"Yes, dear child. Freddie's sweet message still more, Oh, I need not mourn for him!"



CHAPTER TWENTY-FIFTH.

"Liberty! Freedom! tyranny is dead! —Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets." —SHAKESPEARE'S JULIUS CAESAR.

The winter of 1861-'62 wore wearily away, the Great Republic still convulsed with all the horrors of the civil war; and the opening spring witnessed no abatement of the fearful strife.

Daring all these months nothing unusual had occurred in the family of our friends at Naples; but one lovely morning in April a sweet floweret blossomed among them; bringing joy and gladness to all hearts.

"Our little violet," Elsie said, smiling up at the happy face of her husband, as he bent over her and the babe. "She has come to us just as her namesakes in America are lifting their pretty heads among the grass."

"Thank you, darling," he answered, softly touching his lips to her cheek; "yes, we will give her my mother's name, and may she inherit her lovely disposition also."

"I should be so glad, dear mother's was as lovely a character as I ever knew."

"Our responsibilities are growing, love: three precious little ones now to train up for usefulness here and glory hereafter."

"Yes," she said, with grave yet happy face; "and who is sufficient for these things?"

"Our sufficiency is of God!"

"And He has promised wisdom to those who ask it. What a comfort. I should like to show this pretty one to Walter. Where is he now, I wonder, poor fellow?"

Ah, though she knew it not, he was then lying cold in death upon the bloody field of Shiloh.

There had been news now and then from their Northern friends and relatives. Richard Allison had recovered from his wound, and was again in the field. Edward was with the army also; Harold, too, and Philip Ross.

Lucy was, like many others who had strong ties in both sections and their armies, well-nigh distracted with grief and fear.

From their relatives in the South the last news received had been that of the death of Dick Percival, nor did any further news reach there until the next November. Then they heard that Enna had been married again to another Confederate officer, about a year after her first husband's death; that Walter had fallen at Shiloh, that Arthur was killed in the battle of Luka, and that his mother, hearing of it just as she was convalescing from an attack of fever, had a relapse and died a few days after.

Great was the grief of all for Walter; Mr. Dinsmore mourned very much for his father also, left thus almost alone in his declining years. No particulars were given in regard to the deaths of the two young men.

"Oh," cried Elsie, as she wept over Walter's loss, "what would I not give to know that he was ready for death! But surely we may rejoice in the hope that he was; since we have offered so much united prayer for him."

"Yes," returned her father, "for 'If two of you shall agree on earth, as touching anything that they shall ask, it shall be done for them of my Father which is in heaven'; and God's promises are all 'yea and amen in Christ Jesus.'"

"Papa," said Horace, "how can it be that good Christian men are fighting and killing each other?"

"It is a very strange thing, my son; yet undoubtedly true that there are many true Christians on both sides. They do not see alike, and each is defending what he believes a righteous cause."

"Listen all," said Mrs. Dinsmore, who was reading a letter from Daisy, her youngest sister.

"Richard is ill in the hospital at Washington, and May has gone on to nurse him. Dr. King, of Lansdale, Ohio, is there acting as volunteer surgeon, and has Lottie with him. She will be company for our May. Don't worry about Ritchie; May writes that he is getting better fast."

Rose smiled as she read the last sentence.

"What is it, mamma?" asked Elsie.

"Nothing much; only I was thinking how greatly Ritchie seemed to admire Miss King at the time of the wedding."

"Well, if he loses his heart I hope he will get another in exchange."

"Why, Sister Elsie, how could Uncle Ritchie lose his heart? did they shoot a hole so it might drop out?" queried Rosebud in wide-eyed wonder. "I hope the doctors will sew up the place quick 'fore it does fall out," she added, with a look of deep concern. "Poor, dear Uncle Wal is killed," she sobbed; "and Uncle Art too, and I don't want all my uncles to die or to be killed."

"We will ask God to take care of them, dear daughter," said Rose, caressing the little weeper, "and we know that He is able to do it."

* * * * *

One day in the following January—1863—the gentlemen went into the city for a few hours, leaving their wives and children at home. They returned with faces full of excitement.

"What news?" queried both ladies in a breath.

"Lincoln has issued an Emancipation Proclamation freeing all the blacks."

There was a momentary pause: then Rose said, "If it puts an end to this dreadful war, I shall not be sorry."

"Nor I," said Elsie.

"Perhaps you don't reflect that it takes a good deal out of our pockets," remarked her father. "Several hundred thousand from yours."

"Yes, papa, I know; but we will not be very poor. I alone have enough left to keep us all comfortably. If I were only sure it would add to the happiness of my poor people, I should rejoice over it. But I am sorely troubled to know what has, or will become of them. It is more than two years now, since we have heard a word from Viamede."

"It is very likely we shall find nothing but ruins on all our plantations—Viamede, the Oaks, Ion, and Roselands," remarked Mr. Dinsmore, pacing to and fro with an anxious and disturbed countenance.

"Let us hope for the best," Mr. Travilla responded cheerfully; "the land will still be there, perhaps the houses too; the negroes will work for wages, and gradually we may be able to restore our homes to what they were."

"And if the war stops now, we shall probably find them still in pretty good condition," said Elsie.

"No," her father said, "the war is not at an end, or likely to be for a long time to come; but we will wait in patience and hope, daughter, and not grieve over losses that perhaps may bring great happiness to others."

"Are we poor now, papa?" asked Horace anxiously.

"No, son; your sister is still very wealthy, and we all have comfortable incomes."

"It did me good to see Uncle Joe's delight over the news," Mr. Travilla smilingly remarked to his wife.

"Ah, you told him then?" she returned, with a keen interest and pleasure.

"Yes, and it threw him into a transport of joy. 'Ki! massa,' he said, 'neber tink to heyah sich news as dat! neber spects dis chile lib to bee freedom come;' then sobering down, 'but, massa, we's been a prayin' for it; we's been crying to the good Lord like the chillen ob Israel when dey's in de house ob bondage; tousands an' tousands ob us cry day an' night, an' de Lord heyah, an' now de answer hab come. Bress de Lord! Bress His holy name foreber an' eber.'

"'And what will you do with your liberty, Uncle Joe?' I asked; then he looked half frightened. 'Massa, you ain't gwine to send us off? we lub you an' Miss Elsie an' de chillen, an' we's gettin' mos' too ole to start out new for ourselves.'"

"Well, dear, I hope you assured him that he had nothing to fear on that score."

"Certainly; I told him they were free to go or stay as they liked, and as long as they were with, or near us, we would see that they were made comfortable. Then he repeated, with great earnestness, that he loved us all, and could never forget what you had done in restoring him to his wife, and making them both so comfortable and happy."

"Yes, I think they have been happy with us; and probably it was the bitter remembrance of the sufferings of his earlier life that made freedom seem so precious a boon to him."

Going into the nursery half an hour later, Elsie was grieved and surprised to find Chloe sitting by the crib of the sleeping babe, crying and sobbing as if her very heart would break, her head bowed upon her knees, and the sobs half-smothered, lest they should disturb the child.

"Why, mammy dear, what is the matter?" she asked, going to her and laying a hand tenderly on her shoulder.

Chloe slid to her knees, and taking the soft white hand in both of hers, covered it with kisses and tears, while her whole frame shook with her bitter weeping.

"Mammy, dear mammy, what is it?" Elsie asked in real alarm, quite forgetting for the moment the news of the morning, which indeed she could never have expected to cause such distress.

"Dis chile don't want no freedom," sobbed the poor old creature at length, "she lubs to b'long to her darlin' young missis: Uncle Joe he sing an' jump an' praise de Lord, 'cause freedom come, but your ole mammy don't want no freedom; she can't go for to leave you, Miss Elsie, her bressed darlin' chile dat she been done take care ob ever since she born."

"Mammy dear, you shall never leave me except of your own free will," Elsie answered, in tender soothing tones. "Come, get up, and don't cry any more. Why, it would come as near breaking my heart as yours, if we had to part. What could I or my babies ever do without our old mammy to look after our comfort!"

"Bress your heart, honey, you'se allus good an' kind to your ole mammy," Chloe said, checking her sobs and wiping away her tears, as she slowly rose to her feet; "de Lord bress you an' keep you. Now let your mammy gib you one good hug, like when you little chile."

"And many times since," said Elsie, smiling sweetly into the tear-swollen eyes of her faithful old nurse, and not only submitting to, but returning the embrace.



CHAPTER TWENTY-SIXTH.

"And faint not, heart of man! though years wane slow! There have been those that from the deepest caves, And cells of night and fastnesses below The stormy dashing of the ocean waves, Down, farther down than gold lies hid, have nurs'd A quenchless hope, and watch'd their time and burst On the bright day like wakeners from the grave." —MRS. HEMANS

Noon of a sultry July day, 1864; the scorching sun looks down upon a pine forest; in its midst a cleared space some thirty acres in extent, surrounded by a log stockade ten feet high, the timbers set three feet deep into the ground; a star fort, with one gun at each corner of the square enclosure; on top of the stockade sentinel boxes placed twenty feet apart, reached by steps from the outside; in each of these a vigilant guard with loaded musket, constantly on the watch for the slightest pretext for shooting down some one or more of the prisoners, of whom there are from twenty-five thousand to thirty thousand.

