get her if she refuses.” - -Maude had never known the companionship of a sister,—had never had a -single intimate girl friend except Nettie Tunbridge, who died. -Independent, strong willed and self-reliant, she had cared but little -for any society except that which she found with nature in the wild -mountains of Tennessee; but now, broken and shocked, and shorn of some -of her strength, she longed for sympathy and companionship, and -something in Rose Mather’s sprightly letter made her heart yearn toward -the little lady who had written it, and the pleasant home which Rose -described as beautiful with the summer bloom. - -“I will think about it by and by,” she said to her uncle; “but for the -present it is nice to rest here in Nashville.” - -So for a time longer they lingered in Tennessee, while Rose waited -impatiently for them and fretted at the delay. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXVI. - ANDERSONVILLE PRISONERS. - - -“This seems to be one of the worst cases we have had. I doubt if his -mind will survive the horrors he has endured, even if his body does. -Poor fellow! his mother would not recognize him now.” - -This was what the physician at Annapolis said to Mrs. Simms of a -miserable, emaciated skeleton, which had come up from Andersonville with -the last arrival of prisoners. - -While we in the mountains of Tennessee were tracing the wanderings of -Will Mather and Captain Carleton, Mrs. Simms and Annie had stood -untiringly at their posts beside the sick and dying soldiers who had -learned to bless and watch for the stern widow, and to love and worship -the beautiful Annie Graham. And well had she earned such appreciation, -for she had been most faithful to the wretched ones committed to her -care,—faithful both to body and soul, and in the better world she knew -there was waiting to welcome her more than one, whose darkened mind she -had led to the fountain of all light. And Annie had made a vow to stay -till from that foul Southern prison, where 28,000 men had died, there -came to her _the one_ for whom she always looked so anxiously when new -arrivals came, her blue eyes running rapidly over each wasted form, and -then filling with tears when the scrutiny was found to be in vain. - -James Carleton had never been heard from since that letter sent to her -so long ago, and hope had died out of Annie’s heart, when at last, with -Widow Simms, she stood by the cot where lay the insensible form of which -the physician had spoken so discouragingly. - -It was the figure of a young man, who must once have been finely formed, -with handsome face and hair and eyes. The latter were closed now, and -only the lids moved with a convulsive motion, as Annie bent over him. -The dark hair, matted and coarse and filthy, had curled in rings about -the bony forehead, but had been cut away when the bath was given, and -the closely shorn head was like many other heads which Annie Graham’s -hands had touched, gently, tenderly, as they now moved over this one, -trying to infuse some life into the breathing skeleton. He was to be her -charge,—he was in her division and Mrs. Simms’ keen grey eyes scanned -Annie curiously as she bent over the poor fellow. - -He was helpless as an infant, and Annie nursed him much as she would -have nursed a baby whose life hung on a thread. He had been there four -days, and only a faint, moaning sound had given token of life or -consciousness. But at the close of the fourth day, as Annie sat chafing -the pulseless fingers where the grey skin hung so loosely, the eyes -opened for a moment and were fixed upon her face. There was no -consciousness in them,—no recognition of her presence, nothing but the -strained, hungry, despairing look Annie had seen in the eyes of so many -of our prisoners, and which to a greater or less degree was peculiar to -them all. Annie saw this look, and then underneath it all she saw -something more,—_what_ it was she could not tell, but it brought back to -her those moonlight nights upon the beach at New London, and that other -night of more recent date, when she sat with Jimmie Carleton beneath the -Rockland sky and heard his passionate words of love, and saw his soft, -black eyes kindle with earnestness and then grow sad and sorrowful with -disappointment. There was no kindling in them now,—no ardent passion or -heat of love,—but a certain softness and brightness, and even sauciness, -lingered still and told Annie at last who it was. - -“Oh, merciful Father! it is _Jimmie_!” she said, and unmindful of any -who might be looking on, she bent down and kissed the sunken cheeks from -which the flesh was gone. - -She had expected him so long, and grown so weary and hopeless with -expectations unfulfilled, that she could scarcely believe it now, or -realize that the half dead wretch before her was once the lively, -humorous, teasing Jimmie Carleton. How she pitied him, and how her heart -throbbed as she thought of the suffering he must have endured ere he -reached this state of apparent imbecility. Then, as she remembered what -the physician said about his mind, she dropped upon her knees, and -clasping her hands over her face, prayed earnestly that God would remove -the darkness and wholly restore the man whom she loved so dearly. - -“_Do_ you think he will die?” she asked Mrs. Simms, who had come for a -moment to her side. - -“You know him, then. I was wondering that an old woman like me should -see clearer than you. I mistrusted from the first,” Mrs. Simms answered, -and then to Annie’s eager questioning she replied, “It will be almost a -miracle if we do get any sense into that brain, or flesh upon these -bones, but we’ll do the best we can.” - -Her words were not very encouraging, and Annie’s tears fell like rain -upon the face of the man who gave no sign that he knew where he was, or -who was bending over him. Oh! how he had longed for the air of the -North, as his face daily grew thinner, greyer, and more corpse-like, -while his flesh seemed shrivelling and drying on his bones. Bill Baker -had done what he could to ameliorate his condition,—done too much in -fact, and as the result he suddenly found himself shorn of his -privileges, and an inmate again of the dreadful prison. Even then he -clung to and cared for Jimmie, until the pangs of starvation and the -pains of sickness made him forgetful of all but himself. And there they -pined and wept and waited until the day of their release, when Bill was -too ill to be removed, and was left in charge of a humane family, who -kindly promised to care for him