THE UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE WILMER COLLECTION 
 
 OF CIVIL WAR NOVELS 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
 RICHARD H. WILMER, JR. 
 
 
 me-* 
 
^ 
 
WESTFIELD. 
 
KDtNBURUU : PKINTKD BV THOMAS CONSTABl.K, 
 FOR 
 
 EDM0N8T0N AND DOUGLAS. 
 
 LONDON, HAMILTON, ADAMS, AND CO. 
 
 CAMBRIDGE, MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 DUBLIN, M'GLASHAN AND CILI,. 
 
 CLASGOW, JAMES MACLEHOSE. 
 
WESTFIELD 
 
 A VIEW OF HOME LIFE DURING THE 
 AMERICAN WAR. 
 
 EDINBURGH 
 EDMONSTON AND DOUGLAS 
 
 1866. 
 
TO 
 
 THOMAS HUGHES, ESQ., M.P. 
 
 WHOSE KINDLY WORDS 
 
 OF SYMPATHY AND FRIENDSHIP 
 
 ARE REMEMBERED 
 
 WITH GRATEFUL AFFECTION 
 
 HOMES OF THE WESTERN WORLD. 
 
 603122 
 
CONTENTS, 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. THREE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD, . 1 
 
 II. IN THE NEW HOME, 28 
 
 III. THE GATHEKING OF THE WAR-CLOUD, . . 40 
 
 IV. THE UPRISING OF THE PEOPLE, ... 52 
 
 V. THE BIRTHDAY BALL, AND WHAT CAME OF IT, C4 
 
 VI. HECTOR M'INTYRE'S SACRIFICE, ... 83 
 
 VII. THE NEED OF PATIENCE, .... 97 
 
 VIII. woman's PORTION OF THE WORK, . . . Ill 
 
 IX. THE SHADOAV OF DEATH, . . . .129 
 
 X. THE SUMMONS TO THE HOSPITAL, . . .139 
 
 XI. LITTLE MAY IN A NEW LIGHT, . . .153 
 
 XII. THE BEGINNING OF THE END, . . .165 
 
 XIII. THE SPRING OF 1865, 182 
 
 XIV. FREE AT LAST, 195 
 
 XV. THE FINAL PERIL — HOME AND PEACE, . . 205 
 
CHAPTEE I. 
 
 THKEE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 
 
 OVEK a quiet little country town, wliich lies far 
 away toward the setting sun, the first snow of the 
 season was falling. Seemingly intent upon watching 
 the feathery flakes as they fluttered down through the 
 still evening air, Virginia Alston had been standing 
 beside the window for a quarter of an hour, when 
 she became aware of a tall figure rapidly advancing 
 along the deserted street. In an instant she was at 
 the front door, in time to open it, just as her brother 
 put his hand into his pocket in search of his latch-key. 
 ' Always ready, Virginia,' was his greeting ; ' what a 
 model wife you will make for some fortunate fellow 
 one of these days ! ' 
 
 Virginia made liim a mock courtesy. 
 
 ' Thank you ; but it would have been a prettier com- 
 pliment had you called me a model sister. A virtue in 
 esse is rather better than one in posse! 
 
 A 
 
2 THREE HOUSEHOLDS OF AVESTFIELD. 
 
 ' So it is. How cold it is gi"owing ! there will be 
 capital sleighing to-morrow if this goes on.' 
 
 The speaker opened the door of the parlour. Its only 
 occupant was a pale, delicate-looking woman, sitting in 
 an easy-chair with a shawl round her shoulders, her 
 whole air being that of a semi-invalid. At the sound 
 of her son's voice she looked up with a sudden brighten- 
 ing of her countenance, and as Virginia, for whom the 
 window had lost its attraction, drew near, and seated 
 herself in the corner of the sofa beside him, it was easy 
 to see that to these two women Henry Alston was the 
 light of the eyes. 
 
 'Any letters to-day ?' The invariable tirst question 
 in a town where every man was his own postman. 
 
 ' No letters ; but a very young-ladyish, rose-coloured, 
 violet-scented note for you, which Miss Emily Osborne 
 sent over to the office to-day with a great many apolo- 
 gies, and would I be so good, et cetera, et cetera ? ' 
 
 Virginia's lip curled unmistakably as the dainty 
 missive was tossed into her lap. 
 
 'And pray, when did you imdertake to fetch and 
 carry for IMiss Emily Osborne ? ' 
 
 ' For my sister, some twenty years ago ;' was the 
 reply, with a marked emphasis on the first three words. 
 
 ' Kags, of course,' said Virginia contemptuously. 
 
 m 
 
 licU 
 
THREE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 3 
 
 glancing at the offending note. ' Will I lend her the 
 pattern of my black silk sacque ? Stuff ! she could get 
 it from a dozen people nearer at hand. I wonder if she 
 expects me to send it by you ? The idea of my giving 
 the fashions to the banker's daughter ! ' 
 
 ' Why not ? ' asked Henry, in evident amusement. 
 
 ' Because dress is not the chief business of my exist- 
 ence, as it seems to be of hers. But this precious epistle 
 must wait till I light the lamp. I can't see to read such 
 a microscopic hand. I suppose she thinks it feminine 
 to write in that style.' 
 
 While Virginia busied herself over the lamp, Mrs. 
 Alston ventured upon a word of remonstrance, in the 
 fretful tone of one whose conversation was principally 
 composed of such words. 
 
 ' I am sure I don't see why you have taken such a 
 dislike to Emily Osborne ; she appears to me a very 
 sweet girl,' 
 
 ' Oh ! sweet ; I daresay. I don't know that she has 
 ever had anything to make her sour. But it is faint 
 praise to sum up a woman's attractions in a quality 
 shared in common with the contents of the sugar- 
 bowl.' 
 
 'Possibly,' said Henry; 'yet one could not get on 
 very pleasantly without a little of the sugar of life.' 
 
4 THREE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 
 
 ' Better than without its salt.' 
 ' Yes, if the choice lay between the two.' 
 * It does sometimes.' 
 
 Again Virginia took up the note, but in an instant 
 she exclaimed — ' Henry ! is this possible ? Only listen : 
 " I heard to-day from a most reliable source that Aurora 
 Bartlett is engaged to Mr. Stanley." I don't believe a 
 word of it ; it is all Westfield gossip.' 
 
 ' All, Miss Emily has forestalled me ; it is not West- 
 field gossip, but a veritable fact. The doctor told me 
 to-day ; and it strikes me as an excellent match.' 
 ' Henry ! But you never did appreciate Aurora.' 
 ' Excuse me, I think I do appreciate her ; I will con- 
 gratulate Stanley with all my heart.' 
 
 ' Well you may. It will not be so easy to congratu- 
 late her.' 
 
 ' Virginia, I thought you above listening to scandal.' 
 ' I hope I am. I was not thinking of the tales that 
 used to keep the town in talk. Mr. Stanley may be a 
 good farmer, a sensible man— probably superior to nine- 
 tenths of the Westfield people ; but that does not prove 
 him Aurora's equal. To think of such a woman de- 
 generating into a mere farmer's wife, burying her talents 
 in the poultry-yard and pig-sty — it is positively exas- 
 perating. I thought I knew one woman who did not 
 
THREE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 5 
 
 look upon marriage as the end and aim of her existence, 
 but it seems I was mistaken. We are all alike ready 
 to make a hero and an idol of any man, however un- 
 deserving ; there is no trusting any one of us. Eeally I 
 should not be surprised after this if I were to be caught 
 making a fool of myself some day.' 
 
 ' Virginia, I wish you would refrain from the use of 
 such exaggerated language,' said Mrs. Alston ; ' it is 
 excessively unfeminine.' 
 
 ' I never set up for a model of feminine propriety.' 
 
 ' No, and I am sorry you could not.' 
 
 ' I am not sorry. I can't change my nature, mother, 
 any more than the Ethiopian his skin or the leopard 
 his spots ; it is useless to torture myself in the vain 
 attempt.' 
 
 ' You can at least give up the habit of quoting 
 Scripture in that irreverent manner.' And in serious 
 displeasure Mrs. Alston left the room. 
 
 ' dear !' sighed Virginia, throwing herself back in 
 her chair, ' I wonder how a duck feels that has a hen 
 for its mother!' 
 
 * Virginia,' said her brother, in a tone ]of grave re- 
 monstrance. 
 
 'Nonsense, Henry, I am not forgetting either duty 
 or affection, but there is a difference in our very 
 
6 THREE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 
 
 natures, wliicli nothing can bridge over. A hen 
 must be a hen, and a duck a duck, to tlie end of 
 the chapter.' 
 
 There was no denying the truth of such an assertion, 
 and Henry made no repl}' until his sister said — 
 
 ' Don't put on that look. I am made to have quite 
 enough of the naughty-child feeling without your aid.' 
 
 Then the look gave way to a half-sad smile. 
 
 ' Are you not a naughty child sometimes in spite of 
 your five-and-twenty years ?' 
 
 ' And if I am, perpetual fault-finding will not cure 
 me. You have no idea hoAv exasperating it is to be 
 caught up and criticised at every turn. And it is rather 
 painful to feel that you are a constant trial to some 
 member of your own family ; that is the secret of my 
 sympathy with the aforesaid duck.' 
 
 Henry laughed. ' You can give your friend a humane 
 suggestion for the management of her poultry -yard.' 
 
 'Aiu'ora! Don't speak of her; everything has gone 
 wrong to-day, and that is the last straw breaking the 
 camel's back.' 
 
 'Poor old camel!' said Henry, taking her hand and 
 patting it caressingly, ' what were the other straws ?' 
 
 ' Oh, nothing you need be burdened with ; little vexa- 
 tions belonjiinu' to a woman's lot ! If 1 had a " sweet " 
 
THEEE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 7 
 
 temper, I daresay I should not mind ; but being what 
 I am, they make me desperately cross.' 
 
 'And is that the reason why you were so savage 
 upon that poor little butterfly Miss Emily ?' 
 
 ' I dare say.' 
 
 Mrs. Alston coming in just then, Virginia changed the 
 subject, but for the remainder of the evening she was in 
 a much more amiable mood. 
 
 Meanwhile Emily Osborne was quite unconscious of 
 having given any cause of offence, and could not have 
 been made to understand Virginia's state of mind. It 
 was not her fault that nearly all the young men of 
 Westfield were at her feet, and she was innocent of any 
 design to add Henry Alston to the number. It was 
 pleasant to be loved, pleasant to be admired, so thought 
 Emily, as she looked into her mirror and saw the bright, 
 pretty picture reflected there ; and she knew no reason 
 why she should not rejoice in all the pleasant things 
 which had fallen to her lot in life. Happy herself, she 
 liked to ma*ke others happy, and, ready to oblige, she 
 did not hesitate to ask the little favours she would have 
 been glad to bestow. And so it came to pass that, 
 while she was a general favourite, two or three people 
 began to suspect her of deep-laid designs to win the 
 admiration she seemed to enjoy so much. First of 
 
8 TIIUKE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 
 
 these was Virginia Alston, whose uncompromising 
 temper and strong will had nothing in common with 
 a nature like Emily's. Weak and frivolous it seemed 
 in her eyes, and she had no patience with those who 
 were captivated by the winning manner which she 
 despised. 
 
 But, like most strong-minded women, Virginia was 
 aware that there is an attraction in a certain kind of 
 weakness, and she was ten-ibly afraid that her brother 
 might not be proof against it. So Emily's little in- 
 nocent note aroused her indignation as if it had been a 
 trap laid for Henry ; and she was only soothed by his 
 M'ords convincing her that 'Miss Emily' had fully 
 succeeded in impressing him with a sense of the light 
 and trifling nature of her charms. 
 
 No ' butterfly ' woiild ever win her brother's heart, 
 of that she felt reasonably sure. 
 
 Henry Alston was right in his prophecy. The next 
 day there was capital sleighing, and from an early hour 
 in the morning that cheeriest of all cheery sounds, the 
 ringing of the sleigh-bells, came echoing upon the 
 frosty air. Every one who possessed a sleigh had it 
 out; from Mr. Osborne the banker, whose wife and 
 daughter, enveloped in costly furs and half-buried in 
 buffalo-robes, were the envy of many less fortunate 
 
THKEE HOUSEHOLDS OF \^^:STFIELD. 9 
 
 people as they dashed along in their pretty swan-like 
 vehicle, down through various and sundry styles of 
 equipage to the common wooden box fitted with seats 
 and fixed upon runners, the triumphant achievement 
 of some enterprising boy determined not to lose the 
 chance of a sleigh-ride. 
 
 Farther north, where the snow lies upon the ground 
 for long months at a time, and where the sleigh is the 
 only means of locomotion during the winter, the enjoy- 
 ment can scarcely he the same that is reahzed where 
 the pleasure is a rare one, eagerly watched for, coming 
 at intervals, and lasting but a few days. 
 
 On this day the entire population of Westfield were 
 making the most of the opportunity. Even the doctor, 
 catching the general infection, had ordered his sleigh 
 instead of his buggy, and had taken the delighted 
 children to school before beginning his round of \dsits, 
 promising moreover to call for them and give them a 
 longer ride in the afternoon, ' if the thaw does not come, 
 and nobody is very ill.' 
 
 ' The Doctor.' I have called him by the title given 
 him by common consent in Westfield. Not that Dr. 
 Bartlett was the only physician in the town : on two 
 other doors beside his in the principal street were two 
 names followed by M.D. in letters large and distinct 
 
10 TIIUEE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 
 
 enough to be read by tlie most careless passer. But 
 no one thought of disputing his claim to the title, — 
 not even the two young medical gentlemen themselves; 
 nor, stranger still, their wives, who might be supposed 
 to be jealous of any such distinction. ' His kindness of 
 heart and generosity of disposition placing liim beyond 
 the reach of envy or suspicion, even as his acknowledged 
 learning and skill had long since made comparisons 
 impossible, he was the friend and counsellor of both 
 the young doctors ; and the trio lived on the most 
 amicable terms, without those jealousies and heart- 
 burnings not unfrequently found among members of 
 their honourable profession. 
 
 Wliile the doctor's sleigh was gliding hither and 
 thither on its errands of mercy, the doctor's wife and 
 sister were sitting at work in a bright sunny room, 
 whose windows to the south looked out upon the main 
 street, at the east end of which the house was situated. 
 
 Very unlike were the two women. The one who was 
 standing at a table cutting out work was short and 
 rather stout, with a quick, energetic manner, proclaim- 
 ing at a glance the model housewife — a good face, 
 neither plain nor pretty, but full of intelligence, and 
 lighted up by a pair of keen, sparkling black eyes, 
 whose searching glance would detect in an instant 
 
THKEE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 1 1 
 
 a chance speck of dust wherever it might hide itself 
 away. The other, sitting at a sewing-machine, whose 
 busy click had interrupted aU conversation, was one 
 of those persons whom no one can pass by unnoticed. 
 The tall elegant figure showed to advantage even in 
 that posture, set off by a simple grey merino dress, 
 with a bow of blue ribbon fastening the white linen 
 collar ; and there was something striking in the con- 
 tour of the small beautifully-shaped head, with its 
 golden-brown liair drawn back from the face, and 
 twisted into a seemingly careless knot, over which 
 the ends of the waving curls fell in a graceful shower. 
 When its owner looked up with a pair of large soft 
 hazel eyes, the most noticeable feature in a face radiant 
 with health and happiness, no one could see the sunny 
 brightness of her expression and fail to feel the appro- 
 priateness of her name — Aurora. 
 
 ' Have you anything ready for me, Harriet ? ' she 
 asked, as she laid aside the finished seam, through 
 which the marvellous little machine had sent its light- 
 ning stitches. 
 
 ' No, I believe not. But you can lay some of these 
 hems if you have nothing else to do.' 
 
 And then as Mrs. Bartlett's nimble fingers plied the 
 scissors, cutting and snipping here and there with 
 
12 THREE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTMELD. 
 
 dexterous quickness and unfailing precision, she en- 
 tered upon a conversation to which for some days 
 she had been making up her mind. However, she 
 approached it rather cautiously at first, though the 
 caution did not last beyond the first question or two. 
 ' Have the Stanleys come home V 
 ' I suppose so ; they were expected last night.' 
 ' They will be over to see you to-day probably.' 
 Aurora said nothing, but her colour deepened a little. 
 ' That is,' continued Mrs. Bartlett, ' if they approve. 
 Girls of their age are apt to have opinions of their own 
 on such matters.' 
 
 Still no reply ; Aurora busied herseK with her work. 
 ' I am sure, Aurora, you have my best wishes for 
 your happiness, but I can't help feeling that you are 
 running a great risk ; and you know I always have to 
 say just what I think.' 
 
 ' I would not have you do othenvise where I am 
 concerned,' was the quiet answer ; though inwardly 
 Aurora was a little afraid that something was coming 
 in which there were others also concerned. 
 
 ' I always did think it a most unfortunate relation ; 
 though not in the way the story-books represent. It 
 is the stepmother I pity, not the children, and I am 
 very sorr}- — ' 
 
THREE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 13 
 
 ' Not for me, Harriet/ said Aurora quickly and a little 
 proudly, then, trying to laugh it off, ' I can't allow you 
 to waste your sympathies.' 
 
 * Of course it is natural that you should not see the 
 danger now,' continued her friendly adviser. 'But I 
 have seen enough to convince me that there is some- 
 thing radically impracticable in the nature of the tie, 
 positively destructive of affection.' 
 
 ' There I think you are entirely wrong. Waiving all 
 reference to myself (and Aurora fancied she was speak- 
 ing of an abstract principle, a tiling impossible under 
 the circumstances, every word that she said being the 
 index to her own feelings), ' any woman loving a man 
 enough to become his wife must have an affection for 
 his children, and if so, she will soon win their love, 
 provided they are left to her influence.' 
 
 ' I was not speaking of theories, but of facts,' said 
 Mrs. Bartlett, rather provokingly. ' However, in this 
 case Julia and May can scarcely be called children ; 
 they are too old to be managed like younger girls.' 
 
 ' I shall not attempt to manage them.' 
 
 Something in Aurora's tone might have sounded a 
 note of warning to any one less determined than Mrs. 
 Bartlett ; but it was one of her fixed principles not to 
 turn back from anything she had once undertaken, and 
 she went on — 
 
1 4 THREE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 
 
 ' I don't waut to give offence, Aurora, but I cannot 
 conscientiously refrain from speaking my mind.' 
 
 ' Oh, well, Harriet, if that is all, I will absolve you 
 from any responsibility. I will not ask your sanction, 
 and then you can feel that no blame attaches to you. 
 Arthur's approval is enough for me.' 
 
 ' Oh, Arthur,' said Mrs. Bartlett, ' you could always 
 make him see with your eyes.' 
 
 * If ever you hear me speak in that contemptuous tone 
 of my husband — ' were the words on Aurora's lips, but 
 she wisely restrained them, and made another effort for 
 peace. 
 
 ' He has a very good pair of his own,' she said quietly, 
 ' like a dear good brother as he is ; he sees and rejoices 
 in our happiness.' 
 
 ' Well, I hope you may find it that ; but according to 
 all accounts a happy wife will be something new in the 
 old house on the hiU.' 
 
 In her momentary vexation Mrs. Bartlett had gone a 
 Little too far, presuming upon her privilege of speaking 
 her mind. Aurora started ; but controlling herself with 
 a strong effort, she folded and laid aside her work, then 
 looking her sister-in-law full in the face, she said — 
 ' Harriet, you must be well aware that this is no subject 
 for discussion between us. You have been a sister to 
 me for years, and we shall not quarrel now ; but no 
 
THEEE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 15 
 
 other woman living should c^are to speak to me as you 
 have done to-day.' 
 
 And waiting for no reply, she left the room. Up- 
 stairs she found her own fire nearly gone out, but she 
 gathered together the few red coals, threw on two or 
 three sticks of wood, and very soon there was a cheer- 
 ful blaze, before which she sat down to take herself to 
 task for having been so much disturbed by the conver- 
 sation which had just taken place. 
 
 ' How often have I resolved not to mind what Harriet 
 says when she is in one of her provoking moods !' So 
 she began ; but argue against it as she might, she felt 
 the sting of the carelessly spoken words more deeply 
 perhaps than the speaker would have thought possible. 
 All her bright visions were overclouded by the fear that 
 after all there might be room for the doubt her sister-in- 
 law had expressed in regard to the two girls. Harriet's 
 last dart had simply recoiled on herself, as spiteful re- 
 marks are apt to do ; but the thought of coming between 
 Mr. Stanley and his daughters, and causing a breach in 
 the happiness and affection existing between them, was 
 one that could not be lightly dismissed. 
 
 Not very long were these painful questionings to go 
 on ; there came an interruption to them as weU as to 
 Mrs. Bartlett's self-complacent musings on the resolu- 
 
16 THKEE IIOUSKIIOLDS OF WESTFIELP. 
 
 tion ■wdtli which she had persisted in a painful duty. 
 Down the street came the meny jingling of the bells of 
 a sleigh, nearer and nearer, till they suddenly stopped 
 as the horses gave a final toss of their heads and drew 
 up at the doctor's gate, and looking out, jMrs. Bartlett 
 saw Mr. Stanley helping his daughters to alight. Xow, 
 just at that moment her future brother-m-law was the 
 very last person whom she would have wished to 
 meet; for though her conscience was not a little 
 callous in regard to sins of the tongue, the sight of 
 Mr. Stanley gave her an uneasy feeling that she had 
 been repeating scandal, and that too to the one of all 
 others whom she shoidd not have chosen for her auditor. 
 So it was with a feeling of relief that she saw him take 
 his seat again and drive off. 
 
 The two girls nodded to her, and, without waiting to 
 ring, ushered themselves in, Dr. Bartlett's hospitable 
 door never knowing the use of a lock during the day. 
 Certainly there was no shadow on either of the bright 
 young faces, glowing from the drive in the frosty air ; no 
 ominous dissatisfaction in the voices that asked in a 
 breath for Aurora. 
 
 ' Oh, do you think we may go up to her ?' eagerly 
 exclaimed Julia, the elder of the two, and receiving 
 permission they ran up-stairs. 
 
THREE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 1 7 
 
 It was a pleasant inteiTuption to Aurora's reverie, 
 when, answering tlie knock at her door, the very subjects 
 of her thoughts presented themselves, and while May- 
 clung to her in a sort of silent ecstasy, Julia spoke for 
 both— 
 
 ' Papa said we might come and tell you how glad we 
 are ; but indeed we never can ; it seems too good to be 
 true.' 
 
 As Aurora gave them seats beside the fire, May drew 
 her down, and whispered two little words in her ear, 
 bringing a blush over the beautiful face and winning a 
 silencing kiss. 
 
 ' Oh, we will learn to say it very easily,' said Julia, 
 overhearing, ' but it was not fair. May, for you to be 
 first ; you never remember my elder sister's rights.' 
 Then tm-ning to Aurora, ' Do you know we talked till 
 two o'clock this morning? Papa only told us last 
 night, and we were so excited.' 
 
 ' And not afraid ? ' Aurora's shadows were now fairly 
 fled away, and the ghosts were mere objects of merriment, 
 
 ' Afraid ! ' 
 
 Both the girls laughed at the preposterous idea. 
 
 ' Oh, you don't know how delighted we were ; we 
 suspected something in New York, but he would not 
 tell us till we got home.' 
 
 B 
 
18 THREE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 
 
 ' And then,' said May, her soft blue eyes full of tears, 
 ' if you had only seen him ! ' 
 
 ' Dear papa,' exclaimed Julia enthusiastically, ' I 
 don't think even you can know quite how good he is. 
 It will be so delightful to see him happy. Not that he 
 has been unhappy, but — .' And there she fairly broke 
 down, not knowing how much or how little she should 
 say. 
 
 Aurora's quiet ' I know,' re-assured her, and she went 
 on in her usual merry strain- — 
 
 ' You will feel for him when you get a share of his 
 work to do, — two wild girls to keep in order ; but, in- 
 deed, we will try to be good, won't we, ^lay ? ' 
 
 ' And begin by forgetting papa's message ? ' asked 
 May, whose gentle tone and manner seemed scarcely in 
 keeping with the character of a wild girl, difficult to be 
 kept in order. 
 
 ' Oh — he brought us in the sleigh, and went on to the 
 bank ; he was to be back in half an liour, and if you 
 will come he will give us all a sleigh-ride ; you will, 
 I am sure, it will be so charming.' 
 
 Yes, Aurora was more than willing ; she half guessed 
 the reason for the invitation coming in this way, and 
 she was not wrong. She was ready in a few minutes, 
 and they went down as the sleigh-bells were lieard again, 
 
THREE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 19 
 
 Julia stopping for a moment to rush into the dining- 
 room and say, ' Mrs. Bartlett, we are so happy we don't 
 know what to do. It is very good of you to give her to 
 us ; tell the doctor so with my love.' 
 
 Through the principal street of the town glided Mr. 
 Stanley's sleigh, with its well-known black horses, and 
 various eyes looking out saw who it was that occupied 
 the back seat with Julia, while May sat with her father. 
 Due comments were doubtless made thereupon, and 
 when the last house was passed the driver turned with 
 a meaning smile, and asked, ' What reward should be 
 given to the man who furnishes a whole village with a 
 topic of conversation ? ' 
 
 Over the sparkling snow, lying in the brilliant sun - 
 shine which yet was powerless to destroy its beauty, 
 they sped on their way ; now and then passing another 
 merry party, hearing from far and near the musical echo 
 of the bells ; looking over an unbroken tract of fields 
 and meadows, covered with their spotless mantle ; or 
 pausing to examine the wonderful winter-forests, where 
 each tree was covered with feathery white foliage. 
 Never had Aurora so enjoyed a sleigh-ride. The ex- 
 hilarating effect of the clear frosty air, with its blue sky 
 and glorious sunlight, the rapid motion, the overflow- 
 ing spirits of the two girls, had effectually banished any 
 
20 THREE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 
 
 feeling of awkwardness which might have been hers at 
 their first meeting, and she was as merry as either of 
 them. 
 
 At length, after a drive of several miles, they came 
 back by a very round-about way, and were in sight of 
 Mr. Stanley's house. ' The old house on the hill,' it was 
 called by all the neighbourhood, having been built forty 
 years before — a period of time counting in the West for 
 more than a century elsewhere. Mr. Stanley stopped 
 at the outer gate of his farm. 
 
 * I am going to leave you two girls here, you know 
 you have your trunks to unpack.' 
 
 ' Oh, but you must take us up to the door ; the snow 
 is so deep.' 
 
 And once there, Aurora could not wdthout affectation 
 resist the reasonable entreaty to go in and warm herself 
 before setting out for home. Many a time she had been 
 in that house, but never since the day when she had 
 promised to come to it for life ; and it was not without 
 a heart-thrill that she crossed the tlireshold and stood 
 in the room she was soon to know so well. 
 
 The two girls had the talk pretty much to themselves, 
 as they all stood roimd the blazing wood-fire, but pre- 
 sently Julia said, ' We must show papa's present ; come, 
 May.' Off she ran, taking her sister, ostensibly for the 
 
THREE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 21 
 
 purpose of helping her, but with woman's tact enough 
 to leave another motive unexpressed. 
 
 Wlio can wonder that Hugh Stanley turned as the 
 door closed, leaving him alone with the woman w^ho had 
 renewed for him the lost dream of his youth, and folded 
 her in his arms with murmured words of love and 
 blessing ? 
 
 Papa's present was duly brought down, with many 
 explanations of the delay. ' It had been at the bottom 
 of the trunk.' When the papers were taken off it proved 
 to be a fine engraving of Aurora driving the chariot of 
 the morning. Julia laughed and blushed as she re- 
 vealed not only the picture in the frame, but her own 
 mischievous impulse in selecting it. 
 
 ' Papa,' said May, ' you are not to think that I had 
 anything to do with it ; I would not be so saucy. The 
 frame is my share of the gift.' 
 
 ' Ah, Julia,' said Mr. Stanley, shaking his head, ' that 
 was your secret, was it ? You are a little witch.' 
 
 But there was anything rather than displeasure in 
 the tone, and Julia answered merrily — 
 
 ' Oh, you don't know what a pretty speech I had ready, 
 but you have spoiled it all by forestalling me. How- 
 ever, we are making each other a fair acknowledgment, 
 ■ — an exchange of " Auroras." ' 
 
22 THREE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 
 
 If the sleigh-ride with the two girls had been plea- 
 sant, the return home was perfect. After a little silence 
 Mr. Stanley spoke : ' I was right, was I not, darling ? ' 
 
 ' As you ever are for me. But oh, Hugh, it is almost 
 too much happiness.' 
 
 The look Aurora got in reply said plainly that too 
 much happiness could not be her portion. So in the 
 interchange of thoughts and feelings which are part of 
 the joy with which the stranger intermeddleth not, they 
 drew near the village. 
 
 ' Do you think I shall ever be able to win Mrs. Bart- 
 lett's approval?' asked Mr. Stanley, but with very little 
 of the concern that lady would have thought a necessary 
 accompaniment of such a question. 
 
 ' I don't know ; she is not easily moved, but it does 
 not matter.' 
 
 ' No,' he said gravely ; ' I have learned to live witli- 
 out the approbation of my neighbours ; but for }our 
 sake — .' 
 
 ' For my sake, nothing,' interrupted Aurora quickly, 
 with a sudden flash of indignant recollection. ' Neither 
 her want of appreciation, nor that of any one else, mat- 
 ters to me. Nothing the whole world could say would 
 make you more to me ; nothing it fails to say can make 
 you less.' 
 
THREE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 23 
 
 ' Take care, Aurora niia,' he said, half playfully. 
 ' Eemember a woman's lot — 
 
 " To make idols, and to find them clay. 
 And to bewail that worship — ." ' 
 
 ' I am not afraid.' 
 
 The bright face, upturned to meet his gaze, reminded 
 him of the words, ' Perfect love casteth out fear;' words 
 spoken of the heavenly love, but which may be ap- 
 plied without irreverence to its fair reflection upon 
 earth. 
 
 'You will come in?' Aurora asked, as they reached 
 the doctor's gate. 
 
 ' To make confession for you ? Yes.' So his greeting 
 to Mrs. Bartlett was- - 
 
 ' Good morning ! You see I have come to give an 
 account of myself; you nmst not think I have kept 
 Aurora out in the cold all this time ; the girls gave 
 her a famous toasting before they would let her come 
 away.' 
 
 The sudden lifting of her sister-in-law's eyebrows 
 gave Aurora the first hint of the impropriety of which 
 she had been guilty ; but she was only amused ; and as 
 she heard no more of it, she never thought of it again. 
 
 The remonstrance from which she was saved was kept 
 for her brother. That evening he was called out rather 
 
24 THREE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 
 
 late to see a patient, and when he returned he found his 
 wife sitting alone in the parlour. Unless there was a 
 probability of his being detained all night, Mrs. Bartlett 
 always sat up for him ; for the little woman really loved 
 her husband in her own way ; a way, to be sure, which 
 did not keep her from saying sharp things to and of him 
 on occasions, but still a way which was very true and 
 real. 
 
 \Mien she had brought his slippers and made him 
 comfortable, she began — 
 
 ' Arthur, I do wish you would speak to Aurora.' 
 
 ' About what ? ' 
 
 ' Why, the sort of things she does in defiance of all 
 ordinary rules of propriety — going to the Stanleys to- 
 day, for instance.' 
 
 ' What harm was there in that, Hattie ? ' 
 
 ' Harm ! It certainly is not according to my ideas of 
 what is becoming in a young lady, the very day after 
 the public announcement of her engagement ; for it is 
 just as I said, you might as well have published it in 
 tlie newspapers, — all Westfield knows that they are to 
 be married.' 
 
 ' And why not ? It saves Aurora a great deal of an- 
 noyance, and the rest of us the necessity of choosing be- 
 tween a betrayal of confidence and the evasions that are 
 
THREE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 25 
 
 very near being falsehoods. I think she showed her 
 good sense in making no mystery or secret in regard to 
 it ; and she can safely be trusted to regulate her own 
 conduct.' 
 
 ' Oh, of course, if you are satisfied, I ought to be,' said 
 Mrs. Bartlett in an injured tone ; ' she is your sister, not 
 mine.' 
 
 ' And when did mine and thine come to have separate 
 meanings for us, Hattie ? ' said the good doctor gently. 
 
 ' A soft answer turneth away wrath.' In an instant 
 Ms wife was melted. ' I did not mean that, Arthur,' 
 she said, drawing a footstool near him and sitting down 
 at his feet. ' But Aurora has disappointed me ; I am 
 not pleased with this match, and I cannot pretend that 
 I am.' 
 
 ' Of course not, pretence of any kind would be some- 
 thing new for you to attempt. But here we must agree 
 to differ ; and I suppose no marriage ever gave entire 
 satisfaction to all the lookers-on. Some years ago I 
 knew a little woman who defied the opinions of several 
 of her friends in marrying a stupid country doctor, but 
 I have never heard her say she repented it.' 
 
 'Arthur ! the truest remark made on that occasion 
 was what my brother James said to Aunt Sarah, that 
 Harriet was not half good enough for Dr. Bartlett, and 
 
26 THREE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 
 
 had never clone anything to deserve the blessing of such 
 a husband.' 
 