All along the inner side of the wall, six feet from it, stretches a dead line; and any poor fellow thoughtlessly or accidentally laying a hand upon it, or allowing any part of his body to reach under or over it, will be instantly shot.

A green, slimy, sluggish stream, bringing with it all the filth of the sewers of Andersonville, a village three miles distant, flows directly across the enclosure from east to west. Formerly, the only water fit to drink came from a spring beyond the eastern wall, which flowing under it, into the enclosure, emptied itself into the other stream, a few feet within the dead line.

It did not suffice to satisfy the thirst of the thousands who must drink or die, and the little corner where its waters could be reached was always crowded, men pressing upon each other till often one or another would be pushed against the dead line, shot by the guard, and the body left lying till the next morning; even if it had fallen into the water beyond the line, polluting the scant supply left for the living. But the cry of these perishing ones had gone up into the ears of the merciful Father of us all, and of late a spring of clear water bubbles up in their midst.

But powder and shot, famine, exposure (for the prisoners have no shelter, except as they burrow in the earth), and malaria from that sluggish, filthy stream, and the marshy ground on either side of it, are doing a fearful work: every morning a wagon drawn by four mules is driven in, and the corpses—scattered here and there to the number of from eighty-five to a hundred—gathered up, tossed into it like sticks of wood, taken away and thrown promiscuously into a hole dug for the purpose, and earth shoveled over them.

There are corpses lying about now; there are men, slowly breathing out their last of life, with no dying bed, no pillow save the hard ground, no mother, wife, sister, daughter near, to weep over, or to comfort them as they enter the dark valley.

Others there are, wasted and worn till scarce more than living skeletons, creeping about on hands and feet, lying or sitting in every attitude of despair and suffering; a dull, hopeless misery in their sunken eyes, a pathetic patience fit to touch a heart of stone; while others still have grown frantic with that terrible pain, the hunger gnawing at their very vitals, and go staggering about, wildly raving in their helpless agony.

And on them all the scorching sun beats pitilessly down. Hard, cruel fate! scorched with heat, with the cool shelter of the pine forests on every side; perishing with hunger in a land of plenty.

In one corner, but a yard or so within the dead line, a group of officers in the Federal uniform—evidently men of culture and refinement, spite of their hatless and shoeless condition, ragged, soiled raiment, unkempt hair, and unshaven faces—sit on the ground, like their comrades in misfortune, sweltering in the sun.

"When will this end?" sighs one. "I'd sooner die a hundred deaths on the battle-field."

"Ah, who wouldn't?" exclaims another; "to starve, roast, and freeze by turns for one's country, requires more patriotism by far than to march up to the cannon's mouth, or charge up hill under a galling fire of musketry."

"True indeed, Jones," returns a fair-haired, blue-eyed young man, with face so gaunt and haggard with famine that his own mother would scarcely have recognized him, and distinguished from the rest by a ball and chain attached to wrist and ankle; "and yet we bear it for her sake and for Freedom's. Who of us regrets that we did not stay at home in inglorious ease, and leave our grand old ship of state to founder and go to pieces amid the rocks of secession?"

"None of us, Allison! No, no! the Union forever!" returned several voices in chorus.

"Hark!"—as the sharp crack of a rifle was heard, and a prisoner who, half crazed with suffering, had, in staggering about, approached too near the fatal line and laid a hand upon it, fell dead—"another patriot soul has gone to its account, and another rebel earned a thirty days' furlough."

The dark eyes of the speaker flashed with indignation.

"Poor fellows, they don't know that it is to preserve their liberties we fight, starve, and die; to save them from the despotism their ambitious and unscrupulous leaders desire to establish over them," remarked Harold Allison; "how grossly the masses of the Southern people have been deceived by a few hot-headed politicians, bent upon obtaining power for themselves at whatever cost."

"True," returned the other, drily; "but it's just a little difficult to keep these things in mind under present circumstances. By the way, Allison, have you a sister who married a Mr. Horace Dinsmore?"

"Yes, do you know Rose?" asked Harold, in some surprise.

"I was once a guest at the Oaks for a fortnight or so, at the time of the marriage of Miss Elsie, Mr. Dinsmore's daughter, to a Mr. Travilla."

Harold's face grew a shade paler, but his tones were calm and quiet. "Indeed! and may I ask your name?"

"Harry Duncan, at your service," returned the other, with a bow and smile. "I met your three brothers there, also your sisters, Mrs. Carrington and Miss May Allison."

The color deepened slightly on Harry's cheek as he pronounced the last name. The pretty face, graceful form, charming manners, and sprightly conversation of the young lady were still fresh in his memory. Having enjoyed the hospitalities of Andersonville for but a few days, he was in better condition, as to health and clothing, than the rest of the group, who had been there for months.

"Harry Duncan!" exclaimed Harold, offering his hand, which the other took in a cordial grasp and shook heartily, "yes, I know; I have heard of you and your aunt, Miss Stanhope. I feel as if I'd found a brother."

"Thank you; suppose we consider ourselves such; a brother is what I've been hankering after ever since I can remember."

"Agreed," said Harold. "Perhaps," he added, with a melancholy smile, "we may find the fiction turned to fact some day, if you and one of my single sisters should happen to take a fancy to each other; that is, if we live to get out of this and to see home again." His tone at the last was very desponding.

"Cheer up," said Duncan, in a low, sympathizing tone, "I think we can find a way to escape; men have done so even from the Bastile—a far more difficult task, I should say."

"What's your idea?"

"To dig our way out, working at night, and covering up the traces of our work by day."

"Yes, it's the only way possible, so far as I can see," said Harold. "I have already escaped twice in that way, but only to be retaken, and this is what I gained," shaking his chain, and pointing to the heavy ball attached. "Yet, if I were rid of this, and possessed of a little more strength, I'd make a third attempt."

"I think I could rid you of that little attachment," returned Duncan; "and the tunnel once ready, help you in the race for liberty."

The others of the group were exchanging significant nods and glances.

"I think we may let Duncan into our secret," said Jones. "We're digging a well; have gone down six feet; three feet below the surface is soapstone, so soft we can cut it with our jack-knives. We mean to work our way out to-night. Will you join us?"

"With all my heart."

"Suppose we are caught in the attempt," said one.

"We can't be in much worse condition than now," observed another; "starving in this pestiferous atmosphere filled with the malaria from that swamp, and the effluvia from half-decayed corpses; men dying every day, almost every hour, from famine, disease, or violence."

"No," said Harry, "we may bring upon ourselves what Allison is enduring, or instant death; but I for one would prefer the latter to the slow torture of starvation."

"If we are ready," said Harold, in low, solemn tones. "It is appointed to men once to die, and after that the judgment."

"And what should you say was the needful preparation?" queried another, half-mockingly. "'Repent ye and believe the gospel.' 'Let the wicked forsake his way and the unrighteous man his thoughts, and let him return unto the Lord and He will have mercy upon him; and to our God, for He will abundantly pardon.' 'Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ and thou shalt be saved.'"

Silence fell on the little group. Duncan's eyes wandered over the field, over the thousands of brave men herded together there like cattle, with none of the comforts, few of the necessaries of life—over the living, the dying, the dead; taking in the whole aggregate of suffering with one sweeping glance. His eyes filled; his whole soul was moved with compassion, while he half forgot that he himself was one of them.

How much were the consolations of God needed here! how few, comparatively, possessed them. But some there were who did, and were trying to impart them to others. Should he stay and share in this good work? Perhaps he ought; he almost thought so for a moment; but he remembered his country's need; he had enlisted for the war; he must return to active service, if he could.

Then his eye fell upon Harold. Here was a noble life to be saved; a life that would inevitably be lost to friends, relatives, country, by but a few weeks' longer sojourn in this horrible place. Duncan's determination was taken: with the help of God the morning light should find them both free and far on their way towards the Union lines.

"We'll try it, comrades, to-night," he said aloud.

"So we will," they answered with determination.

A man came staggering towards them, gesticulating wildly and swearing horrible oaths.

"He is crazed with hunger, poor fellow," remarked Harold.

Duncan was gazing steadily at the man who had now sunk panting upon the ground, exhausted by his own violence. Evidently he had once possessed more than an ordinary share of physical beauty, but vice and evil passions had set their stamp upon his features, and famine had done its ghastly work; he was but a wreck of his former self.

"Where have I seen that face?" murmured Harry, unconsciously thinking aloud.

"In the rogues' gallery, perhaps. Tom Jackson is his name, or one of his names; for he has several aliases, I'm told," remarked some one standing near.

"Yes, he's the very man!" exclaimed Harry. "I have studied his photograph and recognize him fully, in spite of famine's ravages. The wretch! he deserves all he suffers: and yet I pity him."

"What! the would-be assassin of Viamede?" and Harold started to his feet, the hot blood dyeing his thin cheeks.

"The same. You feel like lynching him on the spot; and no wonder. But refrain; they would bid you, and he is already suffering a worse fate than any you could mete out to him."

"God forgive me!" groaned Harold, dropping down again and hiding his face in his hands, "I believe there was murder in my heart."

"The story? what was it?" asked Jones. "Tell it, Duncan; anything to help us to a moment's forgetfulness."

