E. P. Roe His Sombre Rivals 
 
 
 PREFACE Pg 1 
 The following story has been taking form in my mind for several years, 
 and at last I have been able to write it out. With a regret akin to 
 sadness, I take my leave, this August day, of people who have become 
 very real to me, whose joys and sorrows I have made my own. Although a 
 Northern man, I think my Southern readers will feel that I have sought 
 to do justice to their motives. At this distance from the late Civil 
 War, it is time that passion and prejudice sank below the horizon, and 
 among the surviving soldiers who were arrayed against each other I 
 think they have practically disappeared. Stern and prolonged conflict 
 taught mutual respect. The men of the Northern armies were convinced, 
 beyond the shadow of a doubt, that they had fought men and 
 Americans--men whose patriotism and devotion to a cause sacred to them 
 was as pure and lofty as their own. It is time that sane men and women 
 should be large-minded enough to recognize that, whatever may have been 
 the original motives of political leaders, the people on both sides 
 were sincere and honest; that around the camp-fires at their hearths 
 and in their places of worship they looked for God's blessing on their 
 efforts with equal freedom from hypocrisy. 
   
 I have endeavored to portray the battle of Bull Run as it could appear 
 to a civilian spectator: to give a suggestive picture and not a general 
 description. The following war-scenes are imaginary, and colored by 
 personal reminiscence. I was in the service nearly four years, two of 
 which were spent with the cavalry. Nevertheless, justly distrustful of 
 my knowledge of military affairs, I have submitted my proofs to my 
 friend Colonel H. C. Hasbrouck, Commandant of Cadets at West Point, and 
 therefore have confidence that as mere sketches of battles and 
 skirmishes they are not technically defective. 
   
 The title of the story will naturally lead the reader to expect that 
 deep shadows rest upon many of its pages. I know it is scarcely the 
 fashion of the present time to portray men and women who feel very 
 deeply about anything, but there certainly was deep feeling at the time 
 of which I write, as, in truth, there is to-day. The heart of humanity 
 is like the ocean. There are depths to be stirred when the causes are 
 adequate. E. P. R. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER I (AN EMBODIMENT OF MAY) 
 "Beyond that revolving light lies my home. And yet why should I use 
 such a term when the best I can say is that a continent is my home? 
 Home suggests a loved familiar nook in the great world. There is no 
 such niche for me, nor can I recall any place around which my memory 
 lingers with especial pleasure." 
   
 In a gloomy and somewhat bitter mood, Alford Graham thus soliloquized 
 as he paced the deck of an in-coming steamer. In explanation it may be 
 briefly said that he had been orphaned early in life, and that the 
 residences of his guardians had never been made homelike to him. While 
 scarcely more than a child he had been placed at boarding-schools where 
 the system and routine made the youth's life little better than that of 
 a soldier in his barrack. Many boys would have grown hardy, aggressive, 
 callous, and very possibly vicious from being thrown out on the world 
 so early. Young Graham became reticent and to superficial observers 
 shy. Those who cared to observe him closely, however, discovered that 
 it was not diffidence, but indifference toward others that 
 characterized his manner. In the most impressible period of his life he 
 had received instruction, advice and discipline in abundance, but love 
 and sympathy had been denied. Unconsciously his heart had become 
 chilled, benumbed and overshadowed by his intellect. The actual world 
 gave him little and seemed to promise less, and, as a result not at all 
 unnatural, he became something of a recluse and bookworm even before he 
 had left behind him the years of boyhood. 
   
 Both comrades and teachers eventually learned that the retiring and 
 solitary youth was not to be trifled with. He looked his instructor 
 steadily in the eye when he recited, and while his manner was 
 respectful, it was never deferential, nor could he be induced to yield 
 a point, when believing himself in the right, to mere arbitrary 
 assertion; and sometimes he brought confusion to his teacher by quoting 
 in support of his own view some unimpeachable authority. 
   
 At the beginning of each school term there were usually rough fellows 
 who thought the quiet boy could be made the subject of practical jokes 
 and petty annoyances without much danger of retaliation. Graham would 
 usually remain patient up to a certain point, and then, in dismay and 
 astonishment, the offender would suddenly find himself receiving a 
 punishment which he seemed powerless to resist. Blows would fall like 
 hail, or if the combatants closed in the struggle, the aggressor 
 appeared to find in Graham's slight form sinew and fury only. It seemed 
 as if the lad's spirit broke forth in such a flame of indignation that 
 no one could withstand him. It was also remembered that while he was 
 not noted for prowess on the playground, few could surpass him in the 
 gymnasium, and that he took long solitary rambles. Such of his 
 classmates, therefore, as were inclined to quarrel with him because of 
 his unpopular ways soon learned that he kept up his muscle with the 
 best of them, and that, when at last roused, his anger struck like 
 lightning from a cloud. 
   
 During the latter part of his college course he gradually formed a 
 strong friendship for a young man of a different type, an ardent 
 sunny-natured youth, who proved an antidote to his morbid tendencies. 
 They went abroad together and studied for two years at a German 
 university, and then Warren Hilland, Graham's friend, having inherited 
 large wealth, returned to his home. Graham, left to himself, delved 
 more and more deeply in certain phases of sceptical philosophy. It 
 appeared to him that in the past men had believed almost everything, 
 and that the heavier the drafts made on credulity the more largely had 
 they been honored. The two friends had long since resolved that the 
 actual and the proved should be the base from which they would advance 
 into the unknown, and they discarded with equal indifference 
 unsubstantiated theories of science and what they were pleased to term 
 the illusions of faith. "From the verge of the known explore the 
 unknown," was their motto, and it had been their hope to spend their 
 lives in extending the outposts of accurate knowledge, in some one or 
 two directions, a little beyond the points already reached. Since the 
 scalpel and microscope revealed no soul in the human mechanism they 
 regarded all theories and beliefs concerning a separate spiritual 
 existence as mere assumption. They accepted the materialistic view. To 
 them each generation was a link in an endless chain, and man himself 
 wholly the product of an evolution which had no relations to a creative 
 mind, for they had no belief in the existence of such a mind. They held 
 that one had only to live wisely and well, and thus transmit the 
 principle of life, not only unvitiated, but strengthened and enlarged. 
 Sins against body and mind were sins against the race, and it was their 
 creed that the stronger, fuller and more nearly complete they made 
 their lives the richer and fuller would be the life that succeeded 
 them. They scouted as utterly unproved and irrational the idea that 
 they could live after death, excepting as the plant lives by adding to 
 the material life and well-being of other plants. But at that time the 
 spring and vigor of youth were in their heart and brain, and it seemed 
 to them a glorious thing to live and do their part in the advancement 
 of the race toward a stage of perfection not dreamed of by the 
 unthinking masses. 
   
 Alas for their visions of future achievement! An avalanche of wealth 
 had overwhelmed Hilland. His letters to his friend had grown more and 
 more infrequent, and they contained many traces of the business cares 
 and the distractions inseparable from his possessions and new 
 relations. And now for causes just the reverse Graham also was 
 forsaking his studies. His modest inheritance, invested chiefly in real 
 estate, had so far depreciated that apparently it could not much longer 
 provide for even his frugal life abroad. 
   
 "I must give up my chosen career for a life of bread-winning," he had 
 concluded sadly, and he was ready to avail himself of any good opening 
 that offered. Therefore he knew not where his lot would be cast on the 
 broad continent beyond the revolving light that loomed every moment 
 more distinctly in the west. 
   
 A few days later found him at the residence of Mrs. Mayburn, a pretty 
 cottage in a suburb of an eastern city. This lady was his aunt by 
 marriage, and had long been a widow. She had never manifested much 
 interest in her nephew, but since she was his nearest relative he felt 
 that he could not do less than call upon her. To his agreeable surprise 
 he found that time had mellowed her spirit and softened her 
 angularities. After the death of her husband she had developed unusual 
 ability to take care of herself, and had shown little disposition to 
 take care of any one else. Her thrift and economy had greatly enhanced 
 her resources, and her investments had been profitable, while the sense 
 of increasing abundance had had a happy effect on her character. Within 
 the past year she had purchased the dwelling in which she now resided, 
 and to which she welcomed Graham with unexpected warmth. So far from 
 permitting him to make simply a formal call, she insisted on an 
 extended visit, and he, divorced from his studies and therefore feeling 
 his isolation more keenly than ever before, assented. 
   
 "My home is accessible," she said, "and from this point you can make 
 inquiries and look around for business opportunities quite as well as 
 from a city hotel." 
   
 She was so cordial, so perfectly sincere, that for the first time in 
 his life he felt what it was to have kindred and a place in the world 
 that was not purchased. 
   
 He had found his financial affairs in a much better condition than he 
 had expected. Some improvements were on foot which promised to advance 
 the value of his real estate so largely as to make him independent, and 
 he was much inclined to return to Germany and resume his studies. 
   
 "I will rest and vegetate for a time," he concluded. "I will wait till 
 my friend Hilland returns from the West, and then, when the impulse of 
 work takes possession of me again, I will decide upon my course." 
   
 He had come over the ocean to meet his fate, and not the faintest 
 shadow of a presentiment of this truth crossed his mind as he looked 
 tranquilly from his aunt's parlor window at the beautiful May sunset. 
 The cherry blossoms were on the wane, and the light puffs of wind 
 brought the white petals down like flurries of snow; the plum-trees 
 looked as if the snow had clung to every branch and spray, and they 
 were as white as they could have been after some breathless, 
 large-flaked December storm; but the great apple-tree that stood well 
 down the path was the crowning product of May. A more exquisite bloom 
 of pink and white against an emerald foil of tender young leaves could 
 not have existed even in Eden, nor could the breath of Eve have been 
 more sweet than the fragrance exhaled. The air was soft with 
 summer-like mildness, and the breeze that fanned Graham's cheek brought 
 no sense of chilliness. The sunset hour, with its spring beauty, the 
 song of innumerable birds, and especially the strains of a wood-thrush, 
 that, like a _prima donna_, trilled her melody, clear, sweet and 
 distinct above the feathered chorus, penetrated his soul with subtle 
 and delicious influences. A vague longing for something he had never 
 known or felt, for something that books had never taught, or 
 experimental science revealed, throbbed in his heart. He felt that his 
 life was incomplete, and a deeper sense of isolation came over him than 
 he had ever experienced in foreign cities where every face was strange. 
 Unconsciously he was passing under the most subtle and powerful of all 
 spells, that of spring, when the impulse to mate comes not to the birds 
 alone. 
   
 It so happened that he was in just the condition to succumb to this 
 influence. His mental tension was relaxed. He had sat down by the 
 wayside of life to rest awhile. He had found that there was no need 
 that he should bestir himself in money-getting, and his mind refused to 
 return immediately to the deep abstractions of science. It pleaded 
 weariness of the world and of the pros and cons of conflicting theories 
 and questions. He admitted the plea and said:-- 
   
 "My mind _shall_ rest, and for a few days, possibly weeks, it shall be 
 passively receptive of just such influences as nature and circumstances 
 chance to bring to it. Who knows but that I may gain a deeper insight 
 into the hidden mysteries than if I were delving among the dusty tomes 
 of a university library? For some reason I feel to-night as if I could 
 look at that radiant, fragrant apple-tree and listen to the lullaby of 
 the birds forever. And yet their songs suggest a thought that awakens 
 an odd pain and dissatisfaction. Each one is singing to his mate. Each 
 one is giving expression to an overflowing fulness and completeness of 
 life; and never before have I felt my life so incomplete and isolated. 
   
 "I wish Hilland was here. He is such a true friend that his silence is 
 companionship, and his words never jar discordantly. It seems to me 
 that I miss him more to-night than I did during the first days after 
 his departure. It's odd that I should. I wonder if the friendship, the 
 love of a woman could be more to me than that of Hilland. What was that 
 paragraph from Emerson that once struck me so forcibly? My aunt is a 
 woman of solid reading; she must have Emerson. Yes, here in her 
 bookcase, meagre only in the number of volumes it contains, is what I 
 want," and he turned the leaves rapidly until his eyes lighted on the 
 following passage:-- 
   
 "No man ever forgot the visitations of that power to his heart and 
 brain which created all things new; which was the dawn in him of music, 
 poetry, and art; which made the face of nature radiant with purple 
 light, the morning and the night varied enchantments; when a single 
 tone of one voice could make the heart bound, and the most trivial 
 circumstance associated with one form was put in the amber of memory; 
 when he became all eye when one was present, and all memory when one 
 was gone." 
   
 "Emerson never learned that at a university, German or otherwise. He 
 writes as if it were a common human experience, and yet I know no more 
 about it than of the sensations of a man who has lost an arm. I suppose 
 losing one's heart is much the same. As long as a man's limbs are 
 intact he is scarcely conscious of them, but when one is gone it 
 troubles him all the time, although it isn't there. Now when Hilland 
 left me I felt guilty at the ease with which I could forget him in the 
 library and laboratory. I did not become all memory. I knew he was my 
 best, my only friend; he is still; but he is not essential to my life. 
 Clearly, according to Emerson, I am as ignorant as a child of one of 
 the deepest experiences of life, and very probably had better remain 
 so, and yet the hour is playing strange tricks with my fancy." 
   
 Thus it may be perceived that Alford Graham was peculiarly open on this 
 deceitful May evening, which promised peace and security, to the 
 impending stroke of fate. Its harbinger first appeared in the form of a 
 white Spitz dog, barking vivaciously under the apple-tree, where a path 
 from a neighboring residence intersected the walk leading from Mrs. 
 Mayburn's cottage to the street. Evidently some one was playing with 
 the little creature, and was pretending to be kept at bay by its 
 belligerent attitude. Suddenly there was a rush and a flutter of white 
 draperies, and the dog retreated toward Graham, barking with still 
 greater excitement. Then the young man saw coming up the path with 
 quick, lithe tread, sudden pauses, and little impetuous dashes at her 
 canine playmate, a being that might have been an emanation from the 
 radiant apple-tree, or, rather, the human embodiment of the blossoming 
 period of the year. Her low wide brow and her neck were snowy white, 
 and no pink petal on the trees above her could surpass the bloom on her 
 cheeks. Her large, dark, lustrous eyes were brimming over with fun, and 
 unconscious of observation, she moved with the natural, unstudied grace 
 of a child. 
   