 ' James was a saucy fellow to make any such speech, 
 and it had better be forgotten, or only remembered as a 
 proof that one's nearest relatives sometimes err in form- 
 ing a judgment.' 
 
 ' He did not. But, Arthur, I am afraid for Aurora ; 
 afraid she will not be happy ; you know what people 
 said — .' 
 
 ' People say a great many things they should not say, 
 Harriet. Do you think I would be careless of Aurora's 
 future ? ' 
 
 ' No ; but you are always so ready to believe the best. 
 And much as }ou despise gossip, there is generally some 
 foundation for such stories as used to be told of Mr. 
 Stanley and his first wife.' 
 
 ' Do you not know that a half-truth distorted becomes 
 the most frightful of lies ? Let it be enough that I, 
 who have known Stanley intimately during all the 
 years of his residence amongst us, will give him my 
 sister without the shadow of a doubt.' 
 
 And so Dr. Bartlett silenced his wife's curiosity. He 
 could have given the true version of the story, with 
 which the scandal-mongers of "Westfield had enlivened 
 many a tea-table ; he might have told a strange tale of 
 
THREE HOUSEHOLDS OF WESTFIELD. 27 
 
 a man's patience and forbearance, of a woman's reckless 
 destruction of the peace and happiness, of her home, by 
 a degrading slavery to the use of a noxious drug ; and 
 without passing too harsh a judgment upon the dead, he 
 might have compelled others to do justice to the living. 
 But the good doctor had a very high sense of the sacred- 
 ness of his calling, and not even to his own wife, nor 
 with such an end in view, would he reveal the sad secret 
 which had come to his knowledge in his professional 
 capacity. The skeleton in the cupboard of the old 
 house on the hill had been buried out of sight several 
 years before our story begins ; and there was no fear of 
 its ever being dug up again by Dr. Bartlett. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 IN THE NEW HOME. 
 
 THE first Sunday in her new home ; and Aurora 
 looked out from lier Avindow upon a scene of sur- 
 passing beauty, the whole landscape crystallized as it 
 Avere, transformed into a fairy vision. The day before 
 had been one of pouring rain, when with one of those 
 instantaneous changes knoA\Ti to the American climate, 
 the frost had come, and seizing upon each drop of water 
 had fixed it in its place. Every branch and twig, every 
 brown and withered blade of grass, had been touched by 
 the enchanter's wand, and now sparkled in the brilliant 
 sunshine, or glowed with all the hues of the rainbow, 
 while the common gi-avel-walk seemed paved with 
 glittering gems. 
 
 ' A diamond morning,' said Julia, as the family 
 gathered in the breakfast-room ; ' Nature has opened 
 her jewel-casket for the bride.' 
 
 Even while she spoke her sister slipped out of the 
 
IN THE NEW HOME. 29 
 
 room, and soon returned with some lovely little sprays 
 of arbor-vitse, the points of the delicate foliage encased 
 in ice, and sparkling as she held them in the sun ; but 
 before the admiring exclamations were fairly uttered, 
 the transient beauty was vanishing away, and the drops 
 of water falling from her hand.^ 
 
 ' Foolish little girl,' said Mr. Stanley, ' not to know 
 that Winter's work cannot stand the touch of May.' 
 
 ' How poetical we are this morning!' laughed Julia. 
 ' Mamma, have you nothing pretty to say ?' 
 
 ' Who can tell what I might have had but for your 
 question? Could you ever talk when asked to say 
 something ?' 
 
 ' Honesty compels me to say, Yes ; then, and at all 
 other times ! ' 
 
 ' Ah, chatterbox,' said her father, ' I am afraid that is 
 too true. But to descend to plain prose, I advise you 
 all to take umbrellas to church to-day ; this sunshine 
 will make sad havoc among the jewels before we come 
 home.' 
 
 ' And the trees will be weeping for their loss,' said 
 May. 
 
 ' Bravo!' exclaimed Julia, ' I think we have all earned 
 our breakfast to-day, except mamma. Ah, well, we 
 must let her have some for looking the poetry the rest 
 
30 IN THE NEW HOME. 
 
 of US try to speak. There are the buckwheat cakes 
 — the poetry of the kitchen.' 
 
 ' Eather its substantial prose,' said Mr. Stanley. 
 
 ' AVliy, papa, they are as light as a feather ; see — ' 
 And she lifted one on her fork. 
 
 ' Which all poetry is not,' Aurora suggested ; ' but 
 you had better discuss them first and their merits 
 afterwards.' 
 
 ' A wise suggestion ; for of all miserable things a cold 
 buckwheat cake is the worst.' 
 
 ' Long may you retain that opinion, Julia,' said her 
 father ; ' it proves you have not encountered many of 
 the miseries, even the minor miseries of life.' 
 
 Tlie walk to church that morning was something not 
 to be forgotten, and now and then the little party 
 paused to look at the beautiful frost-picture, soon to 
 lose its charm in the warmth of the noon-day sun. 
 
 * Aurora,' said Mr. Stanley, ' did you tell the girls 
 how we wished for them last Sunday in New York ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; how you would both have enjoyed the glorious 
 music at Trinity.' 
 
 ' I always do when I am there,' said Julia ; ' but 
 after all I think I would rather ]iave our simpler service 
 for common use.' 
 
 ' I don't know : the choral music seems to me the 
 
IN THE NEW HOME. 31 
 
 perfection of worship ; and why should we not always 
 offer of our best ? ' 
 
 ' It sounds selfish to say it,' said May, ' but it would 
 be such a deprivation not to be allowed to sing in the 
 choir, that I would hardly like to have the choristers 
 in our church.' 
 
 ' Certainly our own music is very satisfactory when 
 mamma is in her place,' said Julia, ' but how we did 
 miss you last Sunday !' 
 
 ' It is gratifying to one's vanity to be missed a little,' 
 was Aurora's reply. 
 
 ' Then what must it be to be missed a great deal ? ' 
 ' Gratifying to something better than vanity.' 
 Entering the church, Mr. Stanley and his daughters 
 took their accustomed places in the choir-gallery, while 
 Aurora seated herself at the organ. The first sweet 
 notes awoke beneath her touch, stealing gently upon the 
 silence, and making audible to those who loved her 
 best the deep content, the satisfied happiness that dwelt 
 within her soul. But when the service had begun, it 
 was well that she was independent of the printed notes 
 before her. The sound of the voices near her, May's 
 sweet clear soprano, the fuller tones of Julia's alto, 
 blending with and supported by the rich deep bass of 
 her husband's voice, as they joined in the anthem, ' 
 
32 IN THE NEW HOME. 
 
 come, let us sing unto the Lord,' filled her eyes with 
 tears of gladness, and she could see nothing. 
 
 Lingering, when the congregation was dismissed, to 
 close the organ and put away the books, the Stanleys 
 were almost the last to leave the church. At the door 
 stood a carriage, out of which leaned a lady evidently 
 on the watch for some one. There was a certain doll- 
 like prettiness in her face, small regular features, blue 
 eyes, a pink and white complexion, a profusion of tiny 
 crisp flaxen curls; but the soul was wanting, the 
 expression, that might have made her beautiful. This 
 was Mrs. M'Intyre, the second wife of ]\Ir. Stanley's 
 nearest neighbour, and a bride of little longer standing 
 than Aurora. Any stranger who had seen a white- 
 haired man of sixty hand her into the carriage would 
 have taken him for her father rather than her husband ; 
 but, young as she was, she had been a widow when Mr, 
 M'Intyre married her, and her two little girls of three 
 and five years of age were sitting opposite to her. 
 
 She bowed, and smiled as Aurora appeared. 'Ah, 
 Mrs. Stanley, I was just looking for you. You will let 
 me have the pleasure of taking you home ?' 
 
 ' Thank you ; you are very kind, but indeed, I prefer 
 to walk.' 
 
 ' Not in this shower of ice from the trees ? You will 
 
IX THE NEW HOME. 33 
 
 get your bonnet ruined if you do,' returned Mrs. 
 M'Intyre, as if that argument were wholly unanswer- 
 able. 
 
 ' I came well prepared, you see,' and Aurora held up 
 her umbrella ; ' but I am just as much obliged to you, 
 Mrs. M'Intyre.' 
 
 ' Won't one of the girls come with me, then ? ' 
 
 Mr. Stanley turned round : ' Julia, Avhere is your 
 umbrella ? ' 
 
 She put up her hands deprecatingly before her face : 
 ' Papa, I forgot it ; but May's wall do for us both.' 
 
 ' That atom of a thing ? Nonsense ! Come, you 
 must go with Mrs. M'Intyre.' 
 
 elulia shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 ' I will go,' said May, offering her umbrella to her 
 sister. 
 
 ' No ; you shall not be punished for my sins,' and 
 Julia took the vacant seat. ' Where is Mr. M'Intyre ? ' 
 she asked, as the carriage drove off. 
 
 ' He has walked on with Hector ; but I cannot stand 
 these long walks. I must either take the carriage or 
 stay at home.' 
 
 ' Do you call tliis a long walk ? May and I think 
 nothing of twice the distance.' 
 
 ' Ah, you are accustomed to it ; I am not, and it 
 c 
 
34 IN THE NEW HOME. 
 
 fatigues me terribly.' Even the discussion of the topic 
 seemed too much for Mrs. M'Intyre's energies, for she 
 leaned back languidly in the carnage. ' I tried it two 
 or three times when I first came here, but I found that 
 I was only fit to lie on the sofa for the rest of tlie 
 day.' 
 
 Ever afterwards Julia regarded with great com- 
 placency the self-control which she then exercised in 
 refraining from exclaiming — ' Affectation.' Overflowing 
 with life and energy, she could not understand the per- 
 version of mind which would make a woman proud of 
 physical weakness, as if it were something entitling her 
 to additional respect and consideration. Presently the 
 caniage passed Mr. M'Int}rre and his son. They bowed 
 to Julia, and Mrs. M'Intyre said : ' I am sure Hector 
 wishes he had come with me, now that he sees who is 
 here.' 
 
 Julia drew herself up with a frown, but it was either 
 unobserved or unheeded, for her tormentor went on : 
 ' T am sure I wish you would take him in hand. It 
 would be an act of charity to me if you would cure him 
 of his awful gravity. The sight of Hector on a rainy 
 day gives me the blues for a fortnight.' 
 
 Angry Avith the silly woman beside her, and angry 
 with herself for the hot flush that crimsoned her cheeks, 
 
IN THE NEW HOME. 35 
 
 Julia replied, ' I should be very sorry to attempt to 
 alter Mr. Hector M'Intyre in any respect.' 
 
 ' I am afraid it would be a hopeless task,' sighed Mrs. 
 M'Intyre, fortunately failing to see another construction 
 which might have been put upon the words, and which 
 was only too obvious to Julia the moment they were 
 uttered. ' But I did hope you might be inclined to 
 smile upon him. You know I have had some ex- 
 perience in such tilings, dear; and I can see that he 
 has eyes and ears for one young lady alone in all 
 Westfield.' 
 
 ' I am much obliged to you,' said Julia stiffly, ' but 
 you are quite mistaken.' 
 
 ' Ah, well, I did not mean any offence. Hector is 
 really a very good fellow ; if you knew him better you 
 would see that in spite of his repellent manner.' 
 
 Not another minute could Julia endure this ; and just 
 then the carriage approached a psat of the road where 
 there was a stile and a foot-path leading by a short out 
 through the fields to Mr. Stanley's house. 
 
 ' Will you let me get out here ? It will save you 
 coming up the hill.' And before Mrs. M'Intyi-e could 
 reply, she had desired the driver to stop, and had 
 sprung out. 
 
30 IN THE NEW HOME. 
 
 ' I am quite safe from the drops of water, there are 
 no more trees to pass under. Thank you for liringing 
 me so far.' 
 
 ' Naughty girl, not to let me take you all the way. 
 Tell your papa it was not my fault. Goodbye, come 
 over and see us soon.' 
 
 'Detestable. woman!' exclaimed Julia, as she walked 
 rapidly up the path, her eyes filling with angry tears 
 now that she could give way to her indignation un- 
 observed. ' " If \ knew him better!" What do you 
 know of him ? — nan-ow-minded, silly little idiot that 
 you are, utterly incapable of appreciating goodness like 
 his. Eepellent manner, indeed ! I wonder what you 
 tliink of your own ? ' And so on, till another thought 
 turned the tide of irritated feeling against herself, and 
 she said, ' A pretty state of mind this, to come home 
 from church railing at my neighbours. Julia Stanley, 
 I am afraid you are incorrigible ! ' 
 
 ' Papa ! ' she exclaimed, as the walking party entered 
 the house about ten minutes after her, ' how could you 
 be so cruel ? ' 
 
 ' Cruel to save your best bonnet from destruction ? ' 
 
 ' No, but to shut me up in durance vile with that — I 
 had better not say it.' 
 
IX THE NEW HOME. 3 7 
 
 'Don't, if it is something the sober second thought 
 forbids.' 
 
 * Was the drive home such a penance ? ' asked Aurora. 
 * If I had known that it would be — ' 
 
 ' Oh, I deserved it for my forgetfulness, and I have 
 only myself to thank ; but what people see in that 
 woman to admire — ' 
 
 ' She is rather pretty, and talkative,' said Aurora. 
 
 ' Talkative ? Yes, with a vengeance ! That is it ; I 
 see now the reason why I think her so unbearable. 
 Who is it that says there is nothing so hateful to us 
 as the sight of our own faults in other people ? She 
 is too much like myself.' 
 
 ' Julia ! ' exclaimed IMay indignantly, ' you shall not 
 say that ; you are no more like J\Ire. M'Intyre 
 than — ' 
 
 ' Never mind the simile ; I would like to think I am 
 not. And one tiling I beg, that if ever I make myself 
 as insufferably disagreeable as she sometimes is, I may 
 be quietly put out of the way as expeditiously as 
 possible.' 
 
 But the reason of this tirade Julia explained to no 
 one. Mr. Stanley turned to his wife as the girls left 
 the room — 
 
38 IN THE NEW HOME. 
 
 ' How strange it is to see two sisters, brought up 
 together, surrounded by the very same influences, so 
 utterly unlike ! ' 
 
 ' I think it shows the individual strength of character 
 in each, that they do not assimilate more.' 
 
 ' Few people would give our quiet little May credit 
 for any strength of character whatever.' 
 
 ' May ! she is really much the stronger of the two, 
 ready to yield her own wishes, but never her own 
 convictions.' 
 
 Mr. Stanley smiled. ' Yes, she knows how to make 
 the distinction ; but I doubt if she could have put it 
 into words as she does into practice. If it were possible 
 to blend the two together, a little of May's steadiness 
 would improve Julia, as much as Julia's vivacity would 
 brighten May.' 
 
 ' Perhaps ; but they are both dear good girls as they 
 are, and it would be a stupid worhl if all its inliabitants 
 were alike.' 
 
 ' So it would ; and I should be satisfied to have the 
 strength and the brightness, the quietness and the 
 vivacity, perfectly apportioned in one instance.' 
 
 Aurora's face glowed ; but she laid her hand lightly 
 on her husband's lips. 
 
IN THE NEW HOME. 39 
 
 ' Who was boasting to me that he had never spoiled 
 his daughters ? Take care, Hugh, that you do not spoil 
 your wife.' 
 
 ' Love does not spoil, Aurora.' 
 
 ' I am answered,' she said with a smile ; and as she 
 turned to leave the room, she added, ' I wonder if Mrs. 
 M'Intyre really thought I could be induced to give up 
 my first walk home with my husband V 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE GATHERING OF THE WAR- CLOUD. 
 
 BURYING her talents in the poultiy-yard and 
 pigstye.' Was that what Aurora was doing, 
 as morning by morning she put on her warm hood 
 and shawl, and ^^'ent out to look after her hens and 
 chickens, scattering the corn witli her own hand, and 
 delighting in tlie sight of her feathered pets as they 
 gathered round her feet to be fed ; or as she paid hei" 
 daily visit to the dairy to be initiated into all the 
 mystery of butter-making ? Xot so did it seem to 'the 
 farmer's wife,' proud of lier title, and determined to 
 prove herself \vorthy to bear it ; while the country life 
 possessed the charm for her that it ever has for a warm 
 heart and a healthful mind. And a sweet, pure, natural 
 life it was, that of the iamily in the old house on the 
 hill, a life that many an idle woman of fashion might 
 envy. 
 
 Mr. Stanley was nut a rich man malcing a plaything 
 
THE GATHERING OF THE WAE-CLOUD. 41 
 
 of his farm ; but a practical farmer superintending 
 every operation, and entering into all the details of 
 each day's work ; and while he was busy out of doors, 
 it would have been a shame to his wife and daughters 
 to remain idle Avithin. Servants enough they kept to 
 do all the hard manual labour of the house, and no 
 more ; the lighter work being equally shared amongst 
 them. And to them it seemed no drudgery to make 
 the beds, dust and arrange the rooms, wash the break- 
 fast china ; do the thousand little nameless things about 
 the house that a lady's hand can do more skilfully 
 than that of the best-trained servant. 
 
 ' Many hands make light work ;' and the chance 
 visitor coming in after twelve o'clock would find the 
 morning's duties fulfilled, and Aurora and the girls 
 with their sewing and their books in the pleasant 
 parlour, which had the charming homelike look natural 
 to a room that is constantly used by people of educa- 
 tion and refinement. 
 
 Furniture is an uncompromising truth-teller. Coax 
 it as you may by a touch here and there, a laboured 
 effort after careless arrangement, a persistent attempt 
 to break up straight lines and right angles, you can 
 never make it look a falsehood ; and the room which 
 is kept shut up from the houseliold, and only opened 
 
42 THE GATHERING OF THE WAR-CLOUD. 
 
 for company on grand occasions, will proclaim tlie fact 
 to every observant eye. 
 
 But in tlie old house on the hill there was nothing 
 for show. Something in the very air of the parlour 
 made the visitor feel at home at once, and encouraged 
 him to use all its belongings for his comfort and con- 
 venience. The room was full of light and warmth. 
 Julia's canary-bird, and May's plants, which flourished 
 and flowered under her loving care as if they felt the 
 influence of her name, kept the memory of summer 
 lingering there through all the winter months ; and 
 soon Aurora's friends began to feel its attractions. 
 
 One by one they discovered that it was quite a short 
 walk from the village to Mr. Stanley's house ; one by 
 one they began to find an evening spent there a pleasant 
 thing to anticipate, to realize, to look back upon ; and 
 then, as they learned to know her husband better, they 
 ceased to express any astonishment at her marriage, 
 and to wonder ' what Aurora Bartlett ever saw in Mr. 
 Stanley.' 
 
 One of the converts was Virginia Alston. Scarcely 
 a week passed that she did not go to spend a day with 
 her old friend ; and about two months after the mar- 
 riage she astonished Aurora by a very unexpected con- 
 fession. 
 
THE GATHERING OF THE WAR-CLOUD. 43 
 
 ' Did you notice,' she asked, ' that one of yonr 
 friends failed to offer you any congratulations on your 
 wedding-day?' 
 
 ' No, I think not ; at least I do not remember ; who 
 was it ? ' 
 
 ' I. Don't be shocked ! but I purposely refrained 
 from doing it. The truth is, I did not know Mr. 
 Stanley, and could not appreciate hiiu. Am I too 
 late now ? ' 
 
 ' Too late !' Aurora's bright look was an answer 
 better than words. ' Indeed you are not ! I did not 
 know then half so well as I do now the abundant 
 cause I had for congratulation. And Virginia, most 
 conscientious of mortals, let me congTatulate yoic upon 
 coming to your senses.' 
 
 Virginia laughed. ' I expected that ; but take notice, 
 I am not yet convinced that he did not get the best of 
 the bargain.' 
 
 ' Oh, that will come in time. Gradual changes are 
 far more trustworthy than sudden ones.' 
 
 Virginia was a little inclined to tease. ' Perhaps I 
 \vas right after all, and your influence has worked a 
 transformation.' 
 
 But Aurora answered gravely, ' I cannot joke about 
 such things, Virginia. If any one could know as I do 
 
4 4 THE GATIIEEIXG OF THE WABCLOLT). 
 
 the nobility of his character ; — but what nonsense for 
 me to say tliat, as if any one else could ! ' 
 
 ' You are reversing the old saying, " No man is a hero 
 to his valet," — that is, I suppose, to any one who knows 
 him intimately.' 
 
 ' Yes ; I think it a miserable slander. True heroism 
 can bear the closest scrutiny in the common daylight 
 of ordinary existence. I believe many a man is a hero 
 to his wife, while the world is too blind to see.' 
 
 ' I liopc so, at least,' said Virginia. 
 
 The most charming kind of hospitality was that 
 exercised by Mr. Stanley and his wife. Parties they 
 never gave ; very rarely an invitation beforehand. But 
 at their bountiful table there was always room for a 
 friend, and a hearty welcome for the passing guest, 
 who was made thoroughly comfortable by the conscious- 
 ness that his presence disturbed none of the household 
 arrangements, and gave no trouble whatever. 
 
 It was an understood thing when Virginia had been 
 spending the day with Aurora, that she was not to go 
 home before ten o'clock, and her brother always came 
 to tea and spent the evening. Often Hector M'lntjTC 
 woidd join the party, or some other neighbour or friend, 
 • — the young men of Westfield finding a peculiar charm 
 in the society of Hugh Stanley, whose broad and liberal 
 
THE GATHEKING OF THE WAR-CLOUD. 45 
 
 views ou all the questions of the day, brought him into 
 sympathy with every thoughtful mind among them. 
 Pleasant evenings were those round the blazing wood 
 fire, for there v/as no lack of topics for animated conver- 
 sation during that winter— the winter of 1860-61. 
 
 Sometimes there would be music, in which the whole 
 family would unite, aided by Hector M'Intyre, with the 
 two Alstons for an audience ; then a new book would 
 give the central thought to all the pleasant chat, but 
 gradually all other matters lost their interest in the 
 growing importance of the aspect of political affairs. 
 With their hands busily occupied in some light fancy- 
 work, the ladies of the household were no silent listeners 
 to such discussions. In common with all intelligent 
 American women, they followed wdtli deep and apprecia- 
 tive interest every movement in the political history of 
 their country, forming their own opinions, and never 
 hesitating to express them. Even tpiiet little May 
 would contribute her share to such conversation between 
 her father and his guests, never dreaming that in some 
 parts of the civilized world she would have been looked 
 at in silent amazement, or rebuked for a \dolation of 
 feminine propriety. The gentle tones of her voice, as she 
 uttered her convictions, always won for lier one listener, 
 who seemed to hear whatever she said, though at the 
 
46 THE GATHERING OF THE WAR-CLOUD. 
 
 time he might be engaged in a most animated conversa- 
 tion at tlie opposite side of the room. 
 
 On one such evening, as Virginia was holding a skein 
 of worsted for Aurora to wind, she suddenly asked — 
 
 ' Aurora, why don't you write a book V 
 
 ' I write a book ! I am sure I can't give you all the 
 reasons, but amongst others because I have nothing to say.' 
 
 ' Ah ! if that were a sufficient hindrance I think half 
 the authors of the present day would bid a lasting adieu 
 to their pens, and thereby confer a great boon upon the 
 public. But really, I wish you -would.' 
 
 ' Why ? What has put such an idea into your head 
 to night ?' 
 
 ' It has been there a long time. Ever since we were 
 at school together my heart has been set upon seeing 
 you an author.' 
 
 ' In what field V 
 
 ' Oh, fiction of course.' 
 
 Aurora laughed outright. ' A very doubtful compli- 
 ment, Virginia.' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! don't be stupid, you know what I mean ; 
 I have not forgotten your talent for — I must not say 
 story-telling, or you will catch me up again — weaving 
 romances ; is that any better ?' 
 
 ' Scarcely.' 
 
THE GATHERING OF THE WAR-CLOUD. 47 
 
 ' I think I can give you a reason why she does not 
 Avrite,' said Mr. Stanley. 
 
 ' I did not know you were listening ; but T hope I 
 have not been guilty of any enormity ; you have not a 
 horror of your wife becoming a literary w^oman, have 
 you?' 
 
 ' Not I, indeed. But my reason is this : some people 
 write their romances, others live them ; few can do both/ 
 
 Aurora's face lighted up, as it often did, at the sound 
 of her husband's voice, but she said nothing. 
 
 ' If it be true/ remarked Henry Alston, ' that deeds 
 and words are necessarily severed for a time, then I think 
 our literature must soon come to a stand-still.' 
 
 ' Yes, but only to revive again. It has always been so 
 in the past. Look at England : men can scarcely use 
 their pens in the midst of the earthquake and the storm, 
 but after all her great convulsions, her literature sprang 
 up with renew^ed vigour, as if men's minds had been 
 ploughed and furrowed, that the gTain might strike its 
 roots deei)er, and bring forth a more abundant harvest.' 
 
 ' I am afraid we have a little bit of history to live,' 
 said Hector M'Intyre, ' other men will write it — a far 
 easier task/ 
 
 ' INFore than a little bit, I would say ; the plot is 
 thickening very rapidly,' said Mr. Stanley. 
 
48 THE GATHEKINd OF THE WAU-CLOUI>. 
 
 ' that M'e had Andrew Jackson in the Wlute 
 House !' exclaimed Virginia energetically. 
 
 ' Is he one of your heroes ?' 
 
 ' In a measure.' 
 
 ' Virginia adores people who liave iron wills,' said 
 Julia. 
 
 ' I certainly do like an iron will in the right place.' 
 
 ' But is this the right place or the right time ?' Aurora 
 asked. ' Would not coercion now only make matters 
 M'orse ? ' 
 
 ' I think not,' ^Ir. Stanley replied. ' It must come to 
 that at last, and this is one of the cases where it is best 
 and wisest to begin as you mean to end.' 
 
 ' Papa, -what do you mean ? ' said Julia, looking up 
 and dropping her knitting, as in sudden consternation. 
 
 ' War,' he answei'cd quietly. 
 
 ' Oh, horrible ! anything would be better than that.' 
 
 ' Xot national dishonour,' said Hector M'lntp-e, with 
 a sudden flash in his dark eyes. 
 
 ' No ; but I would let every one of the Slave States 
 go rather than fight to keep them in.' 
 
 ' And what sort of a Government would that be,' 
 asked Virginia, ' which any portion of the people may 
 defy and set at naught when it so pleases them?' 
 
 ' I am sure we can do quite well without them.' 
 
THE GATHERING OF THE WAR-CLOUD. 49 
 
 * That is not the question, Julia/ 
 
 ' And we would be rid of all complicity with slavery.' 
 
 ' National sins are not so wiped out,' said Hector 
 M'Intyre very seriously. 
 
 'Well, I would have no fighting; I would give up 
 anything.' 
 
 ' Anything but the right.' And at the sound of 
 May's quiet voice, Henry Alston paused in his conver- 
 sation with her father to glance at the little speaker 
 with a pleased smile. 
 
 ' May, what is the world coming to ? Of all people 
 on the face of the earth, I should have thought you two 
 the very last to appeal to the arbitrament of the sword,' 
 said Julia, addressing her sister and Hector. 
 
 He answered for both : ' There is a difference between 
 making such an appeal, and accepting it when it is 
 thrust upon you.' 
 
 ' And,' added May, ' when the only alternative is 
 national disgrace and destruction. You had better read 
 " Maud," Julia ; you will find something there to think 
 upon,' 
 
 ' Oh, well ; I give it up. If the two most peaceable 
 people I know are giving their sentence for open war, like 
 Satan in "Paradise Lost" — excuse the comparison! — 
 
 D 
 
50 THE GATHEKING OF THE WAR-CLOUD. 
 
 there is nothing more to be said. Let us fight, by all 
 means.' 
 
 ' Let US light, by no means,' said Hector, ' unless we- 
 must. Come, you will not say there is no such thing 
 as a righteous Avar ? ' 
 
 ' Of course I will not, with my mind stored with 
 4th of July orations.' 
 
 ' And you acknowledge the truth contained in the 
 words, " United we stand, divided we fall " ?' 
 
 ' Putting me through a regular catechism, I declare ! ' 
 And Julia folded her hands, and put on a most comical 
 expression of meekness : ' Yes, sfi-.' 
 
 ' Then if we must fight in order to prevent the divi- 
 sion that would be the downfall of our country, have 
 we not a righteous cause, even though our foes are our 
 own brethren ? ' 
 
 ' Now, Mr. M'lntyre, that is not fair ; I will not be 
 convicted out of my own mouth. ^Liy, where is the 
 pantry-key ? I am going to get some apples.' 
 
 ' Julia, where is your honesty ? ' said May. * Con- 
 fess yourself conquered.' 
 
 ' What would you have me do ? The defeated deliver 
 up their weapons, do they not ? But my only one ii» 
 my tongue, and I cannot Avell spare it. You must be 
 
THE GATHERING OF THE WAR-CLOUD. 51 
 
 magnanimous, Mr. M'lntyre, after the fashion of one of 
 our naval heroes. Don't you remember ? — 
 
 " When Dacre came on board to deliver up his sword, 
 He looked liJse a crest-fallen dandy-0 : 
 ' keep it,' says brave HuU ; ' what makes you look so dull—" ' 
 
 'Finish it, JuKa,' said her father, laughing, as she 
 turned towards the door. 
 
 ' Thank you, papa ; it is rather too bacchanalian.' 
 ' I don't know that — 
 
 " Cheer up, my lad, and take a glass of brandy -0" 
 
 is not a totally inexcusable greeting after a sea-fight.' 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE UPRISING OF THE PEOPLE. 
 
 SO, talked of in every household, at times lightly, at 
 times with serious anxiety, the little cloud in the 
 Southern sky was growing day by day ; the signs of the 
 coming tempest were becoming more and more uimiis- 
 takable. But as yet the ominous quiet preceding it ^^•as 
 unbroken. 
 
 Still holding back from all decided measures, vnth. a 
 reticence differently regarded as magnanimity or as 
 cowardice, according to the stand-point fi'om which it 
 is viewed, the Government withheld its hand for a 
 season. That could not long continue. The 14th of April 
 came — a day to be much remembered in all the future 
 of America, — the old flag was taken down from Fort 
 Sumter, the little devoted band marched out from its 
 walls, the first Confederate victory was gained. 
 
 But the echo of every gun fired in Charleston harbour 
 was reverberating throughout the loyal States, — heard 
 
THE UPRISING OF THE PEOPLE. 53 
 
 ill every towu and village, every home and every heart, 
 — calling a nation to arms in defence of its own 
 existence. 
 
 Wliat a French writer, with a noble enthusiasm for a 
 cause not liis own, has called ' the uprising of a great 
 people,' was something to the participants in it which 
 no language can adequately describe. A blaze of pa- 
 triotism enwrapped the whole population in an instant, 
 blending together men and women of all opinions and 
 modes of thought. Little differences were forgotten; 
 they were neither Democrats nor Eepublicans, Conserr 
 vatives nor Eadicals, but simply Americans, willing to 
 spend and be spent to the last dollar and the last drop 
 of blood in the cause of their common country. 
 
 If this state of feeling passed away in a measure dur- 
 ing the long weary contest that followed ; if some hearts 
 fainted, and others grew cold and suspicious ; if old dif- 
 ferences re-appeared, and new ones sprang up, — what is 
 proved thereby, except that human nature is human 
 nature all the world over, and cannot long remain in 
 such a passion of noble excitement ? Not the less was 
 it at the time a grand and touching spectacle ; and many 
 brave hearts there were — a countless number — where 
 the flame did not die out, but endured with a steady 
 light, an unfailing warmth, even unto the end. 
 
54 THE UPRISING OF THE PEOPLE. 
 
 Westfield caught the war-fever at once, and responded 
 to the call for troops to defend the capital. In the days 
 gone by the young men of the town had formed a volun- 
 teer company for their own amusement, little expect- 
 ing the time to come when they should be called to 
 meet the stern realities of war. Very proud the ' "West- 
 field Greys ' had been of their soldierly appearance, their 
 perfect drill, and, it must be confessed, of their hand- 
 some uniform. Now, touched by a deeper feeling, they 
 had offered their services to the Government, had been 
 accepted, and were to be incorporated in a regiment 
 forming at the State-capital, and soon to leave for "SVasli- 
 ington. 
 
 No one who did not see it can conceive of that sudden 
 transformation of a peaceful people into a nation of 
 soldiers. One day busy in the field or the market, in 
 the counting-house or at the desk ; the next standing in 
 the ranks prepared to do or die in a cause felt to be 
 dearer than life itself Literally true was the description 
 given by the wife of one of those citizen soldiers, when 
 she wrote : — 
 
 ' But yesterday War's stern alarms 
 Startled the quiet of the land : 
 To-day, the countless men-at-arms 
 Upon a thoiisand mountains stand. 
 
THE UPiaSIXG OF THE PEOPLE. o5 
 
 The blood of heroes fills our soil, 
 And, rising from such precious seed, 
 In bristling ranks, the warrior-crop 
 Springs, quickened by the country's need. 
 