The others joined in the request, and Duncan gave the full particulars of the several attempts Jackson had made upon the lives of Mr. Travilla and Elsie.

Allison never once lifted his face during the recital, but the rest listened with keen interest.

"The fellow richly deserves lynching," was the unanimous verdict, "but, as you say, is already suffering a far worse fate."

"And yet no worse than that of thousands of innocent men," remarked Jones bitterly. "Where's the justice of it?"

"Do you expect even-handed justice here?" inquired another.

"Perhaps he may be no worse in the sight of God, than some of the rest of us," said Harold, in low, grave tones; "we do not know what evil influences may have surrounded him from his very birth, or whether, exposed to the same, we would have turned out any better."

"I'm perishing with thirst," said Jones, "and must try pushing through that crowd about the spring."

He wandered off and the group scattered, leaving Harold and Duncan alone together.

The two had a long talk: of home, common friends and acquaintance; of the war, what this or that Federal force was probably now attempting; what future movements were likely to be made, and how the contest would end; neither doubting the final triumph of the government.

"And that triumph can't be very far off either," concluded Harry. "I think the struggle will be over before this time next year, and I hope you and I may have a hand in the winding up."

"Perhaps you may," Allison rejoined a little sadly; "but I, I fear, have struck my last blow for my native land."

"You are not strong now, but good nursing may do wonders for you," answered Harry cheerily. "Once within the Union lines, and you will feel like another man."

"Ah, but how to get me there? that's the tug of war," said Harold, but with a smile and in tones more hopeful than his words. "Duncan, you are a Christian?"

"Yes, Allison; Jesus Christ is the Captain of my salvation; in whom I trust, and in whose service I desire to live and die."

"Then are we brothers indeed!" and with the words their right hands joined in a more cordial grasp than before.

The sun was nearing the western horizon when at length Harold was left alone. He bowed his head upon his knees in thought and prayer, remaining thus for many minutes, striving for a spirit of forgiveness and compassion towards the coward wretch who would have slain one dearer to him than life.

At last, as the shadows of evening were gathering over the place, he lifted a pale, patient face; and rising, made his way slowly and with difficulty towards the spot where Jackson lay prostrate on the ground, groaning and crying like a child.

Sitting down beside the miserable creature, he spoke to him in gentle, soothing tones. "You have been here a long time?"

"The longest year that ever I lived! but it won't last much longer," and he uttered a fearful oath.

"Are you expecting to be exchanged?"

"Exchanged! no. What do those fellows at Washington care about our lives? They'll delay and delay till we're all starved to death, like hundreds and thousands, before us;" and again he concluded with a volley of oaths and curses, bestowed indiscriminately upon the President and Congress, Jeff Davis, Wirtz, and the guard.

Harold was shocked at his profanity. "Man," said he solemnly, "do you know that you are on the brink of the grave? and must soon appear at the bar of Him whose holy name you are taking in vain?"

"Curse you!" he cried, lifting his head for a moment, then dropping it again on the ground; "take your cant to some other market, I don't believe in a God, or heaven or hell: and the sooner I die the better; for I'll be out of my misery."

"No; that is a fatal delusion, and unless you turn and repent, and believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, death can only plunge you into deeper misery. You have only a little while! Oh, I beseech you, don't cast away your last chance to secure pardon, peace and eternal life!"

"You're 'casting your pearls before swine,'" returned the man, sneeringly. "Not to say that I'm a hog exactly, but I've not a bit more of a soul than if I was. Your name's Allison, isn't it?"

"It is."

"D'ye know anybody named Dinsmore? or Travilla?"

"Yes; and I know who you are, Jackson, and of your crimes against them. In the sight of God you are a murderer."

"You tell me to repent. I've repented many a time that I didn't take better aim and blow his brains out; yes, and hers too. I hoped I had, till I saw the account in the papers."

Harold's teeth and hands were tightly clenched, in an almost superhuman effort to keep himself quiet; and the man went on without interruption.

"He'd nearly made a finish of me, but I was smart enough to escape them, bloodhounds and all. I got over the border into Texas; had a pretty good time there for awhile—after I recovered from that awful blood-letting; but when secession began, I slipped off and came North. You think I'm all bad; but I had a kind of love for the old flag, and went right into the army. Besides, I thought it might give me a chance to put a bullet through some o' those that had thwarted my plans, and would have had me lynched, if they could."

Harold rose and went away, thinking that verily he had been casting his pearls before swine.

Jackson had, indeed, thrown away his last chance; rejected the last offer of salvation; for, ere morning, life had fled. Starved to death and gone into eternity without God and without hope! his bitterest foe could not have desired for him a more terrible fate.

There was no moon that night, and the evening was cloudy, making a favorable condition of affairs for the prisoners contemplating an escape. As soon as the darkness was dense enough to conceal their movements from the guard, the work of tunneling began.

It was a tedious business, as they had none of the proper tools, and only one or two could work at a time at the digging and cutting away of the stone; but they relieved each other frequently at that, while those on the outside carried away in their coats or whatever came to hand, the earth and fragments of stone dislodged, and spread them over the marshy ground near the creek.

Duncan, returning from one of these trips, spoke in an undertone to Harold Allison, who with a rude file made of a broken knife-blade, was patiently endeavoring to free himself from his shackles.

"Jackson is dead. I half stumbled over a corpse in the dark, when a man close by (the same one that told us this afternoon who the fellow was—I recognized the voice) said, 'He's just breathed his last, poor wretch! died with a curse on his lips.' 'Who is he?' I asked; and he answered, 'Tom Jackson was one of his names.'"

"Gone!" said Harold, "and with all his sins upon his head."

"Yes; it's awful! Here, let me work that for awhile. You're very tired."

The proffered assistance was thankfully accepted, and another half-hour of vigorous effort set Harold's limbs free. He stretched them out, with a low exclamation of gratitude and relief.

At the same instant a whisper came to their ears. "The work's done at last. Jones is out. Parsons close at his heels. Cox behind him. Will you go next?"

"Thanks, no; I will be the last," said Duncan; "and take charge of Allison here, who is too weak to travel far alone."

"Then I'm off," returned the voice. "Don't lose a minute in following me."

"Now, Allison," whispered Harry, "summon all your strength and courage, old fellow."

"Duncan, you are a true and noble friend! God reward you. Let me be last."

"No, in with you, man! not an instant to spare;" and with kindly force he half lifted his friend into the well, and guided him to the mouth of the tunnel.

Allison crept through it as fast as his feeble strength would permit, Duncan close behind him.

They emerged in safety, as the others had done before them; at once scattering in different directions.

These two moved on together, for several minutes, plunging deeper and deeper into the woods, but presently paused to take breath and consider their bearings.

"Oh, the air of liberty is sweet!" exclaimed Duncan, in low, exultant tones; "but we mustn't delay here."

"No; we are far from safe yet," panted Allison, "but—'prayer and provender hinder no man's journey'; Duncan, let us spend one moment in silent prayer for success in reaching the Union lines."

They did so, kneeling on the ground; then rose and pressed forward with confidence. God, whose servants they were and whose help they had asked, would guide them in the right direction.

"What a providence!" exclaimed Duncan, grasping Harold's arm, as they came out upon an opening in the wood. "See!" and he pointed upward, "the clouds have broken away a little, and there shines the North Star: we can steer by that."

"Thank God! and, so far, we have been traveling in the right direction."

"Amen! and we must press on with all speed; for daylight will soon be upon us, and with it, in all probability, our escape will be discovered and pursuit begun."

No more breath could be spared for talk, and they pushed on in silence, now scrambling through a thicket of underbrush, tearing their clothes and not seldom lacerating their flesh also; now leaping over a fallen tree, anon climbing a hill, and again fording or swimming a stream.

At length Harold, sinking down upon a log, said, "I am utterly exhausted! Can go no farther. Go on, and leave me to follow as I can after a little rest."

"Not a step without you, Allison," returned Duncan, determinedly. "Rest a bit, and then try it again with the help of my arm. Courage, old fellow, we must have put at least six or eight miles between us and our late quarters. Ah, ha! yonder are some blackberry bushes, well laden with ripe fruit. Sit or lie still while I gather our breakfast."

Hastily snatching a handful of oak leaves, and forming a rude basket by pinning them together with thorns, he quickly made his way to the bushes, a few yards distant, while Harold stretched himself upon the log and closed his weary eyes.

He thought he had hardly done so when Duncan touched his arm.

"Sorry to wake you, Allison, but time is precious; and, like the beggars, we must eat and run."

The basket was heaped high with large, delicious berries, which greatly refreshed our travelers.

"Now, then, are you equal to another effort?" asked Duncan, as the last one disappeared, and he thrust the leaves into his pocket, adding, "We mustn't leave these to tell tales to our pursuers."

"Yes, I dare not linger here," returned Allison, rising but totteringly.

Duncan threw an arm about him, and again they pressed forward, toiling on for another half-hour; when Allison again gave out, and sinking upon the ground, begged his friend to leave him and secure his own safety.

"Never!" cried Duncan, "never! There would be more, many more, to mourn your loss than mine. Who would shed a tear for me but Aunt Wealthy? Dear old soul, it would be hard for her, I know; but she'd soon follow me."