 Graham thought, "No scene of nature is complete without the human 
 element, and now the very genius of the hour and season has appeared;" 
 and he hastily concealed himself behind the curtains, unwilling to lose 
 one glimpse of a picture that made every nerve tingle with pleasure. 
 His first glance had revealed that the fair vision was not a child, but 
 a tall, graceful girl, who happily had not yet passed beyond the 
 sportive impulses of childhood. 
   
 Every moment she came nearer, until at last she stood opposite the 
 window. He could see the blue veins branching across her temples, the 
 quick rise and fall of her bosom, caused by rather violent exertion, 
 the wavy outlines of light brown hair that was gathered in a Greek coil 
 at the back of the shapely head. She had the rare combination of dark 
 eyes and light hair which made the lustre of her eyes all the more 
 striking. He never forgot that moment as she stood panting before him 
 on the gravel walk, her girlhood's grace blending so harmoniously with 
 her budding womanhood. For a moment the thought crossed his mind that 
 under the spell of the spring evening his own fancy had created her, 
 and that if he looked away and turned again he would see nothing but 
 the pink and white blossoms, and hear only the jubilant song of the 
 birds. 
   
 The Spitz dog, however, could not possibly have any such unsubstantial 
 origin, and this small Cerberus had now entered the room, and was 
 barking furiously at him as an unrecognized stranger. A moment later 
 his vision under the window stood in the doorway. The sportive girl was 
 transformed at once into a well-bred young woman who remarked quietly, 
 "I beg your pardon. I expected to find Mrs. Mayburn here;" and she 
 departed to search for that lady through the house with a prompt 
 freedom which suggested relations of the most friendly intimacy. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER II (MERE FANCIES) 
 Graham's disposition to make his aunt a visit was not at all chilled by 
 the discovery that she had so fair a neighbor. He was conscious of 
 little more than an impulse to form the acquaintance of one who might 
 give a peculiar charm and piquancy to his May-day vacation, and enrich 
 him with an experience that had been wholly wanting in his secluded and 
 studious life. With a smile he permitted the fancy--for he was in a 
 mood for all sorts of fancies on this evening--that if this girl could 
 teach him to interpret Emerson's words, he would make no crabbed 
 resistance. And yet the remote possibility of such an event gave him a 
 sense of security, and prompted him all the more to yield himself for 
 the first time to whatever impressions a young and pretty woman might 
 be able to make upon him. His very disposition toward experiment and 
 analysis inclined him to experiment with himself. Thus it would seem 
 that even the perfect evening, and the vision that had emerged from 
 under the apple-boughs, could not wholly banish a tendency to give a 
 scientific cast to the mood and fancies of the hour. 
   
 His aunt now summoned him to the supper-room, where he was formally 
 introduced to Miss Grace St. John, with whom his first meal under his 
 relative's roof was destined to be taken. 
   
 As may naturally be supposed, Graham was not well furnished with small 
 talk, and while he had not the proverbial shyness and awkwardness of 
 the student, he was somewhat silent because he knew not what to say. 
 The young guest was entirely at her ease, and her familiarity with the 
 hostess enabled her to chat freely and naturally on topics of mutual 
 interest, thus giving Graham time for those observations to which all 
 are inclined when meeting one who has taken a sudden and strong hold 
 upon the attention. 
   
 He speedily concluded that she could not be less than nineteen or 
 twenty years of age, and that she was not what he would term a society 
 girl--a type that he had learned to recognize from not a few 
 representatives of his countrywomen whom he had seen abroad, rather 
 than from much personal acquaintance. It should not be understood that 
 he had shunned society altogether, and his position had ever entitled 
 him to enter the best; but the young women whom it had been his fortune 
 to meet had failed to interest him as completely as he had proved 
 himself a bore to them. Their worlds were too widely separated for 
 mutual sympathy; and after brief excursions among the drawing-rooms to 
 which Hilland had usually dragged him, he returned to his books with a 
 deeper satisfaction and content. Would his acquaintance with Miss St. 
 John lead to a like result? He was watching and waiting to see, and she 
 had the advantage--if it was an advantage--of making a good first 
 impression. 
   
 Every moment increased this predisposition in her favor. She must have 
 known that she was very attractive, for few girls reach her age without 
 attaining such knowledge; but her observer, and in a certain sense her 
 critic, could not detect the faintest trace of affectation or 
 self-consciousness. Her manner, her words, and even their accent seemed 
 unstudied, unpracticed, and unmodelled after any received type. Her 
 glance was peculiarly open and direct, and from the first she gave 
 Graham the feeling that she was one who might be trusted absolutely. 
 That she had tact and kindliness also was evidenced by the fact that 
 she did not misunderstand or resent his comparative silence. At first, 
 after learning that he had lived much abroad, her manner toward him had 
 been a little shy and wary, indicating that she may have surmised that 
 his reticence was the result of a certain kind of superiority which 
 travelled men--especially young men--often assume when meeting those 
 whose lives are supposed to have a narrow horizon; but she quickly 
 discovered that Graham had no foreign-bred pre-eminence to parade--that 
 he wanted to talk with her if he could only find some common subject of 
 interest. This she supplied by taking him to ground with which he was 
 perfectly familiar, for she asked him to tell her something about 
 university life in Germany. On such a theme he could converse well, and 
 before long a fire of eager questions proved that he had not only a 
 deeply interested listener but also a very intelligent one. 
   
 Mrs. Mayburn smiled complacently, for she had some natural desire that 
 her nephew should make a favorable impression. In regard to Miss St. 
 John she had long ceased to have any misgivings, and the approval that 
 she saw in Graham's eyes was expected as a matter of course. This 
 approval she soon developed into positive admiration by leading her 
 favorite to speak of her own past. 
   
 "Grace, you must know, Alford, is the daughter of an army officer, and 
 has seen some odd phases of life at the various military stations where 
 her father has been on duty." 
   
 These words piqued Graham's curiosity at once, and he became the 
 questioner. His own frank effort to entertain was now rewarded, and the 
 young girl, possessing easy and natural powers of description, gave 
 sketches of life at military posts which to Graham had more than the 
 charm of novelty. Unconsciously she was accounting for herself. In the 
 refined yet unconventional society of officers and their wives she had 
 acquired the frank manner so peculiarly her own. But the characteristic 
 which won Graham's interest most strongly was her abounding 
 mirthfulness. It ran through all her words like a golden thread. The 
 instinctive craving of every nature is for that which supplements 
 itself, and Graham found something so genial in Miss St. John's ready 
 smile and laughing eyes, which suggested an over-full fountain of 
 joyousness within, that his heart, chilled and repressed from 
 childhood, began to give signs of its existence, even during the first 
 hour of their acquaintance. It is true, as we have seen, that he was in 
 a very receptive condition, but then a smile, a glance that is like 
 warm sunshine, is never devoid of power. 
   
 The long May twilight had faded, and they were still lingering over the 
 supper-table, when a middle-aged colored woman in a flaming red turban 
 appeared in the doorway and said, "Pardon, Mis' Mayburn; I'se a-hopin' 
 you'll 'scuse me. I jes step over to tell Miss Grace dat de major's 
 po'ful oneasy,--'spected you back afo'." 
   
 The girl arose with alacrity, saying, "Mr. Graham, you have brought me 
 into danger, and must now extricate me. Papa is an inveterate 
 whist-player, and you have put my errand here quite out of my mind. I 
 didn't come for the sake of your delicious muffins altogether"--with a 
 nod at her hostess; "our game has been broken up, you know, Mrs. 
 Mayburn, by the departure of Mrs. Weeks and her daughter. You have 
 often played a good hand with us, and papa thought you would come over 
 this evening, and that you, from your better acquaintance with our 
 neighbors, might know of some one who enjoyed the game sufficiently to 
 join us quite often. Mr. Graham, you must be the one I am seeking. A 
 gentleman versed in the lore of two continents certainly understands 
 whist, or, at least, can penetrate its mysteries at a single sitting." 
   
 "Suppose I punish the irony of your concluding words," Graham replied, 
 "by saying that I know just enough about the game to be aware how much 
 skill is required to play with such a veteran as your father?" 
   
 "If you did you would punish papa also, who is innocent." 
   
 "That cannot be thought of, although, in truth, I play but an 
 indifferent game. If you will make amends by teaching me I will try to 
 perpetrate as few blunders as possible." 
   
 "Indeed, sir, you forget. You are to make amends for keeping me talking 
 here, forgetful of filial duty, by giving me a chance to teach you. You 
 are to be led meekly in as a trophy by which I am to propitiate my 
 stern parent, who has military ideas of promptness and obedience." 
   
 "What if he should place me under arrest?" 
   
 "Then Mrs. Mayburn and I will become your jailers, and we shall keep 
 you here until you are one of the most accomplished whist-players in 
 the land." 
   
 "If you will promise to stand guard over me some of the time I will 
 submit to any conditions." 
   
 "You are already making one condition, and may think of a dozen more. 
 It will be better to parole you with the understanding that you are to 
 put in an appearance at the hour for whist;" and with similar light 
 talk they went down the walk under the apple-boughs, whence in Graham's 
 fancy the fair girl had had her origin. As they passed under the shadow 
 he saw the dusky outline of a rustic seat leaning against the bole of 
 the tree, and he wondered if he should ever induce his present guide 
 through the darkened paths to come there some moonlight evening, and 
 listen to the fancies which her unexpected appearance had occasioned. 
 The possibility of such an event in contrast with its far greater 
 improbability caused him to sigh, and then he smiled broadly at himself 
 in the darkness. 
   
 When they had passed a clump of evergreens, a lighted cottage presented 
 itself, and Miss St. John sprang lightly up the steps, pushed open the 
 hall door, and cried through the open entrance to a cosey apartment, 
 "No occasion for hostilities, papa. I have made a capture that gives 
 the promise of whist not only this evening but also for several more to 
 come." 
   
 As Graham and Mrs. Mayburn entered, a tall, white-haired man lifted his 
 foot from off a cushion, and rose with some little difficulty, but 
 having gained his feet, his bearing was erect and soldier-like, and his 
 courtesy perfect, although toward Mrs. Mayburn it was tinged with the 
 gallantry of a former generation. Some brief explanations followed, and 
 then Major St. John turned upon Graham the dark eyes which his daughter 
 had inherited, and which seemed all the more brilliant in contrast with 
 his frosty eyebrows, and said genially, "It is very kind of you to be 
 willing to aid in beguiling an old man's tedium." Turning to his 
 daughter he added a little querulously, "There must be a storm brewing, 
 Grace," and he drew in his breath as if in pain. 
   
 "Does your wound trouble you to-night, papa?" she asked gently. 
   
 "Yes, just as it always does before a storm." 
   
 "It is perfectly clear without," she resumed. "Perhaps the room has 
 become a little cold. The evenings are still damp and chilly;" and she 
 threw two or three billets of wood on the open fire, kindling a blaze 
 that sprang cheerily up the chimney. 
   
 The room seemed to be a combination of parlor and library, and it 
 satisfied Graham's ideal of a living apartment. Easy-chairs of various 
 patterns stood here and there and looked as if constructed by the very 
 genius of comfort. A secretary in the corner near a window was open, 
 suggesting absent friends and the pleasure of writing to them amid such 
 agreeable surroundings. Again Graham queried, prompted by the peculiar 
 influences that had gained the mastery on this tranquil but eventful 
 evening, "Will Miss St. John ever sit there penning words straight from 
 her heart to me?" 
   
 He was brought back to prose and reality by the major. Mrs. Mayburn had 
 been condoling with him, and he now turned and said, "I hope, my dear 
 sir, that you may never carry around such a barometer as I am afflicted 
 with. A man with an infirmity grows a little egotistical, if not worse." 
   
 "You have much consolation, sir, in remembering how you came by your 
 infirmity," Graham replied. "Men bearing such proofs of service to 
 their country are not plentiful in our money-getting land." 
   
 His daughter's laugh rang out musically as she cried, "That was meant 
 to be a fine stroke of diplomacy. Papa, you will now have to pardon a 
 score of blunders." 
   
 "I have as yet no proof that any will be made," the major remarked, and 
 in fact Graham had underrated his acquaintance with the game. He was 
 quite equal to his aunt in proficiency, and with Miss St. John for his 
 partner he was on his mettle. He found her skilful indeed, quick, 
 penetrating, and possessed of an excellent memory. They held their own 
 so well that the major's spirits rose hourly. He forgot his wound in 
 the complete absorption of his favorite recreation. 
   
 As opportunity occurred Graham could not keep his eyes from wandering 
 here and there about the apartment that had so taken his fancy, 
 especially toward the large, well-filled bookcase and the pictures, 
 which, if not very expensive, had evidently been the choice of a 
 cultivated taste. 
   
 They were brought to a consciousness of the flight of time by a clock 
 chiming out the hour of eleven, and the old soldier with a sigh of 
 regret saw Mrs. Mayburn rise. Miss St. John touched a silver bell, and 
 a moment later the same negress who had reminded her of her father's 
 impatience early in the evening entered with a tray bearing a decanter 
 of wine, glasses, and some wafer-like cakes. 
   
 "Have I earned the indulgence of a glance at your books?" Graham asked. 
   
 "Yes, indeed," Miss St. John replied; "your martyr-like submission 
 shall be further rewarded by permission to borrow any of them while in 
 town. I doubt, however, if you will find them profound enough for your 
 taste." 
   
 "I shall take all point from your irony by asking if you think one can 
 relish nothing but intellectual roast beef. I am enjoying one of your 
 delicate cakes. You must have an excellent cook." 
   
 "Papa says he has, in the line of cake and pastry; but then he is 
 partial." 
   
 "What! did you make them?" 
   
 "Why not?" 
   
 "Oh, I'm not objecting. Did my manners permit, I'd empty the plate. 
 Still, I was under the impression that young ladies were not adepts in 
 this sort of thing." 
   