 * The forests of the North no more 
 Echo with clang of axe and oak, 
 Lakes lave the solitary shore. 
 Unruffled by the carman's stroke ; 
 But down the city's cheering street 
 The trained thousands move as one. 
 O'er plains that quake beneath their feet 
 The legions of the Union come ! 
 Resjjonsive to their country's call. 
 And faithful to their country's cause ; 
 The watchword that inspires them all — 
 " The Constittttion and the Laws !"'^ 
 
 In many a little town and village the petty interest 
 in the private affairs of one's neighbours was forgotten, 
 the small feuds and quarrels were made up,— hearts 
 drawing near each other in a common sympathy, and 
 warming towards those who were going out to bear 
 their part in the conflict. There is a bright side to 
 every picture, even the picture of a time of war ; and in 
 Westfield, as in a thousand other places, the influ- 
 ences awakened into activity were not wholly evil. 
 
 But who can estimate the amount of silent heroism 
 
 Juliet H. L. Campbell, of Pennsylvania. 
 
56 THE UPRISIXG OF THE PEOPLE. 
 
 ill the once happy homes, from which Imsbands and 
 fathers, brothers and sons, went forth — too many, alas ! 
 to return no more ? "Who can tell the suffering through 
 which the outward composure was attained as the sacri- 
 fice was made without a murmur ? 
 
 Wlien Henry Alston, the captain of the Westfield 
 Greys, came home and declared his resolution to go to 
 the war, neither of the two women whose lives were 
 bound up in his uttered a word of remonstrance, or 
 even of regret. That Virginia should not was no more 
 than he had expected ; her patriotism was of no nega- 
 tive kind ; had she been a man she would have been the 
 first volunteer from the county, and she was equally 
 ready to give the woman's harder offering, not of her- 
 self, but of her best and most dearly loved. But Mrs. 
 Alston's acquiescence was matter of surprise to every 
 one who knew her, and chiefly to those of her own 
 household. She who made such a grievance of every 
 trifling annoyance or discomfort, who could not bear 
 to be put out of her way for any reason whatever, to 
 whom both Henry and Virginia dreaded to suggest the 
 slightest alteration in anything which had become a 
 habit of the family ; what new spirit had been aroused 
 within her that she assented without a moment's op- 
 position ? Was it a new spirit ? Was it not rather 
 
THE UPRISING OF THE PEOPLE. 57 
 
 that the touchstone of a real trial revealed the strength 
 of character which had been hidden during all those 
 years of semi-invalidism ? 
 
 In Mrs. Alston's case, long delicacy of health had had 
 the effect of making her selfish and exacting. Shielded 
 from every real care and anxiety, she had fallen into a 
 habit of fretting over little things ; and if her conscience 
 ever uttered a word of rebuke, she silenced it by the 
 ever ready and plausible excuse of 'the state of her 
 nerves.' Forgetting that life is principally made up of 
 trifles, she never attempted to bring Christian principle 
 to bear upon them to the restraining of impatience if a 
 door were left open when it shoidd have been shut, or 
 too much sugar put into her coffee, or too little into her 
 tea. Such things were to be borne mth unconcern by 
 people who were well and strong, but were too much 
 for the delicate sensibilities of an invalid. And so she 
 petted and spoiled herself, destroying her own happi- 
 ness by such self-indulgence in the luxury of fault- 
 finding, and wearing out the patience and the affection 
 of her daughter, who was really a most considerate and 
 devoted companion, in spite of her occasional rebellions 
 against the unreasonable interference to which she was 
 subjected. 
 
 Now, however, a real sacrifice was demanded of her. 
 
58 THE UPRISING OF THE PEOPLE. 
 
 one that no strength of nerves, no degree of robust 
 health, could have enabled her to bear with in- 
 difference ; and so Mrs. Alston did not regard herself 
 as absolved from the duty of making the effort. Before 
 a word was spoken, she knew how it would be, she felt 
 that her son was not one to Avithhold his hand when 
 his country needed his aid; and, in her inmost heart, 
 she rejoiced that she had something to give to the 
 cause that aroused all the better feelings of her nature. 
 Once for all the demon of seK was dethroned, not to be 
 enshrined again during the few remaining years of her 
 life ; and the war, which searched and tried so many 
 characters, proved that Mrs. Alston's was not the weak 
 despicable thing it had seemed. 
 
 The same scene was enacted in many a household ; 
 in the blacksmith's shop, where Jack Hill threw do^\'n 
 the ponderous hammer with a clang, and vowed that 
 he ' would go and teach them confounded rascals how 
 to lire on the flag their fathers had died for;' in the 
 clergyman's study, where the son, who had just re- 
 turned from college with the highest honours proudly 
 won, looked in his father's face, and said, ' It is time 
 to know whether we have a Government or not, and 
 I must help to answer the question aright ;' in the 
 banker's parlour, where Fred Osborne shrugged his 
 
THE UPRISING OF THE PEOPLE. 59 
 
 shoulders, and declared, ' upon his soul it was very 
 disagreeable to have to kill one's fellow-countrjmien, 
 but if they would have it, who was to blame ? And as 
 they would probably kill a few in return, it was better 
 that such idle fellows as he should go, rather than any 
 one who was of more use in the world.' Everywhere 
 the same silent struggle in some hearts, everywhere the 
 same result. Like David of old, the people of America 
 did not offer unto the Lord — for the offering to the 
 country was felt to be in the highest sense an offering 
 unto Him — of that which cost them nothing. 
 
 But what was poor little Emily Osborne to do about 
 her birthday party? On the 1st of May she would 
 be eighteen ; and eagerly had she been anticipating the 
 day, which was to be celebrated by the giving of such 
 a ball as Westfield had never seen before. Indeed, the 
 invitations were out already. Printed in Cincinnati 
 ' in the highest style of the art,' tied with blue ribbons, 
 in the daintiest little bows that even Emily's neat 
 fingers could devise, they had been left by a man on 
 horseback at every house in the town and surrounding 
 country, where such an invitation could be supposed to 
 give a moment's pleasure. Waking, she had planned 
 the arrangement and decoration of the rooms, sleeping, 
 she had dreamed of nothing else ; the very dress she 
 
60 THE UPRISING OF THE PEOPLE. 
 
 was to wear was lying ready in the spare room ; and 
 now — and now, the vision had fled ! 
 
 Out of the world in which she had lived, a world all 
 sunshine, where care and sorrow were unknown, where 
 one day of pleasure gave way to another quite as fair 
 and bright, she had suddenly descended ; and lo ! the 
 sky was covered with clouds, the daylight was dark- 
 ened, the flowers were fading, and everything seemed 
 dreary and desolate. It was her first experience of 
 the sad realities of life, her first encounter with its 
 trials and disappointments, and ' the poor little butter- 
 fly ' was overwhelmed and crushed. 
 
 ' I cannot, Fred, I cannot,' she said, even with tears ; 
 ' we must write to them all and say it is given up. It 
 would be heartless and wicked to think of having a 
 party now.' 
 
 'Then I am heartless and wicked, that is all,' 
 answered her brother, twirling his moustache, ' I am 
 not going to be cheated out of my last dance with 
 aU the pretty girls.' 
 
 ' Fred ! who could dance at a time like this V 
 
 ' You could, I am very sure, if you only would not 
 take such awfully dismal views of things. AMiy, you 
 make a fellow feel as if his grave were already dug. 
 You don't suppose we are all going to be killed in the 
 first fight, do you?' 
 
THE UPKISING OF THE PEOPLE. 61 
 
 EmOy did not know what she thought ; but she did 
 know she would expect to be killed. Evidently Fred 
 did not. 
 
 ' Come now, be reasonable, Enmiie, there 's a good 
 girl. Think what a disappointment it would be to 
 everybody ! AVliy, it is the very thing to send us off 
 in good spirits, and determined to come back with all 
 sorts of laurels. And then we were all going to wear 
 our uniforms, and give the whole thing a military air. 
 You are not going to deny me my last request ? ' 
 
 No. If he put it on these grounds, Emily was ready 
 to endure the party as she would have been ready to 
 go through fire and water, to sacrifice her own wishes, 
 feelings, tastes, in any other way that her brother might 
 please. But that was scarcely what she had anti- 
 cipated, poor cliild ! and the change of an eagerly ex- 
 pected pleasure into a cross and a self-denial was as 
 hard to her as it is to the rest of us. 
 
 Of course, the public could know nothing of what 
 was passing behind the scenes; and so some people 
 said that Emily was a heartless, unfeeling little wretch, 
 who cared for nothing but her own amusement, and 
 would dance over her brother's grave ; and others 
 wondered if anything on earth would ever cure the 
 Osbornes of their worldliness and love of display ; and 
 
62 THE .UPRISING OF THE PEOPLE. 
 
 hoped, with ominous shakes of Pharisaic heads, that 
 some terrible lesson might not be in store for them. 
 
 Yet, strange to say, no one thought of staying away 
 from the party, — no one, except A^irginia Alston. 
 
 ' I can't go, Henry,' she said, much in the tone in 
 which Emily had spoken to her brother. ' If the 
 Osbornes had any sense of propriety, they would give 
 it up.' 
 
 ' I don't know that,' Henry answered. ' I should like 
 to go ; everybody will be tliere, and it \\'ill be a plea- 
 sant memory to take away. But I will not go without 
 you.' 
 
 * I have nothing to wear,' said Virginia, the change 
 in her tone of objection being the first sign that she 
 was wavering. 
 
 ' Oh, Miss Flora M'Flimsey ! Is that it ? No want 
 more easily supplied. I \^'ill go and buy you a dress 
 this minute ; and help you to make it on the machine. 
 Wliat shall it be ? The skirt in red and white stripes, 
 the body blue, with gold stars — nothing if not patriotic 
 now-a-days, you know.' 
 
 Virginia smiled a miserable, sad smile. 
 
 ' If you really wish it, Henry, I can make one of my 
 old dresses do.' 
 
 ' 1 do really wish it, Virginia.' 
 
THE UPRISING OF THE PEOPLE. 63 
 
 ' Very well ; I will go.' 
 
 What would Virginia Alston have thought if she had 
 been told that this was but the repetition of the scene 
 enacted by Emily Osborne and her brother, — Emily, 
 whom she deemed utterly incapable of any self-sacrifice, 
 and that ' empty-headed dandy, Fred,' as she was wont 
 to call him ? Conscious of her own pure motive, she 
 would go to the party, but she was utterly unconscious 
 that the very same feeling actuated those upon whom 
 she looked down with something like contempt. So do 
 we judge our neighbours. 
 
 Afterwards, Virginia thought, with a little bitterness, 
 that she need not have gone on Henry's account, if she 
 had known. But she did not know, and neither did he, 
 what was to come of Emily Osborne's birthday ball. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE BIKTHDAY BALL, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 
 
 BUT after all, the trial did not prove so great in 
 reality as it had been in anticipation. Perhaps 
 it was because the buoyant spirit had too much elasti- 
 city to be crushed at once, perhaps it was but the result 
 of the never-failing law that the effort to gratify others 
 brings its own reward ; at any rate, and from whatever 
 cause, Emily awoke on the morning of the 1st of May 
 with the feeling that a little bit of the sun was still 
 shining, metaphorically as well as actually. 
 
 There was no resisting the lo\dng words and wishes 
 that greeted her when she went down to breakfast, and 
 she could not fail to be in ecstasies over her father's 
 present of a beautifid watch and chain, and the diamond 
 bracelet which her mother clasped round her wrist. 
 Fred's offering of a locket with his own likeness, how- 
 ever, was quite too suggestive, and a few tears would 
 fall upon it in spite of all her efforts to restrain them, — 
 
THE BIRTHDAY BALL, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 65 
 
 tears that she knew to be but the first instalment of 
 many and many a shower yet to come. 
 
 But her smiles came back as she received the little 
 gifts of her younger brothers and sisters, the children 
 to whom ' sister Emily' was a princess reigning in 
 unquestioned supremacy, partly by reason of her beauty 
 and her sweet temper, and partly by reason of her long 
 absence from home at boarding-school, during which 
 time she had been to them an ideal being, in whom 
 were combined all possible graces and virtues, and to 
 whom they were to look up as a model and an 
 exemplar. Coming home with the winning manner 
 that few people could resist, Emily had established her 
 reign in their hearts, and it was not likely to be rudely 
 broken ; for there was a difference of ten years between 
 her and Minnie, the next sister, several of Mrs. Osborne's 
 children having died in infancy; so that there were no 
 brothers or sisters near her own age to call in ques- 
 tion her supremacy or despise her gentle authority. 
 
 Wliat any heart of woman could desire beyond a 
 ' real gold' watch, a diamond bracelet, and ' brother 
 Fred's ' locket, passed the power of little Minnie's ima- 
 gination to conceive, and if she had been told that the 
 recipient of all these charming things was not quite 
 happy, and would gladly have resigned the crowning 
 
 E 
 
66 THE RIRTHDAV BALL, 
 
 delight, the ball, for which even the children were to 
 be allowed to sit up, doubtless she would have thought 
 ' sister Emily' a fit subject for the State luuatic asylum. 
 All day long the happy child kept close to her sister, 
 and perhaps she managed to infuse into her a little of 
 her own joyousness, for when evening came Emily was 
 ver}' much her own briglit self She was no strong 
 character resolutely resisting all outside influences, and 
 the brightening up of things in general could not fail to 
 have such an effect. Deep down in her inmost heart 
 there was one sad foreboding, but she shut it up out of 
 sight ; and as she finished dressing, and turned to go 
 down-stairs, with one little sigh she bade it bide its time. 
 Certainly she did look very bewitching in her white 
 tarletan dress, Avith a wreath of forget-me-nots in her 
 fair hair, her eyes as blue as the flowers, and a lovely 
 colour in her dimpled cheeks. Blind envy sometimes 
 hinted that she was guilty of adding this last touch to 
 her many attractions, as if any hand l)ut Nature's could 
 paint that delicate rose-hue, fading away imperceptibly 
 into the pure wliite of throat and brow. No wonder 
 father, mother, and brother were proud of the little 
 fairy -like creature : no wonder iNIinnie declared con- 
 fidentially to the little ones that she was quite sure 
 Cinderella must have been exactly like sister Emily. 
 
AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 67 
 
 Early hours the good people of Westfield were accus- 
 tomed to keep ; by eight o'clock Mr. and Mrs. Osborne 
 were standing in their places to receive their guests, 
 and Emily was Hitting here and there to put a finishing 
 touch to 'svi'eath or bouquet, or drapery of flags ; by nine 
 the whole company had assembled, and the dancing had 
 begun. 
 
 Very soon Emily made the discovery that she could 
 dance in spite of the fact that Fred was there before her 
 very eyes in his uniform ; and dance she did hour after 
 hour unweariedly, and with no feigned animation. 
 Was she thinking only of her own amusement, caring 
 only for her own gratification ? 
 
 Early in the evening a young man approached her 
 with the usual request, ' Miss Emily, will you do me 
 the honour to dance the next quadrille with me ?' 
 
 ' With pleasure, only I must tell you my conditions 
 first.' 
 
 ' They are granted beforehand,' was his reply. 
 
 Emily laughed, a clear ringing childlike laugh it was. 
 
 ' Each of my partners must consider himself engaged 
 for two dances,' 
 
 The young man, who was one of Emily's most de- 
 voted admirers, uttered some eager protestation of that 
 only adding to his felicity. 
 
68 THE BIRTHDAY BALI., 
 
 ' Oil, not to me,' she exclaimed, a little startled, ' I 
 did not mean that. I only mean that you must let 
 me choose your next partner.' 
 
 ' Miss Emily, if the Gorgon herself M'ere among your 
 guests I would obey your commands.' 
 
 And so it was that Miss Pringle, one of the public- 
 school teachers, a lady of questionable or unquestionable 
 age, who yet persisted in fancying that her youtli had 
 not yet gone by, and who would go to parties in spite of 
 the many slights she received, found herself asked to 
 dance again and again, and by gentlemen who had never 
 before seemed conscious of her existence. So it was 
 that nobody seemed to be unattractive that night ; no- 
 body sat in corners or stood against the wall unnoticed 
 and unhappy. Was Emily acting only as a miserable 
 little worldling, or according to her ability exercising 
 that charity which can condescend to be kind even in 
 such trifles ? 
 
 Her little speech to each of her partners might have 
 been taken for self-assertion ; for what right had she to 
 dictate terms, and order other people about as if she 
 were, at least, the Empress of all the Russias ? No 
 right that she would have claimed for an instant had it 
 been called in question ; but the sense of her power was 
 too common a thing to give her a second thought, and 
 
AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 69 
 
 she accepted it as one of the pleasant things that in 
 some way, she knew not how, had fallen to her lot. If 
 she showered around her bright smiles and pleasant 
 words, exerting herself to the utmost to entertain the 
 most uninteresting and stupid of her partners, it was 
 from no spirit of coquetry ; and as she dismissed him, 
 pleased with himself as well as with her, and feeling 
 gratified with his own unusual success in the hard task 
 of conversation, Emily might have enjoyed the approval 
 of her conscience if she had been given to self-scrutiny, 
 if she had not acted very much upon the principle of 
 the flowers when they bloom and the birds when they 
 sing, because it is their nature so to do, and quite apart 
 from any question of duty. 
 
 One of Emily's partners, and only one, she had 
 accepted without any dictation of terms, and that was 
 Henry Alston. Apart from the honour of dancing 
 the first quadrille with the captain of the Westfield 
 Greys, she would have preferred any one else ; for she 
 was a httle afraid of him, and felt herself rather a 
 foolish weak-minded person when in his company ; 
 fancying that he must compare all other girls with 
 the sister for whose knowledge and wisdom she had the 
 highest respect, and being well aware that she must 
 suffer by such comparison. She would have felt it an 
 
70 THE BIRTHDAY BALL, 
 
 impertinence to suggest any one for his next partner, but 
 she was a little curious to see where his choice would fall. 
 
 When he crossed the room to May Stanley, and 
 claimed her as by a previous engagement, Emily rather 
 wondered at the bright happy expression of her face. 
 May was so shy, so timid and reserved, that she would 
 have expected her to stand in awe of Captain Alston ; 
 yet there she stood beside him, evidently perfectly at 
 her ease. The only solution which suggested itself 
 was the ready acknowledgment of May's superior 
 intellectual gifts and higher culture, which might 
 enable her to carry on a conversation worthy of the 
 attention of the talented young lawyer. 
 
 Virginia Alston did not dance. She thought it 
 frivolous and beneath the dignity of any woman come 
 to years of discretion; but she was at no loss for 
 entertainment. In one corner of the parlour she stood 
 bending over a volume of exquisite engravings, quite 
 lost to everything around her, when she was aroused 
 by the sound of her own name spoken by a strangely 
 familiar yet unaccustomed voice. She looked up and 
 started forward : ' Ai'chie ! is it possible ? where have 
 you come from ? ' 
 
 ' Like Satan — from going to and fro in the earth, and 
 from walking up and down in it.' 
 
AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 71 
 
 ' Condescend upon particulars if you can/ she said, 
 laughing. 
 
 ' Well, you know my propensity for getting into hot 
 water. I was away up the Nile, when a sudden im- 
 pulse came over me drawing me home. I obeyed it ; 
 but I might have known it meant mischief. And no 
 sooner had I landed in New York than I heard of this 
 infernal business down at Charleston : excuse the strong 
 expression.' 
 
 ' It is not too strong. But why did you not come to 
 us ? and how do you happen to be here ? ' 
 
 ' For the first, a man has no right to walk out of 
 Egypt straight into anybody's house without asking if 
 it will be convenient to the inmates to have him.' 
 
 * Oh, I see, you have forgotten our free and easy 
 Western manners on your travels.' 
 
 Tor the second,' he said, taking no notice of that 
 remark, ' I met Fred Osborne, and he asked me to come. 
 I thought I should find all Westfield here, and probably 
 make a small sensation by my sudden appearance in 
 the midst.' 
 
 ' A very pleasant sensation, Archie. I am so glad 
 you have come back. It is not a time for any man to 
 be unnecessarily absent from his country.' 
 
 ' Ah — I see. You are one of the heroic women who 
 
72 THE BIRTHDAY BALL, 
 
 mean to devote all their male relatives to the good 
 cause.' 
 
 Virginia's face gTew sternly indignant. ' Don't speak 
 in that tone, Archibald. I cannot bear it.' 
 
 ' I won't, then ; but we will talk of this again, cousin 
 mine. At present, tell me who is who. You know it 
 is four years since I was in Westfield, and people grow 
 out of one's recollection so. "WHio is that with Hector 
 M'lntyi-e ? I see I am not the only black coat. I sup- 
 pose he is not one of the " Greys.'" 
 ' No ; his partner is Julia Stanley.' 
 ' Wliat ! my old pet Julia grown into such a stately 
 lady ? And that — ah, that is May ; she is less altered. 
 But tell me who is that beautiful woman at the end of 
 the room ? ' 
 
 ' Which one ? Your beauty may not be one of mine.' 
 ' There ; in white satin and lace, looking like a 
 bride.' 
 
 ' As she is : that is Mrs. M'Intyre.' 
 ' M'Intyre married ! you don't say so ? I never heard 
 uf it. Well, he always was a lucky fellow. I must go 
 and offer my congratulations.' 
 
 And Arcliibald Dubois moved away, as Virginia, 
 unconscious of his mistake, turned to speak to some 
 one else. The quadrille was just ended, and he made 
 
V 
 
 AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 
 
 his "way across the room, recalled himself to Julia's 
 remembrance in an easy pleasant manner, claimed her 
 hand for the first dance for which she was not already 
 engaged, and then turned to Hector : — 
 
 ' So this is what you have been doing in my ab- 
 sence ? I am quite dazzled by Mrs. M'Intyre's beauty. 
 First let me congratulate you, and then come and 
 introduce me to your wife.' 
 
 Hector's look of puzzled surprise gave way to a deep 
 flush ; but he answered with grave dignity — 
 
 ' You are mistaken, Dubois ; Mrs. M'Intyre is my 
 father's wife. He will introduce you with pleasure.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon, my dear fellow, I quite misun- 
 derstood.' 
 
 And the young man made good his retreat, leaving 
 poor Julia in a most uncomfortable position, — longing 
 to offer the sympathy that yet would have been an 
 impertinence ; and feeling as if she had intruded her- 
 self into Hector M'Intyre's private affairs by having 
 been the witness of his evident annoyance. 
 
 'Virginia, Virginia,' exclaimed Archibald, in mock 
 despair, as he returned to his cousin, ' I liave made an 
 awful faux pas' 
 
 'What was it?' 
 
 ' Congratulated Hector on his marriage ! Who could 
 
74 THE BIRTHDAY BALL, 
 
 have thought the old man would be such a fool at his 
 age as to marry that young creature ? Wliy did you 
 not tell me ? ' 
 
 ' Poor Hector !' said Virginia compassionately. ' I 
 am afraid he must think it no matter for congratulation. 
 But don't waste your time, Archie, in standing here 
 talking to me ; you will come to us to-morrow. Go 
 now and join the dancers.' And left to herself again, 
 Virginia took refuge in one of her favourite amuse- 
 ments, — making the scene before her a study of human 
 nature. First she began to watch Mrs. M'Int}Te, and 
 as she did so, she reversed some of her harsh judgments 
 passed upon Emily Osborne. This woman was evi- 
 dently a practised coquette ; the airs and graces, so 
 evidently artificial, the smiles, the little frowns and 
 pouts put on for the purpose of winning admiration, 
 made Emily's innocent childlike manner appear in its 
 true light by force of contrast. 
 
 As Virginia looked on, she became more and more 
 disgusted with what she saw. There sat Mr. M'Intyre, 
 the old white-haired man, for whom such a scene could 
 have no attraction, and before his very eyes his ^^^.fe was 
 flirting with one young fellow after another, in a way 
 that was decidedly shocking to the simple morals of a 
 country town. Now and then his eyes rested upon her 
 
AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 75 
 
 with a look of fervent admiration ; and Virginia's heart 
 was full of indignation against the woman who seemed 
 to her utterly unworthy of the affection of so true and 
 good a man. Pitying him most sincerely, and noticing 
 his look of weariness, she crossed the room and sat down 
 beside him, to enliven him with a little conversation. 
 But though grateful for the attention, his thoughts 
 evidently wandered, as his eyes did, to his wife. ' In- 
 fatuated,' thought Virginia; ' long may he remain so !' 
 
 Presently Mrs. M'Intyre came to them, and said, in 
 what was meant for her most bewitching manner, — 
 
 ' Oh, thank you. Miss Alston, for being so kind as to 
 entertain my husband. I was just afraid he might find 
 it dull, but I am so fond of dancing.' 
 
 ' You seem to be,' said Virginia, — words innocent 
 in themselves, but spoken in a tone that made Mrs. 
 M'Intyre feel rebuked and annihilated. From that time 
 she hated Virginia Alston as such women can hate. 
 
 But however much Virginia might be interested in 
 watching other people, she had never lost sight of her 
 brother, and it pleased her to see him devoting himself 
 to May Stanley, — ' little May,' who was a mere child 
 in her eyes, but a child thoroughly good and true, and 
 thoughtful beyond her years. She saw them go to the 
 supper-room together, and then she saw no more. 
 
7C THE BIRTHDAY BALL, 
 
 May's going tliei'e at all was a mere form ; the room 
 was hot and crowded, and presently she said, ' Mr. 
 Alston, will you take me back to the parlour, and leave 
 me there ? I will be less in the way than I am here.' 
 
 ' Are you tired ? ' he asked, with a look of concern. 
 
 ' A little ; you know I have been to few parties here- 
 tofore.' 
 
 The parlour was deserted, and he led her to a seat 
 beside one of the windows. It opened down to the 
 verandah at the back of the house, and beyond lay the 
 garden in the calm pure moonlight. Wliat a contrast 
 to the scene within !' 
 
 May gave a little sigh of relief : ' How sweet and still 
 it is!' 
 
 ' Would you like to go out ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, very much.' 
 
 ' You are not afraid of the night air ? ' 
 
 ' Not when it is so warm as this.' 
 
 He opened the window and they stepped out, but 
 not beyond the shadow of the verandah. May sat 
 down upon a rustic seat, and drank in the silent beauty 
 of the lovely night. 
 
 ' This evening has given me some pleasant memories 
 to take away with me,' said Henry Alston, standing be- 
 side her. 
 
AND WHAT CAME OF IT. / i 
 
 ' I am very glad,' she answered simply ; then added, 
 ' Do you know Hector M'Intyre is going to volun- 
 teer?' 
 
 ' No ; is he ? ' said her companion absently. 
 
 ' He told us so to-night. I thought he would.' 
 
 'Why?' 
 
 ' Because he is so much in earnest in everything. It 
 must be dehghtful to be able to give such a proof of 
 one's patriotism. I am glad Westfield is showing so 
 good an example.' 
 
 ' You must be a very happy little person, May ; twice 
 in three minutes you have told me you are glad.' 
 
 She was silent for a moment, and then she said, ' I 
 suppose one is more conscious of little bits of gladness 
 at a time when there is so nuich reason to be soriy.' 
 
 ' Sorr}'- for what?' 
 
 ' For the terrible state of the country, for the giving 
 up of friends, for all the people whose relations are going 
 into the army ; and yet— I almost enyj them too.' 
 
 ' Why do you envy them ? ' 
 
 ' Because next best to going one's-self, must be the 
 sending of some one who is dear to you. It would 
 make me feel as if I were doing something in the 
 good cause.' 
 
 ' Will you let me go for you. May ? ' 
 
78 THE BIRTHDAY BALL, 
 
 She looked up, wondering what he could mean ; but 
 something in the earnest gaze that met her own sent 
 her eyes down again. 
 
 ' WiU you let me feel that I have a twofold motive- - 
 a double incentive — your part to bear as well as my 
 own? It will help me to bear it well, May, if I may 
 hope that this little hand will give me my reward.' 
 
 And as he spoke he bent his head and touched it 
 lightly with his lips. 
 
 Poor little May ! A lightning flash seemed to g(3 
 through her heart, revealing to her a thousand things 
 whose existence she had not suspected. In an instant 
 she saw them all, — the reasons why those winter evenings 
 liad been so happy, and the day for Virginia's visit the 
 centre of all the week ; the explanation of the dreary 
 feeling she had been combating of late; the cause of 
 lier happiness this evening. For an instant she was 
 blinded by the sudden light ; then her usual self-control 
 came to her aid, and very gently the little hand was 
 laid in his. He was answered. 
 
 Five minutes, that might have been seconds or might 
 have been centuries, for aught they knew of the dura- 
 tion of time, and then a burst of music ^vithin, startling 
 them both, and bringing them back to the actual world 
 around them. 
 
AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 79 
 
 ' Oh, what shall I do ? ' exclaimed May. ' I cannot 
 go back.' 
 
 ' You shall not, unless you choose. Would you like 
 
 me to take you home ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed I would ; but Julia — ' 
 
 ' I will manage that. Wait for me here.' 
 
 He slipped into the parlour miobserved, and found 
 
 Julia. 
 
 ' Come with me for a moment.' 
 
 She started, ' What is the matter, Mr. Alston ? where 
 
 is — ' 
 
 'J^othing is the matter/ he said, interrupting the 
 question, which might have been inconvenient in a 
 crowded room. When they had reached the hall he 
 gave the explanation — 
 
 ' May wishes to go home quietly and without being 
 missed. Will you get me her things? I will take 
 them to her and you must cover her retreat.' 
 
 'But — . Mr. Alston, where is she? Is anytliing 
 wrong?' asked JuKa, half puzzled, half alai-med. 
 
 ' I hope you will not think so, Julia, when you are 
 told,' he answered, with a smile; and Juha rushed 
 away with her face in a glow, understanding, and yet 
 ashamed to understand so easily. She came back in a 
 moment with her sister's shawl and hood ; but for once 
 
80 THE BIKTIIDAV BALL, 
 
 in her life, as she afterwards confessed, lier tongue 
 fairly failed her. 
 
 ' Thank yon,' said Henry. ' Yon wiJl keep our 
 counsel, Julia.' 
 
 So through the warni still moonlight night. May 
 Stanley walked home in an ecstasy of happiness that 
 made it impossible to speak, except in little broken 
 sentences, a word or two, and no more. They seemed 
 all-sufficient, however, to her one auditor, and that was 
 enough. 
 
 At the door he paused. ' Tell me good-night here, 
 May.' 
 
 ' Good-night,' she said softly. 
 
 But he still held her hand. ' Is that all ? ' 
 
 ' Good-night, Henry,' the last word scarcely audible ; 
 and opening the door she fled up stairs, leaving him to 
 tell his own story to her father; but without a mis- 
 giving as to its reception. 
 
 Aurora had gone to bed, but she heard a light foot- 
 step, and then a knock at her door. 
 
 ' Home already. May !' she said ; 'papa did not ex- 
 pect you for an hour yet, and I was tired, and left 
 liim to sit up alone.' 
 
 ' Julia has not come, mamma, but I — ' and there 
 May came to a full stop. 
 
AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 81 
 
 ' Were you not well, dear, or only sooner wearied 
 than Julia ? ' 
 
 ' Neither, mamma, it was not that ; but I could not 
 stay — ' And throwing her arms round Aurora, she told 
 her in a few half-intelligible words that Henry Alston 
 had asked her to be his wife. 
 
 Aurora was thoroughly delighted. 
 
 ' My darling, I am so glad for you ; my little ]May, I 
 don't know any one half so worthy of you.' 
 
 * But oh, mamma, he is going away — ' And May's 
 self-control and courage gave way, and she burst into 
 tears, quite forgetting her heroic speech about the plea- 
 sure of sending some one to the war. However, her 
 fits of crying were neither very frequent nor of long 
 duration, and she soon dried her eyes and went away to 
 her own room, to find her joy and her sorrow reconciled, 
 her hopes and fears subdued into a spirit of quiet trust- 
 fulness in her best and highest Friend. 
 
 And when Julia came home, half beside herself with 
 eager curiosity and excitement, she was surprised to 
 find May lying wide awake in the moonlight, as serene 
 and unruffled as if nothing had happened, with very 
 little to say, and nothing more to tell her than she had 
 heard already from her father down-stairs. 
 
 To Hugh Stanley it was a source of intense happiness 
 F 
 
82 THE BIKTIIDAY BALL, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. 
 
 to find tliat May had gone straight to Aurora with the 
 story of her joy, as naturally and simply as if to her 
 own mother. 
 
 His talk witli Henry Alston had heen very short and 
 satisfactory — an unqualified approval, a ready assent — 
 though he Mas undoubtedly taken by surprise, and 
 startled to find that his little girl had grown into a 
 woman capable of winning so deep and strong an 
 affection, while he had been fancying that she was still 
 a child. 
 
CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 HECTOK M'INTYKE'S SACRIFICE. 
 
 (■ "fTTELL, May, I always said I pitied the woman 
 
 T T destined to be Henry's wife, for I have in me 
 the making of a veritable book sister-in-law. An angel 
 out of heaven would scarcely have seemed to me good 
 enough for him, much less any mortal woman.' So 
 said Virginia. 
 
 ' Then we have found our first point of agreement at 
 once,' was May's reply. ' I am of the very same opinion.' 
 
 ' Little witch ! is that the way in which you disarm me ? 
 T will tell you a small secret : as the angel did not choose 
 to come down for my criticism, I know no one with 
 whom I should quarrel so little as May Stanley.' And 
 Virginia gave her a kiss in token of peace between 
 them. 
 