"Yes, you are her all; but there's a large family of us, and I could easily be spared."

Duncan shook his head. "Was your brother who fell at Ball's Bluff easily spared? But hark! what was that?" He bent his ear to the ground. "The distant bay of hounds! We must push on!" he cried, starting up in haste.

"Bloodhounds on our track? Horrible!" exclaimed Harold, also starting to his feet, weakness and fatigue forgotten for the moment, in the terror inspired by that thought.

Duncan again gave him the support of his arm, and for the next half-hour they pressed on quite rapidly; yet their pursuers were gaining on them, for the bay of the hounds, though still distant, could now be distinctly heard, and Allison's strength again gave away.

"I—can—go no farther, Duncan," he said, pantingly; "let me climb up yon tall oak and conceal myself among the branches, while you hurry on."

"No, no, they would discover you directly, and it would be surrender or die. Ah, see! there's a little log cabin behind those bushes, and who knows but we may find help there. Courage, and hope, my boy;" and almost carrying Harold, Duncan hurried to the door of the hut.

Pushing it open, and seeing an old negro inside, "Cato, Caesar——"

"Uncle Scip, sah," grinned the negro.

"Well, no matter for the name; will you help us? We're Federal soldiers just escaped from Andersonville, and they're after us with bloodhounds. Can you tell us of anything that will put the savage brutes off the scent?"

"Sah?"

"Something that will stop the hounds from following us—quick, quick! if you know anything."

The negro sprang up, reached a bottle from a shelf, and handing it to Harry, said, "Turpentine, sah; rub um on your feet, gen'lemen, an' de hounds won't follah you no moah. But please, sahs, go little ways off into the woods fo' you use um, so de rebs not tink dis chile gib um to ye."

Harry clutched the bottle, throwing down a ten-dollar bill (all the money he had about him) at Uncle Scip's feet, and dragging Harold some hundred yards farther into the depths of the wood, seated him on a log, applied the turpentine plentifully to his feet, and then to his own.

All this time the baying of the hounds came nearer and nearer, till it seemed that the next moment would bring them into sight.

"Up!" cried Harry, flinging away the empty bottle, "one more tug for life and liberty, or we are lost!"

Harold did not speak, but hope and fear once more inspiring him with temporary strength, he rose and hurried on by the side of his friend. Coming presently to a cleared space, they almost flew across it, and gained the shelter of the woods beyond. The cry of the hounds was no longer heard.

"They've lost the scent, sure enough," said Duncan, exultingly; "a little farther and I think we may venture to rest awhile, concealing ourselves in some thicket. Indeed 'twill now be safer to hide by day, and continue our journey by night."

They did so, spending that and the next day in hiding, living upon roots and berries, and the next two nights in traveling in the supposed direction of the nearest Union camp, coming upon the pickets about sunrise of the third day. They were of Captain Duncan's own regiment, and he was immediately recognized with a delighted, "Hurrah!"

"Hurrah for the Union and the old flag!" returned Harry, waving a green branch above his head, in lieu of the military cap he had been robbed of by his captors.



CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVENTH.

"In peace, love tunes the shepherd's reed; In war, he mounts the warrior's steed; In halls, in gay attire is seen; In hamlets, dances on the green; Love rules the court, the camp, the grove, And men below and saints above; For love is heaven, and heaven is love." —SCOTT.

"Escaped prisoners from Andersonville, eh?" queried the guard gathering about them.

"Yes; and more than half-starved; especially my friend here, Captain Allison of the——"

But the sentence was left unfinished; for at that instant Harold reeled, and would have fallen but for the strong arm of another officer quickly outstretched to save him.

They made a litter and carried him into camp, where restoratives were immediately applied.

He soon recovered from his faintness, but was found to be totally unfit for duty, and sent to the hospital at Washington, where he was placed in a bed adjoining that of his brother Richard, and allowed to share with him in the attentions of Dr. King, Miss Lottie, and his own sister May.

How they all wept over him—reduced almost to a skeleton, so wan, so weak, so aged, in those few short months.

He recognized his brother and sister with a faint smile, a murmured word or two, then sank into a state of semi-stupor, from which he roused only when spoken to, relapsing into it again immediately.

Slowly, very slowly, medical skill and tender, careful nursing told upon his exhausted frame till at length he seemed to awake to new life, began to notice what was going on about him, was able to take part in a cheerful chat now and then, and became eager for news from home and of the progress of the war.

Months had passed away. In the meantime Richard had returned to camp, and Harry Duncan, wounded in a late battle, now occupied his deserted bed in the hospital.

Harry was suffering, but in excellent spirits.

"Cheer up, Allison," he said; "you and I will never go back to Andersonville; the war can't last much longer, and we may consider the Union saved. Ah! this is a vast improvement upon Andersonville fare," he added gayly, as Lottie and May appeared before them, each bearing a tray with a delicious little lunch upon it. "Miss Lottie, I'm almost tempted to say it pays to be ill or wounded, that one may be tended by fair ladies' hands."

"Ah, that speech should have come from Mr. Allison, for May is fair and her hands are white, while mine are brown," she answered demurely, as she set her tray within his reach, May doing the same for Harold.

"None the less beautiful, Miss King," returned Duncan gallantly. "Many a whiter hand is not half so shapely or so useful. Now reward me for that pretty compliment by coaxing your father to get me well as fast as possible, that I may have a share in the taking of Richmond."

"That would be a waste of breath, as he's doing all he can already; but I'll do my part with coddling, write all your letters for you—business, friendship, love—and do anything else desired; if in my power."

"You're very good," he said, with a furtive glance at May, who seemed to see or hear nothing but her brother, who was asking about the last news from home; "very good indeed, Miss King; especially as regards the love-letters. I presume it would not be necessary for me even to be at the trouble of dictating them?"

"Oh, no, certainly not!"

"Joking aside, I shall be greatly obliged if you will write to Aunt Wealthy to-day for me."

"With pleasure; especially as I can tell her your wound is not a dangerous one, and you will not lose a limb. But do tell me. What did you poor fellows get to eat at Andersonville?"

"Well, one week's daily ration consisted of one pint of corn-meal ground up cob and all together, four ounces of mule meat, generally spoiled and emitting anything but an appetizing odor; but then we were not troubled with want of—the best of sauce for our meals."

"Hunger?"

"Yes; we'd plenty of that always. In addition to the corn-meal and meat, we had a half pint of peas full of bugs."

"Oh! you poor creatures! I hope it was a little better the alternate week."

"Just the same, except, in lieu of the corn-meal, we had three square inches of corn bread."

"Is it jest; or earnest?" asked Lottie, appealing to Harold.

"Dead earnest, Miss King; and for medicine we had sumac and white-oak bark."

"No matter what ailed you?"

"Oh, yes; that made no difference."

To Harry's impatience the winter wore slowly away while he was confined within the hospital walls; yet the daily, almost hourly sight of May Allison's sweet face, and the sound of her musical voice, went far to reconcile him to this life of inactivity and "inglorious ease," as he termed it in his moments of restless longing to be again in the field.

By the last of March this ardent desire was granted, and he hurried away in fine spirits, leaving May pale and tearful, but with a ring on her finger that had not been there before.

"Ah," said Lottie, pointing to it with a merry twinkle in her eye, and passing her arm about May's waist as she spoke, "I shall be very generous, and not tease as you did when somebody else treated me exactly so."

"It is good of you," whispered May, laying her wet cheek on her friend's shoulder; "and I'm ever so glad you're to be my sister."

"And won't Aunt Wealthy rejoice over you as over a mine of gold!"

Poor Harold, sitting pale and weak upon the side of his cot, longing to be with his friend, sharing his labors and perils, yet feeling that the springs of life were broken within him, was lifting up a silent prayer for strength to endure to the end.

A familiar step drew near, and Dr. King laid his hand on the young man's shoulder.

"Cheer up, my dear boy," he said, "we are trying to get you leave to go home for thirty days, and the war will be over before the time expires; so that you will not have to come back."

"Home!" and Harold's eye brightened for a moment; "yes, I should like to die at home, with mother and father, brothers and sisters about me."

"But you are not going to die just yet," returned the doctor, with assumed gayety; "and home and mother will do wonders for you."

"Dr. King," and the blue eyes looked up calmly and steadily into the physician's face, "please tell me exactly what you think of my case. Is there any hope of recovery?"

"You may improve very much: I think you will when you get home; and, though there is little hope of the entire recovery of your former health and strength, you may live for years."

"But it is likely I shall not live another year? do not be afraid to say so: I should rather welcome the news. Am I not right?"

"Yes; I—I think you are nearing home, my dear boy; the land where 'the inhabitant shall not say, I am sick.'"

There was genuine feeling in the doctor's tone.

A moment's silence, and Harold said, "Thank you. It is what I have suspected for some time; and it causes me no regret, save for the sake of those who love me and will grieve over my early death."

"But don't forget that there is still a possibility of recuperation; while there's life there's hope."

"True! and I will let them hope on as long as they can."

The doctor passed on to another patient, and Harold was again left to the companionship of his own thoughts. But not for long; they were presently broken in upon by the appearance of May with a very bright face.