until he was better. From a Rockland -soldier who had been taken prisoner at the battle of the Wilderness, -Jimmie had heard that Mrs. Graham was at Annapolis, and then! oh, how he -longed for the time when it might be his fate to be tended and nursed by -her. She would do it so gently, and so kindly and in his dreams the -walls of his pestilential prison stretched away to the green fields of -the North, where he walked again with Annie, and felt the clasp of her -little hand, and the light of her blue eyes. She was always present with -him,—she or the little Lulu, of Pequot memory. Somehow these two were -strangely mixed, and when his mind began to totter as the physical -strain on it became too great, the two faces were united in one body, -and both bent lovingly over him, just as Annie Graham was doing now when -he was past knowing or caring who ministered to him. A vague suspicion -he had at intervals that in some respects there was a change, that his -bed was not the filthy sand bank, nor his covering the pitiless sky. -Gradually, too, there came a different look upon his face; the color was -changing from the dingy gray, to a more life-like hue; flesh was showing -a little beneath the skin, and the dark hair began to grow, and Annie -watered the tiny curls with bitter tears, for, as proof of the terrible -life whose horrors will never half be written, the once black hair was -coming out streaked with grey. They knew in Rockland that he was at -Annapolis, but Annie had peremptorily forbidden either Mrs. Carleton or -Rose to come. “They could do no good,” she wrote. “Jimmie would not know -them; and they might be in the way.” - -They were constantly expecting Tom from Tennessee, with Maude De Vere -and her friends, and so they remained at home the more willingly, -enjoining it upon Annie to write them every day, just a line to tell how -Jimmie was. - -The summer rain was falling softly upon the streets of Annapolis, and -the cool evening air came stealing into the room, where Annie Graham sat -by her patient. There were not so many now in her ward, and she had more -time for Jimmie, by whose bedside every leisure moment was passed. She -was sitting by him now, watching him as he slept, and listening -breathlessly to his low murmurings as he seemed to be talking of her and -the dreadful prison life. Then he slept more soundly, and she arranged -the light so that it left his face in shadow, but fell full upon her -own. - -Half an hour passed in this way, and Annie’s head was beginning to droop -from languor and drowsiness, when a sudden exclamation startled her, and -she looked up to see her patient’s eyes fixed upon her, while with his -finger he pointed to the window opposite, and whispered, - -“The star, it’s risen again, when I thought it had set forever. I take -it as a good omen, Bill. I shall see her face again.” - -Did he think himself in prison still, with that star shining over him, -and did he take her for Bill Baker? The thought was not a very -complimentary one, but Annie forgot everything in her joy, at this -evidence of returning reason. - -“Jimmie,” she said softly, and she bent her face so close to his, that -her lips touched his forehead, “Jimmie, don’t you know that you are in -Annapolis, with me, with Annie Graham. You remember Annie?” - -She had many a time said these very words in his ear, hoping somehow to -impress them upon him, and now she had succeeded, for he repeated them -after her slowly and with long pauses, like a school-boy trying to say a -half-learned lesson. - -“Jimmie—don’t you—know—that you—are here—in—Annapolis—with -me—with—Annie—Graham—You remember—Annie?” - -And as he said them consciousness began to struggle back,—the black eyes -fastened themselves upon Annie with a wistful look; then they took in -her dress, her hands folded in her lap, the decent covering on the bed -the furniture of the room, and then throwing up his arms he felt of his -flesh, and examined his linen, and patted the pillow, while still the -look of wonder and perplexity deepened on his face. Suddenly he let his -arms drop helplessly, then stretched them feebly towards Annie, and -while both chin and lip quivered touchingly, and the tears streamed from -his eyes, he whispered, - -“Clean face, clean hands, soft pillow and bed, with the hunger, and -thirst, and homesickness gone. This is—yes, this must be God’s land, and -_she_ is there with me.” - -He fainted then. The shock of coming back to “God’s land” had been too -great, and for a week or more he paid but little heed to what was -passing around him. - -“Don’t you know me, Jimmie? It’s I,—it’s Annie,” Mrs. Graham would say -to him, as his restless eyes turned upon her, and he would repeat after -her, - -“Don’t you—know—me, Jimmie? It’s I,—it’s Annie.” - -This was a peculiarity of his, and it continued until Bill Baker, who -had become strong enough to be moved, came to Annapolis, and asked to -see the “Cop’ral.” - -At first the physician refused, but Annie approved the plan, hoping for -a good result, and she waited anxiously, while Bill said cheerily, - -“Hallo, old Cop’ral. Rather nicer quarters here than that sand bank down -by that infernal nasty stream.” - -Bill Baker’s voice was the last which in the far-off prison had sounded -kindly in Jimmie’s ears, and now as he heard it again his face lighted -up, and his eyes kindled with something like their olden fire. - -“You know me, Cop’ral. I’m Bill. We’ve been exchanged. We’re up to -Annapolis, and Miss Graam is nussin’ you,” Bill continued, and then -Jimmie drew a long breath, and burst into a passionate fit of tears. -“They’ll do him good. They allus did to Andersonville. He’d hold in till -he was fit to burst, and then he’d let ’em slide, and feel better. He’ll -know you, Miss Graam, after this.” - -Annie was called away just then, to attend to another patient, and Bill -was left alone with Jimmie. There were a few broken sentences from the -latter, and then Bill Baker was heard talking rapidly, but very gently -and cautiously, and Jimmie lifted his head once and looked across the -room where Annie was. - -“Better leave him alone a spell, till he thinks it out, and gets it -arranged,” Bill said to Annie. “I made him understand where he was, and -that you was here, and all right on the main question; and though he’d -like to have bust his biler for a minute, he’ll come all straight, I -reckon.” - -It was more than an hour before Annie went to Jimmie again, but when she -did, the eager, joyful look in his eyes told her that she was -recognized. - -“Don’t speak to me,—don’t talk,” she said, laying one hand lightly upon -the lips, which began to move, while with the other she smoothed the -short curls of hair. - -He kissed the hand upon his lips, and whispered, through the fingers: - -“Tell me first, was it true, he told me? Do you”—— - -He did not finish the sentence, for Annie understood him, and bending so -near to him that no one else could hear, she said: - -“Yes, Jimmie,—I do.” - -He seemed satisfied, and something of his old manner came back to him -when, later in the day, Annie tried to straighten the clothes about him, -and wet and brushed his hair. - -“Look like a hippopotamus, don’t I?” he asked, touching his -thick-skinned face. - -“Not half as much as you did,” Annie replied; and the first smile her -face had worn for weeks glimmered around her lips, for she knew now the -danger was past, and Jimmie Carleton would live. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXVII. - IN ROCKLAND. - - -The warm, bright November day was wearing to its close. The purple haze -of the Indian summer lay around the hilltops, and the soft, golden -sunlight fell softly upon the grass, and the few autumnal flowers which -had escaped the recent storm. The grounds around the Mather mansion were -looking almost as beautiful as in the early summer, for the grass, -invigorated by the rain, was fresh and green again, and the brilliant -foliage of the trees which dotted the lawn made up for the loss of the -flowers. Even these last were not lacking indoors, for the hot-house had -been robbed of its costliest flowers, which filled the whole house with -perfume, and made Maude De Vere start with surprise when she first -entered the parlors. - -“It takes me back to my Southern home,” she said to Rose, who, standing -on tiptoe, fastened a half-open lily in her hair, going into ecstasies -over the effect, and thinking to herself that Maude De Vere was the most -regal creature she had ever seen. - -Maude had been in Rockland three weeks, and Rose was already as much in -love with her as if she had known her all her life. At first, she had -dreaded a little to meet the fearless heroine of the mountains. A girl -who had held a revolver at the heads of both Federal and Confederate; -who, in the night, had ridden twenty miles on horseback to conduct a -party of refugees to a place of safety, and had guarded the entrance of -the cave in the face of a furious mob, must be something very -formidable, or, at least, something unlike all Rose’s ideas of what a -lady gently born should be; and both Rose and her mother had waited -nervously for the arrival of one who, they felt sure, was to be the wife -of Tom. Nothing definite had been said upon the subject since Arthur -died, but it was tacitly understood by all parties that Maude De Vere -was, sometime, to be Maude Carleton; and Tom was allowed to pay her -attentions which could only be paid to his _fiancée_. - -In a great flutter of spirits, Rose had heard of Maude’s arrival at the -Monteur House, and immediately after dinner had driven down to see her, -accompanied by Will, who, if possible, was more anxious than herself to -pay his respects to Maude. - -She was kneeling by Charlie’s couch when the party entered, but she rose -at once and came forward, with the most beautiful carnation staining her -cheeks, and a look of modesty in her brilliant eyes. She wore a long, -trailing dress of heavy silk, and stood so erect, and held her head so -high, that she seemed taller than she really was,—taller than Tom, Rose -feared; but as he stepped up to her, she saw he had the advantage of her -by at least four inches, and thus reassured, she drew a long breath of -relief; then, as thoughts of all her husband and brother had been saved -from by this heroic girl came over her, she sprang toward Maude, and -winding her arms around her neck, sobbed hysterically, but never spoke -one word. - -“What is it? What are you crying for?” Maude asked, petting her as if -she had been a little child. - -“Oh, I don’t know. The sight of you who have done so much for the war, -and been so brave, makes me seem so little, so small, so mean beside -you, Maude De Vere,” Rose replied, brokenly, and then Maude’s eyes -filled with tears, and she hugged the sobbing little creature, whom, -from that moment, she loved so fondly. - -She, too, had dreaded this meeting, for she knew that Rose Mather and -her mother were both women of the highest culture, and she felt that -they might criticise, and perhaps condemn one who had lived so long -among the pines of North Carolina and the mountains of Tennessee. But -Rose’s manner divested her of all fear, and in a moment she resumed that -unconscious air of superiority to all else around her, which was a part -of herself. Queenly was the word which best suited her looks and her -manners, and Rose paid homage to her as to a queen, and told her that -she loved her, and how much she had thought of her, and how anxious her -mother was to see her, and how happy they would all be when Jimmie and -Annie came home. - -There had been daily visits to the Monteur since then, and Mrs. Carleton -had met the beautiful Maude, and mentally approved of Tom’s choice. - -Charlie too had been petted and caressed, and his blue eyes opened with -wonder as he saw what Northern women were like, and remembered his -prejudice against them. He liked the Northerners, he said, but he was -loyal to the Southern cause, and listened, with flashing eyes and -crimson cheeks, to all he continually heard of the sure defeat and -disgrace of the Confederacy. - -Matters were in this wise when the day came on which Annie was expected -home with Jimmie. Great preparations had been made for that arrival. In -Rockland there was more than one prisoner who had been nursed by Annie -Graham, and her name was spoken with reverence and love by the veriest -vagabond that walked the streets. They had not made a demonstration in a -long, long time, but they were going to make one now, and the honors -which poor George saw in fancy awarded to himself were to be given to -his wife. Jimmie, too, whose terrible sufferings had excited so much -commiseration, was to have his share of consideration. Bill Baker, who -had been home for a week, and was as usual the most active spirit of -all, suggested that when they flung out the banner on which was -inscribed, “Honor and welcome to Annie Graham,” they should give three -cheers for Mr. Carleton too. “Bein’,” as he said, “that they are about -as good as one.” - -Prompt to the moment when it was