 "You have been abroad so long that you may have to revise many of your 
 impressions. Of course retired army officers are naturally in a 
 condition to import _chefs de cuisine_, but then we like to keep up the 
 idea of republican simplicity." 
   
 "Could you be so very kind as to induce your father to ask me to make 
 one of your evening quartette as often as possible?" 
   
 "The relevancy of that request is striking. Was it suggested by the 
 flavor of the cakes? I sometimes forget to make them." 
   
 "Their absence would not prevent my taste from being gratified if you 
 will permit me to come. Here is a marked volume of Emerson's works. May 
 I take it for a day or two?" 
   
 She blushed slightly, hesitated perceptibly, and then said, "Yes." 
   
 "Alford," broke in his aunt, "you students have the name of being great 
 owls, but for an old woman of my regular habits it's getting late." 
   
 "My daughter informs me," the major remarked to Graham in parting, 
 "that we may be able to induce you to take a hand with us quite often. 
 If you should ever become as old and crippled as I am you will know how 
 to appreciate such kindness.'" 
   
 "Indeed, sir, Miss St. John must testify that I asked to share your 
 game as a privilege. I can scarcely remember to have passed so pleasant 
 an evening." 
   
 "Mrs. Mayburn, do try to keep him in this amiable frame of mind," cried 
 the girl. 
   
 "I think I shall need your aid," said that lady, with a smile. "Come, 
 Alford, it is next to impossible to get you away." 
   
 "Papa's unfortunate barometer will prove correct, I fear," said Miss 
 St. John, following them out on the piazza, for a thin scud was already 
 veiling the stars, and there was an ominous moan of the wind. 
   
 "To-morrow will be a stormy day," remarked Mrs. Mayburn, who prided 
 herself on her weather wisdom. 
   
 "I'm sorry," Miss St. John continued, "for it will spoil our fairy 
 world of blossoms, and I am still more sorry for papa's sake." 
   
 "Should the day prove a long, dismal, rainy one," Graham ventured, "may 
 I not come over and help entertain your father?" 
   
 "Yes," said the girl, earnestly. "It cannot seem strange to you that 
 time should often hang heavily on his hands, and I am grateful to any 
 one who helps me to enliven his hours." 
   
 Before Graham repassed under the apple-tree boughs he had fully decided 
 to win at least Miss St. John's gratitude. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER III (THE VERDICT OF A SAGE) 
 When Graham reached his room he was in no mood for sleep. At first he 
 lapsed into a long revery over the events of the evening, trivial in 
 themselves, and yet for some reason holding a controlling influence 
 over his thoughts. Miss St. John was a new revelation of womanhood to 
 him, and for the first time in his life his heart had been stirred by a 
 woman's tones and glances. A deep chord in his nature vibrated when she 
 spoke and smiled. What did it mean? He had followed his impulse to 
 permit this stranger to make any impression within her power, and he 
 found that she had decidedly interested him. As he tried to analyze her 
 power he concluded that it lay chiefly in the mirthfulness, the 
 joyousness of her spirit. She quickened his cool, deliberate pulse. Her 
 smile was not an affair of facial muscles, but had a vivifying warmth. 
 It made him suspect that his life was becoming cold and self-centred, 
 that he was missing the deepest and best experiences of an existence 
 that was brief indeed at best, and, as he believed, soon ceased 
 forever. The love of study and ambition had sufficed thus far, but 
 actuated by his own materialistic creed he was bound to make the most 
 of life while it lasted. According to Emerson he was as yet but in the 
 earlier stages of evolution, and his highest manhood wholly 
 undeveloped. Had not "music, poetry, and art" dawned in his mind? Was 
 nature but a mechanism after whose laws he had been groping like an 
 anatomist who finds in the godlike form bone and tissue merely? As he 
 had sat watching the sunset a few hours previous, the element of beauty 
 had been present to him as never before. Could this sense of beauty 
 become so enlarged that the world would be transfigured, "radiant with 
 purple light"? Morning had often brought to him weariness from 
 sleepless hours during which he had racked his brain over problems too 
 deep for him, and evening had found him still baffled, disappointed, 
 and disposed to ask in view of his toil, _Cui bono_? What ground had 
 Emerson for saying that these same mornings and evenings might be 
 filled with "varied enchantments"? The reason, the cause of these 
 unknown conditions of life, was given unmistakably. The Concord sage 
 had virtually asserted that he, Alford Graham, would never truly exist 
 until his one-sided masculine nature had been supplemented by the 
 feminine soul which alone could give to his being completeness and the 
 power to attain his full development. 
   
 "Well," he soliloquized, laughing, "I have not been aware that hitherto 
 I have been only a mollusk, a polyp of a man. I am inclined to think 
 that Emerson's 'Pegasus' took the bit--got the better of him on one 
 occasion; but if there is any truth in what he writes it might not be a 
 bad idea to try a little of the kind of evolution that he suggests and 
 see what comes of it. I am already confident that I could see 
 infinitely more than I do if I could look at the world through Miss St. 
 John's eyes as well as my own, but I run no slight risk in obtaining 
 that vision. Her eyes are stars that must have drawn worshippers, not 
 only from the east, but from every point of the compass. I should be in 
 a sorry plight if I should become 'all memory,' and from my fair 
 divinity receive as sole response, 'Please forget.' If the philosopher 
 could guarantee that she also would be 'all eye and all memory,' one 
 might indeed covet Miss St. John as the teacher of the higher 
 mysteries. Life is not very exhilarating at best, but for a man to set 
 his heart on such a woman as this girl promises to be, and then be 
 denied--why, he had better remain a polyp. Come, come, Alford Graham, 
 you have had your hour of sentiment--out of deference to Mr. Emerson I 
 won't call it weakness--and it's time you remembered that you are a 
 comparatively poor man, that Miss St. John has already been the choice 
 of a score at least, and probably has made her own choice. I shall 
 therefore permit no delusions and the growth of no false hopes." 
   
 Having reached this prudent conclusion, Graham yawned, smiled at the 
 unwonted mood in which he had indulged, and with the philosophic 
 purpose of finding an opiate in the pages that had contained one 
 paragraph rather too exciting, he took up the copy of Emerson that he 
 had borrowed. The book fell open, indicating that some one had often 
 turned to the pages before him. One passage was strongly marked on 
 either side and underscored. With a laugh he saw that it was the one he 
 had been dwelling upon--"No man ever forgot," etc. 
   
 "Now I know why she blushed slightly and hesitated to lend me this 
 volume," he thought. "I suppose I may read in this instance, 'No woman 
 ever forgot.' Of course, it would be strange if she had not learned to 
 understand these words. What else has she marked?" 
   
 Here and there were many delicate marginal lines indicating approval 
 and interest, but they were so delicate as to suggest that the strong 
 scoring of the significant passage was not the work of Miss St. John, 
 but rather of some heavy masculine hand. This seemed to restore the 
 original reading, "No _man_ ever forgot," and some man had apparently 
 tried to inform her by his emphatic lines that he did not intend to 
 forget. 
   
 "Well, suppose he does not and cannot," Graham mused. "That fact places 
 her under no obligations to be 'all eye and memory' for him. And yet 
 her blush and hesitancy and the way the book falls open at this passage 
 look favorable for him. I can win her gratitude by amusing the old 
 major, and with that, no doubt, I shall have to be content." 
   
 This limitation of his chances caused Graham so little solicitude that 
 he was soon sleeping soundly. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER IV (WARNING OR INCENTIVE?) 
 The next morning proved that the wound which Major St. John had 
 received in the Mexican War was a correct barometer. From a leaden, 
 lowering sky the rain fell steadily, and a chilly wind was fast 
 dismantling the trees of their blossoms. The birds had suspended their 
 nest-building, and but few had the heart to sing. 
   
 "You seem to take a very complacent view of the dreary prospect 
 without," Mrs. Mayburn remarked, as Graham came smilingly into the 
 breakfast-room and greeted her with a cheerful note in his tones. "Such 
 a day as this means rheumatism for me and an aching leg for Major St. 
 John." 
   
 "I am very sorry, aunt," he replied, "but I cannot help remembering 
 also that it is not altogether an ill wind, for it will blow me over 
 into a cosey parlor and very charming society--that is, if Miss St. 
 John will give me a little aid in entertaining her father." 
   
 "So we old people don't count for anything." 
   
 "That doesn't follow at all. I would do anything in my power to banish 
 your rheumatism and the major's twinges, but how was it with you both 
 at my age? I can answer for the major. If at that time he knew another 
 major with such a daughter as blesses his home, his devotion to the 
 preceding veteran was a little mixed." 
   
 "Are you so taken by Miss St. John?" 
   
 "I have not the slightest hope of being taken by her." 
   
 "You know what I mean?" 
   
 "Yes, but I wished to suggest my modest hopes and expectations so that 
 you may have no anxieties if I avail myself, during my visit, of the 
 chance of seeing what I can of an unusually fine girl. Acquaintance 
 with such society is the part of my education most sadly neglected. 
 Nevertheless, you will find me devotedly at your service whenever you 
 will express your wishes." 
   
 "Do not imagine that I am disposed to find fault. Grace is a great 
 favorite of mine. She is a good old-fashioned girl, not one of your 
 vain, heartless, selfish creatures with only a veneer of good breeding. 
 I see her almost every day, either here or in her own home, and I know 
 her well. You have seen that she is fitted to shine anywhere, but it is 
 for her home qualities that I love and admire her most. Her father is 
 crippled and querulous; indeed he is often exceedingly irritable. 
 Everything must please him or else he is inclined to storm as he did in 
 his regiment, and occasionally he emphasizes his words without much 
 regard to the third commandment. But his gusts of anger are over 
 quickly, and a kinder-hearted and more upright man never lived. Of 
 course American servants won't stand harsh words. They want to do all 
 the fault-finding, and the poor old gentleman would have a hard time of 
 it were it not for Grace. She knows how to manage both him and them, 
 and that colored woman you saw wouldn't leave him if he beat and swore 
 at her every day. She was a slave in the family of Grace's mother, who 
 was a Southern lady, and the major gave the poor creature her liberty 
 when he brought his wife to the North. Grace is sunshine embodied. She 
 makes her old, irritable, and sometimes gouty father happy in spite of 
 himself. It was just like her to accept of your offer last evening, for 
 to banish all dullness from her father's life seems her constant 
 thought. So if you wish to grow in the young lady's favor don't be so 
 attentive to her as to neglect the old gentleman." 
   
 Graham listened to this good-natured gossip with decided interest, 
 feeling that it contained valuable suggestions. The response seemed 
 scarcely relevant. "When is she to be married?" he asked. 
   
 "Married!" 
   
 "Yes. It is a wonder that such a paragon has escaped thus long." 
   
 "You have lived abroad too much," said his aunt satirically. "American 
 girls are not married out of hand at a certain age. They marry when 
 they please or not at all if they please. Grace easily escapes 
 marriage." 
   
 "Not from want of suitors, I'm sure." 
   
 "You are right there." 
   
 "How then?" 
   
 "By saying, 'No, I thank you.' You can easily learn how very effectual 
 such a quiet negative is, if you choose." 
   
 "Indeed! Am I such a very undesirable party?" said Graham, laughing, 
 for he heartily enjoyed his aunt's brusque way of talking, having 
 learned already the kindliness it masked. 
   
 "Not in my eyes. I can't speak for Grace. She'd marry you if she loved 
 you, and were you the Czar of all the Russias you wouldn't have the 
 ghost of a chance unless she did. I know that she has refused more than 
 one fortune. She seems perfectly content to live with her father, until 
 the one prince having the power to awaken her appears. When he comes 
 rest assured she'll follow him, and also be assured that she'll take 
 her father with her, and to a selfish, exacting Turk of a husband he 
 might prove an old man of the sea. And yet I doubt it. Grace would 
 manage any one. Not that she has much management either. She simply 
 laughs, smiles, and talks every one into good humor. Her mirthfulness, 
 her own happiness, is so genuine that it is contagious. Suppose you 
 exchange duties and ask her to come over and enliven me while you 
 entertain her father," concluded the old lady mischievously. 
   
 "I would not dare to face such a fiery veteran as you have described 
 alone." 
   
 "I knew you would have some excuse. Well, be on your guard. Grace will 
 make no effort to capture you, and therefore you will be in all the 
 more danger of being captured. If you lose your heart in vain to her 
 you will need more than German philosophy to sustain you." 
   
 "I have already made to myself in substance your last remark." 
   
 "I know you are not a lady's man, and perhaps for that very reason you 
 are all the more liable to an acute attack." 
   
 Graham laughed as he rose from the table, and asked, "Should I ever 
 venture to lay siege to Miss St. John, would I not have your blessing?" 
   
 "Yes, and more than my blessing." 
   
 "What do you mean by more than your blessing?" 
   
 "I shall not commit myself until you commit yourself, and I do not wish 
 you to take even the first step without appreciating the risk of the 
 venture." 
   
 "Why, bless you, aunt," said Graham, now laughing heartily, "how 
 seriously you take it! I have spent but one evening with the girl." 
   
 The old lady nodded her head significantly as she replied, "I have not 
 lived to my time of life without learning a thing or two. My memory 
 also has not failed as yet. There were young men who looked at me once 
 just as you looked at Grace last evening, and I know what came of it in 
 more than one instance. You are safe now, and you may be invulnerable, 
 although it does not look like it; but if you can see much of Grace St. 
 John and remain untouched you are unlike most men." 
   
 "I have always had the name of being that, you know. But as the peril 
 is so great had I not better fly at once?" 
   
 "Yes, I think we both have had the name of being a little peculiar, and 
 my brusque, direct way of coming right to the point is one of my 
 peculiarities. I am very intimate with the St. Johns, and am almost as 
 fond of Grace as if she were my own child. So of course you can see a 
 great deal of her if you wish, and this arrangement about whist will 
 add to your opportunities. I know what young men are, and I know too 
 what often happens when their faces express as much admiration and 
 interest as yours did last night. What's more," continued the energetic 
 old lady with an emphatic tap on the floor with her foot, and a decided 
 nod of her head, "if I were a young man, Grace would have to marry some 
 one else to get rid of me. Now I've had my say, and my conscience is 
 clear, whatever happens. As to flight, why, you must settle that 
 question, but I am sincere and cordial in my request that you make your 
 home with me until you decide upon your future course." 
   