"See!" she cried joyously, holding up a package; "letters from home, and Naples too. Rose writes to mamma, and she has enclosed the letter for our benefit."

"Then let us enjoy it together. Sit here and read it to me; will you? My eyes are rather weak, you know, and I see the ink is pale."

"But mamma's note to you?"

"Can wait its turn. I always like to keep the best till the last."

Harold hardly acknowledged to himself that he was very eager to hear news from Elsie; even more than to read the loving words from his mother's pen.

"Very well, then; there seems to be no secret," said May, glancing over the contents; and seating herself by his side she began.

After speaking of some other matters, Rose went on: "But I have kept my greatest piece till now. Our family is growing; we have another grandson who arrived about two weeks ago; Harold Allison Travilla by name.

"Elsie is doing finely; the sleepy little newcomer is greatly admired and loved by old and young; we make as great a to-do over him as though he were the first instead of the fourth grandchild. My husband and I are growing quite patriarchal.

"Elsie is the loveliest and the best of mothers, perfectly devoted to her children; so patient and so tender, so loving and gentle, and yet so firm. Mr. Travilla and she are of one mind in regard to their training, requiring as prompt and cheerful obedience as Horace always has; yet exceedingly indulgent wherever indulgence can do no harm. One does not often see so well-trained and yet so merry and happy a family of little folks.

"Tell our Harold—my poor dear brother—that we hope his name-child will be an honor to him."

"Are you not pleased?" asked May, pausing to look up at him.

"Yes," he answered, with a quiet, rather melancholy smile; "they are very kind to remember me so. I hope they will soon bring the little fellow to see me. Ah, I knew Elsie would make just such a lovely mother."

"Nothing about the time of their return," observed May, as she finished reading; "but they will hardly linger long after the close of the war."

May had left the room, and Harold lay languid and weak upon his cot. A Confederate officer, occupying the next, addressed him, rousing him out of the reverie into which he had fallen.

"Excuse me, sir, but I could not help hearing some parts of the letter read aloud by the lady—your sister, I believe——"

"Yes. Of course you could not help hearing, and there is no harm done," Harold answered with a friendly tone and smile. "So no need for apologies."

"But there is something else. Did you know anything of a Lieutenant Walter Dinsmore, belonging to our side, who fell in the battle of Shiloh?"

"Yes; knew and loved him!" exclaimed Harold, raising himself on his elbow, and turning a keenly interested, questioning gaze upon the stranger.

"Then it is, it must be the same family," said the latter, half to himself, half to Harold.

"Same as what, sir?"

"That letter I could not help hearing was dated Naples, signed Rose Dinsmore, and talked of Elsie, Mr. Travilla, and their children. Now Lieutenant Dinsmore told me he had a brother residing temporarily in Naples, and also a niece, a Mrs. Elsie Travilla; and before going into the fight he intrusted to me a small package directed to her, with the request that, if he fell, I would have it forwarded to her when an opportunity offered. Will you, sir, take charge of it, and see that it reaches the lady's hands?"

"With pleasure. How glad she will be to get it, for she loved Walter dearly."

"They were near of an age?"

"Yes; the uncle a trifle younger than the niece."

"Dinsmore and I were together almost constantly during the last six months of his life, and became very intimate. My haversack, Smith, if you please," addressing a nurse.

It was brought, opened, and a small package taken from it and given to Harold.

He gazed upon it with sad thoughtfulness for a moment; then, bestowing it safely in his breast-pocket, "Thank you very much," he said, "I will deliver it with my own hand, if she returns from Europe as soon as we expect."



CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHTH.

"She led me first to God; Her words and prayers were my young spirit's dew." —JOHN PIERPONT.

Elmgrove, the country-seat of the elder Mr. Allison, had never looked lovelier than on a beautiful June morning in the year 1865.

The place had been greatly improved since Elsie's first sight of it, while it was still Rose's girlhood's home where Mr. Dinsmore and his little daughter were so hospitably entertained for many weeks.

There was now a second dwelling-house on the estate, but a few hundred yards distant from the first, owned by Edward Allison, and occupied by himself, wife, and children, of whom there were several.

Our friends from Naples had arrived the night before. The Dinsmores were domiciled at the paternal mansion, the Travillas with Edward and Adelaide.

The sun was not yet an hour high as Elsie stood at the open window of her dressing-room, looking out over the beautiful grounds to the brook beyond, on whose grassy banks, years ago, she and Harold and Sophie had spent so many happy hours. How vividly those scenes of her childhood rose up before her!

"Dear Harold!" she murmured, with a slight sigh, "how kind he always was to me."

She could not think of him without pain, remembering their last interview and his present suffering. She had not seen him yet, but had learned from others that those months at Andersonville had injured his health so seriously that it was not likely ever to be restored.

"What happy children we were in those days," her thoughts ran on; "and I am even happier now, my treasures have so increased with the rolling years; but they! what bitter trials they are enduring; though not less deserving of prosperity than I, who am but a miserable sinner. But it is whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth."

At that moment the sound of little hurrying feet, entering the room, and glad young voices crying, "Good-morning, dear mamma!" broke in upon the current of her thoughts.

"Good-morning, my darlings," she said, turning from the window to embrace them. "All well and bright! Ah, how good our heavenly Father is to us!"

"Yes, mamma, it is like my text," said wee Elsie, "We have each a short one this morning. Mine is, 'God is love.'"

Mamma had sat down and taken Violet on her lap, while Elsie and Eddie stood one on each side.

Three lovelier children fond mother never looked upon. Elsie, now seven years old, was her mother's miniature. Eddie, a bright manly boy of five, had Mr. Dinsmore's dark eyes and hair, firm mouth and chin; but the rest of his features, and the expression of countenance, were those of his own father. Violet resembled both her mother and the grandmother whose name she bore; she was a blonde, with exquisitely fair complexion, large deep blue eyes, heavily fringed with curling lashes several shades darker than the ringlets of pale gold that adorned the pretty head.

"True, beautiful words," the mother said, in reply to her little daughter; "'God is love!' Never forget it, my darlings; never forget to thank Him for His love and goodness to you; never fear to trust His love and care. Can you tell me, dear, of some of His good gifts to you?"

"Our dear, kind mamma and papa," answered Eddie quickly, leaning affectionately against her, his dark eyes lifted to her face, full of almost passionate affection.

"Mammy too," added Violet.

"And dear, dear grandpa and grandma; and oh, so many more," said Elsie.

Rose was called grandma now, by her own request.

"Yes, dear grandpa and grandma, and so many more," echoed the other two.

"But Jesus the best gift of all, mamma," continued little Elsie.

"Yes, my precious ones," returned the mother, in moved tones, "Jesus the best of all; for He loves you better than even papa and mamma do, and though they should be far away, He is ever near, ready and able to help you. Now, Eddie, what is your verse?"

"A little prayer, mamma, 'Lord help me.'"

"A prayer that I hope will always be in my children's hearts when trouble comes, or they are tempted to any sin. The dear Saviour loves to have you cry to Him for help, and He will give it."

"Now Vi's tex', mamma," lisped the little one on her knee. "'Jesus wept.'"

"Why did Jesus weep, little daughter?"

"'Cause He so tired? so sick? naughty mans so cross to Him?"

"No, dear; it was not for any sorrow or trouble of His own that Jesus shed those tears. Can you tell us why it was, Elsie?"

"Yes, mamma; He was so sorry for poor Martha and Mary, 'cause their brother Lazarus was dead."

"Yes, and for all the dreadful sufferings and sorrows that sin has brought into the world. We are not told that Jesus wept for His own trials and pains; but He wept for others. We must try to be like Him; to bear our own troubles patiently, and to feel for the grief and pain of other people.

"We must try to keep these thoughts in our hearts all the day long: that God is love; that Jesus is our help in every trouble and temptation, that He feels for us, and we must feel for others, and do what we can to make them happy. Now we will kneel down and ask the dear Saviour to help us to do this."

The prayer was very short and simple; so that even Baby Vi could understand every word.

There was a moment's quiet after they had risen from their knees; then the children went to the window to look out upon the grounds, which they had hardly seen last night.

"Mamma!" said Elsie. "I see a brook away over yonder; and there are big trees there, and nice green grass. Mamma, is that where you and Aunt Sophie and Uncle Harold used to play when you were a little girl?"

"Yes, daughter."

"Oh, mamma, please tell us again about the time when you waded in the brook, and thought you'd lost your rings; and dear grandpa was so kind and didn't scold or punish you at all."

"Yes, mamma, do tell it."

"Please mamma, do," joined in the other little voices; and mamma kindly complied.

That story finished, it was, "Now, mamma, please tell another; please tell about the time when you wanted to go with the school children to pick strawberries, and grandpa said 'No.'"

"Ah, I was rather a naughty little girl that time, and cried because I couldn't have my own way," answered the mother musingly, with a dreamy look in her eyes and a tender smile playing about her lips as she almost seemed to hear again the loved tones of her father's voice, and to feel the clasp of his arm as he drew her to his knee and laid her head against his breast, asking, "Which was my little daughter doubting, this afternoon—papa's wisdom, or his love?"

But her own little Elsie's arm had stolen about her neck, the cherry lips were pressed again and again to her cheek, and the sweet child voice repelled the charge with indignation.