 Every one thought it best that the engagement should 
 be made public, — every one except May herself. Aurora 
 said it would save endless gossiping, and protect lier 
 
84 HECTOR M'LNTYKE'S SACRIFICE. 
 
 from annoyance. Virginia declared, with some asperity, 
 that any woman living might be proud to be known as 
 Henry Alston's future wife. Julia made dire lamenta- 
 tion over the fibs she would be compelled to tell if it 
 were to be kept secret ; and finally, Mr. Stanley said it 
 was absurd to foster such an exaggerated timidity and 
 shyness. 
 
 But ]\Iay stood firm, saying little, yet never yielding an 
 inch, and carried her point, as such quiet people generally 
 do. Xo one thought of deliberately ^'iolating her wishes 
 in a matter where she had an undoubted right to choose 
 for herself ; and she was so confused and uncomfortable 
 even at meeting Mrs. Alston, and receiving the con- 
 gratulations of Dr. and Mrs. Bartlett, that it seemed best 
 that she should have her own way, however silly and 
 unreasonable the way of her selection might seem to 
 other people. 
 
 That point conceded. May was her own serene little 
 self again. Even the departure of the ' Greys' did not 
 disturb her outward composure, and Aurora found her a 
 curious subject for speculation. Was her love for Henry 
 Alston the same feeling which she had had for Hugh 
 Stanley in the days before their marriage, and if not, 
 could it be as deep and true ? Virginia seemed to take 
 to heart his absence far more than May, which was 
 
HF.CTOR M'INTYRE'S SACRIFICE. 85 
 
 only natural, all things considered. Out of his sister's 
 daily life something was taken that could not be re- 
 placed. She missed him every hour of the day ; the 
 house was empty and desolate without him. With 
 May it was different ; she had never learned the habit 
 of dependence upon him ; once or twice a week was as 
 often as she had ever seen him, and now that he was 
 gone, he had left with her the new sweet knowledge of 
 his love. The letters that came with unfailing regu- 
 larity almost made amends for the loss of his occasional 
 visits, and May was really much less to be pitied than 
 Virginia. 
 
 ' Do you know, Hugh,' said Aurora one day to her 
 husband, 'I am inclined to think this separation the 
 best thing possible both for May and Henry V 
 
 ' New doctrine to come from you,' he answered ; ' but 
 I suppose one's-self and one's neighbours are always 
 judged by different rules V 
 
 ' There is a saucy insinuation there which I shall not 
 answer. What I mean is this : they will learn to know 
 each other far better through their correspondence than 
 they could have done in any other way. May lets 
 herself out in her letters as she never does otherwise ; 
 her shyness only leaves her when she has a pen in her 
 hand.' 
 
86 HECTOR M'INTYRE'S SACRIFICE. 
 
 ' I daresay you are right ; but who would liave ex- 
 pected you to advise the separatiou of lovers ? ' 
 
 ' I did not advise it ; and — well, I may as well say 
 it, — May and Henry are not the kind of lovers I have 
 had experience of before.' 
 
 Mr. Stanley laughed a ready assent to the implied 
 comparison. 
 
 This was about a week after the departure of the 
 Westfield volunteers. The same afternoon he had occa- 
 sion to go into town; at the post-office he found a 
 letter awaiting him, which he opened and read, then 
 remounting his horse, he rode slowly home. It was a 
 relief to find the parlour deserted, Aurora and the girls 
 having gone out for a walk. For some time he sat 
 buried in thought ; then, starting up with the air of a 
 man who has cut the Gordian knot of his difficulties, 
 he opened his desk, and sitting down beside the window, 
 wrote rapidly and decidedly. 
 
 The letter which he had received was from the 
 Governor of the State, an old college companion, and 
 ran thus : — 
 
 ' Dear Stanley, — It is a long time since I last heard 
 of you, but I know that in these trying days you will 
 Ije found as true as steel. 1 am o^•errun with applicants 
 
HECTOE M'INTYRE'S SACRIFICE. 87 
 
 for the command of our regiments, but the large majority 
 are utterly incompetent, and I will not appoint men in 
 whom I have no confidence. Have you no desire to 
 serve your country in this way ? I know you can if 
 you will ; and I would gladly give you the command of 
 the 10th. Let me hear from you at once.' 
 
 This was the reply : — 
 
 ' My dear old Friend, — I have your kind letter, 
 which at any other time would have been to me a strong 
 temptation. You know my military proclivities, and 
 you are right in judging me true to the principles we 
 have always shared. But just now I cannot see that it 
 is my duty to go. Under the old Jewish law a man 
 who had married a wife was absolved from bearing arms 
 for a year ; that being my case, I must claim the like 
 privilege. — Truly yours, H. S.' 
 
 Scarcely had he laid aside his pen when Aurora came 
 in ; she went straight up to him, ' What is the matter, 
 Hugh V 
 
 ' Did I say that anything is V 
 
 ' Yes ; to me, as plainly as if you had spoken.' 
 
 ' Eyes of the morning,' lie said, with a smile, looking up 
 into her face, 'how is it that you see into my heart?' 
 
88 HECTOR M'INTYRE'S SACRIFICE. 
 
 She laid her soft cool cheek against his. ' Tell me, 
 darling,' she said gently. 
 
 He put tlie two letters into her hand. 'This one 
 first,' and she read. "With his arm round her he felt 
 the tremor that passed through her frame ; but she 
 finished reading them both before she spoke. Then it 
 was to say, with a quiver in her voice — 
 
 ' Hugli, if it were your duty, I would not hold you back.' 
 
 ' I know it, my sweet wife ; but it is not my duty. I 
 could not leave you now, Aurora ; it would not be right. 
 Should the time come when I shall feel that I ought to 
 go, I know who will be proved to have the braver spirit 
 of the two.' 
 
 She drew away from him a little as the girls came 
 in; they had not been married long enough for love- 
 making in public. 
 
 ' Papa,' said May, ' do you know that ]\Ir. jM'Intyre is 
 very ill ? ' 
 
 ' No ; I am sorry to hear it. What is the matter ?' 
 
 ' He took cold the night of Emily Osborne's party.' 
 May's ready blush crimsoned her cheeks as she hesi- 
 tated ; ' he has never been well since. Hector met us 
 just now, and he seems to be very anxious.' 
 
 'I will go over and see,' which he did, returning 
 with a very unfavourable report. 
 
HECTOE M'INTYRE'S SACRIFICE. 89 
 
 Virginia Alston had come in during his absence. 
 
 ' I thought that woman would be the death of him/ 
 was her comment. And there was only too much truth 
 in the charge. Going out of Mrs. Osborne's heated 
 rooms on the evening of the party, some caprice had 
 made Mrs. M'Intyre insist upon walking home ; and 
 the old man, exposed to the sudden change of tempera- 
 ture, had taken cold, and was now alarmingly ill. 
 
 It was Hector who watched over him night and day 
 with the patient tenderness of a woman; Hector who 
 smoothed his pillows and administered his medicine; 
 Hector to whom he turned for every comfort and eveiy 
 attention. 
 
 Mrs. M'Intyre was worn out with anxiety and 
 fatigue,— so she said ; though what had fatigued her, it 
 would have been difficult to say. She lay upon her 
 sofa the greater part of the day ; only being able by a 
 superhuman exertion to pay an occasional visit to the 
 sick-room. When there she would spend the time in 
 petting and bemoaning her husband as if he had been 
 a baby; and in such a manner that she always suc- 
 ceeded in driving Hector out of the room, not to return 
 till she had withdrawn. 
 
 With the kindly custom of a country-town, where a 
 hired nurse would have been looked upon with horror. 
 
90 HFX'TOR M'INTYRE'S SACRIFICE. 
 
 tlie neighbours offered their services to assist in the 
 night- watching ; and Mr. Stanley was there at the last. 
 
 The sick man had been l}dng in an uneasy slumber ; 
 but towards morning he awoke. ' Hector/ he said, in 
 a feeble voice. 
 
 ' I am here, father.' 
 
 ' There are some things I would like to say to you 
 while I can.' 
 
 The son, well understanding his meaning, made no 
 foolish remonstrance ; but sat down beside the bed, and 
 took one of the wasted hands in his. 
 
 ' She is very young. Hector,' said the old man, ' very 
 young, and she has no one to look to. She cannot 
 return to her old home in the South. Promise me that 
 you will take care of her, and be gentle with her for 
 my sake.' 
 
 * I promise,' said Hector, in a deep gi'ave tone. 
 
 'You will not let her go away, and you will not 
 leave her here alone ? You will stay and watch over 
 her when I am gone ? ' 
 
 The dying eyes looked up wistfully into the young 
 man's face, but saw there no remonstrance against the 
 sacrifice so demanded. The reply came as readily as 
 before : 
 ■ ' 1 will do all you ask. Is there anything more ?' 
 
HECTOR M'INTYRE'S SACRIFICE. 91 
 
 ' No, I think not. God bless you, Hector, you have 
 been a good son.' Then he slept again. But as the 
 day dawned he suddenly opened his eyes. 
 
 'Mary,' he said gently, 'Mary, it has been a long 
 weary journey, but I have come home at last.' 
 
 Afterwards he spoke no more ; only when the clergy- 
 man came, and, kneeling beside his bed, repeated the 
 prayers which long usage had made the very voice of 
 his soul, the restless motion of his hands ceased, and he 
 lay with an expression of perfect peace upon his face. 
 Before the sun set he was at rest. 
 
 Home at last to the first love, the one real affection 
 of his life, to the Mary who had never been dethroned 
 from her place in his inmost heart ; home at last to the 
 Father's house on high, where she was waiting to wel- 
 come him. 
 
 And the son, who had idolized his mother during her 
 life, and reverenced her memory with jealous devotion, 
 treasured up those last words, finding in them balm for 
 the bitter wound inflicted by his father's ill-considered 
 second marriage. Outwardly it had made no breach 
 between them, nor disturbed the harmony of their 
 relations ; but deep down in Hector's heart there had 
 been a difference since the day when he discovered the 
 wretched mistake Mr. M'Intyre had made. It was 
 
92 HECTOR M'INTYRE'S SACRIFICE. 
 
 reconciled now ; tliere was perfect peace between them ; 
 and he turned back to his daily life, to take up the 
 burden of the heavy charge imposed upon him. 
 
 There were not wanting interested friends to make 
 their comments upon the new order of tilings. It was 
 a most extraordinary arrangement that Hector should 
 remain tliere with a stepmother younger than himself, 
 and she too a woman devoid of all ordinary prudence 
 and discretion. Mr. IM'Intyre must have been out of 
 his senses when he asked it, and if dying people made 
 ridiculous requests, it was absurd to consider them 
 binding upon the living. The farm belonged to Hector, 
 having come to him from his mother, and Mr. M'lntyre 
 must have left liis widow quite enough to live upon 
 elsewhere. Such were the remarks. 
 
 But Mrs. M'Intyre had not the smallest intention of 
 going elsewhere ; she had sense enough to kno\v where 
 she was well off; and a very simple arithmetical calcu- 
 lation convinced her that the interest of the money left 
 her by her liusband would go much farther while she 
 remained an inmate of Hector's home. Accordingly she 
 accepted her position. 
 
 And Hector made no question as to his own course ; 
 he had given a promise to his father, and he would 
 fulfil it to the end. There was no struggle with himself, 
 
HECTOR M'IXTYKE'S SACRIFICE. 93 
 
 for his ^\'ill never ^v avered ; the path of duty lay plain 
 before him, he would Avalk in it at whatever cost. 
 
 The bitterness of the trial no one ever knew ; it was 
 only guessed at by the few friends who understood the 
 full strength of his character, and who had known 
 something of the intense enthusiasm mth which he had 
 devoted himself to the work now forbidden him. To 
 mthhold his hand and stand aside while others went 
 forth to fight the battles of his country, that was indeed 
 the sacrifice of his most eager hopes and aspirations. 
 
 People said Hector M'Intyre took his father's death 
 terribly to heart; so he did, but it was something more 
 than his father's death which caused him to look so 
 careworn and weary, as if ten years had been added to 
 his age. 
 
 For some time Mrs. M'Intyre refused to see any one, 
 and shut herself up in her own room, bewailing her 
 hard fate, after the fashion of such self- engrossed 
 natures. 
 
 At length one day, a month after Mr. M'Intyre's 
 death, Mrs. Stanley and Julia were admitted ; they had 
 called to inquire for her in passing, but without any 
 expectation of an iuter^'iew. 
 
 Aurora's heart was very full, for, charitably forgetting 
 all she knew of the shallow character of the new-made 
 
94 IIECTOI! M'INTYKE'S SACRIFICE. 
 
 widow, she had, in iinagiiiatidii, transferred to her the 
 litter desolation which wonld liave l)een lier own under 
 similar circumstances. It was something of a shock 
 then to find Mrs. M'Intyre simply what she had always 
 been, — all her thoughts and feelings centering in herself 
 as usual. 
 
 ' It is very kind of you to come,' she said, when her 
 visitors were seated ; ' you don't think I ought to have 
 refused you any longer ? ' 
 
 Startled by the question, Aurora replied, ' Certainly 
 not ; I think feeling is the only true guide in such 
 matters ; and when would the presence of friends be so 
 naturally desired as at a time of sorrow and trial ? ' 
 
 ' I am very glad you don't regard it as an impro- 
 priety ; it is so depressing to be alone day after day, 
 and Hector is so melancholy.' 
 
 ' It is a sad loss to him,' Aurora ventured to observe. 
 
 ' Yes, but lie does not seem to realize that my loss 
 is much greater. People should not allow their own 
 sorrow to make them selfish ; but he never thinks of 
 me, — no one does now.' And Mrs. M'Intyre put her 
 handkerchief to her eyes and sobbed hysterically, during 
 which process Julia escaped from the room. 
 
 Aurora was utterly at a loss what to say. Eeal deep 
 sorrow she could have met with womanly sympathy. 
 
HECTOR ]M'INTYRE's SACRIFICE. 95 
 
 and with words of Christian consolation. But what 
 comfort could she offer to a woman in such a frame of 
 mind, whose very mourning was only another phase of 
 self-worship and self-indulgence ? 
 
 While she sat in silence Mrs. M'Intyre's grief ex- 
 hausted itself 
 
 ' Dear Mrs. Stanley/ she said, ' forgive me for being 
 so easily overcome, but my whole nervous system has 
 received such a shock. My poor dear husband' (which, 
 she did not specify) ' used to say I was far too sensitive 
 to bear the trials of a lonely life. But I will not speak 
 of myself May I ask you to do me a, great favour ? ' 
 
 Aurora replied that she would be happy to be of any 
 service, and Mrs. M'Intyre left the room. She returned 
 immediately with a bonnet in her hand. 
 
 ' I think L niight go to church next Sunday ; I feel 
 as if I should die imprisoned here any longer, but I 
 cannot wear this bonnet. See what a fright it is ! ' 
 
 ' I daresay the milliner will alter it if you will tell 
 me what you wish done.' 
 
 ' It is this liorrible widow's cap ; I never used to 
 wear them made in that way ; it is too stiff and heavy. 
 Don't you think she could put in a lighter one ? This 
 is so wretchedly unbecoming; I could not endure to 
 be seen in such a thing.' 
 
on IIKCTOK m'ixtvke's sackificr. 
 
 Aurora was almost speechless with horror ; but the 
 unfortunate bonnet was not the cause. She did manage 
 to say she would get the cap exchanged ; and unfasten- 
 ing it from the bonnet, she bade adieu, ]\Irs. M'Intyre 
 begging her to come again soon, and declaring the visit 
 had done her a world of good. 
 
 Julia was waiting at the gate, out of hearing of the 
 house ; her first remark was — 
 
 ' It is useless to talk of being in love and charity 
 with your neighbours so long as that execrable woman 
 is one of them.' 
 
 ' j\Iy dear child,' said Aurora sadly, ' I think pity is 
 the only emotion she should excite. And yet it is im- 
 possible not to blush for our common human nature so 
 degraded.' 
 
 ' How do you think Hector JNl'Intyre endures his life 
 in such society ?' asked Julia. 
 
 ' I am sure I don't know.' 
 
 ' Neither do I ; but of one thing I am certain : no 
 vows or promises to the living or the dead could ever 
 bind me to live in the house with that woman. What 
 a purgatory it must be !' 
 
 And Julia, speaking in an excited and determined 
 tone, was overheard by Hector himself, as he was pass- 
 ing through the wood beside which their path lay. 
 
CHAPTEE VI I. 
 
 THE NEED OF PATIENCE. 
 
 THE summer wore on. July came ; and before it 
 passed away there fell upon the waiting hearts 
 in a thousand homes the first terrible blow, the defeat 
 at Bull Pain. Afterwards it was acknowledged as a 
 salutaiy lesson, one that could scarcely have been 
 spared ; but at the time it was a bitter disappointment 
 to a people exultingly confident of immediate success, 
 and in whose vocabulary the word disaster had found 
 as yet no place. Stunned and overwhelmed for a 
 moment, the nation soon aroused itself to the exercise 
 of the patient endurance, the resolute perseverance, 
 which were to take the place of the eager and pas- 
 sionate enthusiasm of the first days of the war. The 
 magnitude of the work was understood at length, the 
 cost counted, the choice deliberately made ; and thence- 
 forward no losses and no temporary defeats were to 
 shake the steadfast determination to conquer in the end. 
 In the pleasant summer evening, the members of the 
 G 
 
98 ^ THE NEED OF PATIENCE. 
 
 choir were assembled at the ohl house on the liill ; 
 Aurora was at the piano, and the two girls, with their 
 father, Hector M'Intyre, and three or four others, 
 were practising the chants and hymns for the following 
 Sunday — when a neighbour, passing by, stopped to tell 
 the disastrous news. There was no more music that 
 night. 
 
 Julia burst into tears, regardless of every one around 
 her — Julia, who had been of the opinion that anything 
 was preferable to a war, but who was now the strongest 
 advocate for its vigorous prosecution. 
 
 ' Papa, I will not believe it !' she exclaimed ; ' it 
 cannot, it shall not be true.' 
 
 Alas, there was no room for doubt ; and as the details 
 were given, she looked up with her face stained with 
 crying, and said passionately — 
 
 ' The misery of the thing is the being compelled to 
 sit here and fold one's hands. My heart is breaking 
 to be in the midst of it.' 
 
 The next moment, as she saw the reflection of the 
 same feeKng in Hector M'lntyre's face, she would fain 
 have recalled her words had it been possible. 
 
 Aurora, pale and faint with excitement, looked up to 
 her husband as he stood beside her — 
 
 ' Hugh, I could find it in mv heart to sav, " Go." ' 
 
THE NEED OF PATIENCE. 99 
 
 But he laid his hand upon her head and stroked 
 caressingly the bright brown hair. 
 
 ' Not yet, Aurora ; the time has not yet come.' 
 
 And she knew that her sacrifice was only postponed, 
 not withheld. 
 
 To May the sad tidings brought at first a shock, then 
 came a feeling of intense thankfulness that Hemy's 
 regiment had not been there ; but soon there rose up in 
 her foolish little heart a conviction that if it had been, 
 the result would have been different. Very early the 
 little party separated ; the grief and disappointment 
 were too deep to find relief in words. 
 
 But for Hector M'Intyre there was a new trial in 
 store, in the open exultation of his stepmother, whose 
 Southern sympathies were now freely expressed. ' It 
 served them right ; they had no business invading the 
 South, and she always knew how it would end. For her 
 part, she did not wonder that the Southern people were 
 sick and tired of such a union, being themselves a so 
 much nobler race.' Poor silly creature, mistaking the 
 glitter for the gold, and blind to the trvie nobility with 
 which she came in daily contact. 
 
 And was it for this woman that Hector was sacri- 
 ficing the desire of his soul in refraining from the work 
 to which his country called her sons ? No, surely not 
 
100 THE NEED OF PATIENCE. 
 
 for her sake, but in obedience to a higher principle, that 
 he might be able to meet his father in the last clay, say- 
 ing to him, ' I have been faithful to my trust.' An 
 exaggerated idea of duty and of honour it might seem 
 to some people, but to him it was the plain and simple 
 path of rectitude, from which he could not swerve 
 without sinniuCT asrainst his own soul. 
 
 ' Gentle with her,' for the sake of the old man who 
 was gone, patient and forbearing, thoughtful of her 
 comfort, though expecting nothing in return, kind to 
 the spoilt children, who, by dint of injudicious petting 
 at one time, and equally injudicious severity at another, 
 were rapidly becoming as disagreeable inmates of a 
 house as one can well imagine, he was bearing his daily 
 cross patiently, unmurmuring. 
 
 Those dark days passed by. And at length West- 
 field's three months' volunteers came home without 
 having seen a day's fighting. They marched back into 
 the town (not one missing) to receive a perfect ovation 
 at the hands of the citizens, and to the looker-on it 
 might have seemed that this was merely playing at war. 
 The tears and sighs, the sad forebodings of the last May 
 might have looked ridiculous in the light of this result, 
 yet they were not so, for there had been the offering of 
 the will, the essence of all true self-sacrifice. 
 
THE NEED OF PATIENCE. 101 
 
 Sterner work was at hand. Few of these young men 
 returned to remain at home. Here and there was one, 
 faint-hearted, whose experience of camp-life had chilled 
 the ardour of his patriotism, but such were the excep- 
 tions ; the large majority were ready to volunteer again. 
 Not this time in a body, to march out of the town 
 in their distinctive dress, with flags flying and music 
 sounding, and hearts beating high with confidence of 
 unfaltering success, but one at a time, or in twos and 
 threes, to go quietly away, to be lost sight of in some 
 regiment known only by its number, to don the sober 
 serviceable blue of the regulation uniform, for work and 
 not for show, and to know for a certainty that no ninety 
 days would see the Herculean labour accomplished. 
 
 The time spent at home by Henry Alston was not a 
 little trying to Virginia, for now came the realization of 
 the practical effect of his engagement. She was no 
 longer first in his thoughts ; precious hours that once 
 would have been hers were now given to May Stanley ; 
 the little childlike creature who had so lately learned 
 to love him had become the centre of his world. Of 
 course Virginia, like any other well-principled woman, 
 acknowledged that this was all right, and just as it 
 should be. She scolded and lectured herself for ever 
 feeling neglected, and when she was in a reasonable 
 
]02 Tlir. XKF.I) OF PATIENCE. 
 
 mood confessed that Henry was very good and un- 
 selfish, May not at all exacting. But Virginia was only 
 a mortal woman, Henry had been her idol, and she 
 could not resign him to any one else without a pang. 
 The old comfort and satisfaction in having him all to 
 herself could never come again, and so it was that his 
 second departure was not nearly so grievous to his sister 
 as the first had been, while to poor little jNIay it was 
 nnicli worse. Aurora thought the parting of the lovers 
 this time decidedly more in keeping with their relation 
 to each other, and was convinced that she had been 
 right about the correspondence. It was early autumn 
 when Henry Alston joined the new regiment in which 
 he was to take his old rank as captain of a company ; 
 and when he bade his motlier good-bye, she laid her 
 trembling hands upon his head and blessed him, with 
 the firm conviction that she should see his face no more. 
 Frederick Osborne did not go again at once : he in- 
 tended to, so lie said, he was fully determined that he 
 would, but week after week and month after month he 
 lingered on, ])artly from a natural infirmity of purpose, 
 which made it difficult for him to do an}i:liing to wliich 
 he was not driven by the force of outward circum- 
 stances, and partly because there was a new attraction 
 for him in Westfield. There were whispers that he was 
 
THE NEED or PATIENCE. 103 
 
 a very frequent visitor at the old house on the hill, and 
 insinuations that there must be some greater charm 
 there than was to be found in the society of Mr. Stanley 
 and his wife. May, conscious of the security of her 
 own position, smiled in quiet scorn when such things 
 were hinted in her presence ; Julia, with hot indigna- 
 tion, wished that people would mind their own business, 
 and not couple her name with that of a fop like Fred 
 Osborne. 
 
 But that young gentleman was not one to take a 
 delicate hint, and he persisted in his visits, quite un- 
 conscious of the fact, which might have been obvious to 
 a less self-confident nature, that they were not parti- 
 cularly acceptable, and freqiiently very mal-a-pro'pos. 
 Aurora, out of consideration for Julia, would often re- 
 main in the parlour when she woidd fain have been 
 excused from the effort of entertaining company ; and 
 poor Julia was wretched in the thought of mamma's 
 discomfort. 
 
 ' If he is determined to make a fool of himself,' said 
 Mr. Stanley one day to his wife, ' I don't see that any 
 rule of Christian charity requires you to prevent him.' 
 
 But Aurora thought it did, for Julia's sake. 
 
 At last a happy expedient suggested itself, and the 
 next time the unwelcome visitor called, he was shown 
 
104 THE XEED OF PATIENCE. 
 
 into the parlour, where he was received by ^Mr. Stanley 
 alone, who apologized for the ladies not making their 
 appearance, on the ground that IVIrs. Stanley was not 
 very well. 
 
 Poor Fred was extremely sorry, — no doubt of that, 
 — and very soon took his departure. When his next 
 visit was attended with a similar result, a ray of light 
 seemed to dawn up»on his mind, and he M'isely resolved 
 to give up calling for the present. 
 
 One morning in the beginning of winter, the sunlight 
 falling in at the windows of the breakfast-room, shone 
 upon an unusual sight ; the regular order and punctua- 
 lity of the household had evidently received a check, 
 for the liands of the clock on tlie mantelpiece showed 
 that the breakfast hour had long gone by, yet there was 
 the table ready set for the morning meal, and the snowy 
 array of cups and plates was quite undisturbed. The 
 wood-fire was blazing cheerily, and beside it sat May, 
 trying to occupy herself with a piece of knitting ; while 
 Julia was fussing al)0ut tlie room, in a way tliat would 
 liave been distracting to a nervous person, — now drawing- 
 down the window-blind, then sending it up with a jerk, 
 picking up a book, to lay it down the next moment, 
 fidgeting with the vases of dried grasses and autumn 
 leaves. At last she spied the calendar with yesterday's 
 
THE NEED OF PATIENCE. 105 
 
 date remaining unaltered, and seizing upon it as a 
 prize, she sent all the cards in a shower upon the 
 carpet. She was still engaged in gathering them up 
 when the door opened, and Dr. Bartlett's cheerful voice 
 announced — 
 
 ' Well, young ladies, I have great news for you — 
 there is a little brother apiece for you up-stairs.' 
 
 ' Uncle Arthur ! twin babies — oh, how glorious !' And 
 Julia sprang up and clasped her hand in an ecstasy, 
 while May only said, looking anxiously into the doctor's 
 face, 'And mamma?' 
 
 ' Mamma is as well as possible, and very happy and 
 proud of her sons.' 
 
 'Oh, isn't it splendid, May?' said her sister; 'we 
 will never need to quarrel over the baby.' 
 
 ' No, indeed,' laughingly replied Dr. Bartlett, ' you 
 can both play the nurse to your hearts' content.' 
 
 ' Won't we though ? And oh, may we not go up and 
 see them V 
 
 ' Yes, if you will promise not to go like a whirlwind, 
 and to remember that you are restricted to five minutes, 
 for I really want my breakfast, Julia.' 
 
 ' I promise to be as quiet as a mouse, or as May, — 
 a stronger comparison still.' 
 
 Away they went, Julia to make a rush at the Ijabies 
 
106 THE NEED OF PATIENCE. 
 
 as soon as she entered the door ; while May's first 
 impnlse was to steal up to Aurora, and bending down 
 to kiss her again and again, as she whispered softly, and 
 with tears in her eyes, ' Dear, dear mamma, I am so 
 glad!' after which she too was quite ready to go into 
 raptures over the tiny little creatures. Julia's descent 
 to the dining-room justified the wisdom of Dr. Bart- 
 lett's previous warning, and caused her father to tell 
 IMay to take the ])lace at the head of the table, as he 
 was quite sure the coffee would otherwise be poured 
 upon the floor, and not into the cups ; at Avhich Julia 
 professed herself higldy insulted. 
 
 ' Papa, it is really too bad, and before Uncle Arthui- 
 too. The fact is, I am the only person in the house in 
 a proper frame of mind ; tlie rest of you are provokingly 
 indifferent, and if you don't get up a little more enthu- 
 siasm, I will take possession of both the babies and let 
 you have nothing to do with them.' 
 
 ' For how long ? ' asked the doctor. 
 
 ' Uncle Arthur, you too 1 I thought you would 
 have taken my ])art and that of your nephews.' 
 
 'Honestly, Julia, I never thought of them in that 
 light before.' 
 
 ' And no wonder,' said jVIay, ' such tiny little atoms 
 as they are.' 
 
THE NEED OF PATIENCE. 107 
 
 ' Atoms indeed ! that is as much as you know about 
 it/ answered the doctor indignantly, as if his reputation 
 were involved in sucli a charge ; ' they are remarkably 
 large fine boys.' 
 
 ' Comparatively, I suppose,' said Julia ; ' but how 
 nice it is that they are so much alike, it will be de- 
 lightful never to know them apart ; and oh, papa, about 
 their names.' 
 
 Dr. Bartlett suggested ' Castor and Pollux ;' May, 
 ' Hugh and Arthur,' but Mr. Stanley answered — 
 
 ' You are both too late ; that question is settled ; 
 George and Edward the}- are to be, for my father and 
 Aurora's.' 
 
 And so it was fixed. 
 
 The mother and the babies improved day by day, 
 and very soon Aurora was back again in her old 
 place ; but with a new light in her beautiful eyes, and 
 a new charm in air and manner, as her husband 
 thought; and his daughters quite agreed with him in 
 his opinion. 
 
 ' Mamma is lovelier than ever,' said May on the first 
 evening that .she spent down-stairs, and Julia replied, 
 ' My dear, you are very dull to have taken so long to 
 make the discovery ; I knew it the minute she entered 
 the room.' 
 
108 THE NEED OF PATIENCE. 
 
 It A\'as not, however, an unshadowed joy that filled 
 Aurora's heart, as day by day she watched the unfold- 
 ing of the two little buds intrusted to her care. Ever 
 before her eyes there was the gathering cloud that was 
 yet to shut out the sunshine of her home. 
 
 The old house was full of new life ; the two lovely 
 boys, the admiration of all beholders, were the pride 
 and joy of the whole household, every day adding to 
 their intelligence, and, to Julia's great delight, taking 
 away nothing from their exact likeness to each other. 
 No stranger could detect the slightest difference between 
 them, and when only one was in the room, Aurora 
 alone could tell whether it were George or Eddie. So 
 things went on till they were six months old. Then 
 came the long-dreaded day. A new call for troops, a 
 new outburst of military ardour among the people, and 
 more- than ever the need realized of men really fitted 
 for such a position, taking the command of the new 
 regiments. 
 
 Hugh Stanley had been no idle looker-on. Ever 
 keeping in view the work that might be demanded of 
 him, he had been labouring to fit himself for it, and to 
 put his farm in such order that it might be left to 
 another's care. And at last the hour came when, with 
 an almost breaking heart, Aurora bade him go. 
 
THE NEED OF PATIENCE. 109 
 
 ' I will not hold you back, my husband ; the country 
 has need of all her sons, and chiefly of her noblest and 
 best.' 
 
 And he answered, holding her close to his heart — 
 ' My darling, I trust it is not presumptuous, but I 
 feel a strong faith that I shall come back to you, kept 
 safe by God's protection, guarded by your prayers. 
 But if not— ' 
 
 She stopped him before the words were spoken. 
 ' Hugh, I cannot bear it ; do not speak of that.' 
 ' Aurora mia, it is best to say it, and cannot make 
 any difference in the resiilt. If not, neither life nor 
 death, neither time nor eternity, can come between us, 
 or touch our deathless love.' 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 "woman's POKTIOX of THf:WORK. 
 
 AUEOEA'S laudable efforts to keep matters from 
 coming to a crisis between Julia and Frederick 
 Osborne were entirely thrown away, for that young 
 gentleman was possessed of a very high estimate of his 
 own attractions, and would not believe, unless upon a 
 statement from headquarters, that his case was hope- 
 less. His mind once made up, an opportunity was not 
 M'anting, and accordingly Julia was waylaid one after- 
 noon as she was returning alone from a shopping ex- 
 ciu'siou in the town. 
 
 The curt reply to his salutation might have acted as 
 a warning to any one whose self-love was less strongly 
 developed, but it had no effect upon him. 
 
 * A very pleasant afternoon for a walk, ]\Iiss Julia.' 
 
 ' Very,' Avas the short response. 
 
 ' Allow me to carry that parcel for you.' 
 
 ' Oh no, indeed ! it is quite light ; I would not take 
 
woman's portion of the work. Ill 
 
 you out of your way — thank you.' The last words 
 sucklenly suggesting themselves as quite imperative. 
 
 ' It would give me great pleasure to continue my 
 walk as far as yours extends, if you will permit me.' 
 
 No answer ; Julia forgetting that silence gives 
 consent. 
 
 ' I believe Mr. Stanley leaves on Monday ?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Do you know I have almost made up my mind to 
 try to get into his regiment ; I have been at home long 
 enough.' 
 