due, the train swept round the Rockland -curve and stopped at the depot where a large concourse of people was -gathered. They had not expected the Widow Simms, and when her green veil -and straw bonnet appeared on the platform, the foremost of the group -looked a little disappointed, while the widow’s face darkened as she saw -the waiting multitude, and guessed why they were there. - -Annie had appeared by this time, and at sight of her the tongues were -loosened, and deafening shouts of welcome greeted her on every side. The -flag bearing her name was held aloft, the cannon in the adjoining field -sent forth its bellowing roar, and the band struck up the sweet refrain -of “Annie Laurie;” while the voices of the Andersonville prisoners, who -had been Annie’s charge, sang the last line: - - “And for bonnie _Annie Graham_ I would lay me down and die.” - -Surely this was a coming home which Annie had never looked for, and with -her face flushed with excitement, and her eyes shining with tears, she -stood in the midst of the shouting throng, gazing wonderingly from one -to the other, and realizing nothing clearly, except the firm clasp upon -her arm. - -It was Jimmie’s hand, and Jimmie himself leaned upon her, as the crowd -coupled his name with hers, and hurrahed for “James Carleton and Annie -Graham.” - -“And the Widder Simms,—I swan if it’s fair to leave her out. She did -some tall nussin’ down to Annapolis,” Bill Baker said; and then the -widow was cheered, and she acknowledged the compliment with a grim -smile, and wondered when “folks would quit making fools of themselves, -and if Susan wasn’t up there, somewhere, in the jam. Of course she was; -’twas like them Ruggleses to go where the doins was.” - -And while she shook the hand of her neighbors, she kept her eyes on the -watch for Susan, and felt a little chagrined that she did not find her. - -Susan was at home in the neat little house which John had bought with -his captain’s wages, so carefully saved. The same house it was at which -Annie Graham had looked with longing eyes, in the commencement of the -war; and in the pleasant chamber which overlooked the town there was _a -little boy_ who had been in Rockland only a week, and whose existence -was as yet unknown to the widow. They had purposely kept it from her, so -she had no suspicion that he was expected; and the first genuine feeling -of happiness she had known since Isaac died, she experienced when she -was ushered into Susan’s room, and the little red-faced thing was laid -in her lap. She had looked askance at the new house, and neat furniture, -and the pretty curtains, as so many proofs of “them Ruggleses” -extravagance; but she was not proof against the white face which, from -the pillows, smiled so kindly upon her, and called her mother. And she -was guilty of kissing her daughter-in-law, even before she saw the baby, -her first grandchild, whom Susan called _Isaac_, although she hated the -name, and had tacked on to it _Adolphus_, with the hope that the future -would adjust the name into _Adolph_, or something more fanciful than the -good, plain Bible Isaac. And while the widow kissed and wept over her -grandson, and felt herself growing young, and soft, and gentle again, -the crowd around the depot had dispersed, a part going to their own -homes, and a part following the soldiers and band which escorted Annie -Graham and Jimmie Carleton to the Mather mansion, where everything had -been made so beautiful for them. - -It was a pleasant coming home, and a most ample compensation for all the -weariness and privation which Annie, as hospital nurse, had endured, and -she felt that far more was awarded to her than she deserved. - -“Mr. Carleton was the one to be honored,” she said, and her soft, blue -eyes rested upon the pale, tired man, who, exhausted with his journey -and the excitement, lay down at once upon the sofa, while his mother and -Rose knelt beside him and kissed, and pitied, and cried over his poor -white face, and long, bony hands, which were almost transparent in their -whiteness. - -Maude was not one of the party at the Mather mansion that night. - -“You ought to be alone the first night,” she said, when Rose insisted -that she should join them. “To-morrow I will come round and call on Mrs. -Graham and your brother.” - -She had been greatly interested in all the arrangements, and was curious -to see the woman who had almost been her rival, while Annie was quite as -curious to see her, the heroine of the mountains. In her letters to -Annie, Rose had purposely refrained from mentioning Tom’s name with -Maude’s, so that Annie was ignorant of the real state of things. But she -did not remain so long. - -“Is she so very beautiful?” she said to Rose, when, after supper, they -were all assembled in the parlor, and Maude was the subject of -conversation. - -“Ask Tom; he can tell you,” Rose replied, and by the conscious look on -Tom’s face, Annie guessed the truth at once. - -That night, when the two brothers were alone in their room, Tom said to -Jimmie: - -“Well, my boy, I’ve kept my word,—I’ve waited a year and more. I’ve -given you every chance a reasonable man could ask. Have you made a -proper use of your privileges? Would it do me any good to try and win -Annie now?” - -“You can try if you like,” Jimmie said, with a smile. And then Tom told -him of his hopes concerning Maude De Vere, and Jimmie said to him -saucily: - -“Don’t you remember I told you once you had had your day? But some lucky -dogs have two, and you, it seems, are one of them.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXXVIII. - THE LOVERS. - - -The next day brought Maude De Vere, looking so handsome in her black -dress, with her coquettish drab hat and long drab feather tipped with -scarlet, that she reminded Annie of some bright tropical flower as she -came into the room with the sparkle in her brilliant eyes, and the deep, -rich bloom upon her cheek. She had regained her health and spirits -rapidly within the last few weeks, and even Jimmie, who seldom saw -beyond Annie’s fair face and soft blue eyes, drew a breath of wonder at -the queenly girl who completely overshadowed those around her so far as -size and form and physical development were concerned. But nothing could -detract from the calm, quiet dignity of Annie’s manner, or from the -pure, angelic beauty of her face, and as the two stood holding each -other’s hands and looking into each other’s eyes, they made a most -striking tableau, and Mrs. Carleton thought, with a thrill of pride, how -well her sons had