 Graham was touched, and he took his aunt's hand as he said, "I thank 
 you for your kindness, and more than all for your downright sincerity. 
 When I came here it was to make but a formal call. With the exception 
 of one friend, I believed that I stood utterly alone in the world--that 
 no one cared about what I did or what became of me. I was accustomed to 
 isolation and thought I was content with it, but I find it more 
 pleasant than I can make you understand to know there is one place in 
 the world to which I can come, not as a stranger to an inn, but as one 
 that is received for other than business considerations. Since you have 
 been so frank with me I will be equally outspoken;" and he told her 
 just how he was situated, and what were his plans and hopes. "Now that 
 I know there is no necessity of earning my livelihood," he concluded, 
 "I shall yield to my impulse to rest awhile, and then quite probably 
 resume my studies here or abroad until I can obtain a position suited 
 to my plans and taste. I thank you for your note of alarm in regard to 
 Miss St. John, although I must say that to my mind there is more of 
 incentive than of warning in your words. I think I can at least venture 
 on a few reconnoissances, as the major might say, before I beat a 
 retreat. Is it too early to make one now?" 
   
 Mrs. Mayburn smiled. "No," she said, laconically, 
   
 "I see that you think my reconnoissance will lead to a siege," Graham 
 added. "Well, I can at least promise that there shall be no rash 
 movements." 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER V (IMPRESSIONS) 
 Graham, smiling at his aunt and still more amused at himself, started 
 to pay his morning visit. "Yesterday afternoon," he thought, "I 
 expected to make but a brief call on an aunt who was almost a stranger 
 to me, and now I am domiciled under her roof indefinitely. She has 
 introduced me to a charming girl, and in an ostensible warning shrewdly 
 inserted the strongest incentives to venture everything, hinting at the 
 same time that if I succeeded she would give me more than her blessing. 
 What a vista of possibilities has opened since I crossed her threshold! 
 A brief time since I was buried in German libraries, unaware of the 
 existence of Miss St. John, and forgetting that of my aunt. Apparently 
 I have crossed the ocean to meet them both, for had I remained abroad a 
 few days longer, letters on the way would have prevented my returning. 
 Of course it is all chance, but a curious chance. I don't wonder that 
 people are often superstitious; and yet a moment's reasoning proves the 
 absurdity of this sort of thing. Nothing truly strange often happens, 
 and only our egotism invests events of personal interest with a trace 
 of the marvellous. My business man neglected to advise me of my 
 improved finances as soon as he might have done. My aunt receives me, 
 not as I expected, but as one would naturally hope to be met by a 
 relative. She has a fair young neighbor with whom she is intimate, and 
 whom I meet as a matter of course, and as a matter of course I can 
 continue to meet her as long as I choose without becoming 'all eye and 
 all memory.' Surely a man can enjoy the society of any woman without 
 the danger my aunt suggests and--as I half believe--would like to bring 
 about. What signify my fancies of last evening? We often enjoy 
 imagining what might be without ever intending it shall be. At any 
 rate, I shall not sigh for Miss St. John or any other woman until 
 satisfied that I should not sigh in vain. The probabilities are 
 therefore that I shall never sigh at all." 
   
 As he approached Major St. John's dwelling he saw the object of his 
 thoughts standing by the window and reading a letter. A syringa shrub 
 partially concealed him and his umbrella, and he could not forbear 
 pausing a moment to note what a pretty picture she made. A sprig of 
 white flowers was in her light wavy hair, and another fastened by her 
 breastpin drooped over her bosom. Her morning wrapper was of the hue of 
 the sky that lay back of the leaden clouds. A heightened color mantled 
 her cheeks, her lips were parted with a smile, and her whole face was 
 full of delighted interest. 
   
 "By Jove!" muttered Graham. "Aunt Mayburn is half right, I believe. A 
 man must have the pulse of an anchorite to look often at such a vision 
 as that and remain untouched. One might easily create a divinity out of 
 such a creature, and then find it difficult not to worship. I could go 
 away now and make her my ideal, endowing her with all impossible 
 attributes of perfection. Very probably fuller acquaintance will prove 
 that she is made of clay not differing materially from that of other 
 womankind. I envy her correspondent, however, and would be glad if I 
 could write a letter that would bring such an expression to her face. 
 Well, I am reconnoitring true enough, and had better not be detected in 
 the act;" and he stepped rapidly forward. 
   
 She recognized him with a piquant little nod and smile. The letter was 
 folded instantly, and a moment later she opened the door for him 
 herself, saying, "Since I have seen you and you have come on so kind an 
 errand I have dispensed with the formality of sending a servant to 
 admit you." 
   
 "Won't you shake hands as a further reward?" he asked. "You will find 
 me very mercenary." 
   
 "Oh, certainly. Pardon the oversight. I should have done so without 
 prompting since it is so long since we have met." 
   
 "And having known each other so long also," he added in the same light 
 vein, conscious meantime that he held a hand that was as full of 
 vitality as it was shapely and white. 
   
 "Indeed," she replied; "did last evening seem an age to you?" 
   
 "I tried to prolong it, for you must remember that my aunt said that 
 she could not get me away; and this morning I was indiscreet enough to 
 welcome the rain, at which she reminded me of her rheumatism and your 
 father's wound." 
   
 "And at which I also hope you had a twinge or two of conscience. Papa," 
 she added, leading the way into the parlor, "here is Mr. Graham. It was 
 his fascinating talk about life in Germany that so delayed me last 
 evening." 
   
 The old gentleman started out of a doze, and his manner proved that he 
 welcomed any break in the monotony of the day. "You will pardon my not 
 rising," he said; "this confounded weather is playing the deuce with my 
 leg." 
   
 Graham was observant as he joined in a general condemnation of the 
 weather; and the manner in which Miss St. John rearranged the cushion 
 on which her father's foot rested, coaxed the fire into a more cheerful 
 blaze, and bestowed other little attentions, proved beyond a doubt that 
 all effort in behalf of the suffering veteran would be appreciated. Nor 
 was he so devoid of a kindly good-nature himself as to anticipate an 
 irksome task, and he did his utmost to discover the best methods of 
 entertaining his host. The effort soon became remunerative, for the 
 major had seen much of life, and enjoyed reference to his experiences. 
 Graham found that he could be induced to fight his battles over again, 
 but always with very modest allusion to himself. In the course of their 
 talk it also became evident that he was a man of somewhat extensive 
 reading, and the daily paper must have been almost literally devoured 
 to account for his acquaintance with contemporary affairs. The daughter 
 was often not a little amused at Graham's blank looks as her father 
 broached topics of American interest which to the student from abroad 
 were as little known or understood as the questions which might have 
 been agitating the inhabitants of Jupiter. Most ladies would have been 
 politely oblivious of her guest's blunders and infelicitous remarks, 
 but Miss St. John had a frank, merry way of recognizing them, and yet 
 malice and ridicule were so entirely absent from her words and ways 
 that Graham soon positively enjoyed being laughed at, and much 
 preferred her delicate open raillery, which gave him a chance to defend 
 himself, to a smiling mask that would leave him in uncertainty as to 
 the fitness of his replies. There was a subtle flattery also in this 
 course, for she treated him as one capable of holding his own, and not 
 in need of social charity and protection. With pleasure he recognized 
 that she was adopting toward him something of the same sportive manner 
 which characterized her relations with his aunt, and which also 
 indicated that as Mrs. Mayburn's nephew he had met with a reception 
 which would not have been accorded to one less favorably introduced. 
   
 How vividly in after years Graham remembered that rainy May morning! He 
 could always call up before him, like a vivid picture, the old major 
 with his bushy white eyebrows and piercing black eyes, the smoke from 
 his meerschaum creating a sort of halo around his gray head, the fine, 
 venerable face often drawn by pain which led to half-muttered 
 imprecations that courtesy to his guest and daughter could not wholly 
 suppress. How often he saw again the fire curling softly from the 
 hearth with a contented crackle, as if pleased to be once more an 
 essential to the home from which the advancing summer would soon banish 
 it! He could recall every article of the furniture with which he 
 afterward became so familiar. But that which was engraven on his memory 
 forever was a fair young girl sitting by the window with a background 
 of early spring greenery swaying to and fro in the storm. Long 
 afterward, when watching on the perilous picket line or standing in his 
 place on the battlefield, he would close his eyes that he might recall 
 more vividly the little white hands deftly crocheting on some feminine 
 mystery, and the mirthful eyes that often glanced from it to him as the 
 quiet flow of their talk rippled on. A rill, had it conscious life, 
 would never forget the pebble that deflected its course from one ocean 
 to another; human life as it flows onward cannot fail to recognize 
 events, trivial in themselves, which nevertheless gave direction to all 
 the future. 
   
 Graham admitted to himself that he had found a charm at this fireside 
 which he had never enjoyed elsewhere in society--the pleasure of being 
 perfectly at ease. There was a genial frankness and simplicity in his 
 entertainers which banished restraint, and gave him a sense of 
 security. He felt instinctively that there were no adverse currents of 
 mental criticism and detraction, that they were loyal to him as their 
 invited guest, notwithstanding jest, banter, and good-natured satire. 
   
 The hours had vanished so swiftly that he was at a loss to account for 
 them. Miss St. John was a natural foe to dulness of all kinds, and this 
 too without any apparent effort. Indeed, we are rarely entertained by 
 evident and deliberate exertion. Pleasurable exhilaration in society is 
 obtained from those who impart, like warmth, their own spontaneous 
 vivacity. Miss St. John's smile was an antidote for a rainy day, and he 
 was loath to pass from its genial power out under the dripping clouds. 
 Following an impulse, he said to the girl, "You are more than a match 
 for the weather." 
   
 These words were spoken in the hall after he had bidden adieu to the 
 major. 
   
 "If you meant a compliment it is a very doubtful one," she replied, 
 laughing. "Do you mean that I am worse than the weather which gives 
 papa the horrors, and Mrs. Mayburn the rheumatism?" 
   
 "And me one of the most delightful mornings I ever enjoyed," he added, 
 interrupting her. "You were in league with your wood fire. The garish 
 sunshine of a warm day robs a house of all cosiness and snugness. 
 Instead of being depressed by the storm and permitting others to be 
 dull, you have the art of making the clouds your foil." 
   
 "Possibly I may appear to some advantage against such a dismal 
 background," she admitted. 
   
 "My meaning is interpreted by my unconscionably long visit. I now must 
 reluctantly retreat into the dismal background." 
   
 "A rather well-covered retreat, as papa might say, but you will need 
 your umbrella all the same;" for he, in looking back at the archly 
 smiling girl, had neglected to open it. 
   
 "I am glad it is not a final retreat," he called back. "I shall return 
 this evening reinforced by my aunt." 
   
 "Well," exclaimed that lady when he appeared before her, "lunch has 
 been waiting ten minutes or more." 
   
 "I feared as much," he replied, shaking his head ruefully. 
   
 "What kept you?" 
   
 "Miss St. John." 
   
 "Not the major? I thought you went to entertain him?" 
   
 "So I did, but man proposes--" 
   
 "Oh, not yet, I hope," cried the old lady with assumed dismay. "I 
 thought you promised to do nothing rash." 
   
 "You are more precipitate than I have been. All that I propose is to 
 enjoy my vacation and the society of your charming friend." 
   
 "The major?" she suggested. 
   
 "A natural error on your part, for I perceived he was very gallant to 
 you. After your remarks, however, you cannot think it strange that I 
 found the daughter more interesting--so interesting indeed that I have 
 kept you waiting for lunch. I'll not repeat the offence any oftener 
 than I can help. At the same time I find that I have not lost my 
 appetite, or anything else that I am aware of." 
   
 "How did Grace appear?" his aunt asked as they sat down to lunch. 
   
 "Like myself." 
   
 "Then not like any one else you know?" 
   
 "We agree here perfectly." 
   
 "You have no fear?" 
   
 "No, nor any hopes that I am conscious of. Can I not admire your 
 paragon to your heart's content without insisting that she bestow upon 
 me the treasures of her life? Miss St. John has a frank, cordial manner 
 all her own, and I think also that for your sake she has received me 
 rather graciously, but I should be blind indeed did I not recognize 
 that it would require a siege to win her; and that would be useless, as 
 you said, unless her own heart prompted the surrender. I have heard and 
 read that many women are capable of passing fancies of which adroit 
 suitors can take advantage, and they are engaged or married before 
 fully comprehending what it all means. Were Miss St. John of this class 
 I should still hesitate to venture, for nothing in my training has 
 fitted me to take an advantage of a lady's mood. I don't think your 
 favorite is given to fancies. She is too well poised. Her serene, 
 laughing confidence, her more than content, comes either from a heart 
 already happily given, or else from a nature so sound and healthful 
 that life in itself is an unalloyed joy. She impresses me as the 
 happiest being I ever met, and as such it is a delight to be in her 
 presence; but if I should approach her as a lover, something tells me 
 that I should find her like a snowy peak, warm and rose-tinted in the 
 sunlight, as seen in the distance, but growing cold as you draw near. 
 There may be subterranean fires, but they would manifest themselves 
 from some inward impulse. At least I do not feel conscious of any power 
 to awaken them." 
   
 Mrs. Mayburn shook her head ominously. 
   
 "You are growing very fanciful," she said, "which is a sign, if not a 
 bad one. Your metaphors, too, are so farfetched and extravagant as to 
 indicate the earliest stages of the divine madness. Do you mean to 
 suggest that Grace will break forth like a volcano on some fortuitous 
 man? If that be your theory you would stand as good a chance as any 
 one. She might break forth on you." 
   
 "I have indeed been unfortunate in my illustration, since you can so 
 twist my words even in jest. Here's plain enough prose for you. No 
 amount of wooing would make the slightest difference unless by some law 
 or impulse of her own nature Miss St. John was compelled to respond." 
   