 ' I think you have/ said Julia rather bluntly. 
 
 Her companion winced at this, but in a moment 
 asked quite meekly, ' Then you think I ought to go ?' 
 
 'Oh, I have no right to express any opinion about 
 your duty, Mr. Osborne,' — the speaker quite uncon- 
 scious of her own marvellous inconsistency ; — ' I only 
 know if I were a man, in a time like this I should be 
 found in my proper place.' 
 
 ' Miss Julia,' said Frederick Osborne eagerly, ' to 
 gain your approval I would volunteer this very day.' 
 
 ' My approval is a very small affair.' 
 
 'Not to me; to me it is worth more than all the 
 world beside.' And the ice fairly broken, he poured 
 forth a fervent declaration of his affection. 
 
112 ^'OMAN'S I'OKTIUX OF THE WultK. 
 
 It Avas very provoking, and Julia Mas tliorouglily 
 angiy. Such a scene on the pulDlic road, where at any 
 moment they might be met by some inquisitive neigh- 
 bour ! But what could she do ? There was no stem- 
 ming the torrent till it had exhausted itself. At length 
 he paused ; and, standing still, she drew herself up to 
 her full height. 
 
 ' Mr. Osborne, excuse me ; but I cannot listen to 
 this— ' 
 
 ' Only one moment, hear me for a moment,' he im- 
 plored ; ' I am going away, going to the war. Give me 
 a single Avord of encouragement — tell me you do not 
 despise and reject the love you have awakened. If I 
 can prove myself worthy of you, Julia, if I can come 
 back to lay my laurels at your feet — ' 
 
 ' It would be a very poor place to lay them, Mr. 
 Osborne ; I would much rather see you wear them, as 
 j-ou will deserve.' 
 
 And Julia M'ould have turned coldly aAvay ; but 
 something in the young man's expression of hopeless 
 despondency tijuched her better feelings, and she held 
 out her hand. 
 
 ' I am very sorry to have given you pain. 1 trust 
 you may succeed and do something worthy of yourself, 
 — a much higher aim. You have mv best wishes.' 
 
woman's poktion of the work. 113 
 
 He spoiled all by clasping the offered hand in both 
 of his, and pressing it to his lips. 
 
 Very haughtily Julia withdrew it. 
 
 'You forget yoiu-self, Mr. Osborne,' she said in her 
 most icy tones, and walked away. 
 
 But the ice gave place to a lire of \\'ratli and indigna - 
 "flon as she hastened on her way home. 
 
 ' Such insufferable conceit, such insolent presump- 
 tion ! And all because she had spoken a few friendly 
 words.' 
 
 With her face in a blaze she burst in upon Aurora — 
 • 'Mamma, only think of Fred Osborne having the 
 impudence to make love to nie on the turnpike !' 
 
 It was not in human nature to avoid laughing at such 
 an announcement, and in such terms. 
 
 ' Julia, what do you mean \ ' 
 
 ' Just what I say. On the way home he suddenly 
 appeared, and began talking about getting into papa's 
 regiment. I hope he will do nothing of the kind ; T am 
 sure he would be no credit to it. Then he went on 
 with a great deal of stuff about gaining my approval 
 and making himself worthy of me ; bringing his laurels 
 to lay at my feet. He had better win them lirst before 
 he disposes of them.' 
 
 ' ]My dear Julia,' said Aurora gravely, ' I don't think 
 
 H 
 
114- woman's portion of the woi;k. 
 
 that is the tone in which you should speak. The poor 
 fellow undoubtedly felt and meant every word he 
 said.' 
 
 ' But, mamma, the impudence of kissing my hand ! — 
 my glove, rather. I have a gi'eat mind to burn it up.' 
 
 ' Even that only proved the reality of his feeling ; and 
 — will you let me give jow a little bit of advice V 
 
 ' As much as you please, mamma,' said Jidia, rubbing 
 the injured glove with her handkercliief 
 
 ' It is only that you should try to consider his real 
 disappointment a little more seriously. When a man 
 asks a woman to be his wife, he pays her the highest 
 compliment in his power, and trusts to her honour not 
 to betray his confidence.' 
 
 Julia gave her head a toss. 
 
 ' I always detested compliments ; but that kind is the 
 worst of all.' 
 
 ' I don't know. The sincere affection of an honour- 
 able man is not to be despised, nor looked upon as an 
 affront, even if it is not returned.' 
 
 That Julia would make no boast of her conquest 
 Aurora well knew ; she was far above any such miserable 
 vanity, and equally far removed from the heartlessness 
 which can take pleasure in inflicting pain. But the 
 true womanly nature of the stepmother had been 
 
woman's portion of the WUItK. 115 
 
 shocked by the whole tone of the disclosure. Had Fre- 
 derick Osborne been even less worthy of the love he 
 sought, she would have pitied and sympathized with 
 Mm ; and it pained her to see Julia's want of feeling. 
 What she really feared was that the matter, so serious 
 to him, should be lightly made the topic of household 
 discussion. Aurora's sense of honour would have placed 
 an inviolable seal of secrecy upon such a scene. It was 
 Frederick Osborne's secret, and Julia had no right to 
 disclose it ; so she gave the warning that she saw was 
 needed, and she did not give it in vain ; Julia never 
 spoke of the matter again, and only jNIr. Stanley and 
 Aurora ever knew of the ofter and the rejection. 
 
 True to his resolution, the young man did volunteer 
 again immediately, and entered Colonel Stanley's regi- 
 ment ; with a silent hope that so he might hear of Julia 
 occasionally, and perhaps be kept in her remembrance. 
 If he should distinguish himself in any way she would 
 be sure to know it. 
 
 Auothei' recruit for the army at the same time was 
 Archibald Dubois, who had been roving about doing 
 nothing for a year, and now and' then making a sudden 
 descent upon Mrs. Alston and Virginia. With the latter 
 he carried on a constant warfare. She was very mucli 
 dissatisfied M'ith his way of life, and never hesitated to 
 
116 woman's portion of the wokk. 
 
 say so ; and he would defend himself and his idleness in 
 a provokingly careless tone, which only niadt! matters 
 worse in Virginia's eyes. ' I hope you are satisfied 
 now/ he said to her, when he came to show his commis- 
 sion and to say good-bye. ' But if I am killed you will 
 have a pretty account to settle with my mother ; it is 
 all your doing.' 
 
 ' I am only too glad to take tlie credit and the respon- 
 sibility together,' said Virginia ; ' and if you should be 
 killed, Archie, if I were your mother I would rather 
 have my son dead in a good cause, tlian living to no 
 pm'pose.' 
 
 ' But you are not my mother ; and she has not a bit 
 of the Spartan in her composition. She will never for- 
 give you. However, I'll leave you to settle it witli her 
 if that contingency arises. On the other hand, A^'irginia, 
 if I come home minus an arm or leg, so that no other 
 girl will look at me, I hold you bound in honour to 
 marry me yourself.' 
 
 * Indeed I will do no such thing ; but I ^vill tell you 
 what I will do : 1 will devote myself to you in the most 
 sisterly manner that an old maid cousin can, and take 
 care of you to the end of the chapter.' 
 
 ' A bargain ! There, aunt, you are the witness.' 
 
 ' However, Archie,' added Virginia, ' you need not 
 
woman's portion of the work. 117 
 
 anticipate any such melancholy fate. If yon should 
 come home minus both arms and legs, and with only so 
 much body left as will suffice to keep your soul attached 
 to this nether sphere, you will find some woman to look 
 upon you as the greatest possible prize, and to be only 
 too happy to take possession of what there is of you 
 left.' 
 
 ' And that is your estimate of your sex ? ' 
 'Don't ask me for the reverse side of the picture. 
 Only I will say this : I don't believe there lives the old 
 maid who might not have been married if she liked.' 
 ' Even yourself ? ' 
 
 ' Even myself; have I not just had an offer ?' 
 ' Oh, to be sure ; but how many more ? ' 
 ' Thank you ; you are not my father-confessor.' 
 When the day of parting came, Julia was very heroic ; 
 at last she had some one belonging to her in the army, 
 and was equal to her neighbours, of whom she had 
 been secretly very envious. May broke down entirely, 
 and then was very penitent. 
 
 'Mamma,' she said, 'I am very selfish; but — 'and 
 there came out the reason why May felt, if she did not 
 think, that she had a right to be doubly distressed—' I 
 am giving up more than any one, papa and Henry 
 both.' 
 
118 woman's I'Oktiox of the avokk. 
 
 Aurora asked herself if her husband and the father of 
 her children were not more to lier than both father and 
 lover could be to May ; but that was not a question to 
 be put to the poor child who was kneeling beside her, 
 Mith her eyes dim with tears, and her lieart overbur- 
 dened with a grief that seemed to her greater than any 
 one else could know. 
 
 ' My darling,' said Aurora, kissing her fondly, ' we 
 have both given our all, and there is notliing more that 
 we can do, excei)t to see to it that we make a willing 
 offering. " The Lord loveth a cheerful giver." ' 
 
 And a cheerful giver Aurora undoubtedly proved her- 
 self to be ; something of her old gaiety was gone, but 
 none of her steadfast cheerfulness. She went about the 
 house with a light step, a pleasant word and smile for 
 every one; sang to her babies, played with them, de- 
 lighting in all their merry little ways, until ]\Irs. 
 Bartlett was tempted to say to her husband, ' Arthur, 
 between you and me, I think Auroi-a can scarcely be so 
 desperately fond of her husband after all. If she were, 
 she could never take his absence so coolly.' 
 
 The doctor looked at his wife without uttering a word. 
 
 ' Well,' she- said impatiently, 'what is it ?' 
 
 ' Only, Hattie, that I think your usual penetration has 
 failed you this once.' 
 
woman's portion of the work. 119 
 
 It was a fortunate thing for Aurora that she was 
 too busy to find time for the indulgence of sad and 
 anxious thoughts. Her two babies might easily have 
 taken up all lier time, then she had her household 
 duties, which she was imwilling to resign entirely to the 
 girls, though they were most ready and efficient assist- 
 ants ; and now the general oversight of the farm was 
 added to her other cares. Each day brought its own 
 work, and night always found her weary and ready to 
 sleep, after commending her absent husband to His care 
 who could keep him safe on the battle-field as in his 
 own home. Perhaps she had sometliing of his own 
 strong faith that he would be preserved to return to her 
 at last; and so heart and hope and courage kept up, 
 nor ever failed during the months that grew into years 
 before the end was attained. 
 
 There was another secret influence at work which she 
 would scarcely have acknowledged to any one else, and 
 it was this. She well knew that her husband prized 
 above everything the cheerful brightness of her temper 
 and disposition. Should he come back and find it 
 gone ; ' a quiet and weary woman,' worn with anxious 
 brooding care, in the place of the 'Aurora' who had 
 brought back to him the morning freshness of heart and 
 life ? Ah, no ! that should not be ; for his sake would 
 
120 woman's I'oi;ttox ok tiif. woi;k. 
 
 she keep herself unchanged, unsacUlenecl, uiisuhdued, 
 througli rtll the days of patient- waiting. And it pleased 
 her to think that in so doing she was giving him the 
 strongest possible proof of lier love. Little it mattered 
 to her whether other people understood her and appre- 
 ciated the reason for her cheerfulness or not ; it is a poor 
 weak aft'ection that pauses to ask what appearance it is 
 making in other eyes ; and Aurora was too deeply con- 
 scious of the conflict she was carrying on within to 
 think of the opinions that might he formed by her 
 neighbours ; too calmly secure in the knowledge of the 
 perfect love existing between her husband and herself, 
 to imagine that it needed to be openly displayed. 
 Whatever else might be doubtful in this changing and 
 uncertain world, that at least was beyond suspicion, — 
 beyond questioning from any source whatever. 
 
 The winter, when it came, brought with it a new and 
 all-absorbing interest. The Sanitary Commission was 
 demanding for the soldiers, in tent and hospital, the 
 practical sympathy and aid of all who had walling 
 hearts and active hands. An auxiliary society was 
 formed in Westfield, and the work was begun in earnest. 
 The good sense of its members was shown in the choice 
 of Mrs. Bartlett as president ; she was quite in her 
 element overseeing and directing a host of workers 
 
woman's pobtion of the work. 121 
 
 and finding a famous field for the display of her peculiav 
 talents. Order and system ruled with a rod of iron 
 in all the transactions of the society, and none of 
 its members dared to be idle or careless with the 
 fear of the doctor's wife before their eyes. Emily 
 Osborne was in great delight at being appointed 
 treasurer, and determined to prove herself worthy of the 
 lionour so bestowed upon her. It was a fortunate 
 choice, for in her hands the funds were constantly and 
 mysteriously increasing. If any one asked questions 
 she replied by a reference to her books, kept with 
 elaborate neatness and precision, in ' the microscopic 
 hand' which gave such offence to Virginia Alston ; and 
 there would be found entered, ' Donation, |20 ;' ' From 
 a friend, $10,' and so on from time to time, but no 
 further explanation was forthcoming. How many little 
 acts of self-denial these sums represented no one knew 
 save Emily herself; but no new bonnet and cloak had 
 ever gi^'en her half the satisfaction she felt in wearing 
 her old ones of the former winter, Math the consciousness 
 that in so doing she was able to give something of her 
 own to the society's funds. 
 
 Mrs. Bartlett, who would have liked to fill the office 
 of ' keeper of the conscience' to all her relations, was 
 decidedly of opinion tliat Aurora should not become a 
 
122 woman's portion of the work. 
 
 working member of the society, as she had quite enough 
 to do at home. 
 
 ' No one has enough to do while he or she can find 
 time to do something more/ said Aurora. ' I shall not 
 neglect my babies, Harriet, because I give one afternoon 
 in the week to such an imperative duty.' 
 
 According to the good old primitive custom, which 
 the necessities of modern city life are rapidly making a 
 thing of the past, the mhabitants of Westfield made the 
 principal meal of the day at one o'clock ; the wave of 
 ultimate civilisation not having reached tlie quiet little 
 town, effacing old footprints and landmarks, and bring- 
 ing in the tide of eager business life, to which all else 
 must give way. 
 
 By two o'clock, or shortly after, on any Wednesday 
 afternoon, the interior of the Court-house presented a 
 most unusiial appearance. Its ordinary occupants had 
 vanished, and with them all signs of the normal uses of 
 the building. A large table stood in the centre of the 
 room, covered with garments made and unmade, and 
 materials for work of all kinds and descriptions ; and 
 there stood J\Irs. Bartlett in her glory, issuing her orders 
 and superintending the distribution of the work. In 
 different parts of the large room three or four se^dng- 
 machines were being used by their owners, who had 
 
woman's poktiox of the wokk. 123 
 
 had them brought from the neighbourmg houses ; and 
 busy fingers were cutting-out, folding hems, preparing 
 seams, or finishing off the parts which needed the 
 final touch of a skilfiil hand. The rapid click of the 
 machinery, the cheerful hum of forty or fifty voices, 
 gave forth the sound of a hive of bees ; while the 
 workers need not have been put to shame even by those 
 model labourers. 
 
 ' An immense deal of gossip must go on there,' said 
 some of the wise men of the town ; but it was an inno- 
 cent kind of gossip after all, there being no absentees 
 to be talked about, and the war furnisliing a never- 
 failing topic of conversation. 
 
 But the sewing-circle was only one branch of the 
 work undertaken by the ladies of Westfield ; Mr. 
 Osborne had placed at their disposal a large room, in 
 which were collected offerings of a miscellaneous order, 
 to be added to the stores of the Sanitary Commission ; 
 and it was filled and emptied and filled again with 
 marvellous celerity. Nothing came amiss ; there was 
 a use found for everything ; and the farmer in gathering 
 in the fruits of the earth, the careful housekeeper in 
 laying up her store, remembered the sick and wounded 
 soldiers, and laid aside a portion for them. Busiest of 
 all busy agents in this work of collecting was Julia 
 
124 WOMAN S PORTION OF THE WORK. 
 
 Stanley, who declared herself ready at all times to beg, 
 borrow, or steal in behalf of any one wearing a blue 
 jacket ; until Aurora laughingly avowed that she 
 grudged the use of everything beyond the bare neces- 
 saries of life to the members of their own house- 
 hold. 
 
 ' Just a few of those dried peaches,' she would plead ; 
 ' they say the poor fellows in the hospitals are so glad 
 to get them, and ours are so much nicer than any 
 you can buy. We can do without them quite well ;' 
 and the peaches would disappear, to be followed by 
 something else next week, something absolutely neces- 
 sary to the comfort of the soldiers, but quite needless to 
 the people at home. 
 
 No very active part could Virginia Alston take in 
 the work, which had yet her hearty sympathy ; for her 
 mother's health was rapidly failing, and she was now 
 confined entirely to her own room, Eeal sufiering in 
 any one dependent upon her aroused all the better part 
 of Virginia's nature, her brusque imperative manner was 
 wonderfully softened, and her patient kindness was in- 
 exhaustible. Day and night she watched over the 
 invalid with a reversal of their former relation; the 
 mother was now the object of unwearied care and 
 tenderness, the child bestowed it as heartily as it had 
 
woman's PoirnoN of the wokk. 125 
 
 been given to her in the days of her infancy and help- 
 lessness. 
 
 As long as Mrs. Alston could sit up, even in her bed, 
 her hands were busy knitting socks and comforters for 
 the soldiers ; she could forget herself in her interest in 
 them, and such light laboiu's of love beguiled the tedium 
 of many an otherwise weary hour. 
 
 Emily Osborne was a frequent visitor to the sick- 
 room, coming in with some little offering of flowers or 
 fruit, or any delicacy which she fancied might be 
 tempting to the invalid ; and the sight of her bright 
 face seemed to Mrs. Alston like a ray of sunshine. 
 Virginia, not yet entirely free of her old suspicion, felt 
 called upon to give Emily a hint of the state of matters 
 between Henry and May Stanley, lest she should be 
 building up any false hopes of reaching the son's heart 
 through the mother. 
 
 Emily's face glowed with most unmistakable pleasure. 
 
 ' Oh, Virginia, I am so glad, so very glad, to know 
 that any good came of my birthday party ; ever since 
 Mr. M'Intyre died I have hated to think of it.' 
 
 ' Nonsense,' said Virginia, ' don't begin to go through 
 the world burdening yourself with all the sins and 
 follies of your neighbours, or you will soon find yourself 
 crushed to death.' 
 
126 woman's portion of the wohk. 
 
 ' No, I shall not do that, but it was the chief associa- 
 tion with that night. Now I shall think, instead, of 
 May's happiness ; I can't tell you how glad I am.' 
 
 And Virginia, looking into the clear truthful eyes, 
 confessed inwardly that she was a little, a very little, 
 ashamed of herself. 
 
 There came a day at last when ]\Irs. Alston's un- 
 finished piece of knitting was laid aside to be taken up 
 no more ; when the blinds were drawn down, and the 
 single watcher in her room moved cautiously and 
 lightly, and refused admission to every friend except 
 the minister and Emily — Emily, ' the little butterfly,' 
 who came so softly and brightly into the darkened 
 chamber, as to prove the fitness of the appellation. The 
 dim eyes always brightened at her appearance, and the 
 daily visit was continued to the end, Mrs. Alston find- 
 ing in Emily sometliing to supply the want in Virginia's 
 character, where there was plenty of solid strength, but 
 little of grace or delicate beauty. 
 
 Henry could not come home, and the mother's pro- 
 phecy was fulfilled ; she passed away without seeing 
 him again, leaving her last message of love and blessing 
 to be given him by another. 
 
 Quietly and systematically Virginia made all the 
 necessary arrangements, offered the house for rent, and 
 
woman's portion of the work. 127 
 
 went to stay with tlie Stanleys for a time, until she 
 should regain the strength taxed by her long watching 
 and care. 
 
 ' I have found my mission,' she said to Aurora, * it 
 lies most evidently in the sick-room. Nothing so sub- 
 dues my impracticable temper as having to do with 
 people who are dependent on me, and too weak to 
 oppose me. I shall offer myself for duty in the 
 hospitals.' 
 
 The necessary preliminaries being submitted to, she 
 was accepted, and appointed to a charge in the south- 
 west. It was something of a disappointment, for she 
 would have preferred the east, to be near the army of 
 the Potomac, ' in case of anything happening to Henry,' 
 she said. 
 
 May's face lost every particle of colour at the bare 
 suggestion of such a possibility. 
 
 ' My dear child,' said Virginia, ' it is better to look 
 such things fairly in the face ; it adds nothing to their 
 probability, and makes them easier to bear if they come.' 
 
 But May's philosophy was of a different kind, like 
 that of the birds of the air, taking no thought for the 
 morrow. 
 
 After one expression of regret that she had not been 
 sent to Washington, Virginia submitted cheerfully. 
 
128 WOxMAN'S PUKTIOX (IK THE W(^l;K. 
 
 ' 111 the army, tlie first duty is unquestiouing obedi- 
 ence,' she said, ' and now that I am in the service of 
 the Government, it will never do to set an example of 
 insubordination.' 
 
 So she bade adieu to Ikjiuc and Iriends, and A\'eiit out 
 to do her part ; to do it nobly and well, infusing some- 
 thing of her own energy and earnestness into all the. 
 details of the management of the hospital, and becom- 
 ing daily more gentle and tender, and true of heart 
 through constant ministry to the sick and suffering. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 
 
 jV/TOST trying of all were the days immediately 
 -*-*J- following the telegraphic announcement of a 
 battle, before the details were given which were to 
 bring joy or despair to many a fireside. The agony of 
 suspense— the only unbearable pain, because the only 
 one for which there is no solace— came to the little 
 household on the hill at such times, in whatever quarter 
 the conflict might have taken place ; for Colonel Stan- 
 ley's regiment was in the south-west, and Henry 
 Alston's witli the army of the Potomac. Again and 
 again the cloud came, but it always lightened, for a time 
 at least, leaving only thanksgiving when it had passed 
 away. Two or three times gaining a short leave of 
 absence, Hugh Stanley came home, to bring to Aurora 
 for a few days, and to realize for himself, an intensity 
 of happiness which almost made amends for the long 
 weary separation. 
 
 I 
 
130 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 
 
 It was on one of those occasions that Julia received 
 from her father the sternest rebuke she had had for 
 many a day. Speaking of his regiment, she said — 
 
 ' I only wish, papa, your own town were more 
 creditably represented ; Fred Osborne will never reflect 
 any honour either upon you or Westfield.' 
 
 ' Let me never hear you speak in that tone again, 
 Julia,' replied her father with severity. ' You know 
 nothing of what you are saying. There is not a young 
 man in the regiment more true to every duty than 
 Frederick Osborne, not one in whom I would place 
 more implicit confidence ; and I will not have such 
 remarks go forth from any member of my family to 
 wound the feelings of his friends, or to cast a suspicion 
 upon his character.' 
 
 Julia was silenced, and when Colonel Stanley re- 
 turned to his command, lie took occasion frequently to 
 mention Frederick Osborne, and in terms which filled 
 Emily with delight when they were repeated to her, 
 and caused j\Irs. Osborne to hold her head higher than 
 ever. 
 
 Many a heart lias reason to remember the battle 
 fought at Murfreesborough, Tennessee, in that second 
 winter of the war. Tidings of it came to Westfield. 
 awakcnins the most fearful anxictv in more than one 
 
THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 131 
 
 household. Aurora scarcely knew how she lived during 
 the long weary hours while she waited for the details, 
 which should bring to her joy or grief beyond all tell- 
 ing ; for her husband's regiment was there in the midst 
 of the fight. Slowly the moments crept by ; but at 
 last there was a sharp quick ring at the door, and a 
 telegram was placed in her hand. One wordless prayer 
 for strength to endure wdiatever it might bring ; she 
 opened it, and her eye fell first of all upon the signa- 
 ture, ' Hugh Stanley.' 
 
 He was safe ; for a moment she cared to know no 
 more. The blessed assurance from himself was enough, 
 far more than enough, to fill her heart with thank- 
 fulness and joy. 
 
 But when she took up the paper that had fallen from 
 her hand, she started in sudden recoil from the very 
 thought of lier own happiness. Alas for those to whom 
 there would come no such tidings, whose hopes and 
 fears alike must be silenced by the certainty of loss. 
 There, in the little message which had brought her 
 relief from all her suspense, followed these words— 
 ' Osborne was instantly killed on the first day, while 
 most gallantly leading on his men. Tell his mother.' 
 
 No room for doubt, no room for hope ; the brief, 
 terrible statement lay before her, and with it the task 
 
132 THE SHADOW OF DKATII. 
 
 from which she would gladly have escaped. How- 
 could she go to another woman — she whom God had 
 spared in the veiy same hour — and tell her that her 
 first-born, the pride of her heart, lay dead upon the 
 field of battle, killed in the early morning of his life ? 
 For a moment it seemed impossible to carry her own 
 rejoicing into the presence of sucli a woe. Then she 
 rebuked herself for the feeling, and hastened on her 
 sad errand, lest by any chance some cold hard an- 
 nouncement in a newspaper paragraph should give the 
 first tidings of his death with an added shock to those 
 who loved him. Before she could ring Mr. Osborne's 
 bell, Emily opened the door. ' Dear Mrs. Stanley,' she 
 said, ' I saw you coming, and I am so glad to meet you. 
 We have been very anxious, and I am sure you have 
 too ; but I do think all must be well now as we have 
 heard nothing.' 
 
 The pleading eyes lifted to hers, and half full of tears, 
 broke down all Aurora's fortitude, and she turned away, 
 in momentary shrinking from the inevitable destruction 
 of that last trembling hope. 
 
 ' Is your mother at home?' she asked, after an instant 
 of silence. 
 
 ' Yes, but she has one of her nervous headaches, and 
 has gone to bed.' 
 
THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 133 
 
 ' Then, Emily, my dear child, it is to you I must tell 
 the sad tidings I have received — ' 
 
 'Not of my brother; oh, Mrs. Stanley, not of my 
 brother !' exclaimed the poor girl with passionate 
 entreaty, as though upon Aurora's next words his fate 
 depended. 
 
 Very tenderly the words were spoken, as Aurora 
 drew the slight trembling figure close to her ; but no 
 tenderness, no sympathy of human friend, could break 
 the force of the terrible blow. 
 
 ' Your brother has given his life for his country.' 
 
 There was one low heart-broken cry, ' Fred ! my 
 brother, my brother ! ' and Emily laid her head upon 
 Aurora's breast, and they wept together in silence. 
 
 She started up at length. ' Mother must not know ; 
 I must keep it from her to-night.' And the strong 
 effort to regain her composure touched Aurora even 
 more than the first outbreak of her sorrow ; for the 
 tears would gather in the blue eyes, the sweet child- 
 like lips quivered as she spoke. It was a hard struggle, 
 but the loving little heart conquered at last for the 
 mother's sake; and Mrs. Stanley turned to leave her, 
 realizing something of the strength hidden under that 
 sunny nature which had seemed unfit for the real trials 
 of life. 
 
134 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 
 
 There was nothing more to do except to repeat the 
 very words of the telegram ; believing that there would 
 be found some comfort in the knowledge they con- 
 veyed, and Emily looked up with a sudden gleam of 
 light in her eyes. 
 
 ' I knew it,' she said proudly, ' I knew that he would 
 be noble and true to the end, my own dear brother.' 
 And again the little head was bowed down, to be lifted 
 at the sound of her father's voice. 
 
 ' I will tell him,' she whispered ; and Aurora slipped 
 away unseen. 
 
 It was a sad walk liome, contrasting her own happi- 
 ness with the sorrow she had left behind her, realizing 
 the imminent danger ever surrounding her husband. 
 This one escape gave no assurance of future safety ; and 
 the peril seemed now greater than ever, since one liad 
 fallen who had been so intimately connected -\Adth him. 
 
 For the strong young life cut down in an instant too 
 she sorrowed, for all the fearful suffering caused by the 
 war ; and from lier lieart, as from liow many others, 
 arose the cry, ' Lord, how long ? ' 
 
 Ah, this was but the beginning ; patience was yet 
 to have her perfect work, through days and weeks, 
 through months, and even years ; until at last the 
 victory attained should be received with souls chas- 
 
THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 135 
 
 tened and subdued, ready to acknowledge tlie righteous- 
 ness of the chastisement, and to give all the praise to 
 Hiin who had brought liglit out of darkness, and good 
 from evil. 
 
 At the door May came out to meet Aurora, with 
 strange perplexity in face and manner. 
 
 ' Mamma, will you go up to Julia ? she is crying so 
 terribly. Do you think — ' and a deep blush suffused 
 her face — ' is it possible that she cared for him V 
 
 ' No, dear,' said Aurora, ' it is not that.' 
 
 Julia was indeed in a state of sad distress and self- 
 reproach, the latter exaggerated in lier usual impetuous 
 manner ; but Aurora did not attempt to do away with 
 it altogether, believing that this might prove a salutary 
 lesson. 
 
 '0 mammal' she exclaimed, 'to think of the things 
 I have said of him, and he dying so nobly ; I will never 
 forgive myself — never.' 
 
 Gently but authoritatively Aurora insisted upon 
 helping her to bed, for she had cried herself into a 
 fever, and her head was aching violently. Then sitting 
 down beside her, she bathed the throbbing temples, and 
 spoke words of gentle soothing and sympathy. 
 
 ' If there were only anything that I could do,' said 
 Julia, ' anything to make reparation.' 
 
13G THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 
 
 And Aurora answered gravely : ' My dear child, the 
 worst punishment of our faults is often found in the 
 impossibility of undoing their effects.' 
 
 ' I am glad you do not tell me not to mind, mamma ; 
 it is a comfort to have you understand me. But I 
 wonder that you do not all hate me as I hate myself, 
 for the mischief I do with my tongue.' 
 
 ' Tn this case, Julia, there is no great mischief done, 
 for nothing you have said has passed beyond our- 
 selves ; the wrong was rather in the hasty and severe 
 judgment.' 
 
 ' Yes, and now to think that he can never know how 
 sorry I am. jNTamma, I wish you would tell May, she 
 does not understand ; and yet it would serve me right 
 if she should think, if every one should think — .' And 
 there Julia stopped. 
 
 ' No,' said Aurora, ' there is no need for any such 
 self-punishment ; I will tell her. And now you must 
 try to go to sleep.' 
 
 Down-stairs she went to explain the whole story to 
 May ; but she found Hector M'Intyre in the parlour ; he 
 had heard a rumour, and had come over to inquire the 
 truth in regard to it. After a little he asked for Julia. 
 
 ' She has a violent headache, and has gone to bed,' 
 said May. 
 
THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 137 
 
 Something in the expression of Hector's face com- 
 pelled Aurora to explain ; for she hated all misunder- 
 standings and misconceptions, and would never be a 
 party to anything of the kind, even by her silence. 
 
 ' The truth is/ she said, ' Julia has made herself sick 
 by her distress at this sad news ; she is grieving over 
 her own injustice to poor Fred, and the habit she had 
 of laughing at him, and prophesying that he would run 
 a\vay from the first real battle.' 
 
 ' mamma,' said tender-hearted little May, ' I am 
 sure she did not mean it ; she would not have said it 
 to any one but ourselves.' 
 
 ' Ko ; but she is right to regret it, and she cannot 
 help feeling very sadly the mistaken estimate she 
 formed of him, now that he is gone, and she can offer 
 no reparation.' 
 
 ' It does honour to her kindness of heart,' said Hector 
 M'lntyre^ and thenceforth Julia stood even higher in 
 his estimation. Grave, quiet, undemonstrative himself, 
 there was a great charm for him in a character whose 
 faults were all those of an impetuous temper, and 
 whose repentance was not less sudden and violent. A 
 week later and a letter came from Colonel Stanley, 
 oiving a fuller account of the death of Frederick 
 Osborne, and with it many little details of the last few 
 
138 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 
 
 months of his life, proving that the character of the 
 young soldier had been gradually and surely developing 
 in the nobleness and self-devotion which had made his 
 death honourable ; and poor little Emily's tears were 
 not the first that were wept over it. 
 
 The fiery test had been applied, the dross had been 
 consumed, the true gold had been seen at last ; and 
 thenceforward Fred Osborne was remembered in West- 
 field, not as one of the idle young gallants of the days 
 before the war, but as one of the heroes who had given 
 their lives in a sacred cause, and whose noble self- 
 sacrifice should not have been in vain. 
 
 The very next Wednesday Emily was in her place 
 when the sewing-circle met ; and many eyes filled with 
 tears as she came in in her deep mourning, and with 
 the sunny smile gone from the pale sorrowful face. 
 Very quietly and resolutely she went through the 
 routine of her duties. As she was going home j\Irs. 
 Stanley mot her, and stopping to speak to her, she 
 said — 
 
 ' Dear Emily, I am afraid this has been too much for 
 you.' 
 
 But the answer came quickly, with a half-suppressed 
 sob — 
 
 ' no, do not sav that ; I did it for his sake.' 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE SUMMONS TO THE HOSPITAL. 
 
 ' TTTEI.L, I don't like it, and cannot think it is right. 
 * » I am just as loyal as anybody, and hope and 
 trust the rebellion will be put down ; but this forcing 
 people into the army against their will savours too 
 much of the tyranny of the old-world governments to 
 suit my repubhcan notions.' 
 