chosen. - -That night, as Maude was walking back to the hotel accompanied by Tom, -he asked her again the question put in the cave of the Cumberland. - -“I understand about Arthur,” he said; “but he is dead; there is no -promise now in the way. I claim you for my own. Am I wrong in doing so?” - -That Maude’s reply was wholly satisfactory was proved by the expression -of Tom Carleton’s face when at last he stopped at the door of the hotel, -and by the kiss which burned on Maude’s lips long after he had -disappeared down the street. - -The next afternoon, while Tom was with Maude, and both Mrs. Carleton and -Rose were out on a shopping expedition, Annie sat alone with Jimmie in -the pleasant little room which had been given to him as a place where he -would be more quiet than in the parlor. Annie had been playing with -Rose’s boy,—the little Jimmie, a handsome, sturdy fellow of nearly a -year old, whom the entire household spoiled. He was already beginning to -talk, and having taken a fancy to Annie, he tried to call her name, and -made out of it a tolerably distinct “Auntee,” which brought a blush to -Annie’s face, and a teasing smile to Jimmie’s. - -“Come, sit by me a moment, Annie,” Jimmie said, when the child had been -taken out by his nurse. “Sit on this stool, so,—a little nearer to -me,—there, that’s right,” he continued, in the tone of authority he had -unconsciously acquired since his convalescence. - -He was lying upon the couch, and Annie was sitting at his side and so -near to him that his long fingers could smooth and caress her shining -hair, while his saucy eyes feasted themselves upon her face, as he asked -“when she would really be the auntie of the little boy who called her -now by that name.” - -“Not till you are able to stand alone,” was Annie’s reply, and then, for -the first time since his return from Andersonville, Jimmie spoke of that -episode in his life at New London, when little Lulu Howard had stirred -his boyish blood, and filled his boyish fancy. - -Perhaps he wanted to tease Annie, for he said to her: - -“I _did_ like that little blue-eyed Lu,—that’s a fact. I used to think -about her all day, and dream about her all night. I wonder where she is -now.” - -“What would you do if you knew?” Annie asked, and Jimmie replied: - -“I believe I would go miles to see her, just to know what kind of a -woman she has developed into. I trust she is not like her aunt. I could -not endure her. She struck me as a hard, selfish, ambitious woman, -terribly afraid lest the world generally should not think Mrs. Scott -Belknap all which Mrs. Scott Belknap thought herself to be.” - -Annie’s cheeks were very red by this time, and imputing her heightened -color to a cause widely different from the real one, Jimmie drew her -face down to his, and kissing the burning cheeks, said: - -“Of course I should take you with me, when I went after little Lu.” - -“You would hardly find her if you did not,” Annie said, while Jimmie -looked inquiringly at her. - -Annie had only been waiting for Jimmie to speak of the little Pequot, -before making her own confession, and she now said to him abruptly: - -“Did Lulu look any like me?” - -“Why, yes. I’ve always thought so, only she was younger, and had short -hair, you know, and short dresses, too. Annie, Annie, tell me,—was -she,—do you,—are you”—Jimmie began, raising himself upright upon the -couch, as something in Annie’s expression began to puzzle and mystify -him. - -“Am I what?” Annie asked. “Am I little Lulu of the Pequot House? My name -was _Annie Louise Howard_ before I married George. My aunt called me -Louise. You never inquired my maiden name, I believe. I suppose you -thought I had always been a married woman, but I was a girl of fourteen -once, and went with my Aunt Belknap to New London, and met a boy who -called himself _Dick Lee_, and who was so kind to the orphan girl, that -she began to think of him all day, and watch for his coming after his -school hours. He was a saucy, teasing boy, but Lulu liked him, and when -one day she waited for his promised coming till it grew dark upon the -beach, and the great hotel was lighted up for the evening festivity, and -when other days and nights passed, and he neither came nor sent her any -word, and she heard at last from one of his comrades that he had gone -home to Boston,—I say, when all this came about she began to think that -she had loved the boy who deceived her so, for he did deceive her in -more points than one, as she afterward learned. His name was not Dick -Lee”—— - -“But, Annie,” Jimmie began, and Annie stopped him, saying: - -“Wait, Jimmie, till I am through. This is my hour now. I have delayed -telling you all this, for various reasons. Your mother knew who I was -before I went to Washington, and she excused you as far as was possible. -That I have promised to be your wife is proof that I have forgiven the -pangs of disappointment I endured; for, Jimmie, I did suffer for a time. -There was so little in the world to make me happy, and you had been so -kind, that I fully believed in and trusted you; and when I found I was -deceived, my heart ached as hard, perhaps, as the heart of a girl of -fourteen can ache from such a cause.” - -“Poor Annie! poor little Lulu!” Jimmie said, as he clasped one of -Annie’s hands in his own, and his voice expressed all the sorrow and -tenderness he felt for Annie who continued: - -“Such childish loves are usually short-lived, you know, but mine was the -first pleasant dream I had known since my parents died, and I went to my -Aunt Belknap, in New Haven. She meant to be kind, I suppose, and in a -certain way she was. She gave me a good education, and every advantage -within her means. She took me to Newport and Saratoga, and the New York -hotels, and she turned her back on George Graham, whom we met at Long -Branch, where he was making some repairs upon an engine. A mechanic was -not her idea of a husband for her niece. She preferred that I should -marry a man of sixty, who had already the portraits of three wives in -his handsome house at Meriden; but then, for each portrait he counted -over two hundred thousand dollars, and half a million covers a multitude -of defects and a great many wives. I would not marry that man, and as -the result of my persistent refusal, my life with my aunt became so -unbearable that, when Providence again threw George in my way, and he -asked me to be his wife, I consented, and I never regretted the step. He -was very kind to me, and I loved him so much, that when he died, I -thought my heart died too, for