"Mamma, you couldn't help the tears coming when you were so disappointed; and that was all. You didn't say one naughty word. And grandpa says you were the best little girl he ever saw."

"And papa says just the same," added a pleasant, manly voice from the door, as Mr. Travilla came in, closing it after him.

Then the three young voices joined in a glad chorus, "Papa! papa! good-morning, dear papa."

"Good-morning, papa's dear pets," he said, putting his arms round all three at once, as they clustered about him, and returning with interest their affectionate caresses.

"And so you have already been teasing poor mamma for stories?"

"Did we tease and trouble you, mamma?" asked Elsie, a little remorsefully, going back to her mother's side.

"No, darling; it always gives me pleasure to gratify my dear children. And, papa, they have been very good."

"I am glad to hear it."

"Mamma and papa, may we go down and play by that brook after breakfast?" asked Elsie.

"And wade in the water like mamma did when she was a little girl?" added Eddie.

"Yes, with Uncle Joe and Aunt Chloe to take care of you; if mamma is willing," answered their father.

Mamma said yes, too, and made the little hearts quite happy.

They returned to the window, and presently sent up a joyous shout. "Grandpa, our dear grandpa, is coming!"

"Shall I go down and bring him up here, mamma?" asked Elsie.

"No, dear, we will go down to grandpa, and not trouble him to come up. Besides, Aunt Adelaide wants to see him as well as we."

"Yes, mamma's plan is the best," said Mr. Travilla, giving Elsie one hand and Eddie the other, while his wife led the way with little Violet.

They found Mr. Dinsmore in the lower hall, with Adelaide weeping almost hysterically in his arms.

"You are the only brother I have left," she sobbed. "Poor, poor dear Walter and Arthur! Oh, that dreadful, dreadful war!"

He caressed and soothed her with tender words. "Dear sister, I will do all I can to make up their loss to you. And our father is left us; your husband spared, too. And let us not forget that almighty Friend, that Elder Brother on the throne, who will never leave or forsake the feeblest one who trusts in Him."

"Oh, yes, I know, I know! He has been very good to me; but I must weep for the dear ones gone——"

"And He will not chide you—He who wept with Martha and Mary over their dead brother."

The children were awed into silence and stillness by the scene; but as Adelaide withdrew herself from her brother's arms, while he and her husband grasped each other by the hand in a cordial greeting, little Elsie drew near her, and taking gently hold of her hand, dropped upon it a kiss and a sympathizing tear.

"Darling!" said Adelaide, stooping to fold the child in her arms; then looking up at her niece, "What a wonderful likeness, Elsie! I can hardly believe it is not yourself, restored to us as you were at her age."

The morning greetings were soon exchanged, and Adelaide led the way to her pleasant sitting-room.

"What is the latest news from home, Adelaide?" asked Mr. Dinsmore, with evident anxiety. "I have not heard a word for months past."

"I had a long letter from Lora yesterday;" she answered; "the first since the close of the war. Her eldest son, Ned, and Enna's second husband, were killed in the battle of Bentonville, last March. Lora's husband has lost an arm, one of his brothers a leg; the others are all killed, and the family utterly ruined.

"The Carringtons—father and sons—have all fallen, Sophie is here, with her orphan children; her mother-in-law, with her own daughter, Lucy Ross. Philip has escaped unhurt. They will all be here next week to attend May's wedding.

"Papa, Louise—you know that she too has lost her husband—and Enna are all at the Oaks; for Roselands is a ruin, Ion not very much better, Lora says."

"And the Oaks has escaped?"

"Yes, almost entirely; not being visible from the road. Papa sends a message to you. He is too heart-broken to write. He knows he is welcome in your house; he is longing to see you, now his only son——" Adelaide's voice faltered, and it was a moment ere she could go on—"but he would have you stay away till September, not risking a return during the hottest season; and, if you wish, he will attend to the plantation, hiring blacks to work it."

"My poor, poor old father!" Mr. Dinsmore exclaimed, with emotion. "Welcome in my house? If I had but a dollar, I would share it with him."

"He shall never want a home, while any of us live!" sprang simultaneously from the lips of Mr. Allison and Mr. Travilla.

Adelaide and Elsie were too much moved to speak, but each gave her husband a look of grateful affection.

"Thank you both," Mr. Dinsmore said. "Adelaide, I shall write my father to-day. Does Lora say that he is well?"

Mrs. Allison could hardly speak for tears, as she answered, "He is not ill, but sadly aged by grief and care. But you shall read the letter for yourself. Stay to breakfast with us (there's the bell), and I'll give it to you afterwards."

"Thanks; but I fear they may wait breakfast for me at the other house."

"No; I will send them word at once that we have kept you."

There was an effort after cheerfulness as they gathered about the plentiful board; but too many sad thoughts and memories had been called up in the hearts of the elders of the party: and only the children were really gay.

Edward Allison was pale and thin, his health having suffered from the hardships incident to his army life.

Elsie remarked it, in a tone of grief and concern; but he answered with a smile, "I have escaped so much better than many others, that I have more reason for thankfulness than complaint. I am hearty and robust compared to poor Harold."

A look of deep sadness stole over his face as he thus named his younger brother.

Elsie understood it when, an hour later, the elder Mr. Allison entered the parlor, where she and Adelaide were chatting together, with Harold leaning on his arm.

They both shook hands with her, the old gentleman saying, "My dear, I am rejoiced to have you among us again;" Harold silently, but with a sad, wistful, yearning look out of his large bright eyes, that filled hers with tears.

His father and Adelaide helped him to an easy chair, and as he sank back pantingly upon its cushions, Elsie—completely overcome at sight of the feeble, wasted frame, and wan, sunken features—stole quickly from the room.

Adelaide followed, to find her in the sitting-room on the opposite side of the hall, weeping bitterly.

"Oh, Aunt Adie," she sobbed; "he's dying!"

"Yes," Adelaide answered, with the tears coursing down her own cheeks, "we all know it now; all but father and mother, who will not give up hope. Poor May! hers will be but a sad wedding. She would have put it off, but he begged her not, saying he wanted to be present and to greet Duncan as his brother—Duncan, to whom he owed so much. But for him, you know, Harold would have perished at Andersonville; where, indeed, he got his death."

"No, I have heard very little about it."

"Then Harold will tell you the story of their escape. Oh! Rose dear," turning quickly, as Mrs. Dinsmore and Mrs. Carrington entered, "how kind! I was coming to see you directly, but it was so good of you not to wait."

Elsie was saying, "Good-morning, mamma," when her eye fell upon the other figures. Could it be Sophie with that thin, pale face and large, sad eyes? Sophie arrayed in widow's weeds. All the pretty golden curls hidden beneath the widow's cap? It was indeed, and the next instant the two were weeping in each other's arms.

"You poor, poor dear girl! God comfort you!" Elsie whispered.

"He does, He has helped me to live for my children, my poor fatherless little ones," Sophie said, amid her choking sobs.

"We must go back to father and Harold," Adelaide said presently. "They are in the parlor, where we left them very unceremoniously."

"And Harold, I know, is longing for a chat with Elsie," Sophie said.

They found the gentlemen patiently awaiting their return. Elsie seated herself near Harold, who, somewhat recovered from his fatigue, was now able to take part in the conversation.

"You were shocked by my changed appearance?" he said, in an undertone, as their eyes met and hers filled again. "Don't mind it, I was never before so happy as now; my peace is like a river—calm, deep, and ever increasing as it nears the ocean of eternity. I'm going home!" And his smile was both bright and sweet.

"Oh, would you not live—for your mother's sake? and to work for your Master?"

"Gladly, if it were His will; but I hear Him saying to me, 'Come up hither'; and it is a joyful summons."

"Harold, when——" her voice faltered, but with an effort she completed her sentence—"when did this begin?"

"At Andersonville; I was in perfect health when I entered the army," he answered quickly, divining the fear that prompted the question; "but bad air, foul water, wretched and insufficient food, rapidly and completely undermined my constitution. Yet it is sweet to die for one's country! I do not grudge the price I pay to secure her liberties."

Elsie's eyes sparkled through her tears. "True patriotism still lives!" she said. "Harold, I am proud of you and your brothers. Of dear Walter, too; for his heart was right, however mistaken his head may have been."

"Walter? oh, yes, and I——"

But the sentence was interrupted by the entrance of his mother and sisters, May and Daisy, Mr. Dinsmore, and his son and daughter. Fresh greetings, of course, had to be exchanged all round, and were scarcely finished when Mr. Travilla came in with his three children.

Elsie called them to her, and presented them to Harold with all a mother's fond pride in her darlings.

"I have taught them to call you Uncle Harold. Do you object?"

"Object? far from it; I am proud to claim them as my nephew and nieces."

He gazed with tender admiration upon each dear little face; then, drawing the eldest to him and putting an arm about her, said, "She is just what you must have been at her age, Elsie; a little younger than when you first came to Elmgrove. And she bears your name?"

"Yes; her papa and mine would hear of no other for her."

"I like to have mamma's name," said the child, in a pretty, modest way, looking up into his face. "Grandpa and papa call mamma Elsie, and me wee Elsie and little Elsie, and sometimes daughter. Grandpa calls mamma daughter too, but papa calls her wife. Mamma, has Uncle Harold seen baby?"