 "Isn't that true of every woman?" 
   
 "I don't think it is." 
   
 "How is it that you are so versed in the mysteries of the feminine 
 soul?" 
   
 "I have not lived altogether the life of a monk, and the history of the 
 world is the history of women as well as of men. I am merely giving the 
 impression that has been made upon me." 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER VI (PHILOSOPHY AT FAULT) 
 If Mrs. Mayburn had fears that her nephew's peace would be affected by 
 his exposure to the fascinations of Miss St. John, they were quite 
 allayed by his course for the next two or three weeks. If she had 
 indulged the hope that he would speedily be carried away by the charms 
 which seemed to her irresistible, and so give the chance of a closer 
 relationship with her favorite, she saw little to encourage such a hope 
 beyond Graham's evident enjoyment in the young girl's society, and his 
 readiness to seek it on all fitting occasions. He played whist 
 assiduously, and appeared to enjoy the game. He often spent two or 
 three hours with the major during the day, and occasionally beguiled 
 the time by reading aloud to him, but the element of gallantry toward 
 the daughter seemed wanting, and the aunt concluded, "No woman can 
 rival a book in Alford's heart--that is, if he has one--and he is 
 simply studying Grace as if she were a book. There is one symptom, 
 however, that needs explanation--he is not so ready to talk about her 
 as at first, and I don't believe that indifference is the cause." 
   
 She was right: indifference was not the cause. Graham's interest in 
 Miss St. John was growing deeper every day, but the stronger the hold 
 she gained upon his thoughts, the less inclined was he to speak of her. 
 He was the last man in the world to be carried away by a Romeo-like 
 gust of passion, and no amount of beauty could hold his attention an 
 hour, did not the mind ray through it with a sparkle and power 
 essentially its own. 
   
 Miss St. John had soon convinced him that she could do more than look 
 sweetly and chatter. She could not only talk to a university-bred man, 
 but also tell him much that was new. He found his peer, not in his 
 lines of thought, but in her own, and he was so little of an egotist 
 that he admired her all the more because she knew what he did not, and 
 could never become an echo of himself. In her world she had been an 
 intelligent observer and thinker, and she interpreted that world to him 
 as naturally and unassumingly as a flower blooms and exhales its 
 fragrance. For the first time in his life he gave himself up to the 
 charm of a cultivated woman's society, and to do this in his present 
 leisure seemed the most sensible thing possible. 
   
 "One can see a rare flower," he had reasoned, "without wishing to pluck 
 it, or hear a wood-thrush sing without straightway thinking of a cage. 
 Miss St. John's affections may be already engaged, or I may be the last 
 person in the world to secure them. Idle fancies of what she might 
 become to me are harmless enough. Any man is prone to indulge in these 
 when seeing a woman who pleases his taste and kindles his imagination. 
 When it comes to practical action one may expect and desire nothing 
 more than the brightening of one's wits and the securing of agreeable 
 pastime. I do not see why I should not be entirely content with these 
 motives, until my brief visit is over, notwithstanding my aunt's 
 ominous warnings;" and so without any misgivings he had at first 
 yielded himself to all the spells that Miss St. John might 
 unconsciously weave. 
   
 As time passed, however, he began to doubt whether he could maintain 
 his cool, philosophic attitude of enjoyment. He found himself growing 
 more and more eager for the hours to return when he could seek her 
 society, and the intervening time was becoming dull and heavy-paced. 
 The impulse to go back to Germany and to resume his studies was slow in 
 coming. Indeed, he was at last obliged to admit to himself that a game 
 of whist with the old major had more attractions than the latest 
 scientific treatise. Not that he doted on the irascible veteran, but 
 because he thus secured a fair partner whose dark eyes were beaming 
 with mirth and intelligence, whose ever-springing fountain of happiness 
 was so full that even in the solemnity of the game it found expression 
 in little piquant gestures, brief words, and smiles that were like 
 glints of sunshine. Her very presence lifted him to a higher plane, and 
 gave a greater capacity for enjoyment, and sometimes simply an arch 
 smile or an unexpected tone set his nerves vibrating in a manner as 
 delightful as it was unexplainable by any past experience that he could 
 recall. She was a good walker and horsewoman, and as their acquaintance 
 ripened he began to ask permission to join her in her rides and 
 rambles. She assented without the slightest hesitancy, but he soon 
 found that she gave him no exclusive monopoly of these excursions, and 
 that he must share them with other young men. Her absences from home 
 were always comparatively brief, however, and that which charmed him 
 most was her sunny devotion to her invalid and often very irritable 
 father. She was the antidote to his age and to his infirmities of body 
 and temper. While she was away the world in general, and his own little 
 sphere in particular, tended toward a hopeless snarl. Jinny, the 
 colored servant, was subserviency itself, but her very obsequiousness 
 irritated him, although her drollery was at times diverting. It was 
 usually true, however, that but one touch and one voice could soothe 
 the jangling nerves. As Graham saw this womanly magic, which apparently 
 cost no more effort than the wood fire put forth in banishing 
 chilliness and discomfort, the thought would come, "Blessed will be the 
 man who can win her as the light and life of his home!" 
   
 When days passed, and no one seemed to have a greater place in her 
 thoughts and interest than himself, was it unnatural that the hope 
 should dawn that she might create a home for him? If she had a favored 
 suitor his aunt would be apt to know of it. She did not seem ambitious, 
 or disposed to invest her heart so that it might bring fortune and 
 social eminence. Never by word or sign had she appeared to chafe at her 
 father's modest competency, but with tact and skill, taught undoubtedly 
 by army experience, she made their slender income yield the essentials 
 of comfort and refinement, and seemed quite indifferent to 
 non-essentials. Graham could never hope to possess wealth, but he found 
 in Miss St. John a woman who could impart to his home the crowning 
 grace of wealth--simple, unostentatious elegance. His aunt had said 
 that the young girl had already refused more than one fortune, and the 
 accompanying assurance that she would marry the man she loved, whatever 
 might be his circumstances, seemed verified by his own observation. 
 Therefore why might he not hope? Few men are so modest as not to 
 indulge the hope to which their heart prompts them. Graham was slow to 
 recognize the existence of this hope, and then he watched its growth 
 warily. Not for the world would he lose control of himself, not for the 
 world would he reveal it to any one, least of all to his aunt or to her 
 who had inspired it, unless he had some reason to believe she would not 
 disappoint it. He was prompted to concealment, not only by his pride, 
 which was great, but more by a characteristic trait, an instinctive 
 desire to hide his deeper feelings, his inner personality from all 
 others. He would not admit that he had fallen in love. The very phrase 
 was excessively distasteful. To his friend Hilland he might have given 
 his confidence, and he would have accounted for himself in some such 
 way as this:-- 
   
 "I have found a child and a woman; a child in frankness and joyousness, 
 a woman in beauty, strength, mental maturity, and unselfishness. She 
 interested me from the first, and every day I know better the reason 
 why--because she _is_ interesting. My reason has kept pace with my 
 fancy and my deeper feeling, and impels me to seek this girl quite as 
 much as does my heart. I do not think a man meets such a woman or such 
 a chance for happiness twice in a lifetime. I did not believe there was 
 such a woman in the world. You may laugh and say that is the way all 
 lovers talk. I answer emphatically, No. I have not yet lost my poise, 
 and I never was a predestined lover. I might easily have gone through 
 life and never given to these subjects an hour's thought. Even now I 
 could quietly decide to go away and take up my old life as I left it. 
 But why should I? Here is an opportunity to enrich existence 
 immeasurably, and to add to all my chances of success and power. So far 
 from being a drag upon one, a woman like Miss St. John would incite and 
 inspire a man to his best efforts. She would sympathize with him 
 because she could understand his aims and keep pace with his mental 
 advance. Granted that my prospects of winning her are doubtful indeed, 
 still as far as I can see there _is_ a chance. I would not care a straw 
 for a woman that I could have for the asking--who would take me as a 
 _dernier ressort_. Any woman that I would marry, many others would 
 gladly marry also, and I must take my chance of winning her from them. 
 Such would be my lot under any circumstances, and if I give way to a 
 faint heart now I may as well give up altogether and content myself 
 with a library as a bride." 
   
 Since he felt that he might have taken Hilland into his confidence, he 
 had, in terms substantially the same as those given, imagined his 
 explanation, and he smiled as he portrayed to himself his friend's 
 jocular response, which would have nevertheless its substratum of true 
 sympathy. "Hilland would say," he thought, "'That is just like you, 
 Graham. You can't smoke a cigar or make love to a girl without 
 analyzing and philosophizing and arranging all the wisdom of Solomon in 
 favor of your course. Now I would make love to a girl because I loved 
 her, and that would be the end on't.'" 
   
 Graham was mistaken in this case. Not in laughing sympathy, but in pale 
 dismay, would Hilland have received this revelation, for _he_ was 
 making love to Grace St. John because he loved her with all his heart 
 and soul. There had been a time when Graham might have obtained a hint 
 of this had circumstances been different, and it had occurred quite 
 early in his acquaintance with Miss St. John. After a day that had been 
 unusually delightful and satisfactory he was accompanying the young 
 girl home from his aunt's cottage in the twilight. Out of the 
 complacency of his heart he remarked, half to himself, "If Hilland were 
 only here, my vacation would be complete." 
   
 In the obscurity he could not see her sudden burning flush, and since 
 her hand was not on his arm he had no knowledge of her startled tremor. 
 All that he knew was that she was silent for a moment or two, and then 
 she asked quietly, "Is Mr. Warren Hilland an acquaintance of yours?" 
   
 "Indeed he is not," was the emphatic and hearty response. "He is the 
 best friend I have in the world, and the best fellow in the world." 
   
 Oh, fatal obscurity of the deepening twilight! Miss St. John's face was 
 crimson and radiant with pleasure, and could Graham have seen her at 
 that moment he could not have failed to surmise the truth. 
   
 The young girl was as jealous of her secret as Graham soon became of 
 his, and she only remarked demurely, "I have met Mr. Hilland in 
 society," and then she changed the subject, for they were approaching 
 the piazza steps, and she felt that if Hilland should continue the 
 theme of conversation under the light of the chandelier, a telltale 
 face and manner would betray her, in spite of all effort at control. A 
 fragrant blossom from the shrubbery bordering the walk brushed against 
 Graham's face, and he plucked it, saying, "Beyond that it is fragrant I 
 don't know what this flower is. Will you take it from me?" 
   
 "Yes," she said, hesitatingly, for at that moment her absent lover had 
 been brought so vividly to her consciousness that her heart recoiled 
 from even the slightest hint of gallantry from another. A moment later 
 the thought occurred, "Mr. Graham is _his_ dearest friend; therefore he 
 is my friend, although I cannot yet be as frank with him as I would 
 like to be." 
   
 She paused a few moments on the piazza, to cool her hot face and quiet 
 her fluttering nerves, and Graham saw with much pleasure that she 
 fastened the flower to her breastpin. When at last she entered she 
 puzzled him a little by leaving him rather abruptly at the parlor door 
 and hastening up the stairs. 
   
 She found that his words had stirred such deep, full fountains that she 
 could not yet trust herself under his observant eyes. It is a woman's 
 delight to hear her lover praised by other men, and Graham's words had 
 been so hearty that they had set her pulses bounding, for they assured 
 her that she had not been deceived by love's partial eyes. 
   
 "It's true, it's true," she murmured, softly, standing with dewy eyes 
 before her mirror. "He is the best fellow in the world, and I was blind 
 that I did not see it from the first. But all will yet be well;" and 
 she drew a letter from her bosom and kissed it. 
   
 Happy would Hilland have been had he seen the vision reflected by that 
 mirror--beauty, rich and rare in itself, but enhanced, illumined, and 
 made divine by the deepest, strongest, purest emotions of the soul. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER VII (WARREN HILLAND) 
 The closing scenes of the preceding chapter demand some explanation. 
 Major St. John had spent part of the preceding summer at a seaside 
 resort, and his daughter had inevitably attracted not a little 
 attention. Among those that sought her favor was Warren Hilland, and in 
 accordance with his nature he had been rather precipitate. He was 
 ardent, impulsive, and, indulged from earliest childhood, he had been 
 spoiled in only one respect--when he wanted anything he wanted it with 
 all his heart and immediately. Miss St. John had seemed to him from the 
 first a pearl among women. As with Graham, circumstances gave him the 
 opportunity of seeing her daily, and he speedily succumbed to the 
 "visitation of that power" to which the strongest must yield. Almost 
 before the young girl suspected the existence of his passion, he 
 declared it. She refused him, but he would take no refusal. Having won 
 from her the admission that he had no favored rival, he lifted his 
 handsome head with a resolution which she secretly admired, and 
 declared that only when convinced that he had become hateful to her 
 would he give up his suit. 
   
 He was not a man to become hateful to any woman. His frank nature was 
 so in accord with hers that she responded in somewhat the same spirit, 
 and said, half laughingly and half tearfully, "Well, if you will, you 
 will, but I can offer no encouragement." 
   
 And yet his downright earnestness had agitated her deeply, disturbing 
 her maiden serenity, and awaking for the first time the woman within 
 her heart. Hitherto her girlhood's fancies had been like summer 
 zephyrs, disturbing but briefly the still, clear waters of her soul; 
 but now she became an enigma to herself as she slowly grew conscious of 
 her own heart and the law of her woman's nature to love and give 
 herself to another. But she had too much of the doughty old major's 
 fire and spirit, and was too fond of her freedom, to surrender easily. 
 Both Graham and Mrs. Mayburn were right in their estimate--she would 
 never yield her heart unless compelled to by influences unexpected, at 
 first unwelcomed, but in the end overmastering. 
   