he was my all.” - -Annie was very beautiful in her excitement as she paid this tribute to -her deceased husband, and Jimmie saw that she was beautiful, but felt -relieved when she left George Graham, and spoke of Rose, who had come to -her like an angel of light, and made the burden easier to bear. - -“I had no suspicion that she was the _soi-disant_ Dick Lee’s sister, or -that my boy-hero was not Dick Lee, until just before you came home for -the first time, and then I thought I must go away, for I did not care to -meet you. But Rose prevented me, and I am glad now that she did.” - -“And I am glad, too,” Jimmie said. “Your staying has been the means of -untold good to me, darling,—it was the memory of your sweet, holy life -and character which led me, a wretch at Andersonville, to seek the -Saviour whom you have loved so long. God has led us both in strange -paths. We have suffered a great deal,—you mentally, I physically, and -only what I deserved; but let us hope that the night is passed, and the -morning of our happy future dawning upon us. We are both young yet,—you -twenty-three, and I only twenty-six. We have a long life to look forward -to, and I thank God for it; but most of all, I thank Him for giving me -my darling Annie,—my dear little Lulu! Does Rose know that you are -Lulu?” - -Mrs. Carleton had thought it better not to add to Rose’s excitement by -telling her who Annie was, while Jimmie’s fate was shrouded in so much -gloom; then, after his return, she decided that Annie should have the -satisfaction of telling herself, and thus Rose was still in ignorance -with regard to Annie’s identity with the Pequot. But Annie told her that -night, and Rose’s eyes were like stars, as she smothered Annie with -kisses, and declared it was all like some strange story she had read. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXIX. - CHARLIE. - - -He did not improve as his sister and uncle hoped he might; and as the -cold weather increased, they began to talk of taking him to a warmer -climate, but Charlie said: - -“I am as well here as I could be anywhere. I don’t want to be moved -about. Let me stay here in quiet.” - -So they made him as comfortable as possible at the hotel, and Rose and -Annie came every day to see him and he learned to watch and listen for -their coming, especially that of Annie, to whom he took the kindliest. -She knew just how to nurse him, and as she once cared for the poor -prisoners, so she now cared for the Southern boy, who, while -acknowledging the kindness of the Northern people, was still as -thorough a Secessionist as he had ever been. Anxiously he waited for -daily news of the progress of Grant’s army, refusing to believe that -Lee was so closely shut up in Richmond that escape was impossible. -Blindly, like many of his older brethren, he clung to the hope, that -underlying the whole was some hidden motive which would in time appear -and work good to his cause. Maude never opposed or disputed with him -now, but read him every little item of good for the South. But when, -in the spring, the fighting at Petersburg commenced, there were no -such items to read, and Charlie asked no longer for news. Then there -came a never-to-be-forgotten day, when through the length and breadth -of the land, the glad tidings ran that Richmond had fallen; that Lee -with his army was flying from the city, with Grant in hot pursuit. The -war was virtually over; and from Maine to Oregon the air was filled -with the jubilant notes of victory. For three long hours the bells of -Rockland rang out their merry peals, and at night they kindled -bonfires in the streets; and on the grass-plat by the well in Widow -Simms’ yard, they burned the box, which, four years before, poor Isaac -had put away for just such an occasion as this. - -All the morning of that memorable Monday, while the bells were ringing, -and the crowds were shouting in the streets, Charlie De Vere had lain -with his white face to the wall, and his lips quivering with the grief -and mortification he felt, that it should have ended thus. Occasionally, -as the shouts grew louder, he stopped his ears, so as to shut out what -seemed to him like exultations over the death of so many hopes; but when -Annie came in, and told Maude of the bonfire they were to have that -night in Mrs. Simms’ yard, and asked her to come for the sake of the boy -whose box was to be burned, Charlie began to listen. And as he listened, -he grew interested in Isaac Simms and the grass-plat by the well, and -the box hidden in the barn, and he expressed a wish to be present when -it was burned. Maude, too, had heard of Isaac Simms before. She knew -that he had been captured by Arthur Tunbridge, but she did not know the -particulars of his prison life, or how generously Tom had sacrificed his -chance of liberty for the sake of the poor, sick boy, until Annie told -the story, to which she listened with swimming eyes and a heart -throbbing with love and respect for her lover, who had been so noble and -unselfish. She would go to the bonfire on the grass-plat, she said; and -Charlie should go too. _He_ had wept passionately at the recital of -Isaac’s sufferings in Libby, but still found some excuse for the South -generally. - -“It was not the better class of people,” he said, “who did these things; -it was the lower, ignorant ones, whose instincts were naturally brutal.” - -And neither Maude nor Annie contradicted him, though the eyes of the -former flashed indignantly, and her nostrils quivered as they always did -when the sufferings of our prisoners were mentioned in her presence. - -That night, when the stars came out over Rockland, a party of twelve or -more was congregated at the house of the widow Simms, where, but for the -sad memory of Isaac, whose soldier-coat hung on the wall, with the -knapsack carried into battle, all would have been, joy and hilarity at -the prospect of certain peace. But death had been in that household, -just as it had crept across many and many another threshold; and mingled -with the rejoicings were tears and sad regrets for the dead of our land, -whose graves were everywhere, from the shadowy forests of Maine, and the -vast prairies of the West, to the sunny plains of the South, where they -fought and died. There were twenty-five buried in the Rockland -graveyard; and others than the party assembled at Mrs. Simms, thought of -the vacant chairs at home, and the sleeping dead whose ears were deaf to -the notes of peace floating so musically over the land. Charlie’s face -was very white, and there were tears in his eyes as he laid his thin, -white hands reverently upon the box, examining its make, and bending -close to the name, and date, and words cut upon it.