"My namesake! ah, I should like to see him."

"There is mammy on the porch now, with him in her arms," cried the child.

"Go, and tell her to bring him here, daughter," Elsie said; and the little girl hastened to obey.

It was a very fine babe, and Harold looked at it with interest.

"I am proud of my name-child," he said, turning to the mother with a gratified smile. "You and Mr. Travilla were very kind to remember me."

The latter, who had been engaged in the exchange of salutations with the others, hearing his name, now came up and took the hand of the invalid in his. He was much moved by the sad alteration in the young man, who, when last seen by him, was in high health and spirits—the full flush of early manhood's prime.

Taking a seat by his side, he inquired with kindly interest how he was, who was his physician, and if there had been any improvement in the case of late.

"Thank you, no; rather the reverse," Harold said, in answer to the last inquiry. "I am weaker than when I left the hospital."

"Ah, that is discouraging; still, we will hope the disease may yet take a favorable turn."

"That is what my parents say," he answered, with a grave, sweet smile; "and though I have little hope, I know that nothing is too hard for the Lord, and am more than willing to leave it in His hands."

"Uncle Harold," said Elsie, coming to the side of his chair and looking up into his face with eyes full of tender sympathy, "I'm so, so sorry for you. I'll ask Jesus to please make you well, or else take you soon to the happy land where you'll never have any more pain."

"Thank you, darling," he said, bending down to kiss the sweet lips. "I know the dear Saviour will listen to your prayer."

"You used to play with my mamma when you were a little boy like me; didn't you, uncle Harold?" queried Eddie, coming up close on the other side.

"Not quite so small, my man," Harold answered, laying his hand gently on the child's head. "Your mamma was about the size of your Aunt Rosie, yonder, and I some three or four years older."

"We've been down to the brook where you played together—you and mamma and Aunt Sophie," said Elsie. "Papa took us, and I think it's a lovely place to play."

"Sophie and I have talked over those dear old times more than once, of late," Harold remarked, turning to Mrs. Travilla. "It does not seem so very long ago, and yet—how many changes! how we are changed! Well, Rosie, what is it?" for she was standing by his chair, waiting with eager face till he should be ready to attend to her.

"Uncle Harold, do you feel able to tell us the story about your being a prisoner, and how you got free, and back to the Union army?" she asked, with persuasive look and tone. "Papa and mamma, and all of us that haven't heard it, would like so much to hear it, if it won't tire you to talk so long."

"It is not a long story; and as my lungs are sound, I do not think it will fatigue me, if you will all come near enough to hear me in my ordinary tone of voice."

They drew around him, protesting against his making the effort, unless fully equal to it; as another time would do quite as well.

"Thank you all," he said; "but I feel able for the task, and shall enjoy gratifying my nieces and nephews, as well as the older people."

He then proceeded with his narrative; all listening with deep interest.

Among other incidents connected with his prison life, he told of his interview with Jackson, and the poor wretch's death that same night.

Elsie shuddered and turned pale, yet breathed a sigh of relief as she laid her hand in that of her husband, and turned a loving, grateful look upon her father, to meet his eyes fixed upon her with an expression of deep thankfulness, mingled with the sadness and awe inspired by the news of the miscreant's terrible end.

Harold spent the day at his brother's, and availed himself of an opportunity, which offered that afternoon, to have a little private talk with Elsie, in which he delivered Walter's packet, telling her how it came into his hands.

"Dear, dear Walter," she said, weeping, "I have so wanted to know the particulars of his death, and am so thankful to hear that he was a Christian."

"His friend told me he was instantly killed, so was spared much suffering."

"I am thankful for that. I will open this now; you will like to see the contents."

They were a letter from Walter to her, and two photographs—both excellent and striking likenesses; one of her in her bridal robes, the other of himself in his military dress.

The first Elsie threw carelessly aside, as of little worth; the other she held long in her hands; gazing intently upon it, again and again wiping away the fast-falling tears.

"It is his own noble, handsome face," she murmured. "Oh, to think I shall not see it again in this world! How good of him to hive it taken for me!" and again she gazed and wept.

Turning to her companion she was startled by the expression of mingled love and anguish in his eyes, which were intently fixed upon the other photograph; he having taken it up as she threw it aside.

"Oh Harold!" she moaned, in low, agitated tones.

He sighed deeply, but his brow cleared, and a look of peace and resignation stole over his face as he turned his eyes on her.

"I think there is no sin in the love I bear you now, Elsie," he said; "I rejoice in your happiness and am willing to see you in the possession of another; more than willing, since I must so soon pass away. But it was not always so; my love and grief were hard to conquer, and this—bringing you before me just as you were that night that gave you to another and made my love a sin—brought back for a moment the anguish that wrung my heart at the sight."

"You were there, then?"

"Yes; just for a few moments. I found I must look upon the scene, though it broke my heart. I arrived at the last minute, stood in the shadow of the doorway during the ceremony, saw you look up towards me at its conclusion, then turned and fled from the house; fearful of being recognized and forced to betray my secret which I felt I could not hide.

"But don't weep for me, dear friend, my sorrow and disappointment proved blessings in disguise, for through them I was brought to a saving knowledge of Him

"'whom my soul desires above All earthly joy or earthly love.'"

"And oh, Harold, how infinitely more is His love worth than mine!"

But her eye fell upon Walter's letter lying forgotten in her lap. She took it up, glanced over it, then read it more carefully, pausing often to wipe away the blinding tears. As she finished, Mr. Travilla came in.

"Here is a letter from Walter, Edward," she said, in tremulous tones, as she handed it to him.

"Then the report of his death was untrue?" he exclaimed inquiringly, a glad look coming into his face.

"Only too true," she answered, with a fresh burst of tears; and Harold briefly explained.

"Shall I read it aloud, wife?" Mr. Travilla asked.

"If Harold cares to hear. There is no secret."

"I should like it greatly," Harold said; and Mr. Travilla read it to him, while Elsie moved away to the farther side of the room, her heart filled with a strange mixture of emotions, in which grief was uppermost.

The letter was filled chiefly with an account of the writer's religious experience. Since his last visit to the Oaks he had been constantly rejoicing in the love of Christ, and now, expecting, as he did, to fall in the coming battle, death had no terrors for him. And he owed this, he said, in great measure to the influence of his brother Horace and Elsie, especially to the beautiful consistency of her Christian life through all the years he had known her.

Through all her grief and sadness, what joy and thankfulness stirred in her breast at that thought. Very humble and unworthy she felt; but oh, what gladness to learn that her Master had thus honored her as an instrument in His hands.

The door opened softly, and her three little ones came quietly in and gathered about her. They had been taught thoughtfulness for others: Uncle Harold was ill, and they would not disturb him.

Leaning confidingly on her lap, lifting loving, trustful eyes to her face, "Mamma," they said, low and softly, "we have had our supper; will you come with us now?"

"Yes, dear, presently."

"Mamma," whispered little Elsie, with a wistful, tender gaze into the soft sweet eyes still swimming in tears, "dear mamma, something has made you sorry. What can I do to comfort you?"

"Love me, darling, and be good; you are mamma's precious little comforter. See dears," and she held the photograph so that all could have a view, "it is dear Uncle Walter in his soldier dress." A big tear rolled down her cheek.

"Mamma," Elsie said quickly, "how good he looks! and he is so happy where Jesus is."

"Yes, daughter, we need shed no tears for him."

"Dear Uncle Walter," "Poor Uncle Walter!" the other two were saying.

"There, papa has finished reading; go now and bid good-night to him and Uncle Harold," their mother said; and they hastened to obey.

They climbed their father's knees and hung about his neck with the most confiding affection, while he caressed them over and over again, Harold looking on with glistening eyes.

"Now some dood fun, papa: toss Vi up in oo arms," said the little one, expecting the usual game of romps.

"Not to-night, pet; some other time. Another sweet kiss for papa, and now one for Uncle Harold."

"After four years of camp, prison, and hospital life, it is a very pleasant change to be among the children," Harold said, as the door closed upon Elsie and her little flock.

"I feared their noise and perpetual motion might disturb you," Mr. Travilla answered.

"Not at all; yours are not boisterous, and their pretty ways are very winning."

Aunt Chloe and Dinah were in waiting, and soon had the three small figures robed each in its white night-dress.

Then mamma—seated upon a sofa with little Violet on her lap, the other two, one on each side—was quite at their disposal for the next half hour or so; ready to listen or to talk; her sweet sympathy and tender love encouraging them to open all their young hearts to her, telling her of any little joy or sorrow, trouble, vexation, or perplexity.

"Well, darlings, have you remembered your verses and our little talk about them this morning?" the mother asked. "Elsie may speak first, because she is the eldest."

"Mamma, I have thought of them many times," answered the sweet child voice; "we had a nice, nice walk with papa this morning, and the little birds, the brook, and the trees, and the pretty flowers and the beautiful blue sky all seemed to say to me, 'God is love.' Then mamma, once I was tempted to be naughty, and I said in my heart, 'Lord, help me,' and Jesus heard me."

"What was it, dear?"

"We had a little tea party, mamma, with our cousins, out under the trees, and there was pie and very rich cake——"

"And 'serves," put in Eddie.