 The first and chief effect of Hilland's impetuous wooing was, as we 
 have seen, to destroy her sense of maidenly security, and to bring her 
 face to face with her destiny. Then his openly avowed siege speedily 
 compelled her to withdraw her thoughts from man in the abstract to 
 himself. She could not brush him aside by a quiet negative, as she had 
 already done in the case of several others. Clinging to her old life, 
 however, and fearing to embark on this unknown sea of new experiences, 
 she hesitated, and would not commit herself until the force that 
 impelled was greater than that which restrained. He at last had the 
 tact to understand her and to recognize that he had spoken to a girl, 
 indeed almost a child, and that he must wait for the woman to develop. 
 Hopeful, almost confident, for success and prosperity had seemingly 
 made a league with him in all things, he was content to wait. The major 
 had sanctioned his addresses from the first, and he sought to attain 
 his object by careful and skilful approaches. He had shown himself such 
 an impetuous wooer that she might well doubt his persistence; now he 
 would prove himself so patient and considerate that she could not doubt 
 him. 
   
 When they parted at the seaside Hilland was called to the far West by 
 important business interests. In response to his earnest pleas, in 
 which he movingly portrayed his loneliness in a rude mining village, 
 she said he might write to her occasionally, and he had written so 
 quietly and sensibly, so nearly as a friend might address a friend, 
 that she felt there could be no harm in a correspondence of this 
 character. During the winter season their letters had grown more 
 frequent, and he with consummate skill had gradually tinged his words 
 with a warmer hue. She smiled at his artifice. There was no longer any 
 need of it, for by the wood fire, when all the house was still and 
 wrapped in sleep, she had become fully revealed unto herself. She found 
 that she had a woman's heart, and that she had given it irrevocably to 
 Warren Hilland. 
   
 She did not tell him so--far from it. The secret seemed so strange, so 
 wonderful, so exquisite in its blending of pain and pleasure, that she 
 did not tell any one. Hers was not the nature that could babble of the 
 heart's deepest mysteries to half a score of confidants. To him first 
 she would make the supreme avowal that she had become his by a sweet 
 compulsion that had at last proved irresistible, and even he must again 
 seek that acknowledgment directly, earnestly. He was left to gather 
 what hope he could from the fact that she did not resent his warmer 
 expressions, and this leniency from a girl like Grace St. John meant so 
 much to him that he did gather hope daily. Her letters were not nearly 
 so frequent as his, but when they did come he fairly gloated over them. 
 They were so fresh, crisp and inspiring that they reminded him of the 
 seaside breezes that had quickened his pulses with health and pleasure 
 during the past summer. She wrote in an easy, gossiping style of the 
 books she was reading; of the good things in the art and literary 
 journals, and of such questions of the day as would naturally interest 
 her, and he so gratefully assured her that by this course she kept him 
 within the pale of civilization, that she was induced to write oftener. 
 In her effort to gather material that would interest him, life gained a 
 new and richer zest, and she learned how the kindling flame within her 
 heart could illumine even common things. Each day brought such a wealth 
 of joy that it was like a new and glad surprise. The page she read had 
 not only the interest imparted to it by the author, but also the far 
 greater charm of suggesting thoughts of him or for him; and so began an 
 interchange of books and periodicals, with pencillings, queries, marks 
 of approval and disapproval. "I will show him," she had resolved, "that 
 I am not a doll to be petted, but a woman who can be his friend and 
 companion." 
   
 And she proved this quite as truly by her questions, her intelligent 
 interest in his mining pursuits and the wild region of his sojourn, as 
 by her words concerning that with which she was familiar. 
   
 It was hard for Hilland to maintain his reticence or submit to the 
 necessity of his long absence. She had revealed the rich jewel of her 
 mind so fully that his love had increased with time and separation, and 
 he longed to obtain the complete assurance of his happiness. And yet 
 not for the world would he again endanger his hopes by rashness. He 
 ventured, however, to send the copy of Emerson with the quotation 
 already given strongly underscored. Since she made no allusion to this 
 in her subsequent letter, he again grew more wary, but as spring 
 advanced the tide of feeling became too strong to be wholly repressed, 
 and words indicating his passion would slip into his letters in spite 
 of himself. She saw what was coming as truly as she saw all around her 
 the increasing evidences of the approach of summer, and no bird sang 
 with a fuller or more joyous note than did her heart at the prospect. 
   
 Graham witnessed this culminating happiness, and it would have been 
 well for him had he known its source. Her joyousness had seemed to him 
 a characteristic trait, and so it was, but he could not know how 
 greatly it was enhanced by a cause that would have led to very 
 different action on his part. 
   
 Hilland had decided that he would not write to his friend concerning 
 his suit until his fate was decided in one way or the other. In fact, 
 his letters had grown rather infrequent, not from waning friendship, 
 but rather because their mutual interests had drifted apart. Their 
 relations were too firmly established to need the aid of 
 correspondence, and each knew that when they met again they would 
 resume their old ways. In the sympathetic magnetism of personal 
 presence confidences would be given that they would naturally hesitate 
 to write out in cool blood. 
   
 Thus Graham was left to drift and philosophize at first. But his aunt 
 was right: he could not daily see one who so fully satisfied the 
 cravings of his nature and coolly consider the pros and cons. He was 
 one who would kindle slowly, but it would be an anthracite flame that 
 would burn on while life lasted. 
   
 He felt that he had no reason for discouragement, for she seemed to 
 grow more kind and friendly every day. This was true of her manner, 
 for, looking upon him as Hilland's best friend, she gave him a genuine 
 regard, but it was an esteem which, like reflected light, was devoid of 
 the warmth of affection that comes direct from the heart. 
   
 She did not suspect the feeling that at last began to deepen rapidly, 
 nor had he any adequate idea of its strength. When a grain of corn is 
 planted it is the hidden root that first develops, and the controlling 
 influence of his life was taking root in Graham's heart. If he did not 
 fully comprehend this at an early day it is not strange that she did 
 not. She had no disposition to fall in love with every interesting man 
 she met, and it seemed equally absurd to credit the gentlemen of her 
 acquaintance with any such tendency. Her manner, therefore, toward the 
 other sex was characterized by a frank, pleasant friendliness which 
 could be mistaken for coquetry by only the most obtuse or the most 
 conceited of men. With all his faults Graham was neither stupid nor 
 vain. He understood her regard, and doubted whether he could ever 
 change its character. He only hoped that he might, and until he saw a 
 better chance for this he determined not to reveal himself, fearing 
 that if he did so it might terminate their acquaintance. 
   
 "My best course," he reasoned, "is to see her as often as possible, and 
 thus give her the opportunity to know me well. If I shall ever have any 
 power to win her love, she, by something in her manner or tone, will 
 unconsciously reveal the truth to me. Then I will not be slow to act. 
 Why should I lose the pleasure of these golden hours by seeking openly 
 that which as yet she has not the slightest disposition to give?" 
   
 This appeared to him a safe and judicious policy, and yet it may well 
 be doubted whether it would ever have been successful with Grace St. 
 John, even had she been as fancy free as when Hilland first met her. 
 She was a soldier's daughter, and could best be won by Hilland's 
 soldier-like wooing. Not that she could have been won any more readily 
 by direct and impetuous advances had not her heart been touched, but 
 the probabilities are that her heart never would have been touched by 
 Graham's army-of-observation tactics. It would scarcely have occurred 
 to her to think seriously of a man who did not follow her with an eager 
 quest. 
   
 On the other hand, as his aunt had suggested from the first, poor 
 Graham was greatly endangering his peace by this close study of a woman 
 lovely in herself, and, as he fully believed, peculiarly adapted to 
 satisfy every requirement of his nature. A man who knows nothing of a 
 hidden treasure goes unconcernedly on his way; if he discovers it and 
 then loses it he feels impoverished. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER VIII (SUPREME MOMENTS) 
 Graham's visit was at last lengthened to a month, and yet the impulse 
 of work or of departure had not seized him. Indeed, there seemed less 
 prospect of anything of the kind than ever. A strong mutual attachment 
 was growing between himself and his aunt. The brusque, quick-witted old 
 lady interested him, while her genuine kindness and hearty welcome gave 
 to him, for the first time in his life, the sense of being at home. She 
 was a woman of strong likes and dislikes. She had taken a fancy to 
 Graham from the first, and this interest fast deepened into affection. 
 She did not know how lonely she was in her isolated life, and she found 
 it so pleasant to have some one to look after and think about that she 
 would have been glad to have kept him with her always. 
   
 Moreover, she had a lurking hope, daily gaining confirmation, that her 
 nephew was not so indifferent to her favorite as he seemed. In her old 
 age she was beginning to long for kindred and closer ties, and she felt 
 that she could in effect adopt Grace, and could even endure the invalid 
 major for the sake of one who was so congenial. She thought it politic 
 however to let matters take their own course, for her strong good sense 
 led her to believe that meddling rarely accomplishes anything except 
 mischief. She was not averse to a little indirect diplomacy, however, 
 and did all in her power to make it easy and natural for Graham to see 
 the young girl as often as possible, and one lovely day, early in June, 
 she planned a little excursion, which, according to the experience of 
 her early days, promised well for her aims. 
   
 One breathless June morning that was warm, but not sultry, she went 
 over to the St. Johns', and suggested a drive to the brow of a hill 
 from which there was a superb view of the surrounding country. The plan 
 struck the major pleasantly, and Grace was delighted. She had the 
 craving for out-of-door life common to all healthful natures, but there 
 was another reason why she longed for a day under the open sky with her 
 thoughts partially and pleasantly distracted from one great truth to 
 which she felt she must grow accustomed by degrees. It was arranged 
 that they should take their lunch and spend the larger part of the 
 afternoon, thus giving the affair something of the aspect of a quiet 
 little picnic. 
   
 Although Graham tried to take the proposition quietly, he could not 
 repress a flush of pleasure and a certain alacrity of movement 
 eminently satisfactory to his aunt. Indeed, his spirits rose to a 
 degree that made him a marvel to himself, and he wonderingly queried, 
 "Can I be the same man who but a few weeks since watched the dark line 
 of my native country loom up in the night, and with prospects as vague 
 and dark as that outline?" 
   
 Miss St. John seemed perfectly radiant that morning, her eyes vying 
 with the June sunlight, and her cheeks emulating the roses everywhere 
 in bloom. What was the cause of her unaffected delight? Was it merely 
 the prospect of a day of pleasure in the woods? Could he hope that his 
 presence added to her zest for the occasion? Such were the questions 
 with which Graham's mind was busy as he aided the ladies in their 
 preparations. She certainly was more kind and friendly than usual--yes, 
 more familiar. He was compelled to admit, however, that her manner was 
 such as would be natural toward an old and trusted friend, but he 
 hoped--never before had he realized how dear this hope was 
 becoming--that some day she would awaken to the consciousness that he 
 might be more than a friend. In the meantime he would be patient, and, 
 with the best skill he could master, endeavor to win her favor, instead 
 of putting her on the defensive by seeking her love. 
   
 "Two elements cannot pass into combination until there is mutual 
 readiness," reasoned the scientist. "Contact is not combination. My 
 province is to watch until in some unguarded moment she gives the hope 
 that she would listen with her heart. To speak before that, either by 
 word or action, would be pain to her and humiliation to me." 
   
 The gulf between them was wide indeed, although she smiled so genially 
 upon him. In tying up a bundle their hands touched. He felt an electric 
 thrill in all his nerves; she only noticed the circumstance by saying, 
 "Who is it that is so awkward, you or I?" 
   
 "You are Grace," he replied. "It was I." 
   
 "I should be graceless indeed were I to find fault with anything 
 to-day," she said impulsively, and raising her head she looked away 
 into the west as if her thoughts had followed her eyes. 
   
 "It certainly is a very fine day," Graham remarked sententiously. 
   
 She turned suddenly, and saw that he was watching her keenly. Conscious 
 of her secret she blushed under his detected scrutiny, but laughed 
 lightly, saying, "You are a happy man, Mr. Graham, for you suggest that 
 perfect weather leaves nothing else to be desired." 
   
 "Many have to be content with little else," he replied, "and days like 
 this are few and far between." 
   
 "Not few and far between for me," she murmured to herself as she moved 
 away. 
   
 She was kinder and more friendly to Graham than ever before, but the 
 cause was a letter received that morning, against which her heart now 
 throbbed. She had written to Hilland of Graham, and of her enjoyment of 
 his society, dwelling slightly on his disposition to make himself 
 agreeable without tendencies toward sentiment and gallantry. 
   
 Love is quick to take alarm, and although Graham was his nearest 
 friend, Hilland could not endure the thought of leaving the field open 
 to him or to any one a day longer. He knew that Graham was deliberate 
 and by no means susceptible. And yet, to him, the fact conveyed by the 
 letter, that his recluse friend had found the society of Grace so 
 satisfactory that he had lingered on week after week, spoke volumes. It 
 was not like his studious and solitary companion of old. Moreover, he 
 understood Graham sufficiently well to know that Grace would have 
 peculiar attractions for him, and that upon a girl of her mind he would 
 make an impression very different from that which had led society 
 butterflies to shun him as a bore. Her letter already indicated this 
 truth. The natural uneasiness that he had felt all along lest some 
 master spirit should appear was intensified. Although Graham was so 
 quiet and undemonstrative, Hilland knew him to be possessed of an 
 indomitable energy of will when once it was aroused and directed toward 
 an object. Thus far from Grace's letter he believed that his friend was 
 only interested in the girl of his heart, and he determined to 
 forestall trouble, if possible, and secure the fruits of his patient 
 waiting and wooing, if any were to be gathered. At the same time he 
 resolved to be loyal to his friend, as far as he could admit his 
 claims, and he wrote a glowing eulogy of Graham, unmarred by a phrase 
 or word of detraction. Then, as frankly, he admitted his fears, in 
 regard not only to Graham, but to others, and followed these words with 
 a strong and impassioned plea in his own behalf, assuring her that time 
 and absence, so far from diminishing her mastery over him, had rendered 
 it complete. He entreated for permission to come to her, saying that 
 his business interests, vast as they were, counted as less than nothing 
 compared with the possession of her love--that he would have pressed 
 his suit by personal presence long before had not obligations to others 
 detained him. These obligations he now could and would delegate, for 
 all the wealth of the mines on the continent would only be a burden 
 unless she could share it with him. He also informed her that a ring 
 made of gold, which he himself had mined deep in the mountain's heart, 
 was on the way to her--that his own hands had helped to fashion the 
 rude circlet-and that it was significant of the truth that he sought 
 her not from the vantage ground of wealth, but because of a manly 
 devotion that would lead him to delve in a mine or work in a shop for 
 her, rather than live a life of luxury with any one else in the world. 
   