 So said Mrs. Bartlett, with the air of one announcing 
 the final end of a controversy. She was spending the 
 evening with Aurora ; and her husband, Hector M'ln- 
 tyre, and his stepmother, were also of the party. 
 
 ' I quite agree with you,' said the latter, ' and if I 
 Avere a man, if I did not go to the war of my own free 
 will I would not go at all.' 
 
 ' And suppose you were drafted, what would you do 
 about it ?' asked Julia. 
 
 Mrs. M'Intyre vouchsafed no reply. 
 
140 THE SUMMONS TO THE HOSPITAL. 
 
 The doctor laid down a paper he had been glancing 
 over. 
 
 ' I am always sorry to differ from the ladies,' he said ; 
 ' but my view is this — Every citizen owes military duty 
 to his Government when it is required of him. He may 
 have no taste for a military life, and may not choose 
 voluntarily to take up arms, but if the time comes 
 when he is absolutely needed, I hold that he has no 
 right to refuse.' 
 
 ' Just what I have always said ! ' exclaimed Julia ; 
 ' people have no claim to the protection of a Govern- 
 ment Mdio will not come to its defence in time of danger.' 
 
 'Do you mean to say nobody is exempted, then?' 
 asked Mrs. Bartlett. 
 
 ' No, I do not mean that,' replied her husband ; ' there 
 may be many circumstances which make it a man's duty 
 to remain at home. In such cases the provision of a 
 substitute is both lawful and right.' 
 
 ' An easy loop-hole of escape for cowards,' sneered 
 Mrs. M'Intyre. 
 
 ' The cowards are much better at home,' said the 
 doctor, ' but I don't think any large proportion of our 
 population deserves the epithet.' 
 
 ' Then you are driven to my position, that the war is 
 becoming very unpopular ? ' , 
 
THE SUMMONS TO THE HOSPITAL. 141 
 
 • ' I am not so sure of that ; many causes operate now 
 to dirainisli the number of volunteers.' 
 
 ' Oh, I dare say; but that is the real one. The people 
 are getting discouraged ; and you had better give it up 
 gracefully, Dr. Bartlett, while you can ; it is better than 
 being forced to do it at last.' 
 
 ' We will never give it up, madam,' said the doctor, 
 and he turned away and changed the topic of conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 Two days later, Aurora and the girls were going into 
 town, when they met Mrs. M'Intyre taking a walk. 
 
 ' Have you heard the news ? ' she asked, stopping 
 them with a face full of amusement. 
 
 ' No, what is it ? ' 
 
 ' Hector is drafted !' And she burst into a laugh. 
 
 No one joined her. Aurora only said, ' Indeed ! ' 
 
 ' Yes ; but he is not going — oh no ! Talking about 
 the carrying on the war is one thing, risking your own 
 life is another.' 
 
 ' Mrs. M'Intyre—' Aurora began, but slie was inter- 
 rupted. 
 
 ' Oh, I know, Mrs. Stanley, Hector is one of your 
 pets ; but I know him a little better than you do, and I 
 am not surprised. I assure you I have had my laugh 
 out.' 
 
142 THE SUMMONS TO THE HOSPITAL. 
 
 ' Come, May,' said Julia, leaving Aurora alone to hear 
 the rest of the sentence. 
 
 ' I asked him what he was going to do, and he said. 
 " To find a substitute." " And why don't you go your- 
 self?" said I. "This is the time to show your patriotism.'* 
 He looked abashed at that, almost too nnich so to 
 answer ; but presently he said, " For the same reason 
 that I did not volunteer a year ago." " "Want of will or 
 want of courage ?" I asked, but he was gone. It is the 
 best joke I have kno^u for a long time.' 
 
 Aurora Avas too indignant to keep silence. 
 
 ' Is it possible you -understand him so little, Mrs. 
 M'Intyre ? do }ou really not know Avhat it is that keeps 
 him at home?' 
 
 ' I ? 1 know of nothing but his own pleasure.' 
 
 ' Then I shall tell you ; it is the promise he gave to 
 his dying father, in my husband's presence, that he 
 would not leave you. I think it is time for you to 
 know it if you have been unable to make the discovery 
 for yourself.' 
 
 ' Oh, I assure you there is more than that to account 
 for it ; he is not so fond of me as to give up anything 
 for my sake. But if that were it, I should be only too 
 glad to know that I am doing so much for the right 
 cause — keeping back one of those who wish to trample 
 upon the Southern people.' 
 
THE SUMMONS TO THE HOSPITAL. 143 
 
 ' Good-morning,' said Aurora, and she walked away, 
 feeling that in telling such a woman of Hector's real 
 motives, she had been casting pearls before swine. 
 
 And Mrs. M'Intyre went home to inform Hector at 
 dinner that those Stanleys were really becoming in- 
 sufferable, and she meant to have nothing more to do 
 with them. The effect upon him was to send him over 
 to Mrs. Stanley's the same evening. 
 
 Aurora took an opportunity of speaking to him alone. 
 
 ' Hector,' she said, ' I am afraid I have been guilty of 
 an impertinence, and I wish to make confession. I was 
 tempted this morning to tell Mrs. M'Intyre what I 
 know of the true and honourable motive that holds you 
 back from entering the army.' 
 
 The young man's dark face glowed with a deeper 
 colour. 
 
 ' Thank you, Mrs. Stanley,' lie said warndy, ' I know 
 how kindly it was meant ; but the friends whose 
 opinion I really value understand, and that is quite 
 enough.' 
 
 ' And you are not angry with me ? ' 
 
 ' Angry ! far from it. I can never tell you what this 
 house has been to me, what a debt of gratitude I owe 
 you.' 
 
 This from Hector oM'Intyre, who rarely spoke of him- 
 
Ui THE SUMMON.S TO THE HO.SITTAL. 
 
 self at all. It touelied Aurora verv deeply, but she 
 only said — 
 
 'As to gratitude, Hector, it is easy to discover on 
 which side the debt is due. A pretty piece of work I 
 would have made of ray farming without your aid and 
 counsel ! I was just wishing to see you ; do tell me 
 what you think it would be best to do with the five- 
 acre lot ? ' 
 
 And when the girls made their appearance, mamma 
 and her ally were deep in an agricultural discussion. 
 
 So the days went on. It would be weary work to 
 follow step by step all the hopes and fears, the successes 
 and failures of those four eventful years ; but each one 
 made its mark, and left its indelible impress upon the 
 characters of those whose deepest interests were con- 
 cerned. 
 
 With double longing Hector M'Intyre looked forward 
 to the end, for the country's sake and for his own ; for 
 then he might hope to be free from the chain that 
 bound him. 
 
 Mrs. M'Intyre declared that she could not stand the 
 cold climate and cold hearts of the North, and avowed 
 her intention of returning to her old home in Alabama 
 ' as soon as the Confederacy should have established its 
 independence ;' and although Hector never anticipated 
 
THE SUMMONS TO THE HOSPITAL. 145 
 
 that event, he still hoped that she might carry out her 
 intention, when it should be demonstrated that such a 
 result was impossible. Till then n(3 one but himself 
 knew how needful was the care he bestowed, and the 
 restraining influence he exercised over the weak and 
 foolish woman who had been intrusted to his charge. 
 Flippantly as she could talk of Hector, she yet re- 
 spected him, and guided her conduct with reference to 
 his opinion ; otherwise the quiet community of West- 
 field would have been scandalized far more frequently 
 and more deej^ly by the light behaviour of the young 
 widow. Throuo'h whatever sufferino- to himself, Hector 
 M'Intyre was fulfilling his trust, and guarding his 
 father's memory and his honour ; and in the approval 
 of his own conscience he found his reward. 
 
 For three years had the war been going on ; the 
 spring had returned again, and one bright May morning 
 Julia entered the parlour singing as was her wont when 
 she was going about her household tasks. The words 
 were sad, but the tones of her voice scarcely showed 
 that her heart entered very deeply into the sentiment 
 of the song — 
 
 ' Many are the hearts that are weary t<j- night, 
 Wishuig for the war to cease.' 
 
 'O Julia — ' There was a half-suppressed sob with 
 
 K 
 
140 THE SUMMONS TO TlIK HOSPITAL. 
 
 the exclamation of entreaty from the window where 
 May was sitting, antl then her work fell from her hands, 
 and covering her face, she burst into tears. 
 
 Julia threw herself on her knees beside her. 
 
 ' ]\Iay, my darling sister. May, I did not mean it ; I 
 did not know you were there. Don't cry so. It was 
 horrid and wicked of me not to think. Please don't, 
 darling.' 
 
 But the composure once lost was not easily regained, 
 and May wept with a violence that was almost alarm- 
 ing in one who was generally so calm and patient. In 
 vain Julia tried to soothe her, and offered words of 
 consolation ; the flood-gates were fairly down, and the 
 whole tide of sorrow and anxiety so long pent up in the 
 little heart had its way for the first and last time. But 
 May could not be selfish, ' It is not your fiiult, Julia,' 
 she said in remonstrance against lier sister's self- 
 reproach, ' it is only that I am weak and faithless ; but 
 oh, I cannot bear this long suspense/ 
 
 For Henry Alston's regiment had been in the first 
 attack on the line of works at Petersburg, and as yet 
 no tidings had come to tell of his safety. 
 
 Small comfort was there in anji^hing that Julia could 
 say, so long as there was no assurance that he was not 
 lying among the dead, or suffering M'ounded far away 
 
THE SUMMONS TO THE HOSPITAL. 147 
 
 from the love that vainly longed to shelter him ; but 
 there was something soothing in the fond words, the 
 caressing tenderness lavished upon her, and presently 
 May grew calmer. 
 
 ' There is uncle Arthur/ said Julia, starting up from 
 her kneeling posture as the doctor's buggy drew up 
 before the door. ' I won't let him come in ; he can 
 go up-stairs at once. 
 
 The tA\o boys had been a little unwell with some 
 slight childish ailment, and the doctor's daily visit was 
 a matter of course ; yet as Julia met him in the passage 
 she felt intuitively that there was some other reason for 
 his coming. 
 
 ' Is mamma in her own room ? ' he asked in a grave 
 tone, very unlike his usual cheerful greeting ; and pass- 
 ing her he went up-stairs, while she returned to the 
 parlour with a presentiment of coming evil that made 
 her shrink from speaking to May. For a few moments 
 she stood by the other window in silence, feeling with 
 painful intensity the beating of her heart ; then she 
 started as the door opened, and turning to look at 
 Aurora's face of sorrow, she knew that her fear was not 
 unfounded. 
 
 'May, my darling,' said Mrs. Stanley going to her, 
 and laying her hand upon the fair young head that was 
 
U8 THE SUMMONS TO THE HOSPITAL. 
 
 bowed down in quiet weeping ; ' this is sad news for 
 you, but we must hope for the best.' 
 
 ' JNIamma, what is it ? ' And she sprang to her feet 
 with a cry of agonized entreaty. 
 
 The telegi'am placed in her hand answered her : — 
 
 ' Captain H. E. Alston was brought to this hospital 
 to-day dangerously wounded. Desires his friends shall 
 be informed.' Signed and dated in due form, Blount 
 Pleasant Hospital, Washington, D.C. 
 
 An instantaneous change had passed over May in 
 that one brief moment ; there were no more tears, no 
 signs of weakness. ' I must go to him,' she said in her 
 own quiet tone of decision, as she laid the fatal paper 
 on the table. 
 
 ' Yes, my dear child,' Aurora answered as well as her 
 tears would permit, ' you shall go. If the children were 
 not ill I would go with you myself; but as I cannot 
 leave them, uncle Arthur will take you to liini.' 
 
 For a minute or two May was overcome as she turned 
 to Dr. Bartlett and clasped his hand in both of hers, 
 unable to speak a word of gratitude ; then half in- 
 audibly she murmured, ' How shall I thank you ? ' 
 
 ' I could not do less for you, my child,' he answered 
 gently ; ' but we have no time to lose if we would catch 
 the afternoon train. I must go home and make some 
 
THE SUMMONS TO THE HOSPITAL. 149 
 
 necessary arrangements ; I will call for you at one 
 o'clock. Julia, I will trust to you to have your sister 
 ready.' 
 
 Poor Julia ! — blinded with her tears, she seemed a poor 
 dependence ; the very sight of May's calm white face 
 would bring on a fresh fit of crying as she tried to make 
 herself useful in packing her sister's trunk, and May was 
 permitted to do the greater part of it herself, Aurora 
 thinking it the truest kindness to keep her occupied. 
 When all was done, Julia slipped into the room alone, 
 and taking out of a drawer a white muslin dress, folded 
 it, and was putting it into the trunk when Mrs. Stanley 
 came in. She started, as if detected in some impro- 
 priety, but when Aurora said, ' I don't think she will 
 want that,' the explanation came, though not without 
 tears — 
 
 ' Mamma, we can't tell what will happen. I could 
 not give her a black dress with her ; but a day may 
 come when she will not bear to look at any of those 
 bright-coloured things — let it go.' 
 
 She hastily closed the trunk as May entered the 
 room ; and then looking round to see if anything had 
 been omitted, she spied the little Prayer-book, Henry's 
 gift, lying in its place on the table beside the bed, and 
 would have found room for it ; but May took it out of 
 
150 THE SUMMONS TO THE HOSPITAL. 
 
 her hand. ' Not there, Julia,' she said ; ' you must let 
 me have it with me.' And she placed it in her small 
 travelling-bag, to be taken out again and again on the 
 sorrowful journey that lay before her. 
 
 Nightfall found Aurora and Julia alone ; while far 
 away in the train that was speeding across the country 
 May sat quietly by .Dr. Bartlett's side, thankful that 
 every moment w^as diminishing the distance, which yet 
 seemed so interminably long. Should she be there in 
 time, should she see him once more, catch the last sound 
 of the dear voice, the last glance of the dark eyes that 
 might even then be watching and wearying for her 
 coming ? ' Grant me so much, my Father !' was her 
 one prayer ; beyond she asked no more, nor even dared 
 to hope. 
 
 So patiently she wore away the hours, yielding a 
 gentle assent to every suggestion of lier kind guide; 
 she would get out when the train stopped, go into the 
 refreshment-room, take what she was bid with the 
 obedience of a child ; and wlien the doctor begged her 
 to try to sleep, she laid her head upon the shawds he 
 arranged for her comfort, and closed her eyes with an 
 unquestioning submission that touched him very deeply. 
 Clasped in her hand was the little Prayer-book; perhaps 
 its verv touch soothed her after some of its dear familiar 
 
THE SUMMONS TO THE HOSPITAL. 1 5 1 
 
 words had arisen from her heart ; and lying there she 
 slept as calmly as in her own home, and far more peace- 
 fully than the mother and sister she had left ; while 
 the good doctor congratulated himself upon having so 
 reasonable a character to deal with. Come what might, 
 and from the wording of the telegram he feared the 
 worst, he knew that May would behave with the dig- 
 nity and strength of a Christian woman — ' little May,' 
 who had seemed a very child but a few days ago. So 
 childlike she looked as she lay asleep in the dim light 
 of the railway car, that he shrank from the thought of 
 the grievous desolation possibly before her. How hard 
 it seemed that one young life should be cut down in an 
 instant, and another blighted ; and yet this was only one 
 out of countless cases quite as sad. The great aggregate 
 of misery caused by the war rose up before him, and 
 his soul sickened at the thought ; when would it end, 
 and how ? 
 
 Even then his reverie was broken by the sound of 
 a low voice near him. Two passengers had just entered 
 the car and had taken the nearest seat, a young man, 
 and a woman, evidently his mother; she was sobbing 
 violently, and he was trying to soothe her. 
 
 ' Don't take on so, mother, don't,' he said gently ; 
 ' maybe he'll be better when we get there.' 
 
152 THE SUMMONS TO THE HOSPITAL. 
 
 But she only shook her head. 
 
 ' No, no, Jolinnie, they never send in time ; he won't 
 live to see us, I know he won't.* 
 
 May sat up, her face whiter than ever ; she had heard 
 every word, and turning round she laid a gentle hand 
 on the poor woman's shoulder. 
 
 ' Don't say that,' she said in her soft sweet voice, ' 1 
 think our errands are the same ; and I know I could not 
 live without the hope tliat I am not going iu vain. It 
 may be that God will be merciful to us both, if only we 
 will trust Him.' 
 
 The other looked up. 
 
 ' God bless you, my poor cliild,' she said ; ' you are 
 very young to have such a sorrow ; but you know 
 where to go for comfort. Pray for me that I may see 
 my husband before he dies.' 
 
 ' We will pray for each other,' said May. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 LITTLE MAY IN A NEW LIOHT. 
 
 THE long weary journey was drawing to a close at 
 last. On the morning of the third day the tmvel- 
 lers saw the white dome of the Capitol standing out in 
 the dazzling sunshine against the clear blue sky. Many 
 a time had May looked forward to a visit to Washington, 
 fancying the intense interest with which she would 
 approach the central point of the national life, the 
 thoughts and feelings that would almost overpower her 
 there. Where were they now ? All fled away — associa- 
 tions, memories, all were gone, the building before 
 her was nothing but a landmark to show that the 
 journey was ended, the desired haven almost attained. 
 
 A word of farewell and of sympathy to the poor 
 woman whose heart she had cheered out of the midst of 
 her own deep sorrow and anxiety, and leaning on Dr 
 Bartlett's arm she passed through the crowded bustling 
 
154 LITTLE MAY IX A NEW LIGHT. 
 
 depot. Soldiers here and there in their blue uniforms, 
 a train of army-waggons rattling over the ill-paved 
 streets, and presently a slow procession of ambulances 
 carrying the wounded to the hospitals, brought home 
 the reality of the war as it had never been felt in the 
 quiet little western town. 
 
 Quite silent, ^lay leaned back in the carriage during 
 the long drive. Once the doctor put his head out of the 
 window and asked the negro driver if he was sure he 
 knew the way. ' Lor' bless you, yes, I knows it ; but 
 it's a long ways from here.' 
 
 So there was nothing for it but patience. Up and 
 down through the dusty streets, past the straggling 
 houses at last that marked the outskirts of the town, 
 then slowly up a long hill crowned by rows of tents 
 and long low hospital-buildings, clustered around a 
 more substantial brick edifice ; and pointing away to 
 the right the driver said, 'That's Mount Pleasant.' 
 
 Standing on an elevation where it could catch every 
 breeze of heaven, and so insure the first requisite of 
 fresh air, was the hospital, a large frame-building with a 
 tower, from which floated the hospital flag. May looked 
 once, then closed her eyes, and her whole soul went up 
 in one unspeakable prayer. 
 
 The carriage stopped at tlie gate, where the sentinel 
 
LITTLE MAY IN A NEW LIGHT. 155 
 
 was pacing up and down. Dr. Bartlett sprang out, but 
 stopped May as she would have followed. 
 
 ' A moment, my dear child,' and she was alone. 
 
 One thing he could save her ; he knew too well the 
 fearful shock many a breaking heart had received when, 
 coming from far- distant homes with the hope of cheer- 
 ing and soothing the last hours of husband or father, 
 son or brother, one short terrible word had announced 
 that all was over. If she must know that for her as for 
 so many others it was too late, she should know it from 
 his lips. Ages it seemed to May that he was absent, 
 as she waited with clasped hand's in an agony of sus- 
 pense, but it was a very few minutes, only as many 
 as would suf&ce for a hurried question at the en- 
 trance of Ward No. 5 ; a few calm words to one of tlie 
 sufferers and a hasty return. 
 
 ' Better, thank God ! I liave told him you are here.' 
 
 It was Dr. Bartlett, not May, who was trembling all 
 over, — Dr. Bartlett, who could scarcely see to guide her 
 steps to the proper spot. 
 
 As for May, like one in a dream she entered the 
 hospital, and passed down the corridor; she did not 
 tremble ; she had no tears to shed. The long narrow 
 M'ard, full of light and air, mth its double row of white 
 beds, its neatness and its order, she did not see, — she 
 
156 LITTLE MAY IX A NEW LIGHT. 
 
 only saw au eager face, — oh, so white and wan ! — turned 
 anxiously to the door, a pair of dark eyes that suddenly 
 lighted at her coining, and as she knelt down beside the 
 bed, unable to stand, she only heard a faint voice that 
 said to her, — 
 
 * May, my own darling, Heaven bless you for coming 
 to me !' 
 
 ' Captain Alston was much better ; the ball had been 
 successfully extracted ; it liad not touched the lung ; and 
 though weak from the loss of blood, he would soon be 
 all right again.' So said the surgeon, as he went his 
 rounds ; and then turning to Dr. Bartlett, he added 
 confidentially, ' But he had a very narrow escape ; a 
 hair-breadth would have settled tlie matter otherwise.' 
 
 ' How did he happen to be l)rought here ? ' asked the 
 doctor. 
 
 ' Through some abominable stupidity ; but once at 
 the door his only chance lay in taking him in ; it does 
 not do to stand on etiquette at such times ; a man had 
 better be saved as a private than killed as an officer.' 
 
 ' Decidedly, and really it is a most comfortable place.' 
 
 ' Oh ! perfectly ; as to that there is no preference ; but 
 1 hope he will soon be well enough to be moved where 
 his sister can have all the nursing of him.' 
 
 There was more of question than assertion in the 
 
LITTLE MAY IN A NEW LIGHT. 157 
 
 statement of the relationship ; and Dr. Bartlett ex- 
 plained in a few words, thinking the time had gone by 
 for any keeping of May's secret. 
 
 ' Better ! ' AVliat must he have been if he were better 
 now, thought May, as she looked at him, scarcely daring 
 to accept the comforting assurance given by the sur- 
 geon. So weak, so exhausted, so unlike his former self, 
 he seemed to her to have the impress of death stamped 
 upon his very countenance, and as she sat beside him 
 hour after hour, she feared lest the slightest movement 
 should break the last weak tie that bound him to life. 
 He could not talk, save now and then in a few whispered 
 words, but he lay with his eyes fixed upon her face, or 
 slept with her hand clasped in his, evidently perfectly 
 happy in her presence. Once he said ' Virginia ;' and 
 bending over him May told him of the last news re- 
 ceived from his sister. ' Write to her,' he said, and May 
 wrote, telling, as a matter of course, that she had come 
 to him, and expressing all the officially-authorized hope- 
 fulness that yet she could not feel. 
 
 Dr. Bartlett was a little afraid tliat May would prove 
 rebellious when called on to resign her post at evening ; 
 but he was mistaken ; she never wasted her strength in 
 idle struggles against the inevitable. As submissive as 
 ever she bade Henry good-night, and went away, to 
 
158 LIT'JLI-: .MAY IX A MOW LKillT. 
 
 sleep and fit herself for the next day's duties ; nor did 
 she ever refuse to leave him at proper intervals to take 
 the needful amount of food and exercise. Never in the 
 whole course of his professional experience had Dr. 
 Bartlett met with so reasonable a young woman, he said 
 to himself, regarding her as a model for her sex. He 
 was yet to discover how resolute May could be when 
 she pleased, how determinedly she could carry out her 
 own will and have her own way. 
 
 Henry Alston grew rapidly better ; there could be no 
 doubt of that. Every day there was a visible improve- 
 ment. JNIay was bringing him a new supply of life — 
 he would tell her, with something of his old gaiety of 
 manner. 
 
 And now IMay began to grow conscious of the presence 
 of other people about them, pitiful and sympathizing 
 toward the sufferers lying in the same ward, of wdiose 
 very existence she had seemed unaware. Now and then 
 she would sliyly offer some little act of kindness, the 
 smoothing of a pillow, the giving of a cup of cold water ; 
 shyly, yet with a certain dignity of manner at the same 
 time. It was better than any pictui'e Dr. Bartlett had 
 ever seen to watch her so engaged, and to note the ex- 
 pression on Henry's face as his eyes followed her. 
 
 Evidently the two had been a puzzle at first to many 
 
LITTLE MAY IN A NEW LIGHT. 159 
 
 Avho saw them, for they both addressed Dr. Bartlett as 
 ' Uncle Arthur,' yet were scarcely cousins, still less 
 brother and sister ; but the mystery soon unclosed, the 
 key to it being found in every human heart, and the 
 young officer and INIay were the objects of much kindly 
 interest. 
 
 When a fortnight had passed, Dr. Bartlett began to 
 think of returning home, but how to propose it he 
 scarcely knew ; for what could he do with May ? To 
 leave her was manifestly impossible ; to take her from 
 Henry seemed equally so. The difficulty solved itself, 
 when one day a tall, broad-shouldered western man, 
 with a most amiable expression of countenance, and a 
 voice like the wind over the prairies, entered the hos- 
 pital-ward, and asked for Captain Alston. He intro- 
 duced himself, and Henry at once recognised an old and 
 intimate friend of his father's, at whose house he had 
 spent many a happy week in his boyhood during the 
 summer vacations. 
 
 ' But what are you doing here V asked Mr. Ward. ' I 
 thought no officers were sent here.' 
 
 The explanation was given. 
 
 ' Ah, yes, very well ; but your room is ready for you 
 at my house, the first moment you are able to be moved. 
 Xo protestations ; have you I M'ill and must, my dear 
 
160 LITTLE .ALVY IX A NKW LIGHT. 
 
 fellow. After all your father's kindness to nie, I Mould 
 be a brute and worse if I did not rejoice to do anything 
 for his son ; and my good wife is the quintessence of 
 loyalty, and will be perfectly happy in having a soldier 
 to pet and make much of.' 
 
 He would listen to no denial, liut went away and 
 brought his wife, a sweet, gentle, motherly woman of 
 fifty, who took in the situation at a glance, and folding 
 May in her arms, said, ' My love, you Avill come and 
 stay with me till you see liim quite well and strong.' 
 
 The whole matter was arranged with so much delicacy 
 and true kindness that there was not a word to be said ; 
 and Dr. Bartlett saw^ his way clear to give his assent 
 and take his departure, leaving all parties content. 
 
 All very well ; but on the morning of the very day 
 that Henry was to be moved, the fine plan was sud- 
 denly disarranged. Up to the hospital came Mr. Ward 
 in dire consternation, to tell that his wife had been sud- 
 denly sent for to go to her father in Wisconsin ; he had 
 been taken with a stroke of paralysis, and she had 
 started by the early train, in hope of seeing him alive. 
 
 'What arc we to do?' he asked piteously of the 
 doctor. ' If they were married, it would be plain sail- 
 ing ; but a young officer and his lady-love, with no one 
 to matronize them but Piosalie — a good girl in her way, 
 
LITTLE MAY IN A NEW LIGHT. 161 
 
 and a capital housekeeper, but as wild as the wind, and 
 only seventeen. You see it is simply impossible.' 
 
 Mr. Ward had his own ideas of propriety, and be- 
 tween them and his wish to be kind to Henry, he was 
 in sore perplexity. Dr. Bartlett saw only one way out 
 of the dilemma : May must go home with him, leaving 
 Henry to be cared for by Mr. Ward, and to get a fur- 
 lough and come to Westfield as soon as he was fit for 
 the journey. So he went and laid the case before them, 
 explaining Mr. Ward's perplexity, and his own regret 
 that a promise to one of his old patients required him 
 to be at home by a certain day ; then he waited the reply, 
 the ready acquiescence in his wishes, always heretofore 
 given by May. 
 
 She was silent for a moment, and Henry only looked 
 earnestly, searchingly into her face, half averted from 
 him, and a little graver than was its wont. 
 
 ' You see, my dear,' said the doctor rather nervously, 
 *I must be at home by Wednesday, and under the circum- 
 stances it is impossible for me to leave you here.' 
 
 Very softly May laid her hand in Henry's, very 
 steadily she looked up — 
 
 ' Uncle Arthur, his wife may remain with him, ' she 
 said. 
 
 Never had Dr. Bartlett been so completely taken by 
 L 
 
162 LITTLE MAY L\ A NEW LIGHT. 
 
 surprise. This from May — fr(nn May, wIk*, a mouth 
 ago, could uot have her eugagement spokeu of witliout 
 blushing ! He ^vas absolutely stunned into silence. 
 There she stood, the pretty head drooping a little, the 
 fair childlike face faintly tinged with pink, the eyes 
 cast down, but only to meet the gaze upturned to hers, 
 * wonderful for rapture,' as it was, and as the good 
 doctor longed to say afterwards, when describing the 
 scene, only that he was principled against ([noting 
 poetry. 
 
 There was no gainsaying the truth of May's assertion ; 
 his wife might stay with him most undoubtedly, and 
 the two parties most nearly interested having given 
 their own consent, a very short ceremony was all that 
 was needed, but- - 
 
 Dr. Bartlett saw a great many obstacles in the way. 
 What would Mr. and ]\Irs. Stanley think ? May was 
 quite sure they would approve. He would telegraph to 
 Aurora. ' No,' said May very decidedly. ' It is a mere 
 mockery to ask advice when one's mind is made up,' 
 and so, overruling all objections, she carried her point ; 
 at the same time assuring Dr. Bartlett that the respon- 
 sibility rested solely with herself. Mr. Ward was de- 
 lighted ; it was the very thing he had wished, but had 
 not dared to suggest, and he eagerly undertook to ar- 
 
LITTLE MAY IN A NEW LIGHT. 1G3 
 
 range all the preliminaries ; but while he was talking 
 with the doctor, Henry beckoned to May to come 
 nearer, and as she bent down that no one else might 
 hear the whispered words, he said — 
 
 ' My darling, as it cannot be in church, as we would 
 both have wished, may it not be here ? The place is 
 sacred by a thousand sweet memories ; and I think too 
 we may give a drop from our fidl cup of happiness to 
 these poor fellows around us.' 
 
 The soft blue eyes w^ere full of tears as she answered 
 him, ' I should like it better than any other spot on 
 earth.' 
 
 And so it was that the afternoon sun, shining in at 
 the windows of Ward No. 5, lighted up a strange and 
 unwonted scene. The exquisite neatness and order that 
 reigned there were if possible more perfect than ever ; 
 the long table in the middle of the room was loaded 
 Avitli a profusion of wild-flowers from the woods ; near 
 the door was gathered a group of convalescents from the 
 other wards, nurses and attendants, while the occupants 
 of the double row of beds were raised up and supported 
 in attitudes where they too could fix their eyes on the 
 central figures. 
 
 Dressed for the first time in liis uniform, and looking 
 all tlie paler from the contrast, Henry Alston leaned 
 
1()4 LITTLE MAY IN A NEW LIGHT. 
 
 back upon the pillows, while beside hiin stood the lair 
 young bride in the white muslin dress Julia had un- 
 wittingly provided. Behind her were Dr. Bartlett, Mr. 
 Ward, and his daughter, where they could not shut out 
 the scene from any of the eager spectators ; and the 
 clergyman, at the other side of the bed, began the ser- 
 vice amidst the hushed silence. 
 
 Henry's voice distinct, though faint, and May's in its 
 soft silvery clearness, fell upon every listening ear ; the 
 promises were made, the prayers oftered, the blessing 
 given ; and as the last words were spoken, more than 
 one brave fellow who had faced death on many a field 
 covered his face to wipe away a tear, or checked the 
 half-uttered sob he felt risinfj in his throat. 
 
CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 
 
 WATCHING for Uncle Arthur in a fever of im- 
 patience — that was what Julia was doing four 
 days later ; now going to the window, now to the door, 
 to look down the road and wonder what could be keep- 
 ing him; and yet she expected no further news than 
 the last letters from May had brought, she had no 
 suspicion of the startling revelation in store for her. 
 Aurora was much more patient, whUing away the time 
 in a regular romp with her two boys, who were a never- 
 failing resource and comfort on all occasions ; and she 
 was down on the floor, playing bo-peep round the 
 corner of the sofa, when Julia exclaimed, ' There he is 
 at last !' Out they both darted to welcome him, and to 
 ask a dozen questions, waiting for an answer to none. 
 It was not till the boys had been duly kissed and sent 
 away to the nursery that Aurora expected to get any 
 satisfactory account of the absent darling, and, truth to 
 tell, the doctor seemed more reticent than was his wont. 
 
IGG THE BEGIXXIXCx OF THE END. 
 
 But when the door was shut upon the two little noisy 
 fellows, she seated herself for a good talk. 
 
 ' Now tell us all about it, Arthur ; you left dear May 
 quite well, and safe and happy in the keeping of that 
 good kind Mrs. Ward ? ' 
 
 ' In better keeping still,' said the doctor ; ' in that of 
 her husband.' 
 
 ' That is to be,' added Julia unsuspectingly. 
 
 ' That is' said the doctor authoritatively. ' There, 
 Aurora, the secret is out ; and if you want further con- 
 firmation of the fact, you wiU find it in that letter.' 
 
 ' Uncle Arthur ! ' Julia fairly shrieked, ' what do you 
 mean?' 
 
 But Aurora in silence and with her cheeks crimson, 
 opened the letter and turned to the signature, ' iVIay 
 Alston.' It was quite enough, she understood in an 
 instant. Aurora liad her impulses like the rest of us, 
 and the first (as in any mortal woman under the cir- 
 cumstances) was one of indignation ; certainly she had 
 deserved and expected something different from tliis at 
 May's hands. But that mood lasted only till she coidd 
 read the letter ^vith its brief simple explanation. 
 