"Yes, mamma, and preserves too, and they looked so good, and I wanted some, but I remembered that you and papa don't let us eat those things because they would make us sick. So I said, 'Lord, help me'; and then I felt so glad and happy, thinking how Jesus loves me."

"My darling! He does, indeed," the mother said, with a gentle kiss.

"And Eddie was good, and said, 'No, thank you; mamma and papa don't let us eat 'serves and pie.'"

"Mamma's dear boy," and her hand passed softly over the curly head resting on her shoulder.

"Mamma, I love you; I love you so much," he said, hugging her tight; "and dear papa, too; and Jesus. Mamma, I wanted to be naughty once to-day when one o' zese cousins took away my own new whip that papa buyed for me; but I remembered I mustn't be selfish and cross, and I said my little prayers jus' in my heart, mamma—and Jesus did help me to be good."

"Yes, my dear son, and He will always help you when you ask Him. And now, what has Vi to tell mamma?"

"Vi naughty girl one time, mamma: ky 'cause she didn't want mammy wash face and brush curls. Vi solly now;" and the golden head dropped upon mamma's breast.

"Mamma's dear baby must try and be patient; mamma is sure she will, and Jesus will help her if she asks Him, and forgive her, if she is sorry for being naughty," the mother said, with a tender caress. "Now let us sing, 'Jesus loves me.'"

The child voices blended very sweetly with the mother's as they sang in concert; then she told them a Bible story, heard each little prayer, saw them laid in their beds, gave each a tender good-night kiss, and left them to their rest.

Passing into her dressing-room, she found her husband there, pacing thoughtfully to and fro. At sight of her a smile irradiated his whole countenance, while his arms opened wide to receive her.

"My dear, dear husband!" she said, laying her head on his shoulder, while he folded her to his heart, "how bravely you bear trials; how patient and cheerful you always are under all circumstances."

"Not more so than my little wife; we have heard much saddening news to-day, love; but most of it such as to make us weep for our friends and neighbors rather than for ourselves."

"That is true; our losses are slight, very slight, compared with those of multitudes of others; and yet it must sadden your heart to know that your dear old home is in ruins."

"Yes, wife, it does; but I were an ungrateful wretch to murmur and repine, had I lost everything but you and our four treasures in yonder room: but you are all spared to me, and I am by no means penniless yet."

"Very far from it, my own noble husband," she answered, with a look of proud, loving admiration; "for all I have is yours as much as mine."

"Thanks, dearest; I am not too proud to accept your assistance, and we will build up the old home and make it lovelier than ever, for ourselves and for our children; what a pleasant work it will be to make it as nearly as possible an earthly paradise for them."

"Yes," she said, smiling brightly; "the cloud has a silver lining."

"As all our clouds have, dearest."

"Yes; for 'we know that all things work together for good to them that love God!' But oh, Edward, what an awful end was Jackson's. I shudder to think of it? and yet—oh, I fear it is not right—but I cannot help feeling it a relief to know that he is dead. Even in Europe, I could not divest myself of the fear that he might turn up unexpectedly, and attempt the lives of my dear ones."

"It is a relief to me also, and not wrong, I think, to feel it so; for we do not rejoice in his destruction, but would have saved him, if we could. Has not the news of Walter comforted you in some measure?"

"Yes, oh yes; the dear, dear fellow! You have not seen this," she added, taking the photograph from her pocket.

"No; it is a striking likeness, and you will value it highly."

"Indeed I shall. Ah, how strange it will be to go home and not find him there."



CHAPTER TWENTY-NINTH.

"O war!—what, what art thou? At once the proof and scourge of man's fallen state." —HANNAH MORE.

Richard Allison had gone to Lansdale for his bride a fortnight ago; they were now taking their bridal trip and expected to reach Elmgrove a day or two before the wedding of May and Harry Duncan. The latter would bring Aunt Wealthy with him, and leave her for a short visit among her friends.

Sophie's mother and sister-in-law, Mrs. Carrington, and Lucy Ross, came earlier, arriving only two days after our party from Europe.

There was great pleasure, yet mingled with profound sadness, in the meeting of these old and dear friends. Lucy and her mother were in deep mourning, and in Mrs. Carrington's countenance Christian resignation blended with heart-breaking sorrow; grief and anxiety had done the work of a score of years, silvering her hair and ploughing deep furrows in the face that five years ago was still fresh and fair.

Mr. Travilla had taken wife and children for a morning drive, and on their return, Adelaide, meeting them at the door, said to her niece, "They have come, they are in Mrs. Carrington's dressing-room; and she begs that you will go and meet her there. She has always loved you so dearly, and I know is longing for your sympathy."

Elsie, waiting only to lay aside hat and gloves, hastened to grant the request of the gentle lady for whom she cherished almost a daughter's affection.

She found her alone. They met silently, clasping each other in a long, tearful embrace, Mrs. Carrington's sobs for many minutes the only sound that broke the stillness of the room.

"I have lost all," she said at length, as they released each other and sat down side by side upon a sofa; "all: husband, sons, home——"

Sobs choked her utterance, and Lucy coming hastily in at the open door of the adjoining room, dropped on her knees by her mother's side, and taking one thin, pale hand in hers, said tearfully, "Not all, dear mamma; you have me, and Phil, and the children."

"Me too, mother dear, and your Harry's children," added Sophie, who had followed her sister, and now knelt with her.

"Yes, yes, dear daughters, I was wrong: I have lost much, but have many blessings still left, your love not the least; and my grandchildren are scarcely less dear than my own. Lucy, dear, here is Elsie."

"Yes, our own dear, darling Elsie, scarcely changed at all!" Lucy cried, springing up to greet her friend with a warm embrace.

A long talk followed, Mrs. Carrington and Sophie giving their experiences of the war and its results, to which the others listened with deep interest.

"Thank God it is over at last!" concluded the elder lady; "and oh, may He, in His great goodness and mercy, spare us a repetition of it. Oh, the untold horrors of civil war—strife among brethren who should know nothing but love for each other—none can imagine but those who have passed through them! There was fault on both sides, as there always is when people quarrel. And what has been gained? Immense loss of property, and of far more precious lives, an exchange of ease and luxury for a hard struggle with poverty."

"But it is over, dear mother, and the North will help the South to recuperate," said Lucy. "Phil says so, and I've heard it from others too; just as soon as the struggle ended, people were saying, 'Now they have given up, the Union is safe, and we're sorry for them and will do all we can to help them; for they are our own people.'"

"Yes, I have been most agreeably surprised at the kind feeling here," her mother answered; "nobody has had a hard word to say of us, so far as I have been able to learn; and I have seen nothing like exultation over a fallen foe; but on the contrary there seems a desire to lend us a helping hand and set us on our feet again."

"Indeed, mother, I assure you that is so," said Sophie.

"And all through the war," added Lucy, "there was but little hard feeling towards the people of the South; 'deceived and betrayed by their leaders, they are more to be pitied than blamed,' was the opinion commonly expressed by those who stood by the government."

"And papa says there will be no confiscation of property," Sophie said, "unless it may be merely that of the leaders; and that he will help us to restore Ashlands to what it was: so you will have your own home again, mother."

"How generous! I can never repay the obligation," Mrs. Carrington said, in a choking voice.

"But you need not feel overburdened by it, dear mother. It is for Herbert, you know, his own grand son."

"And mine! Ah, this news fills me with joy and gratitude."

"Yes, I feel papa's kindness very much," Sophie said, "and hope my son will never give him cause to regret it."

Elsie rose. "I hear my baby crying, and know that he wants his mother. Dear Mrs. Carrington, you are looking very weary; and it is more than an hour yet to dinner-time; will you not lie down and rest?"

"Yes, and afterwards you must show me your children. I want to see them."

"Thank you; I shall do so with much pleasure," the young mother answered smilingly, as she hastened from the room; for Baby Harold's cries were growing importunate.

This was the regular hour for Eddie and Vi to take a nap, and Elsie found them lying quietly in their little bed, while the screaming babe stoutly resisted the united efforts of his elder sister and Aunt Chloe to pacify and amuse him.

"Give him to me, mammy," she said, seating herself by the open window; "it is his mother he wants."

Little Elsie, ever concerned for her mother's happiness, studied the dear face intently for a moment, and seeing the traces of tears, drew near and, putting an arm about her neck, "Mamma," she said tenderly, "dear mamma, what troubles you? May I know about it?"

Mrs. Travilla explained briefly, telling of Mrs. Carrington's trials, and of those of other old friends and neighbors in the South.

"Mamma," said the child, with eyes filled to overflowing, "I am very sorry for them all, and for you. Mamma, it is like Jesus to shed tears for other people's troubles: but, mamma, I think it is too much; there are so many, it makes you sorry all the time, and I can't bear it."

The mother's only answer was a silent caress, and the child went on: "I hope nobody else will come with such sad stories to make you cry. Is there anybody else to do it, mamma?"

"I think not, dear; there are only Aunt Wealthy, who has not lost any near friend lately, and—Why there she is now! the dear old soul!" she broke off joyously, for at that instant a carriage, which she had been watching coming up the drive, drew up before the door, and a young gentleman and a little old lady alighted.