 For the loving girl what a treasure was such a letter! The joy it 
 brought was so overwhelming that she was glad of the distractions which 
 Mrs. Mayburn's little excursion promised. She wished to quiet the 
 tumult at her heart, so that she could write as an earnest woman to an 
 earnest man, which she could not do on this bright June morning, with 
 her heart keeping tune with every bird that sang. Such a response as 
 she then might have made would have been the one he would have welcomed 
 most, but she did not think so. "I would not for the world have him 
 know how my head is turned," she had laughingly assured herself, not 
 dreaming that such an admission would disturb his equilibrium to a far 
 greater degree. 
   
 "After a day," she thought, "out of doors with Mrs. Mayburn's genial 
 common-sense and Mr. Graham's cool, half-cynical philosophy to steady 
 me, I shall be sane enough to answer." 
   
 They were soon bowling away in a strong, three-seated rockaway, well 
 suited to country roads, Graham driving, with the object of his 
 thoughts and hopes beside him. Mrs. Mayburn and the major occupied the 
 back seat, while Jinny, with a capacious hamper, was in the middle 
 seat, and in the estimation of the diplomatic aunt made a good screen 
 and division. 
   
 All seemed to promise well for her schemes, for the young people 
 appeared to be getting on wonderfully together. There was a constant 
 succession of jest and repartee. Grace was cordiality itself; and in 
 Graham's eyes that morning there was coming an expression of which he 
 may not have been fully aware, or which at last he would permit to be 
 seen. Indeed, he was yielding rapidly to the spell of her beauty and 
 the charm of her mind and manner. He was conscious of a strange, 
 exquisite exhilaration. Every nerve in his body seemed alive to her 
 presence, while the refined and delicate curves of her cheek and throat 
 gave a pleasure which no statue in the galleries of Europe had ever 
 imparted. 
   
 He wondered at all this, for to him it was indeed a new experience. His 
 past with its hopes and ambitions seemed to have floated away to an 
 indefinite distance, and he to have awakened to a new life--a new phase 
 of existence. In the exaltation of the hour he felt that, whatever 
 might be the result, he had received a revelation of capabilities in 
 his nature of which he had not dreamed, and which at the time promised 
 to compensate for any consequent reaction. He exulted in his human 
 organism as a master in music might rejoice over the discovery of an 
 instrument fitted to respond perfectly to his genius. Indeed, the 
 thought crossed his mind more than once that day that the marvel of 
 marvels was that mere clay could be so highly organized. It was not his 
 thrilling nerves alone which suggested this thought, or the pure mobile 
 face of the young girl, so far removed from any suggestion of 
 earthliness, but a new feeling, developing in his heart, that seemed so 
 deep and strong as to be deathless. 
   
 They reached their destination in safety. The June sunlight would have 
 made any place attractive, but the brow of the swelling hill with its 
 wide outlook, its background of grove and intervening vistas, left 
 nothing to be desired. The horses were soon contentedly munching their 
 oats, and yet their stamping feet and switching tails indicated that 
 even for the brute creation there is ever some alloy. Graham, however, 
 thought that fortune had at last given him one perfect day. There was 
 no perceptible cloud. The present was so eminently satisfactory that it 
 banished the past, or, if remembered, it served as a foil. The future 
 promised a chance for happiness that seemed immeasurable, although the 
 horizon of his brief existence was so near; for he felt that with her 
 as his own, human life with all its limitations was a richer gift than 
 he had ever imagined possible. And yet, like a slight and scarcely 
 heard discord, the thought would come occasionally, "Since so much is 
 possible, more ought to be possible. With such immense capability for 
 life as I am conscious of to-day, how is it that this life is but a 
 passing and perishing manifestation?" 
   
 Such impressions took no definite form, however, but merely passed 
 through the dim background of his consciousness, while he gave his 
 whole soul to the effort to make the day one that from its unalloyed 
 pleasure could not fail to recall him to the memory of Miss St. John. 
 He believed himself to be successful, for he felt as if inspired. He 
 was ready with a quick reply to all her mirthful sallies, and he had 
 the tact to veil his delicate flattery under a manner and mode of 
 speech that suggested rather than revealed his admiration. She was 
 honestly delighted with him and his regard, as she understood it, and 
 she congratulated herself again and again that Hilland's friend was a 
 man that she also would find unusually agreeable. His kindness to her 
 father had warmed her heart toward him, and now his kindness and 
 interest were genuine, although at first somewhat hollow and assumed. 
   
 Graham had become a decided favorite with the old gentleman, for he had 
 proved the most efficient ally that Grace had ever gained in quickening 
 the pace of heavy-footed Time. Even the veteran's chilled blood seemed 
 to feel the influences of the day, and his gallantry toward Mrs. 
 Mayburn was more pronounced than usual. "We, too, will be young people 
 once more," he remarked, "for the opportunity may not come to us again." 
   
 They discussed their lunch with zest, they smiled into one another's 
 face, and indulged in little pleasantries that were as light and 
 passing as the zephyrs that occasionally fluttered the leaves above 
 their heads; but deep in each heart were memories, tides of thought, 
 hopes, fears, joys, that form the tragic background of all human life. 
 The old major gave some reminiscences of his youthful campaigning. In 
 his cheerful mood his presentation of them was in harmony with the 
 sunny afternoon. The bright sides of his experiences were toward his 
 auditors, but what dark shadows of wounds, agony, and death were on the 
 further side! And of these he could never be quite unconscious, even 
 while awakening laughter at the comic episodes of war. 
   
 Mrs. Mayburn seemed her plain-spoken, cheery self, intent only on 
 making the most of this genial hour in the autumn of her life, and yet 
 she was watching over a hope that she felt might make her last days her 
 best days. She was almost praying that the fair girl whom she had so 
 learned to love might become the solace of her age, and fill, in her 
 childless heart, a place that had ever been an aching void. Miss St. 
 John was too preoccupied to see any lover but one, and he was ever 
 present, though thousands of miles away. But she saw in Graham his 
 friend, and had already accepted him also as her most agreeable friend, 
 liking him all the better for his apparent disposition to appeal only 
 to her fancy and reason, instead of her heart. She saw well enough that 
 he liked her exceedingly, but Hilland's impetuous wooing and 
 impassioned words had made her feel that there was an infinite 
 difference between liking and loving; and she pictured to herself the 
 pleasure they would both enjoy when finding that their seemingly chance 
 acquaintance was but preparation for the closer ties which their 
 several relations to Hilland could not fail to occasion. 
   
 The object of this kindly but most temperate regard smiled into her 
 eyes, chatted easily on any topic suggested, and appeared entirely 
 satisfied; but was all the while conscious of a growing need which, 
 denied, would impoverish his life, making it, brief even as he deemed 
 it to be, an intolerable burden. But on this summer afternoon hope was 
 in the ascendant, and he saw no reason why the craving of all that was 
 best and noblest in his nature should not be met. When a supreme 
 affection first masters the heart it often carries with it a certain 
 assurance that there must be a response, that when so much is given by 
 a subtle, irresistible, unexpected impulse, the one receiving should, 
 sooner or later, by some law of correspondence, be inclined to return a 
 similar regard. All living things in nature, when not interfered with, 
 at the right time and in the right way, sought and found what was 
 essential to the completion of their life, and he was a part of nature. 
 According to the law of his own individuality he had yielded to Miss 
 St. John's power. His reason had kept pace with his heart. He had 
 advanced to his present attitude toward her like a man, and had not 
 been driven to it by the passion of an animal. Therefore he was 
 hopeful, self-complacent, and resolute. He not only proposed to win the 
 girl he loved, cost what it might in time and effort, but in the 
 exalted mood of the hour felt that he could and must win her. 
   
 She, all unconscious, smiled genially, and indeed seemed the very 
 embodiment of mirth. Her talk was brilliant, yet interspersed with 
 strange lapses that began to puzzle him. Meanwhile she scarcely saw 
 him, gave him but the passing attention with which one looks up from an 
 absorbing story, and all the time the letter against which her heart 
 pressed seemed alive and endowed with the power to make each throb more 
 glad and full of deep content. 
   
 How isolated and inscrutable is the mystery of each human life! Here 
 were four people strongly interested in each other and most friendly, 
 between whom was a constant interchange of word and glance, and yet 
 their thought and feeling were flowing in strong diverse currents, 
 unseen and unsuspected. 
   
 As the day declined they all grew more silent and abstracted. Deeper 
 shadows crept into the vistas of memory with the old, and those who had 
 become but memories were with them again as they had been on like June 
 days half a century before. With the young the future, outlined by 
 hope, took forms so absorbing that the present was forgotten. 
 Ostensibly they were looking off at the wide and diversified landscape; 
 in reality they were contemplating the more varied experiences, actual 
 and possible, of life. 
   
 At last the major complained querulously that he was growing chilly. 
 The shadow in which he shivered was not caused by the sinking sun. 
   
 The hint was taken at once, and in a few moments they were on their way 
 homeward. The old sportive humor of the morning did not return. The 
 major was the aged invalid again. Mrs. Mayburn and Graham were 
 perplexed, for Grace had seemingly become remote from them all. She was 
 as kind as ever; indeed her manner was characterized by an unusual 
 gentleness; but they could not but see that her thoughts were not with 
 them. The first tumultuous torrent of her joy had passed, and with it 
 her girlhood. Now, as an earnest woman, she was approaching the hour of 
 her betrothal, when she would write words that would bind her to 
 another and give direction to all her destiny. Her form was at Graham's 
 side; the woman was not there. Whither and to whom had she gone? The 
 question caused him to turn pale with fear. 
   
 "Miss Grace," he said at last, and there was a tinge of reproach in his 
 voice, "where are you? You left us some time since," and he turned and 
 tried to look searchingly into her eyes. 
   
 She met his without confusion or rise in color. Her feelings had become 
 so deep and earnest, so truly those of a woman standing on the assured 
 ground of fealty to another, that she was beyond her former girlish 
 sensitiveness and its quick, involuntary manifestations. She said 
 gently, "Pardon me, Mr. Graham, for my unsocial abstraction. You 
 deserve better treatment for all your efforts for our enjoyment to-day." 
   
 "Please do not come back on compulsion," he said. "I do not think I am 
 a natural Paul Pry, but I would like to know where you have been." 
   
 "I will tell you some day," she said, with a smile that was so friendly 
 that his heart sprang up in renewed hope. Then, as if remembering what 
 was due to him and the others, she buried her thoughts deep in her 
 heart until she could be alone with them and their object. And yet her 
 secret joy, like a hidden fire, tinged all her words with a kindly 
 warmth. Graham and his aunt were not only pleased but also perplexed, 
 for both were conscious of something in Grace's manner which they could 
 not understand. Mrs. Mayburn was sanguine that her June-day strategy 
 was bringing forth the much-desired results; her nephew only hoped. 
 They all parted with cordial words, which gave slight hint of that 
 which was supreme in each mind. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER IX (THE REVELATION) 
 Graham found letters which required his absence for a day or two, and 
 it seemed to him eminently fitting that he should go over in the 
 evening and say good-by to Miss St. John. Indeed he was disposed to say 
 more, if the opportunity offered. His hopes sank as he saw that the 
 first floor was darkened, and in answer to his summons Jinny informed 
 him that the major and Miss Grace were "po'ful tired" and had withdrawn 
 to their rooms. He trembled to find how deep was his disappointment, 
 and understood as never before that his old self had ceased to exist. A 
 month since no one was essential to him; now his being had become 
 complex. Then he could have crossed the ocean with a few easily spoken 
 farewells; now he could not go away for a few hours without feeling 
 that he must see one who was then a stranger. The meaning of this was 
 all too plain, and as he walked away in the June starlight he admitted 
 it fully. Another life had become essential to his own. And still he 
 clung to his old philosophy, muttering, "If this be true, why will not 
 my life become as needful to her?" His theory, like many another, was a 
 product of wishes rather than an induction from facts. 
   
 When he returned after a long ramble, the light still burning in Miss 
 St. John's window did not harmonize with the story of the young girl's 
 fatigue. The faint rays, however, could reveal nothing, although they 
 had illumined page after page traced full of words of such vital import 
 to him. 
   
 Mrs. Mayburn shared his early breakfast, and before he took his leave 
 he tried to say in an easy, natural manner: 
   
 "Please make my adieus to Miss St. John, and say I called to present 
 them in person, but it seemed she had retired with the birds. The 
 colored divinity informed me that she was 'po'ful tired,' and I hope 
 you will express my regret that the day proved so exceedingly 
 wearisome." Mrs. Mayburn lifted her keen gray eyes to her nephew's 
 face, and a slow rising flush appeared under her scrutiny. Then she 
 said gently, "That's a long speech, Alford, but I don't think it 
 expresses your meaning. If I give your cordial good-by to Grace and 
 tell her that you hope soon to see her again, shall I not better carry 
 out your wishes?" 
   
 "Yes," was the grave and candid reply. 
   
 "I believe you are in earnest now." 
   
 "I am, indeed," he replied, almost solemnly, and with these vague yet 
 significant words they came to an understanding. 
   
 Three days elapsed, and still Graham's business was not completed. In 
 his impatience he left it unfinished and returned. How his heart 
 bounded as he saw the familiar cottage! With hasty steps he passed up 
 the path from the street. It was just such another evening as that 
 which had smiled upon his first coming to his aunt's residence, only 
 now there was summer warmth in the air, and the richer, fuller promise 
 of the year. The fragrance that filled the air, if less delicate, was 
 more penetrating, and came from flowers that had absorbed the sun's 
 strengthening rays. If there was less of spring's ecstasy in the song 
 of the birds, there was now in their notes that which was in truer 
 accord with Graham's mood. 
   