 ' jVIy darling little ]\Iay !' she murnmred, ' right, true- 
 hearted, clear-sighted as ever. Read it, Julia, it is just 
 like herself.' 
 
THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 1G7 
 
 ' Then you absolve me ? ' asked the doctor, half 
 amused at the celerity with which Aurora had gone 
 over to the romantic side of the matter. 
 
 ' Absolve you ! I fancy your permission was never 
 asked.' 
 
 * True there, Aurora ; my gentle obedient little charge 
 was suddenly transformed into the most determined 
 resolute woman I ever met.' 
 
 ' Of course ; I always knew she could be that when 
 she chose, and I was always sure she would only choose 
 where she was clearly in the right.' 
 
 ' Aurora, Aurora, what a comfortable mamma you 
 would seem to all the romantic yovmg ladies of the pre- 
 sent day ! I see May was right not to be afraid of you. 
 And now, what will her father say ? ' 
 
 ' That he is proud of her, as he should be,' said Aurora 
 unhesitatingly. ' What else could he say with that letter 
 before him ? ' 
 
 Then Dr. Bartlett began and told the whole story 
 from beginning to end, though often interrupted by 
 Julia. 
 
 ' To think of May being married, and I not there ! 
 And oh, mamma, to have all my fine plans shattered ; 
 not an orange-blossom, not even a bride's-cake ! ' 
 
 ' After due deliberation,' said the doctor with pre- 
 
168 THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 
 
 tended gravity, ' we thought the happiness of two people 
 worth even the sacrifice of those mighty adjuncts of an 
 ordinary marriage ! ' 
 
 ' And I had designed such an exquisite dress for her.' 
 
 ' As to that, she could not have looked lovelier ; I told 
 you she was dressed in white, though what it was and 
 where she got it I cannot tell.' 
 
 Light suddenly dawned upon Julia. 
 
 ' Oh ! Uncle Arthur ! you don't mean to say she 
 was married in that old washed muslin she wore all 
 last summer?' 
 
 ' I don't care if she and her grandmother before her 
 had worn it for fifty summers ; she looked all a bride 
 should look,' declared the doctor stoutly. 
 
 ' dear, dear ! for the credit of the family I shall 
 have to get married myself, and do the thing in decent 
 style.' 
 
 ' By all means,' laughed the doctor ; ' we shall try to 
 find some brave fellow in papa's regiment, who will have 
 discretion enough to keep out of the hospitals.' 
 
 ' Thank you ; but I 'm not one of the victims of the 
 military fever ; I don't think the army has absorbed all 
 the goodness and worth in the country,' said Julia a 
 little defiantly. 
 
 ' Oh, you don't ? I would dearly like to tell that to a 
 
THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 169 
 
 certain young friend of mine, who boasts no shoidder- 
 
 straps.' 
 
 Julia's cheeks were like fire. 
 
 ' You need tell it to no one, Uncle Arthur. It was 
 said solely for your benefit, that you might not fancy I 
 think the less of you for not volunteering your services 
 
 as surgeon.' 
 
 She would have made her escape, but the doctor 
 caught her and held her fast. '0 you monstrous 
 little hypocrite ! ' 
 
 She made one struggle and was gone. 
 
 He threw himself back in his chair, laughing 
 
 heartily. 
 
 ' I would Uke to teU that to Hector M'Intyre,' he said. 
 
 ' You need not trouble yourself,' Aurora replied ; ' I 
 think they understand each other.' 
 
 ' You don't mean to say there is anything serious ? 
 What will their father say to me when he comes home 
 and finds one daughter married, if not both ? Nice 
 guardianship I have exercised.' 
 
 Aurora laughed. ' You need not be afraid, Arthur. 
 In Julia's case it will not come to that, while Hector has 
 his present charge; indeed, I believe there has been 
 nothing between them beyond a silent understanding, 
 an unspoken avowal.' 
 
170 THE BEGIXNIXG OF THE EXD. 
 
 ' Aided and abetted l)y somebody who shall be name- 
 less.' 
 
 ' Don't tease me, Arthur ; tell me more about May. 
 Was slip really so calm and self-possessed all the 
 time ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; during the ceremony she was evidently think- 
 ing far more of Henry than of herself, wishing to spare 
 him all imnecessaiy excitement. When it was over 
 the ward-master came to her and said that if it were not 
 asking too much, some of the men woidd like to shake 
 hands ^\ith her. 1 wish you could haxe seen her as 
 she went the rounds of the ward, receiving their good 
 ^^^shes, their thanks, and blessings. Poor fellows, they 
 were evidently touched by her readiness to give them 
 pleasure. Henry was rather exhausted by the time he 
 was laid dovm in the pretty room prepared for them at 
 Mr. Ward's, and she sat by him till he fell asleep ; then 
 she slipped away, ran down to the parlour where I was 
 waiting for her, threw herself into my arms and had a 
 good cry.' 
 
 ' Poor little darling ; poor little jNIay.' 
 
 ' Ah, she was no longer poor little ]May when I left 
 she was serenity itself, so calm and sweet and bright, 
 and already wearing her new dignity so gracefully ; 
 reallv a model bride.' 
 
THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 171 
 
 ' It is impossible to realize it ; to fancy her actually 
 Henry Alston's wife.' 
 
 ' He was a wise fellow when he made choice of her ; 
 only wait till you see for yourself.' 
 
 But it was longer waiting than any of them anticipated. 
 Henry regained his strength very rapidly ; still, he had 
 been necessarily absent from duty so long that he 
 hesitated to ask for a furlough when he was well enough 
 to travel, and ]\Iay honoured his conscientious scruples. 
 He was appointed to duty in Washington, to her intense 
 delight and thankfulness, and there for the year after 
 their marriage they remained, postponing for a time the 
 intended visit home. 
 
 Certain as May had been of her father and mother 
 approving of her decision, she was doubly happy when 
 she received the assurance. Aurora's letter was over- 
 flowing with motherly affection ; she would have done 
 the very same thing, so she had not a word to say in 
 remonstrance. Colonel Stanley wrote : — ' My little girl, 
 you have been as brave and true-hearted as I could have 
 wished, and I don't know whether your husband or your 
 father is most proud of you.' And Virginia began her 
 letter thus : — ' You are infinitely better than an angel. 
 May ; at least, no angel of whom I ever read -would have 
 behaved in a manner so wholly satisfactory.' 
 
1 72 THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 
 
 Julia was terribly disappointed about the postpone- 
 ment of the trip to Westfield ; but as for Alay, it must 
 be confessed that she was mucli too happy to care for 
 anything else so long as she could have her husband 
 with her, a state of mind her sister soon suspected, and 
 silently resented. But the happy little bride knew 
 nothing of this, and long before she saw Julia again, 
 that young lady had attained to a more reasonable con- 
 dition, and had ceased to feel aggrieved that home and 
 friends and all the world liad become as nothing to May 
 in comparison with her husband. Hers was only the 
 common experience of sisters and brothers, even of 
 fathers and mothers, when some heart whoUy their own 
 from childhood wakes up to the reality of a deeper love, 
 and deserts the old home for the new ; the pang is in- 
 evitable, the sense of loss unavoidable ; but Julia wisely 
 held her peace, and made no complaint, even to Aurora. 
 And so in due time matters righted themselves, and at 
 last she even came to understand and sympathize with 
 May's ' idolatry;' but that was not yet. 
 
 Meanwhile the bright little spirit extracted sunshine 
 from everything; even the life in a boarding-house, 
 where they removed as soon as Mr. Ward would permit 
 them, was found to have a certain charm of novelty, 
 and furnished topics for plenty of amusing comment in 
 
THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 173 
 
 May's letters home. Wasliington was fiill of interest 
 for her, as soon as Henry was able to take her out and 
 show her the lions ; the summer did not pass mthout 
 some small excitement from the last of the annual Con- 
 federate ' raids ;' and the autumn brought a great joy, 
 no less than a visit from her father, who was sent to 
 the capital on business of importance. He managed to 
 get leave of absence for a few days, and then came the 
 question, ' Would May go home with him ? Henry 
 could easily spare her, and he would bring her back.' 
 
 ' No, dear papa, I would rather not,' said May gently, 
 and the wistful eyes turned to her husband forbade fur- 
 ther mention of the matter. Any day he might be 
 taken from her, she never forgot that, and so long as 
 they could be together she would not leave him. So 
 Colonel Stanley went home alone, and when he was 
 there Aurora found no room in her heart to wish for 
 May or anything else. Then he went back to his regi- 
 ment, and but for the two bright, beautiful boys, with 
 their merry ways and their joyous voices echoing 
 through the old house on the hill, Aurora and Julia 
 might have found it dreary enough during the following 
 winter. 
 
 But in Washington the winter brought a number of 
 new interests, though even May's loyalty was not proof 
 
174- THE BE(;iNXL\(; OF THK END. 
 
 against the general dulness of the debates in Congress. 
 She was forced to confess herself disappointed there, 
 and at last she gave up her visits to the gallery of the 
 House or Senate. But to the unsophisticated western 
 girl a reception at the "Wliite House was a gi'eat affair, an 
 introduction to the President an honour not to be lightly 
 esteemed, and the opportunity of meeting the men who 
 occupied the foremost ];)laces in the conflict, military and 
 political, was not the less valued because so easily at- 
 tained. Not that j\Ia}- entered much into the gaieties 
 of Washington life ; one reception or one party a week 
 was quite enough for her; and she found her great 
 happiness in the long tpiiet evenings spent alone with 
 her liusband, witli no other society than that of some of 
 their favourite books. 
 
 Soon after the beginning of the year, however, there 
 began to creep into her letters little hints of a longing 
 for Aurora's presence. ' Dear, dear mamma, what would 
 I not give to have you beside me now ?' or, ' 1 wish, oh ! 
 how I wish that I could see you !' Then at last an 
 urgent entreaty that Aurora would come to her in the 
 spring, followed by a beseeching letter from Henry. 
 ' She is so young, dear mamma ; and even I may not be 
 with her. I dare not trust my darling to strangers.' 
 
 There was but one answer possible, and the motherly 
 
THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 1 75 
 
 heart had been }-earning over the absent daughter long 
 before the request was made. 
 
 ' Come in time for the 4th of March,' May had 
 written ; ' I am sure you would like to see our good 
 President renew the oath of office.' 
 
 So Aurora kissed and hugged her two babies, gave 
 them into Julia's charge without a misgiving, though 
 with a few natural tears, and went, arri^dng in Wash- 
 ington on the second day of March. 
 
 ' Yes, it is the same little May,' was Aurora's first im- 
 pression, as a pair of soft blue eyes sparkled with wel- 
 come, and she was held in a close embrace, with the 
 same sweet voice murmuring, ' Dear, dearest mamma, 
 how good and kind of you to come !' But before the 
 evening was ended, she added, ' The same, yet not the 
 same ;' for it was no longer the child Ma}-, but the wife, 
 with an indescribable change in air and manner, that 
 touched Aurora, and yet made her smile as she noted it. 
 The old shyness and bashfulness were gone, and in their 
 stead there was a certain gentle dignity, very pretty to 
 behold. How much there was to talk over, how many 
 questions to ask about Julia, ' the darling boys,' Hector 
 M'lntyre, and all other friends ; even the cows and the 
 chickens, and the plants which had been May's especial 
 care. Then and there was produced a small tin box, in 
 
176 THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 
 
 which the kind and thoughtful mamma liad brought 
 some lovely flowers cut from her own plants, in proof of 
 tlieir flourishing condition. The quick blush of pleasure 
 suffused the sweet face, and the bright eyes filled with 
 tears ; nothing could have given such delight, and it 
 was pleasant to watch her as she touched them so lov- 
 ingly, recognising each. ' This is from my own helio- 
 trope; and oh, Henry, see, — this is a bud from your 
 rose-bush, how lovely it is ! and this is a bit of papa's 
 myrtle.' 
 
 At last May bethought herself : ' ]Mamma, I am sure 
 you are tired ; come, I will take you to your room and 
 make you comfortable.' 
 
 ' That is reversing the order of things, my love ; I 
 thought I had come to take care of you.' 
 
 ' Oh, so you shall after to-night ; but come now.' 
 And when they were in Aurora's room : ' Will you feel 
 inclined to go to morning service at half-past seven 
 to-morrow ? ' 
 
 ' May !' exclaimed Aurora in consternation, ' you have 
 not been getting up at that hour ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I have though, since Lent began ; it does me 
 no harm, mamma, but a great deal of good. Henry 
 objected at first, but I told him I would lie down and 
 rest after breakfast.' 
 
THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 177 
 
 Aurora shook her head. ' It is very evident you need 
 some one to look after you.' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma !' It was the new May, not the old, 
 from whom came the indignant remonstrance ; ' I am 
 sure Henry is only too anxiously careful about me.' 
 
 ' My dear child, I did not for an instant mean to 
 reflect upon Henry ; I know you could not be 
 watched over with greater devotion ; but, as it happens, 
 he has had no vast amount of experience.' 
 
 May laughed and blushed, and peace was restored 
 between them. 
 
 Aurora was scarcely awake the next morning, when 
 her door opened and May appeared in bonnet and 
 shawl. 
 
 * Oh, I am glad you are not up, mamma. I would 
 not call you, for I wanted you to rest. You will go 
 with us this evening.' 
 
 And away she went, having her own will, as she 
 always did. 
 
 Nor could Aui'ora find it in her heart to interfere : 
 the daily service was such comfort and delight to May, 
 and she was really so sensible and prudent, so ready to 
 resign any and every other enjoyment. 
 
 Henry was indefatigable in his chivalrous attentions 
 to Aurora ; he went about with her, showing her the 
 
 M 
 
178 THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 
 
 lions, and proving himself the best of guides, only apo- 
 logizing now and then for tiring her by too hard a day's 
 work, on the ground that he was liable to be ordered off 
 any hour, and then she would have no one to go out 
 with her. But Aurora was not easily tired, and was a 
 most satisfactory person to guide, never failing to be 
 interested and amused. 
 
 With Henry she stood, on the 4th of March, amidst 
 the dense assembly that listened to the few remarkable 
 words of the inaugural address, thrilled and touched 
 beyond expression by their noble simplicity and faith. 
 And in the evening she went to the last public recep- 
 tion of ' the good President,' to touch his hand and 
 pass on in the crowded room : but never could she for- 
 get the deep tender pathos of the eyes that met her own 
 for an instant, as she looked up in strangely mingled 
 pain and reverence to the face so wearied and worn with 
 the burden of a nation's care. 
 
 'What do you think of our President?' May asked 
 in the morning. 
 
 ' Think of him ! O ^Nlay, tlie whole of these four 
 years' trouble and anguish seems written on liis counte- 
 nance ; 1 felt as T looked at him that he had borne my 
 sorrow and anxiety, and that of every heart which has 
 suffered in the war. We mav congratulate ourselves. 
 
THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 179 
 
 for who could fill his place ? But to offer words of con- 
 gratulation to him would be bitter irony; those who 
 love him should rather weep that he has another four 
 years of wearing anxiety and care before him.' 
 
 A fortnight later came the long-dreaded summon^. 
 Henry went home, entered the room where his wife and 
 her mother were sitting, and going up to May laid a 
 hand on each shoulder, bent his head and kissed her. 
 
 ' My darhng ! ' and there was no quiver in the voice, 
 ' I am ordered to the front ; ^f ill }^ou and mamma get 
 my things ready ? ' 
 
 Every particle of colour fled from May's face, but she 
 only asked ' When ? ' 
 
 ' I must leave to-morrow morning early.' 
 
 She took it very quietly, too quietly, Aurora thought, 
 fearing the consequences of such repression of feeling ; 
 but she was relieved upon coming out of church after 
 the evening service, to see May hastily draw down her 
 veil to hide the traces of her tears. Very early that 
 night Aurora bade Henry good-bye, and went to her 
 own room, and when she saw May again he was gone. 
 
 A brave little spirit it was most undoubtedly, and 
 wonderfully did she bear up ; but on the following 
 Sunday afternoon, as Aurora was sitting reading, she 
 was accosted thus (May was lying on the sofa with a 
 
180 THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 
 
 book in lier hand, but she had not turned a leaf for 
 more than half-an-hour) — 
 
 ' ]\Ianmia, do you think it would be wrong to pray 
 that if anything happens to Henry I maybe taken too ?' 
 
 Such a wistful look out of the blue eyes, such an 
 earnestness in the soft voice. 
 
 ' Could you wish your baby to be motherless as well 
 as fatherless ? May ! ' 
 
 ' I did not mean that, manmia,' she said quickly, the 
 colour starting to her pale face, ' I meant that we should 
 both go to him at once ; it would be so much easier.' 
 
 ' My dear child, that should be left entirely to the 
 will of God ; but I hope and believe nothing will 
 happen to Henry ; and one thing I' know, for his sake 
 his little wife should not even think such thoughts.' 
 
 'For his sake.' She had touched the right chord 
 there ; thenceforward May was most resolutely cheerful. 
 
 March ended, April began, and suddenly came the 
 news, long waited for, unexpected at last, startling the 
 usually quiet unimpressible town into ?i furore of excite- 
 ment. Guns were firing, bells ringing, flags fluttering 
 from every house ; at the corners of the streets men 
 were shaking hands, almost embracing each other in 
 the exuberance of their joy ; the newsboys were rush- 
 ing hither and thither shouting the glorious tidings, 
 
THE BEGINNING OF THE END. 181 
 
 and vainly striving to supply the insatiable demand 
 for 'extras.' From house to house flew the magic 
 words, ' Richmond is taken ! * At last ; at last ! 
 
 ' I am so glad that Henry was there ! ' was May's 
 first exclamation, forgetful of all possible danger, think- 
 ing only of his share in the triumphant achievement of 
 the long-delayed result. 
 
 And Henry was there. At the earliest possible 
 moment came a letter giving a full account of the en- 
 trance of the troops into the city, where he remained 
 with the army of occupation. But all the pride of the 
 soldier's wife, all the gratified national feeling, were as 
 nothing to the joy that sprang up in May's heart as she 
 came to Henry's closing sentence : — 
 
 ' I shall try very hard to be sent as bearer of de- 
 spatches, or in any other capacity, if only I may get 
 back to Washington.' 
 
 Meanwhile she was most thankful that all anxiety for 
 him was ended, that he was not with the main body of 
 the army, compelled day after day by a defeated yet 
 desperate and still defiant foe, to fight a series of battles 
 whose only possible result was the sacrifice of precious 
 lives. 
 
 Would the carnage never end ? Had not blood 
 enough been shed ? 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THK SPRINPx OF 1865. 
 
 IT was five o'clock in the morning of the 10th of 
 April. Aurora had sent away the nurse to take 
 her needful rest ; and by the fire she sat^ holding in her 
 arms May's little daughter, whose life as yet was num- 
 bered only by hours. From the bed came the sound of 
 the quiet regular breathing wliich showed that the young 
 mother had fallen asleep, and Aurora stirred neither 
 hand nor foot, so fearful was she of disturbing the happy 
 slumberer. She was thinking of Henry, of her own 
 darlings at home, of their father far away, still exposed 
 to the perils of tlie war, when suddenly through the 
 quiet morning air resounded the deep loud report of a 
 cannon, shaking the house and rattling the windows. 
 She held her breath to listen ; again and again came 
 the guns in quick succession ; and then a voice, weak, 
 but eager with excitement, exclaimed — 
 
 ' mamma, what is it ? Don't you think Lee has 
 surrendered ?' 
 
THE SPRING OF 1865. 183 
 
 ' It must be, it can be nothing else ; but, dearest, I 
 am so sorry to have you disturbed.' 
 
 ' Oh, don't say so, the sound of these guns is better 
 than a week's sleep.' 
 
 ' I am not sure of that ; they might have waited a 
 little, and not have roused the whole town at such an 
 unreasonable hour.' 
 
 * What a speech from a soldier's wife ! ' said May, 
 a little miscliievously ; ' and to a soldier's wife be- 
 sides.' 
 
 ' Soldiers' wives are mortal women, and you are my 
 first care. Try to compose yourself, dear, and you may 
 possibly sleep again.' 
 
 ' With that sound in my ears ? 1 would not lose it 
 for the world.' 
 
 ' May, May !' said Aurora, in real distress, ' you must 
 not talk and excite yourself so.' 
 
 ' Well, I won't then ; I will be still and count the 
 guns.' 
 
 And she did. 
 
 ' Is that all?' she said, when they ceased at length. 
 
 ' All ? I hope so, I am sure.' 
 
 ' mamma, it is the sweetest music I have heard 
 for many a day. They might have kept it up a little 
 longer ; there is no need to save the powder now.' 
 
184 THE SPRING OF 1865, 
 
 ' You incorrigibly naughty child ! What am I to iJo 
 to keep you quiet ? ' 
 
 ' Just bring me my baby for a moment.' And as 
 Aurora laid the little creature beside her, she said, ' Do 
 you know it, baby dear ? I wish you did. Papa is 
 safe, quite safe, now.' Then startled at her own transfer 
 of the title, she looked up to see how it had struck 
 Aurora. ' And my own papa,' she added, — ' you don't 
 think there will be any more fighting ? ' 
 
 ' I hope not,' said Aurora ; ' but. May, I will not have 
 you speak another word ; I had no idea you could be 
 so naughty.' 
 
 ' baby, baby,' whispered ^lay, ' you don't know 
 what a terrible ogre of a grandmamma you have got !' 
 
 Henry Avas as good as his word ; on Thursday he 
 arrived in Washington on important business ; very re- 
 solutely he bent his steps to the War Department first 
 of all, delivered his despatches, received hi.-^ orders, and 
 then — 
 
 Aurora was standing by the window when she caught 
 a glimpse of the familiar figure ; and hastily snatching 
 up the baby, she laid it in May's arms, whispered 
 Henry has come,' turned the astonished nurse into the 
 next room, followed her and shut the door, just in 
 time. 
 
THE SPRING OF 1865. 185 
 
 There are meetings too sacred to be intruded upon 
 by human eyes ; Aurora fancied this was one of 
 them. 
 
 She was recalled very soon ; and the same evening 
 there was held a grand consultation over the baby's 
 name. 
 
 ' I think it should be May/ said Aurora, ' for she is 
 going to be her mamma in miniature.' 
 
 But the manmia would not hear of such a thing ; and 
 had her own proposal, which came out at last — 
 
 ' Victoria, — that is the name for her, Henry, don't 
 you see ?' 
 
 ' Our little republican calling her daughter for a 
 queen !' laughed Aurora. 
 
 ' Mamma, you know better ; to be sure the best of 
 queens has made the name honourable ; but I want 
 baby to have it in remembrance of her birthday and the 
 victory of the Eepublic' 
 
 Henry assented, as he probably would have done if 
 May had wished to name the child ' Boadicea' or 
 ' Bellona.' 
 
 ' Victoria Alston,' said Aurora ; ' too many A 's, May, 
 they do not go well together.' 
 
 ' Oh, 1 don't know,' said Henry ; ' Virginia has never 
 
186 THE SPRING OF 1865. 
 
 found any inconvenience from the same thing ; besides, 
 we can have a middle name. Victoria Grant — how 
 would that do?' 
 
 May fairly clapped her hands. 
 
 ' And moreover,' she said demurely, ' our daughter 
 may not always remain Victoria Alston — I hope she 
 will not.' 
 
 ' That looks like a hand for a wedding-ring,' said 
 Henry, lifting up the tiny pink fingers and kissing 
 them. ' INIay, you are early developing the ten- 
 dencies of a match-making mamma.' 
 
 ' And if I am,' she said, with a pretty faint blush, ' is 
 it not the very highest compliment I can pay my hus- 
 band ? ' 
 
 The following day was Good Friday ; it came and 
 passed with its own sacred services, its deep and holy 
 associations. 
 
 On Saturday morning Aurora was just putting on 
 her bonnet to go to the last early service, when there 
 was a tap at her door. 
 
 She opened it, and Henry stood before her with such 
 a face of woe that her heart died within her, and she 
 could not utter a word. 
 
 ' It is nothing to us personally more than to the whole 
 people,' he said, answering her look ; ' but the worst of 
 
THE SPKING OF 1865. 187 
 
 all calamities has fallen upon us — the President has 
 been assassinated.' 
 
 Who shall describe the darkness of that terrible day, 
 with its lowering sky and the sobbing rain that fell at 
 intervals ; the houses but yesterday fluttering with flags, 
 now draped in mourning; the unspeakable sorrow 
 bowing the hearts of a nation as the heart of one man ? 
 Let silence fall over it ; it is still too near to be spoken 
 of with calmness by any who shared its loss and desola- 
 tion. Aurora was one of those w^ho looked upon that 
 never-to-be-forgotten scene, when on a fair spring day, 
 under a cloudless sky, with the glorious sunshine light- 
 ing up everything, and life starting anew from the long 
 sleep of winter ; amid the tolling of bells, the firing of 
 minute-guns, the hushed silence of a mighty multitude 
 of mourners, there began that wonderful funeral pro- 
 cession, which was to wdnd its way across half a con- 
 tinent. Through crowded cities, quiet country towns 
 and villages it passed; and the bowed heads, the tears 
 of millions, attested the love that the simple noble 
 lieart had v/on ; until they laid him dowai to rest in his 
 quiet grave, near the home that he had left to give him- 
 self a sacrifice for his country. 
 
 Then came the tidings of Johnston's surrender to 
 Sherman ; and the war was ended. With thankfulness. 
 
188 THK SPRING OF 18C5. 
 
 but with little exultation, the long-hoped-for day was 
 hailed by hearts too chastened and subdued for another 
 outburst of ecstatic joy. The end was gained for 
 which no sacrifice had been deemed too great, but the 
 victors in the strife were standing over a new-made 
 grave, with arms reversed and lowered banners, while 
 from the stricken heart of the nation arose the 
 words — 
 
 ' Not unto us, Lord, not unto us, but unto thy 
 name give the praise, for thy loving mercy and for thy 
 truth's sake.' 
 
 ' You will stay and see the grand review, mamma ? 
 Oh, I would not miss it for anything.' 
 
 But Aurora shook her head. 
 
 ' I want to see my babies, May.' 
 
 The young mother looked down to her own baby on 
 her knee, and said nothing more. 
 
 ■ Besides,' said Aurora, ' you know my hero i.s not to 
 be there.' 
 
 Colonel Stanley had not been with Sherman in liis 
 wonderful march to the sea ; he had been left behind to 
 fill a less brilliant but scarcely unimportant post, hold- 
 ing one of the points which it w^as necessary to keep in 
 possession. Such had been his fortune all through the 
 
THE SPKING OF 1865. 189 
 
 war, faithfully, conscientiously fulfilling his duties, now 
 and then through great personal danger, but in a quiet 
 way; never having any opportunity of distinguishing 
 himself in the sight of the world, gaining no laurels, 
 making himself no name. How many such men were 
 there, who were content to remain in the background 
 unnoticed, unadmired, if only they might do their part 
 for the salvation of their country ; how many to whom 
 is due a debt of gratitude scarcely less than that so well 
 bestowed upon the great generals who led the armies on 
 to victory ! 
 
 Aurora was quite content ; it was better so, more in 
 keeping with her husband's whole character. She 
 wanted no praise for him, fame could not have made 
 him greater in her eyes. 
 
 She went home, to find Julia sadly t}Tannized over by 
 the two boys, and to remonstrate with her for having 
 spoiled them more in two months than their mamma 
 had done in three years. May remained in Washington 
 and saw the grand review. It was well worth seeing, 
 whether one's own special hero were there or not. 
 
 Nature was propitious ; the 23d of May dawned 
 clear, bright, and beautiful, after a rain which had 
 effectually laid the dust and purified and cleared the 
 atmosphere. For once the capital city put on its best 
 
190 THE s^KI^"(; of i860. 
 
 appearance, determined to do honour to tlie returning 
 heroes. 
 
 Down the broad avenue for hour after hour poured 
 the ' mighty river of marching men/ the army of the 
 Potomac. Tn no holiday attire, like tlie first recruits 
 in the beginning of the war, but just as they had come 
 from the terrible battle-fields, the fatal trenches, the 
 deadly swamps ; — only now the officers' horses were 
 loaded vnth wreaths of flowers ; garlands were twined 
 round the silent mouths of the guns ; whole companies, 
 even regiments there were, where eveiy man had a rose- 
 bud in his cap, or fixed upon his bayonet, the offerings 
 of the school children assembled on the broad steps and 
 portico of the Capitol. 
 
 Eloquent witnesses to the work tliat had been done, 
 and to the manner of the doing of it, were the torn and 
 tattered flags, ' the banners ragged in a hundred fights ;' 
 blackened and begrimed with smoke, rent to atoms, in 
 some instances scarcely a vestige remaijiing on the staff, 
 yet carried how proudly, with what a sense of exultation, 
 in the face of the assembled people 1 
 
 Cheer after cheer rent the air, there was waving of 
 handkerchiefs, scattering of bouquets ; yet the glad ex- 
 citement was unconsciously toned down and subdued, 
 never rising to the point of wild and tumultuous enthu- 
 
THE SPKING OF 1865. 191 
 
 siasm. And it was well ; for alas ! how many had gone 
 forth with that army who should return no more ; how 
 many a place was vacant in the ranks, how many in the 
 homes throughout the length and breadth of the land ; 
 while uppermost in every heart was the thought of him 
 who should have been the first to welcome the returning 
 army, whose true great heart would have rejoiced in 
 that day with a joy and a pride above all others. No 
 need of the badge of mourning worn upon every arm, 
 fluttering from every flag-staff, to remind the nation that 
 its father and its head was gone. 
 
 With what eager eyes did May watch for her hus- 
 band's regiment (he was a major now) ; it came at last, 
 and as he looked up, met her gaze with his own bright 
 smile, and took off his cap to bow to her, the little head 
 went down upon her hands, and she saw no more for a 
 time. 
 
 ' Are you not tired, my little wife ? Can you stand 
 another day of such excitement ? ' Henry asked that 
 evening. 
 
 And she made answer : ' I would not lose the sight 
 of one of the brave noble fellows for the world.' 
 
 Henry was with her the next day, when the ' Western 
 army,' Sherman's boys, passed in review in like manner ; 
 the men who had made that daring marvellous march. 
 
192 TIIK SPKIXG OF 1865. 
 
 who had fought those countless battles. In unbroken 
 column, with steady front, unfaltering step, they came 
 on, and the spectators ceased to wonder that they had 
 accomplished whatever they undertook. Perhaps they 
 awakened a little more enthusiasm than the army of 
 the Potomac, for this was their first appearance in the 
 capital; and there had been a certain romance and 
 mystery about their movements during the time when, 
 cut off from all communication with the rest of the 
 country, they had been pushing their way through the 
 very heart of the Confederacy. So the interest never 
 failed, the welcoming shouts never faltered through the 
 six hours of the second day, and until the last of the 
 two hundred thousand men had marclied by, and the 
 grand review was over. 
 
 Once during that morning, as Major Alston turned to 
 his wife with some passing remark, he found her in 
 tears. 
 
 ' What is it, May ? Are you thinking, little tender 
 heart, of those who have not returned to share this 
 day's triumph?' 
 
 May shook her head. 
 
 ' No, they have not failed of their reward ; and those 
 who loved them have the best of all comfort. I was 
 thinking, Henry, of the unhappy Southern people who 
 
THE SPRING OF 18G5. 193 
 
 liave given their best and dearest in an unrighteous 
 cause, and for whom there comes no day of recompense, 
 no glad and triumphant welcome offered or received, 
 nothing; but blank desolation, loss, and ima vailing 
 regret.' 
 
 In answer, Henry took out of his pocket-book the 
 beautiful and touching lines written by Frances Ann 
 Kemble on the ' Hour of Victory,' and gave them to 
 May to read ; but he could scarcely have thought by 
 doing so to wipe away her tears. 
 
 There was a little pleasant rivalry betv/een the two 
 armies, and in the street car, as they were going home, 
 Heniy and May were the auditors of an animated dis- 
 cussion. 
 
 ' Sherman's boys beat the army of the Potomac at 
 marching,' said one speaker. 
 
 ' Well they might,' retorted another, ' after marching 
 all up and down the whole country, they might do that 
 well if nothing else ; the army of the Potomac has had 
 something else to do besides practising its steps.' 
 
 ' The ladies are the best judges,' said a soldier of that 
 Western army who was present ; and turning to May 
 he asked very respectfully, ' Which did you think made 
 the finest show, miss ? ' 
 
 May answered quite simply : ' I am sure I cannot 
 N 
 
194 THF, SPRING OF 1865. 
 
 tell, I never thought of it in that light, and I could not 
 make any comparison, for my father fought in the one 
 army, my husband in the other.' 
 
 As the car stopped just then, she rose and laid her 
 hand on Henry's arm with a most undoubted air of 
 possession. The soldier who had spoken to her sprang 
 to his feet, his hat off in an instant — 
 
 ' I am sure I beg ten thousand pardons, madam ; but 
 I think we are all answered.' 
 
 May's pretty blushing smile satisfied him as much 
 as her husband's half-amused assurance that no apology 
 was necessary. 
 