—“Isaac Simms, -Rockland, April 25th, 1861. This box to be burned——” There was a blank -which the boy, who had cut the words with his jack-knife, could not -supply. He did not know _when_ the box would be burned. Then it was -April, 1861; now it was April, 1865. Four years of strife and bloodshed, -thousands and thousands of desolate hearth-stones, and broken hearts, -and lifeless forms both North and South, and the end had come at last. -But the boy Isaac was not there to see it. It was not for _him_ to fill -up that blank; but for the Southern boy, Charlie De Vere, who took his -pencil from his pocket, and wrote, “April 3d, 1865, to celebrate the -fall of Richmond, and the end of the Confederacy. Charles De Vere.” - -“Who shall light the pile?” Tom asked, when all was ready. And Charlie -answered, “Let me, please. Surely I may light the fire!” - -And he did light it, and then, with the rest, looked on while the smoke -and the flames curled up toward the starry heavens where the boy Isaac -had gone, and where Charlie in his dreams that night saw him so -distinctly, and grasped his friendly hand. - -After that night, Charlie failed rapidly, and often in his sleep, he -talked to some one who seemed to be Arthur, and said it was “a mistake, -a dreadful mistake.” At last, as Maude sat by him one day, the fifth -after the bonfire on the grass-plat, he said to her suddenly: - -“Maude, if a man kills another and didn’t mean to, is it _murder_?” - -“No, it is manslaughter. Why do you ask?” Maude said; and Charlie -continued: - -“Don’t hate me, Maude, nor tell any body, for _I_ killed Arthur, myself. -I shot him right through the head, and—Maude, he thought it was _you_!” - -“Oh! Charlie! Charlie!” and Maude shrieked aloud as she bent over her -brother, who continued: - -“Not when he died, but at first, when he lay there on the grass, moaning -and looking at you so sorry and grieved like, don’t you remember?” - -“Yes!” Maude gasped; and Charlie went on: - -“You know that one of the ruffians fired at Captain Carleton and hit -you, and then I could not help paying him back. He was taller than -Arthur, who stood behind him, and knocked him down in time to take the -ball himself. He knew you had a revolver, and he thought it was you, -though an accident, of course, and it made him so sorry that you should -be the one to kill him. But I told him different; when I whispered to -him, you know. I said it was I, and his eyes put on such a happy look. I -know he forgave me, for he said so; but my heart has ached ever since -with thinking about it. I could not forget it; and I’ve asked God to -forgive me so many times. I think he has; and that when I die, I shall -go where Isaac Simms has gone. I like him, Maude, if he was a Yankee, -and fought against us; and I like Mrs. Graham so much; and Mr. James -Carleton, and the Mathers, and Mrs. Simms, some; but I can’t like that -dreadful Bill Baker, with his slang words and vulgar ways; he makes me -so sick, and I feel so ashamed that we should be beaten by such as he.” - -“You were not beaten by such as he! You are mistaken, Charlie! The -Northern army was composed of many of the noblest men in the world. -There are Bill Bakers everywhere, as many South as North. It is foolish -to think otherwise.” - -Maude was growing hot and eloquent in her defense of the Northern army, -but Charlie’s gentle, low-spoken reply, stopped her: - -“Perhaps it is. I got terribly perplexed thinking it all over, and how -it has turned out. I think—yes, I know I am glad the negroes are free. -_We_ never abused them. Uncle Paul never abused them. But there were -those who did; and if slavery is a Divine institution, as we are taught -to believe, it was a broken down and badly conducted institution, and -not at all as God meant it to be managed.” - -Charlie paused a moment, and when he spoke again, it was of _Tom_, who -had been so kind to him. - -“He is like a brother to me, Maude, and I am glad you are to be his -wife. And Maude, don’t wait after I am dead, but marry Captain Carleton -at once. You will be happier then.” - -With tears and kisses Maude bent over her brother, who after that -confession seemed so much brighter and more cheerful, that hope -sometimes whispered to Maude that he would live. Annie was almost -constantly with him now. He felt better and stronger with her, he said, -and death was not so terrible. So, just as she had soothed, and -comforted, and nursed many a poor fellow from Andersonville, Annie -comforted and nursed Charlie De Vere, until that dreadful Saturday when -the telegraphic wires brought up from the South the appalling news that -our President was dead,—murdered by the assassin’s hand. - -“No, no, not that. We did not do that,” Charlie cried, with a look of -horror in his blue eyes when he heard the dreadful story, and that the -Southern leaders were suspected of complicity in the murder. - -“It would make me a Unionist, if I believed my people capable of that; -but they are not,—it cannot be,” Charlie kept repeating to himself, -while the great drops of sweat stood upon his white forehead, and his -pulse and heart beat so rapidly, that Maude summoned the attending -physician, who shook his head doubtfully at the great change for the -worse in his patient. - -“I had hoped at least to keep him till the warm weather, but, I am -afraid those bells will be the death of him,” he said, as he saw how -Charlie shivered and moaned with each sound of the tolling bells. - -“Perhaps they would stop if you were to ask them, and tell them why,” -Annie suggested to Maude; but Charlie, who heard it, exclaimed, - -“No, let them toll on. It is proper they should mourn for him. The South -would do the same if it was our President who had been murdered.” - -So the bells tolled on, and the public buildings were draped in -mourning, and the windows of Charlie’s room were festooned with black, -and he watched the sombre drapery as it swayed in the April wind, and -talked of the terrible deed, and the war which was ended, and the world -to which so many thousands had gone during the long four years of strife -and bloodshed. - -“I shall be there to-morrow,” he said, “and then perhaps I shall know -why all this has been done, and if we were so wrong.” - -Maude and Annie, Paul Haverill and Tom Carleton watched with him through -the night, and just as the beautiful Easter morning broke, and the -sunlight fell upon the Rockland hills, the boy who to the last had -remained true to the Southern cause, lay dead among the people who had -been his foes. - -At Maude’s request they buried him by the side of Isaac Simms, and Capt. -Carleton ordered a handsome monument, on which the names of both the -boys were cut, Isaac Simms, who had died for the North, and Charlie De -Vere, who, if need be, would have given his life for the South, each -holding entirely different political sentiments, but both holding the -same living faith which made for them an entrance to the world where all -is perfect peace, and where we who now see through a glass darkly shall -then see face to face, and know why these things are so. - - * * * * * - -Six months had passed since Charlie De Vere died. Paul Haverill, Will -Mather, and Captain Carleton had been together on a pilgrimage to Paul’s -old neighborhood, where the people, wiser grown, welcomed back their old -friend and neighbor, and strove in various ways to atone for all which -had been cruel and harsh in their former dealing toward him. The war had -left them destitute, so far as negroes and money were concerned; but -such as they had they freely offered Paul, entreating him to stay in -their midst and rebuild the homestead, whose blackened ruins bore -testimony to what men’s passions will lead them to do when roused and -uncontrolled. But Paul said no; he could never again live where there -was so much to remind him of the past. A little way out of Nashville was -a beautiful dwelling-house, which, with a few acres of highly cultivated -land, was offered for sale. - -Maude had spoken of the place when she was in the city, and had said: - -“I should like to live there.” - -And Tom had remembered it; and when he found it for sale, he suggested -to Mr. Haverill that they buy it as a winter residence for Maude. And so -what little property Paul Haverill had left was invested in _Fair Oaks_, -as the place was called; and Tom gave orders that the house should be -refurnished and ready for himself and bride as early as the first of -November. - -As far as was possible, Will and Tom found and generously rewarded those -who had so kindly befriended them in their perilous journey across the -mountains. - -But some were missing, and only their graves remained to tell the story -of their wrongs. - -This trip was made in June, and early in August, the whole Carleton -family went to New London, where Jimmie improved so fast that few would -have recognized the pale, thin invalid, of Andersonville notoriety, in -the active, red-cheeked, saucy-eyed young man, who became the life of -the Pequot House, and for whom the gay belles practiced their most -bewitching coquetries. - -But these were all lost on Jimmie, who was seldom many minutes away from -the fair, blue-eyed woman who, the girls had learned, was a widow, and -of whom they at first had no fears. But they changed their minds when -day after day saw the “handsome Carleton” at her side, and night after -night found him walking with her along the road, or sitting on the rocks -and watching the tide come in, just as he had done years ago, when both -were younger than they were now. They lived those days over again, and, -in their perfect happiness, almost forgot the sorrow and pain which had -come to them both since they first looked out upon the waters of New -London bay. - -Tom and Maude were there, too, together with Rose Mather and Will, and -Susan Simms and John. - -A well-timed investment in _oil stock_,—a lucky turn of the wheel,—and -Captain John Simms awoke, one morning, with one hundred thousands -dollars! He did not believe it at first, and Susan did not believe it -either. But when John, who, with all his good sense, was a little given -to show, or, as his mother expressed it, “to making a fool of himself,” -brought her a set of diamonds, handsomer than Rose Mather’s, and bought -her a new carriage, and took her to Saratoga, with an English nurse for -little Ike, she began to realize that something had happened to her -which brought Rose Mather’s envied style of living within her means. - -She soon grew tired of Saratoga. She was too much alone in that great -crowd, and when she heard that the Carletons were at New London she went -there with her diamonds and horses, and, patronized by Rose, who took -her at once under her protection, she made a few pleasant acquaintances, -and ever after talked confidently of her “summer at the sea-side.” She -did not care to go again, however. “She and John were not exactly like -people born to high life,” she said, and so she settled quietly down in -her pretty home, and made, as the Widow Simms said, “quite a decent -woman, considerin’ that she was one of them Ruggleses.” - - * * * * * - -Bill Baker was astir very early one bright, October morning, his face -indicating that some important event was pending in which he was to act -a part. It was a double wedding at St. Luke’s, and Maude and Annie were -the brides. There was a great crowd to witness the ceremony, and Annie’s -“boys” whom she had nursed at Annapolis, were the first to offer their -congratulations to Mrs. James Carleton, who looked so fair and pure and -lovely, while Maude, whose beauty was of a more brilliant order, seemed -to sparkle and flash as she bent her stately head in response to the -greetings given to her. - -Upon Bill, who had turned hack-driver, devolved the honor of taking the -bridal party to and from the church, and his horses were covered with -the Federal flag, while conspicuous in his button-hole was a small one -made of white silk and presented to him by a girl whom he called “Em,” -and who blushed every time she heard Bill’s voice ordering the crowd to -stand back and his horses to “show their oats,” as he drove from the -church with the newly-married people. - -Their destination was Nashville, where, in Maude’s beautiful home, -Jimmie and Annie passed a few delightful weeks, and then returned to -Boston to the old Carleton house on Beacon Street, which had been fitted -up for their reception. - -Mrs. Carleton, senior, divides her time between her three children, Tom, -Jimmie and Rose, but her home proper is with Annie, in Boston, where -there is now a little “Lulu Graham,” six months old, and where Rose and -Will often go, while each summer Tom Carleton comes up from Fair Oaks -with his beautiful Maude, the heroine of the Cumberland Mountains. - - - THE END. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. 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