 ' For really, ^lay,' he said to her afterwards, ' in that 
 hat you look uncommonly like a little girl I used to 
 know in Westfield ; you are practising an imposition on 
 the public' 
 
 ' Wliat shall I do ? ' she a-sked in mock distress ; ' will 
 you buy me a wig and spectacles ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I think I will ; but I will take some years to 
 decide about them.' 
 
CHAPTEK XIV. 
 
 ■ FREE AT LAST. 
 
 THE first bit of news wliicli greeted Aurora on lier 
 return home was that Mrs. M'Intyre had gone to 
 New York to pay a visit to her sister ; and as the visit 
 was destined to affect the fortunes of several people, we 
 may go back a little and see how it was brought about. 
 Early in April, Hector M'Intyre, going home one 
 evening, heard an unfamiliar voice in conversation with 
 his stepmother. 
 
 The sound of his footstep in the passage evidently 
 interrupted the speaker rather hastily, for when he 
 entered the parlour Mrs. M'Intyre was standing by the 
 centre-table, professedly engaged in examining a book 
 with which she was quite familiar, but with the em- 
 barrassed air of a person trying to seem at ease. 
 
 ' Oh, Hector, are you there ? Let me introduce you 
 to my cousin, Mr. John Harrington.' 
 
 Hector had never heard of Mr. John Harrington, but 
 
196 FKEE AT LAST. 
 
 he welcomed him at once as Mrs. M'lntyre's cousin, 
 asked when he had arrived in Westfield, insisted upon 
 sending to the hotel for his carpet-bag and valise, and 
 invited him to remain as long as he found it convenient. 
 
 The new-comer was a tall, dark, sun-burnt man of 
 about thirty-five, with a frank, pleasant manner and 
 expression ; yet there was something in the lines about 
 the mouth and eyes which seemed to say that he had 
 suffered, and borne his suffering in silence. He gave 
 an account of himself at once : he had been for years 
 absent from the country, had just returned from China, 
 and longing for the sight of a friendly face, he had come 
 to Westfield to see his cousin. All very satisfactory, 
 but why had Mrs. M'Intyre, usually so fond of talking 
 about her own relations, never happened to mention 
 this one ? 
 
 He proved a very agreeable companion, for he had 
 roamed all over the world, and during his travels he 
 had kept his eyes and ears open, — by no means an 
 invariable ride with travellers. Hector was very sorry 
 when he took his departure at the end of a week ; but 
 it was not until he was gone that the extraordinary 
 change in Mrs. M'Intyre became apparent. What had 
 come over her to make her so unlike her former self, 
 — so gentle and subdued, so quiet and thoughtful ? 
 
FREE AT LAST. 1 9 7 
 
 A fortnight passed, and then she announced her 
 determination to go and see her sister in New York, 
 taking her little girls with her. As she had never 
 spoken of this sister in very affectionate terms, it was 
 scarcely vincharitable to suspect the existence of some 
 other attraction drawing her to the east. 
 
 When she had been gone a month, Hector received a 
 letter of such unusual length that he was quite sure it 
 must contain imj)ortant intelligence, his stepmother's 
 notes usually consisting of about a dozen lines of the 
 merest commonplace. He did not open it till he was 
 alone at home in the evening. It ran thus : — 
 
 ' Dear Hector, — I write to announce my engagement 
 to my cousin, John Harrington. It is possible that you 
 may be taken by surprise, and I feel it to be due to you 
 no less than to myself that I shall make some explana- 
 tion. 
 
 ' We were brought up together, and I never remember 
 the time when John did not call me his " little wife," 
 when I did not accept the title as the prophecy of my 
 future. So it was no matter of surprise when we were 
 formally engaged ; I was sixteen at the time, he a few 
 years older. How we were separated would take too 
 long to tell ; there were those who hesitated at nothing 
 
198 FREE AT LAST. 
 
 to accomplish their own selfish ends, and by a long 
 series of falsehoods and deceptions I was induced to 
 break off the engagement. He left the country, and 
 from that day I neither saw nor heard of him until he 
 came to Westfield. But never for one instant did I 
 cease to love him ; in my innermost heart I have been 
 true to him through all these miserable years. 
 
 ' I married my first husband in sheer desperation, 
 determined to conquer all show of feeling. IMy two 
 little girls were born, and then their father died. I was 
 left a widow with a mere ]Dittance to live upon. I 
 struggled on for three years ; then I met ]\Ir. ^M'lntjrre ; 
 he offered me a home, independence, the protection of 
 his name and hearth. You shall not blame me, Hector ; 
 I was miserably poor, and the war was threatening the 
 South \vith desolation ; for the sake of my children I 
 married him, and I ha^'e never repented it. 
 
 ' He too was taken, and no's\- John Harrington has 
 returned, the only man I ever loved ; he has been true 
 to me as I to liim through all his absence. The past is 
 blotted out, a happy future lies before us, in which we 
 may forget all that we have suffered. You \nll con- 
 gratulate me, for you have always been kind, and I am 
 sure you desire my happiness.' 
 
 Then came certain small details and numerous direc- 
 
FREE AT LAST. 199 
 
 tious, for she did not mean to return to Westfield ; but 
 with them we have nothing to do. 
 
 What a letter ! what a revelation ! As Hector read 
 it the cold perspiration started from his brow, and he 
 almost groaned in the bitterness of his spirit. To the 
 pure and upright soul of the young man it seemed that 
 a woman confessing that she had married a man she 
 did not love was writing herself down as a sinner of 
 the vilest class. Yet there were the words in Mrs. 
 M'Intyre's own hand ; and she had taken the place of 
 his sainted mother, she had been his honoured father's 
 wife ! No earthly consideration could have tempted 
 him to show that letter to any human being ; there were 
 shame and degradation in the very thought : he noted 
 down the date and any directions for the disposal of her 
 property, then went into the kitchen, which was fortu- 
 nately empty, and put it in the fire. He watched 
 until the flame consumed it, and as the last vestige 
 disappeared he threw back his head and drew a long 
 breath, like a man set free from the burden of a heavy 
 chain. 
 
 ' I have had a letter from Mrs. M'Intyre with some 
 rather startling news,' he said to Mrs. Stanley when he 
 saw her again ; ' she is to be married in July.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! Who is the happy man ?' 
 
200 FREE AT LAST. 
 
 ' Mr. John Harrington, a cousin of her own who has 
 lately returned from China, — a raillionnaire, it is said.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' Aurora's tone was quite unmistakable. 
 
 ' You must not misjudge her, Mrs. Stanley,' said 
 Hector quickly ; ' this time, I believe, she marries for 
 love. It was an old attachment, the fortune is merely 
 a happy accident.' 
 
 ' And when does she return ? ' 
 
 ' Not at all. She tells me they are going to Europe 
 for a year, and she is very busy making ready. I am 
 to send everything she left behind.' 
 
 Aurora smiled at the idea of Hector packing his 
 stepmother's trunks. 
 
 ' Can I help you ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Oh, thank you ; but I daresay Betty can do every- 
 thing.' 
 
 * Betty ! My dear Hector, she is a very good cook, but 
 I am sure she is as capable of delivering a lecture on the 
 solar system as of arranging Mrs. M'Intyre's things to 
 her satisfaction. Let me come over to-morrow and see 
 what I can do.' 
 
 So on the morrow Aurora got ready. Would Julia 
 go A^dth her ? 
 
 Xo ; Julia would not touch any of ]\Irs. M'Intyi'e's 
 belongings with a ten-foot pole. An equal distance she 
 
FEEE AT LAST. 201 
 
 seemed disposed to keep from Hector himself; a fact 
 which puzzled Aurora a little, but it was easy of ex- 
 planation. 
 
 Mrs. M'Intyre's presence in Hector's home had been 
 an impassable barrier between him and Julia ; and 
 standing on either side of it they had been friends, dear 
 and intimate friends, but nothing more. Xow the 
 barrier was down and there must be a change of rela- 
 tions. Julia felt this, knew it intuitively ; and accord- 
 ingly avoided Hector in the most dexterous manner pos- 
 sible. But Hector was neither distressed nor deceived ; 
 very patiently he bided his time, and at last he gained 
 his reward. 
 
 Mrs. M'Intyre passed away from Westfield, as she 
 passes from our pages, to enter upon a new life. 
 The one virtue she had manifested, the poor attempt at 
 constancy, warped and distorted as it was, until it would 
 have been difficult to distinguish it from vice, might 
 there expand and prove the beginning of better things. 
 It is charitable to hope and to believe that it will ; for 
 as there is no human being who is wholly evil, so is 
 there none in whom there may not be found the possi- 
 bility of a nobler life. 
 
 Home at last came May with her husband and her 
 baby. A glad welcome awaited her ; and it was a happy 
 
202 FREE AT LAST. 
 
 family circle gathered in the old house on the hill to 
 await the coming of the father, who would make its joy 
 complete. 
 
 Henry was, of course, a hero in the community 
 of Westfield ; but at home the baby threw both 
 of her young parents into the shade, and ruled the 
 household in a manner worthy of her name. Julia 
 would scarcely let her be out of her sight, and the two 
 small uncles were ready to lay all their possessions at 
 her feet, only distressed by her indifference to the 
 charms of cake and candy, apples and balls. A very 
 lovely baby she was, with May's Adolet eyes, and a tiny 
 rosebud mouth, always ready to smile ; the best of 
 babies too, never crying except under unbearable pro- 
 vocation. And baby's mamma was very happy and 
 very proud of her new treasure. But she had a confes- 
 sion to make, and could not be quite content till it 
 was made. 
 
 Aurora came into the room one morning when May 
 was sitting in a low rocking-chair, putting the little 
 Victoria to sleep. She looked up with a thoughtful, 
 grave expression on her face. 
 
 ' Mamma, do you remember something naughty I 
 once said to you in this room ? * 
 
 ' No, dear, I am sure I do not.' 
 
FREE AT LAST. 203 
 
 ' But I do ; I have thought of it very often of late, 
 and wanted to tell you. I said I was giving up more 
 than you when papa and Henry went into the army; I 
 did not know then, but now I am afraid I could not let 
 my baby's father go.' And clasping the little creature 
 closer to her heart, she looked up tearfully to Aurora. 
 
 Biit Aurora smiled. 'I coukP have told you there 
 was a difference then. I am glad, very glad. May, that 
 you have discovered it for yourself.' 
 
 Colonel Stanley was coming home ; his regiment was 
 to come up the Mississippi, and had embarked at Mem- 
 phis. A few more days and he would be with his wife 
 and children, to leave them no more. Aurora could 
 scarcely walk quietly about the house ; her heart was 
 dancing with delight as she went up and down, putting 
 everything in order, that when he came she might have 
 nothing to do but sit and sun herself in the joy of his 
 presence. There was not a happier woman in the 
 length and breadth of the land than she thought her- 
 self, as she went to the nursery to take a good-night 
 look at her sleeping (3hildren. There they lay in the 
 warm summer night, their cheeks rosy with health, 
 their brown curls clustering over their fair broad brows, 
 their rounded limbs reposing in the beautiful uncon- 
 scious grace of childhood. Her two lovely boys ! what 
 
204 FREK AT LAST. 
 
 pride and joy their father would take in watching them 
 day by day ! Long she stood over them ; then, with 
 a kiss and a murmured blessing to each, she turned 
 away. 
 
 It was scarcely a prayer that rose from her heart 
 that night ; there seemed to be room there for nothing 
 but thanksgiving, gratitude for all her overflowing 
 happiness, for the mercy and love which had guarded 
 her home from the desolation that had come to so 
 many others. And, counting the days and hours until 
 her husband's return, she lay down and slept, slept 
 calmly and unconsciously as any of us can, even while 
 our best and dearest, the beloved of our souls, may be 
 exposed to the most fearful peril, and all our own 
 future is hangine in the balance. 
 
CHAPTEE XA^ 
 
 THE FINAL PEKIL — HOME AND PEACE. 
 
 THE same night saw three persons walking up and 
 down the deck of a heavily-laden Mississippi 
 steamer, — Colonel Stanley, Archibald Dubois, and with 
 them Virginia Alston. She had finished lier hospital 
 work, and was now returning home to rest, and to 
 mature her plans for devoting her life and energies to 
 some labour of love similar to that in which she had 
 been engaged. They had been talking over the expe- 
 riences of the last four years, and Archibald had been 
 laughingly lamenting his own and Colonel Stanley's 
 sad fate, inasmuch as they were going back without 
 even a scratch to show that they had been in the war. 
 
 After a pause in the conversation, he remarked — 
 ' What a surly-looking fellow that man is at the 
 wheel ! ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Virginia ; ' if there is anything in phy- 
 siognomy, he is scarcely a person to be trusted.' 
 
206 THE FINAL PERIL — HOME AND I'EACE. 
 
 ' Come, come,' said Colonel Stanley, ' you must not 
 speak so of my friend and ally. We had a long talk 
 last night; and what would you say if I should tell 
 you that he let me take his place for an hour ?' 
 
 ' Only that I am thankful our lives did not pay tlie 
 forfeit,' said Virginia. 
 
 ' Oh, no fear of that ; he was with me all the time. 
 The truth is, I had some small experience of a sailor's 
 life in my boyhood, and I was anxious to see how 
 nmch I remembered of wliat I picked up then. No 
 one can tell when he may find a use for some little 
 knowledge of any kind.' 
 
 'But what an example !' laughed Archibald; 'our 
 Colonel setting at nought all rules of discipline and 
 order !' 
 
 ' My dear fellow, tlie words and tlie thing they sig- 
 nify are equally unknown here. Every man does what 
 is right in his own eyes. After what I have seen on 
 this steamboat, I no hjuger wonder at the number of 
 accidents on our western rivers ; the only matter of 
 surprise is that there are not many more.' 
 
 ' Pleasant food for tliought to-night!' remarked Vir- 
 ginia. 
 
 ' If I had fancied you a nervous young lady, I should 
 not have said it. But I must put myself right with 
 
THE FINAL PERIL — HOME AND PEACE. 207 
 
 you, Dubois. Before getting my lesson in navigation, 
 T asked permission of the officer on watch, and AA'as 
 evidently considered a great fool for my pains.' 
 
 ' Well, if you repeat it,' said Virginia, ' please re- 
 member that some of us have a slight prejudice in 
 favour of dying c[uietly at home in our beds. Good 
 night ; I shall certainly dream of snags and collisions, 
 and all sorts of horrors.' 
 
 ■ The two gentlemen continued their walk ; it was a 
 lovely moonlight night, and there was every temptation 
 to remain where they were. They might have paced 
 back and forth probably for half an hour, when sud- 
 denly there was a glare of light upon the water, and in 
 tones that might well strike terror to the stoutest heart, 
 came up from below the appalling cry, ' Fire ! fire !' 
 
 No words can paint the scene that followed ; but its 
 wild confusion and dismay were conquered by a few 
 brave spirits. There was no need for the captain's 
 entreaty, ' For heaven's sake. Colonel Stanley, get 
 your men to work,' for already, at the word of com- 
 mand, they were forming into line to do battle with 
 the devouring flames. Of incalculable value then 
 were the habits of subordination and obedience, the 
 result of four years' military discipline. The officers 
 of the steamer knew, and Colonel Stanley knew, the 
 
208 THE FINAL PERIL — HOME AND PEACE. 
 
 most fearful danger that threatened them, from a 
 quantity of gunpowder on board sufficient to blow 
 the vessel and her living freight to atoms; but the 
 men who stood in their places, and passed the fire- 
 buckets, and poured out the water where it seemed 
 needless, knew nothing save that they were obeying 
 the orders which had been given them. ' Theirs not 
 to question why; theirs but to do or die' — as faith- 
 fully, as bravely there as on the field of battle. 
 
 The burning steamer was in the middle of the 
 broad river; on either side steep clay bluffs rose 
 perpendicularly from the water's edge. A little far- 
 ther up the stream she might be run ashore, and in 
 reaching that point lay their only hope of safety. 
 But could they reach it in time? It was possible, 
 barely possible, if every jnan were true to his duty. 
 And inch by inch they fought with the raging fire 
 as it roared and blazed in defiance of their efforts. 
 Slowly, but surely, it was gaining ground, — hindered, 
 but not subdued ; unconquered, and unconquerable ! 
 
 Oh, the agony of those moments to all who were 
 compelled inactively to look on, pleading with God 
 to interpose and save them from a horrible death ! 
 
 Still the steamer sped upon her way, shortening 
 the distance between her and the shore. Nearer and 
 
THE FINAL PERIL — HOME AND PEACE. 209 
 
 nearer now; a good swimmer might have ventured 
 to phmge overboard. Every eye was fixed upon the 
 blessed haven, every nerve was strained to the utter- 
 most, every heart was beating high with hope, when 
 in an instant, without warning, without reason, the 
 vessel swerved from her direct course, slowly swing- 
 ino- round with the current of the river. Through 
 the dense cloud of smoke now enveloping the upper 
 deck, in tones of thunder came the captain's voice, 
 shouting his orders to the man at the wheel, but 
 there was no response. 
 
 Virginia Alston was at Colonel Stanley's side. 
 'Merciful .God!' she exclaimed; 'that man has de- 
 serted Ms post !' 
 
 She had seen a crouching figure pass swiftly by 
 her. She had heard the muttered words, 'My life's 
 as precious as any man's' — followed by a splash 
 in the water below, and looking up she saw what 
 had happened. 
 
 Quick as lightning Colonel Stanley turned :— 
 'Dubois, take my place,— keep the men to their 
 duty ;' and he was gone. 
 
 His hand was upon the wheel, and instantly obey- 
 ing her rudder, the steamer turned back again upon 
 her course. No one knew, no one suspected. And 
 
 
 
210 THE FINAL PERIL — HOME AND PEACE. 
 
 there he stood, uuspeakaljly thiiukful for the power 
 of understanding and obeying the orders shouted over 
 they little knew to whom. 
 
 But could he hold out, saving the lives of others 
 even at the sacrifice of his own? Thick clouds of 
 smoke poured up around him. He could not see, — he 
 could scarcely breathe. The heat was maddening, — 
 liis brain seemed on lire. And through it all came 
 tlie tliought of liome — of wife and children — lost to 
 him now when he had seen them just within his gi'asp. 
 
 'Help me, O my God!' was his one agonized cry. 
 Then memory seemed to desert him. He only knew 
 that he was there to guide the vessel to the shore. 
 He only cared to hear and obey the words for which 
 he listened. Calmly, firmly he held the wheel, and 
 heeded not the flames hissing beneath and behind 
 him. Suddenly, from a thousand voices a glad trium- 
 phant shout fell upon his ear ; but it seemed to come 
 from a far far distance, and to die aw^ay in a faint 
 prolonged echo. After tliat he knew no more. 
 
 They w^re saved ! The steamer touched the shore ; 
 she was made fast, and every living soul passed in 
 safety over her side. 
 
 Knowing what must follow, the captain gave orders 
 to cut the ropes, and let h(!r drift out with the current. 
 
THE FINAL PERIL — HOME AND PEACE. 211 
 
 In that instant Virginia Alston sprang forward, her 
 face blanched with terror — 
 
 ' Where is Colonel Stanley ? Archibald, where is 
 Colonel Stanley ? ' 
 
 Wliere indeed ! No one knew ; no one had seen him. 
 
 ' He must be in the steamer. God forbid that we 
 should leave him there to die ! Who will come with 
 me?' 
 
 And with three companions, Archibald Dubois 
 turned again to face the death they had just escaped. 
 A hundred voices shouted to them to return : ' It is 
 madness, — it is suicide. Come back ! come back !' 
 
 They heeded not. Eesolutely they fought their 
 way through the fire and smoke, guided by Archibald, 
 until they reached the wheel-house. There lay Colonel 
 Stanley. Dead ! They could not tell ; there was no 
 time to question. 
 
 In their arms they lifted him, and turned to retrace 
 their steps. But the deck was yielding beneath their 
 feet; the flames were hissing in their ears, leaping 
 up on every side ; the black smoke blinded and be- 
 wildered them. 
 
 How it was they never knew, but feeling their w^ay 
 step by step, led by something higher than their own 
 instinct, they emerged at length from that prison-house 
 
212 THE FINAL I'EKIL— HOME AND PEACE. 
 
 of fire ; and as the eager eyes watching from the shore 
 caught sight of their precious burden, a wild tumultuous 
 cheer rent tlie very heavens, uniting all hearts and 
 voices in one outburst of joy. 
 
 They laid him on' the grass and bathed his face with 
 water, while Virginia bent over him in an agony of 
 suspense. 
 
 The blazing steamer floated out into the stream; a 
 few moments and there came a terrific explosion shak- 
 ing the solid earth, and the air was darkened with the 
 flying fragments ; then dead silence, and as they looked 
 again, there was nothing afloat on the face of the broad 
 river. 
 
 Slowly Colonel Stanley opened his eyes and looked 
 around. 
 
 ' All safe, Virginia ? ' 
 
 ' All,' and she burst into tears. 
 
 ' Thank God,' he said fervently ; then raising himself 
 up, 'Dubois, are you there ?' 
 
 ' I am ; is there anything I can do ? ' 
 
 ' Is there a telegraphic oflice near ?' 
 
 ' I think so ; shall I go for you ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; send a message to my ^vife, signed with my 
 name, telling her that we are safe. T will be all right 
 soon, and I would like her to knoM'.' 
 
THE FINAL PEEIL — HOME AND PEACE. 213 
 
 ' Wliere is Maxwell, the fellow that did our telegraph- 
 ing for us?' said Archibald Dubois, approaching a 
 group of the men. 
 
 ' Here ; what is it ? ' 
 
 ' Come with me and I '11 tell you- Any dozen of you 
 too who are ready for an adventure.' 
 
 Even at such a time there were not wanting volunteers 
 to respond to that call ; and the party set off, guided by 
 the telegraph wire. A walk of ten minutes brought 
 them to a small straggling village consisting of a few 
 tumble-down frame houses, inhabited by the families 
 of the men engaged in cutting wood for the passing 
 steamers. 
 
 The telegraph office was easily found, and Archibald 
 presented himself and his message to the clerk, with 
 the request that it might be forwarded immediately. 
 
 But that functionary declared the thing was im- 
 possible ; it could not be done. The wires were en- 
 gaged ; he was just about to begin to send the despatch 
 of the Associated Press, whose agent was even then in 
 the inner room. The public must be served first ; after- 
 wards he would be very happy to transmit any private 
 message. 
 
 ' It will cause a very short delay,' said Archibald. 
 
 ' One message might ; but if I send yours, a dozen 
 
214 THE FINAL PERIL — IIOMP: AND PEACE. 
 
 others will come with the same demand, and I cannot 
 make any distinction.' 
 
 ' Listen to me for a moment if you please,' said 
 Archibald, in a tone implying a determination to be 
 listened to, whether his auditor pleased or not. ' But 
 for Colonel Stanley every soul of us might have per- 
 ished ; we owe our lives to his resolute heroism. I 
 ]3ut it to you as a gentleman whether tlie general 
 public or his wife has the best riglit to receive the first 
 news.' 
 
 ' Oh, if that is it — I did not understand — I will see.' 
 
 And after some little delay the message was duly 
 forwarded ; Archibald waiting very patiently to see it 
 done before he would leave. 
 
 Then he turned to the agent of the Associated Press, 
 who had just come from the back room where he had 
 been ^v^iting liis despatch. 
 
 ' Will you oblige me with a sight of the telegram you 
 are about to send ? ' 
 
 The very coolness of the request insured the reply 
 that came — 
 
 ' Oh, certainly, I have no objection to let you see it.' 
 
 Archibald read it. 
 
 ' Ah ! As I was on the spot you will perhaps allow 
 me to make a slight correction.' 
 
THE FIXAL PERIL — HOME AND PEACE. 215 
 
 He pointed to the last paragraph, ' Colonel Stanley, 
 whose gallant conduct contributed to the safety of all 
 on board, is said to be missing.' 
 
 ' You may strike that out, my friend ; he is no more 
 missing than you or I, seeing that I have just come 
 from him to send a message to his wife. I am happy 
 to say not a hair of his head was injured, though he 
 was very nearly suffocated by the smoke, and had a 
 narrow escape.' 
 
 The paragraph was accordingly suppressed, but rather 
 unwillingly ; it had been such a striking conclusion to 
 the story, that without it half the effect was lost. 
 
 ' Well, Dubois, what if that fellow had refused to 
 send the Colonel's message ? ' 
 
 ' What if he had ? I think you know quite as much 
 about the telegraph as he does. Maxwell ; and the rest 
 of us could have insured you against any interference 
 from either of our friends there, or a dozen others like 
 them. That was my little plan if he had made any 
 difficulty.' 
 
 ' Some of the rest of us has got wives as might like 
 to hear from us,' grumbled one of the men. ' I don't 
 see why we hadn't as good a right to send a message 
 too.' 
 
 ' My good fellow,' replied Archibald, ' whenever you 
 
21 G THE FINAL PERIL — HOME AND PEACE. 
 
 do what Colonel Stanley has done for us tliis night, if 
 you want your wife informed, just call upon me ; I am 
 at your service.' 
 
 The next day the newspapers were full of the story. 
 Colonel Stanley's name was in every mouth ; his 
 heroism magnified by every tongue. The whole com- 
 munity of Westfield was elate with pride, for had they 
 not a share in his glory ? 
 
 Strange to say, his wife was the only person who was 
 not carried away by the general enthusiasm. What had 
 passed in her own room over that telegram no one ever 
 knew ; but outwardly she never lost her composure for 
 an instant. 
 
 When people came to congratulate her she received 
 them kindly, and was grateful so long as they sympa- 
 tliized with her gladness in her husband's safety ; but 
 as soon as they began to e.xpress their wondering 
 admiration of liis conduct, something in her manner 
 silenced them, they scarcely knew why. She did not 
 seem eager to listen to his praises, and they found in 
 Julia and May much more gracious auditors. 
 
 ' I don't understand it, Henry,' said May, ' one would 
 almost think that mamma does not care.' 
 
 Henry looked up with an amused smile. 
 
 ' You stupid little woman ! I thought you had more 
 
THE FINAL PERIL — HOME AND PEACE. 217 
 
 penetration. Is it possible that you do not under- 
 stand ? ' 
 
 ' I only understand that if it had been you I should 
 have been very proud, exen more so than I am now.' 
 
 ' And very much surprised — overwhelmed with 
 astonishment?' 
 
 ' No/ said May, ' I will not say that.' 
 
 ' Then don't you see how it is with mamma ? It 
 seems to me the highest compliment a man can receive 
 when his wife accepts his noblest deeds as a matter of 
 course from him. Depend upon it. May, she would have 
 been as enthusiastic as anybody had the hero been some 
 one else.' 
 
 May said nothing ; this was a new light, and her 
 husband added presently — 
 
 ' What was the poem you were reading the other day 
 and admiring so much ? 
 
 ' ' If you see I see far better 
 And T will not seem to care 
 For a stranger's in-ompt assui'ance — "' 
 
 ' Oh,' said May, ' if that is it. And it must be ; yes, 
 I understand now, — she will not be moved by the 
 estimate of other people, knowing and appreciating liim 
 so much more truly herself 
 
 Mrs. Bartlett came to Aurora in a very penitent 
 
218 THE FINAL PEIHL— HOME AND PEACE. 
 
 frame of mind, seized with a sudden and violent ad- 
 miration of lier brother-in-law. 
 
 ' My dear Aurora, you must forgive me all my blind- 
 ness in the past; you can afford to be generous now 
 that your hour of triumph has come, and you can be- 
 so justly proud of your husband.' 
 
 Aurora looked her sister-in-law calmly in the face — 
 
 ' I am no more proud of him now^, Harriet, than I 
 have been every day for the last five years. It needed 
 no accident to prove to me the true greatness of my 
 husband's character.' 
 
 So quietly she accepted all the enthusiasm expended 
 upon him ; and when at last the days of waiting were 
 ended, when he reached his home, eagerly w^elconied by 
 the whole excited population, she was pleased no doubt 
 l>y the ovation in his honour, but she was not over- 
 whelmed. 
 
 Not till she was alone with him, the outer world 
 excluded whose opinion she valued so little, did the full 
 heart overflow ; but what she said to him in that 
 moment of supreme joy would have been said all the 
 same had he returned to her unhonoured and unknown. 
 
 Poor little Emily Osborne came the next day to see 
 Colonel Stanley; she looked up into his face for an 
 instant, then her voice faltered, her lip quivered, and 
 
THE FINAL PERIL — HOME AND PEACE. 219' 
 
 she turned away. As if she had been one of his own 
 daughters he took her in his arms and kissed her, then 
 sitting dowai beside her he talked to her of her brother. 
 
 Archibald Dubois could not carry out that programme 
 exactly ; but he had been poor Fred's inseparable com- 
 panion, and it was not strange that Emily shoidd find a 
 charm in his society, Avhile he was not the man to be 
 insensible to the pleasure of having those dove-like 
 eyes lifted to his, as the colour came and went over the 
 sweet face. 
 
 Virginia Alston looked on and smiled. She had 
 great hopes of Archie, so she said. After his experience 
 of a life with a definite aim and object, she was sure he 
 could never again be satisfied with his old ,way of living 
 at random, and he would be all the better of a wife. 
 
 In the long summer evenings a happy circle as- 
 sembled in the porch of the old house on the hill. The 
 war was ended, the sacrifice had not been made in vain, 
 tlie hearts which had suffered had gained their reward. 
 
 With his two boys climbing on his knees, and Aurora 
 sitting beside him, Hugh Stanley would look out over 
 his fields and meadows lying in the peaceful light of 
 the setting sun, and ask himself if the four years of the 
 war had not been a frightful dream. 
 
 Now and then, however, he and Henry Alston would 
 
220 THE FINAL PERIL — HOME AXD PEACE. 
 
 recall the days happily gone by, and ' fight their battles 
 o'er again,' while Aurora and Virginia, Julia and ]\Iay, 
 listened with unwearied interest. Or with Hector 
 M'Intyre they would discuss the future of the country, 
 the momentous questions to be decided in calmer days, 
 and by the same men M^ho had vindicated tlie autliority 
 of a free government, and hopefully anticipate a gloiious 
 destiny for the nation, delivered from its old curse of 
 slaveiy. 
 
 Peaceful happy hours were those, such as the summer 
 of 1865 brought to many a home. 
 
 There came a day in autumn, a lovely Indian sum- 
 mer day, when there was a grand marriage in St. John's 
 Cliurch, "SVestfield. The bride ' in gls[ss of satin, and 
 glimmer of pearls,' was all that a bride should be ; 
 flowers decked the chancel-rail, there were orange- 
 blossoms in abundance, and the whole community was 
 assembled to look on. Julia thus fulfilled her pronii.se, 
 and established the credit of the family. 
 
 After the ceremony the company adjourned to Mr. 
 Stanley's house, where the happy pair were duly con- 
 gratulated, the bride's-cake was duly cut, the bridal 
 presents were duly displayed and admired. 
 
 How did it happen that amongst these last so many 
 were duplicated ? Ah, that was Julia's secret, reli- 
 
THE FINAL PERIL — HOJIE AND PEACE. 221 
 
 giously kept until May asked the question. Then came 
 the explanation. ' You innocent little thing ! Did 
 you really never suspect ? They are yours, May ; you 
 gave no one the opportunity of bestowing so much as 
 a tea-spoon upon you on your own wedding-day, so you 
 must just consent to accept jouv presents on mine. 
 Go now and tell Henry.' 
 May's face was a study. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Hector M'Intyre were off at last upon 
 their marriage-tour, and the guests were gone, Dr. 
 Bartlett and his wife alone remaining. 
 
 ' 1 must congratulate you, Aurora,' said the latter ; 
 ' everything went oft' so well ; there certainly never was 
 a more beautiful wedding.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' said the doctor ; ' but you must 
 make one exception.' 
 
 ' Wliat was that ? ' asked Aurora ; ' your own ? ' 
 ' No indeed ; I could not judge of it, being myself a 
 chief actor. I mean a wedding in the ward of a certain 
 hospital, where I had the honour of giving away the 
 bride,' 
 
 May's cheeks were glowing in an instant, and Henry 
 Alston sprang up and seized the doctor's hand. 
 
 ' It was the best day's work you ever did in your 
 life. Uncle Arthur ; and the present company will bear 
 me witness that nothing further can be said.' 
 
222 THE FINAL PERIL — HOME AND PEACE. 
 
 So we take leave of them, the men and women whose 
 steps we have followed through some of the eventful 
 days of the last few years. 
 
 The vast army has melted away ; the heroes of a 
 hundred battle-fields have returned to the desk and the 
 counting-house, to the plough and to the loom ; for the 
 wives and mothers the long hours of suspense and 
 anxiety are ended. But the four years have made their 
 mark. 
 
 Those who were called to stand for a little while in 
 the heat of the furnace go back again to the common 
 routine of ordinary life ; yet they cannot go unchanged. 
 
 Where the fine gold existed it has surely been puri- 
 fied; and we may trust to the coming days to prove 
 that with tlie nation, as with the individual soul, the 
 chastening of the Lord briugeth forth the peaceable 
 fruit of righteousness. 
 
 EDINBURGH : T. CONSTABLE, 
 PRINTER TO THE QUEEN, AND TO THE UNIVERSITV. 
 
Prixces Street, 
 Edinburgh. 
 
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