 At a turn of the path he stopped short, for on the rustic seat beneath 
 the apple-tree he saw Miss St. John reading a letter; then he went 
 forward to greet her, almost impetuously, with a glow in his face and a 
 light in his eyes which no one had ever seen before. She rose to meet 
 him, and there was an answering gladness in her face which made her 
 seem divine to him. 
   
 "You are welcome," she said cordially. "We have all missed you more 
 than we dare tell you;" and she gave his hand a warm, strong pressure. 
   
 The cool, even-pulsed man, who as a boy had learned to hide his 
 feelings, was for a moment unable to speak. His own intense emotion, 
 his all-absorbing hope, blinded him to the character of her greeting, 
 and led him to give it a meaning it did not possess. She, equally 
 preoccupied with her one thought, looked at him for a moment in 
 surprise, and then cried, "He has told you--has written?" 
   
 "He! who?" Graham exclaimed with a blanching face. 
   
 "Why, Warren Hilland, your friend. I told you I would tell you, but I 
 could not before I told him," she faltered. 
   
 He took an uncertain step or two to the tree, and leaned against it for 
 support. 
   
 The young girl dropped the letter and clasped her hands in her 
 distress. "It was on the drive--our return, you remember," she began 
 incoherently. "You asked where my thoughts were, and I said I would 
 tell you soon. Oh! we have both been blind. I am so--so sorry." 
   
 Graham's face and manner had indeed been an unmistakable revelation, 
 and the frank, generous girl waited for no conventional acknowledgment 
 before uttering what was uppermost in her heart. 
   
 By an effort which evidently taxed every atom of his manhood, Graham 
 gained self-control, and said quietly, "Miss St. John, I think better 
 of myself for having loved you. If I had known! But you are not to 
 blame. It is I who have been blind, for you have never shown other than 
 the kindly regard which was most natural, knowing that I was Hilland's 
 friend. I have not been frank either, or I should have learned the 
 truth long ago. I disguised the growing interest I felt in you from the 
 first, fearing I should lose my chance if you understood me too early. 
 I am Hilland's friend. No one living now knows him better than I do, 
 and from the depths of my heart I congratulate you. He is the best and 
 truest man that ever lived." 
   
 "Will you not be my friend, also?" she faltered. 
   
 He looked at her earnestly as he replied, "Yes, for life." 
   
 "You will feel differently soon," said the young girl, trying to smile 
 reassuringly. "You will see that it has all been a mistake, a 
 misunderstanding; and when your friend returns we will have the 
 merriest, happiest times together." 
   
 "Could you soon feel differently?" he asked. 
   
 "Oh! why did you say that?" she moaned, burying her face in her hands. 
 "If you will suffer even in a small degree as I should!" 
   
 Her distress was so evident and deep that he stood erect and stepped 
 toward her. "Why are you so moved, Miss St. John?" he asked. "I have 
 merely paid you the highest compliment within my power." 
   
 Her hands dropped from her face, and she turned away, but not so 
 quickly as to hide the tears that dimmed her lustrous eyes. His lip 
 quivered for a moment at the sight of them, but she did not see this. 
   
 "You have merely paid me a compliment," she repeated in a low tone. 
   
 The lines of his mouth were firm now, his face grave and composed, and 
 in his gray eyes only a close observer might have seen that an 
 indomitable will was resuming sway. "Certainly," he continued, "and 
 such compliments you have received before and would often again were 
 you free to receive them. I cannot help remembering that there is 
 nothing unique in this episode." 
   
 She turned and looked at him doubtingly, as she said with hesitation, 
 "You then regard your--your--" 
   
 "My vacation experience," he supplied. 
   
 Her eyes widened in what resembled indignant surprise, and her tones 
 grew a little cold and constrained as she again repeated his words. 
   
 "You then regard your experience as a vacation episode." 
   
 "Do not for a moment think I have been insincere," he said, with strong 
 emphasis, "or that I should not have esteemed it the chief honor of my 
 life had I been successful--" 
   
 "As to that," she interrupted, "there are so many other honors that a 
 man can win." 
   
 "Assuredly. Pardon me, Miss St. John, but I am sure you have had to 
 inflict similar disappointments before. Did not the men survive?" 
   
 The girl broke out into a laugh in which there was a trace of 
 bitterness. "Survive!" she cried. "Indeed they did. One is already 
 married, and another I happen to know is engaged. I'm sure I'm glad, 
 however. Your logic is plain and forcible, Mr. Graham, and you relieve 
 my mind greatly. Men must be different from women." 
   
 "Undoubtedly." 
   
 "What did you mean by asking me, 'Could you soon feel differently?'" 
   
 He hesitated a moment and flushed slightly, then queried with a smile, 
 "What did you mean by saying that I should soon learn to feel 
 differently, and that when Hilland returned we should have the merriest 
 times together?" 
   
 It was her turn now to be confused now; and she saw that her words were 
 hollow, though spoken from a kindly impulse. 
   
 He relieved her by continuing: "You probably spoke from an instinctive 
 estimate of me. You remembered what a cool and wary suitor I had been. 
 Your father would say that I had adopted an-army-of-observation 
 tactics, and I might have remembered that such armies rarely accomplish 
 much. I waited for you to show some sign of weakness, and now you see 
 that I am deservedly punished. It is ever best to face the facts as 
 they are." 
   
 "You appear frank, Mr. Graham, and you certainly have not studied 
 philosophy in vain." 
   
 "Why should I not take a philosophical view of the affair? In my 
 policy, which I thought so safe and astute, I blundered. If from the 
 first I had manifested the feeling"--the young girl smiled slightly at 
 the word--"which you inspired, you would soon have taught me the wisdom 
 of repressing its growth. Thus you see that you have not the slightest 
 reason for self-censure; and I can go on my way, at least a wiser man." 
   
 She bowed gracefully, as she said with a laugh, "I am now beginning to 
 understand that Mr. Graham can scarcely regret anything which adds to 
 his stores of wisdom, and certainly not so slight an 'affair' as a 
 'vacation episode.' Now that we have talked over this little 
 misunderstanding so frankly and rationally, will you not join us at 
 whist to-night?" 
   
 "Certainly. My aunt and I will come over as usual." 
   
 Her brow contracted in perplexity as she looked searchingly at him for 
 a moment; but his face was simply calm, grave, and kindly in its 
 expression, and yet there was something about the man which impressed 
 her and even awed her--something unseen, but felt by her woman's 
 intuition. It must be admitted that it was felt but vaguely at the 
 time; for Grace after all was a woman, and Graham's apparent philosophy 
 was not altogether satisfactory. It had seemed to her as the interview 
 progressed that she had been surprised into showing a distress and 
 sympathy for which there was no occasion--that she had interpreted a 
 cool, self-poised man by her own passionate heart and boundless love. 
 In brief, she feared she had been sentimental over an occasion which 
 Graham, as he had suggested, was able to view philosophically. She had 
 put a higher estimate on his disappointment than he, apparently; and 
 she had too much of her father's spirit, and too much womanly pride not 
 to resent this, even though she was partially disarmed by this very 
 disappointment, and still more so by his self-accusation and his 
 tribute to Hilland. But that which impressed her most was something of 
 which she saw no trace in the calm, self-controlled man before her. As 
 a rule, the soul's life is hidden, except as it chooses to reveal 
 itself; but there are times when the excess of joy or suffering cannot 
 be wholly concealed, even though every muscle is rigid and the face 
 marble. Therefore, although there were no outward signals of distress, 
 Graham's agony was not without its influence on the woman before him, 
 and it led her to say, gently and hesitatingly, "But you promised to be 
 my friend, Mr. Graham." 
   
 His iron will almost failed him, for he saw how far removed she was 
 from those women who see and know nothing save that which strikes their 
 senses. He had meant to pique her pride as far as he could without 
 offence, even though he sank low in her estimation; but such was the 
 delicacy of her perceptions that she half divined the trouble he 
 sedulously strove to hide. He felt as if he could sit down and cry like 
 a child over his immeasurable loss, and for a second feared he would 
 give way. There was in his eyes a flash of anger at his weakness, but 
 it passed so quickly that she could scarcely note, much less interpret 
 it. 
   
 Then he stepped forward in a friendly, hearty way, and took her hand as 
 he said: "Yes, Miss St. John, and I will keep my promise. I will be 
 your friend for life. If you knew my relations to Hilland, you could 
 not think otherwise. I shall tell him when we meet of my first and 
 characteristic siege of a woman's heart, of the extreme and prudent 
 caution with which I opened my distant parallels, and how, at last, 
 when I came within telescopic sight of the prize, I found that he had 
 already captured it. My course has been so perfectly absurd that I must 
 laugh in spite of myself;" and he did laugh so naturally and genially 
 that Grace was constrained to join him, although the trouble and 
 perplexity did not wholly vanish from her eyes. 
   
 "And now," he concluded, "that I have experienced my first natural 
 surprise, I will do more than sensibly accept the situation. I 
 congratulate you upon it as no one else can. Had I a sister I would 
 rather that she married Hilland than any other man in the world. We 
 thus start on the right basis for friendship, and there need be no 
 awkward restraint on either side. I must now pay my respects to my 
 aunt, or I shall lose not only her good graces but my supper also;" and 
 with a smiling bow he turned and walked rapidly up the path, and 
 disappeared within Mrs. Mayburn's open door. 
   
 Grace looked after him, and the perplexed contraction of her brow 
 deepened. She picked up Hilland's letter, and slowly and musingly 
 folded it. Suddenly she pressed a fervent kiss upon it, and murmured: 
 "Thank God, the writer of this has blood in his veins; and yet--and 
 yet--he looked at first as if he had received a mortal wound, 
 and--and--all the time I felt that he suffered. But very possibly I am 
 crediting him with that which would be inevitable were my case his." 
   
 With bowed head she returned slowly and thoughtfully through the 
 twilight to her home. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER X (THE KINSHIP OF SUFFERING) 
 When Graham felt that he had reached the refuge of his aunt's cottage, 
 his self-control failed him, and he almost staggered into the dusky 
 parlor and sank into a chair. Burying his face in his hands, he 
 muttered: "Fool, fool, fool!" and a long, shuddering sigh swept through 
 his frame. 
   
 How long he remained in this attitude he did not know, so overwhelmed 
 was he by his sense of loss. At last he felt a hand laid upon his 
 shoulder; he looked up and saw that the lamp was lighted and that his 
 aunt was standing beside him. His face was so altered and haggard that 
 she uttered an exclamation of distress. 
   
 Graham hastily arose and turned down the light. "I cannot bear that you 
 should look upon my weakness," he said, hoarsely. 
   
 "I should not be ashamed of having loved Grace St. John," said the old 
 lady, quietly. 
   
 "Nor am I. As I told her, I think far better of myself for having done 
 A man who has seen her as I have would be less than a man had he 
 
 not loved her. But oh, the future, the future! How am I to support the 
 truth that my love is useless, hopeless?" 
   
 "Alford, I scarcely need tell you that my disappointment is bitter 
 also. I had set my heart on this thing." 
   
 "You know all, then?" 
   
 "Yes, I know she is engaged to your friend, Warren Hilland. She came 
 over in the dusk of last evening, and, sitting just where you are, told 
 me all. I kept up. It was not for me to reveal your secret. I let the 
 happy girl talk on, kissed her, and wished her all the happiness she 
 deserves. Grace is unlike other girls, or I should have known about it 
 long ago. I don't think she even told her father until she had first 
 written to him her full acknowledgment. Your friend, however, had 
 gained her father's consent to his addresses long since. She told me 
 that." 
   
 "Oh, my awful future!" he groaned. "Alford," Mrs. Mayburn said, gently 
 but firmly, "think of _her_ future. Grace is so good and kind that she 
 would be very unhappy if she saw and heard you now. I hope you did not 
 give way thus in her presence." 
   
 He sprang to his feet and paced the room rapidly at first, then more 
 and more slowly. Soon he turned up the light, and Mrs. Mayburn was 
 surprised at the change in his appearance. 
   
 "You are a strong, sensible woman," he began. 
   
 "Well, I will admit the premise for the sake of learning what is to 
 follow." 
   
 "Miss St. John must never know of my sense of loss--my present 
 despair," he said, in low, rapid speech. "Some zest in life may come 
 back to me in time; but, be that as it may, I shall meet my trouble 
 like a man. To make her suffer now--to cloud her well-merited happiness 
 and that of my friend--would be to add a bitterness beyond that of 
 death. Aunt, you first thought me cold and incapable of strong 
 attachments, and a few weeks since I could not have said that your 
 estimate was far astray, although I'm sure my friendship for Hilland 
 was as strong as the love of most men. Until I met you and Grace it was 
 the only evidence I possessed that I had a heart. Can you wonder? He 
 was the first one that ever showed me any real kindness. I was orphaned 
 in bitter truth, and from childhood my nature was chilled and benumbed 
 by neglect and isolation. Growth and change are not so much questions 
 of time as of conditions. From the first moment that I saw Grace St. 
 John, she interested me deeply; and, self-complacent, self-confident 
 fool that I was, I thought I could deal with the supreme question of 
 life as I had dealt with those which half the world never think about 
 at all. I remember your warning, aunt; and yet, as I said to myself at 
 the time, there was more of incentive than warning in your words, flow 
 self-confidently I smiled over them! How perfectly sure I was that I 
 could enjoy this rare girl's society as I would look at a painting or 
 listen to a symphony! Almost before I was aware, I found a craving in 
 my heart which I now know all the world cannot satisfy. That June day 
 which you arranged so kindly in my behalf made all as clear as the 
 cloudless sun that shone upon us. That day I was revealed fully unto 
 myself, but my hope was strong, for I felt that by the very law and 
 correspondence of nature I could not have such an immeasurable need 
 without having that need supplied. In my impatience I left my business 
 unfinished and returned this evening, for I could not endure another 
 hour of delay. She seemed to answer my glad looks when we met; she gave 
 her hand in cordial welcome. I, blinded by feeling, and thinking that 
 its very intensity must awaken a like return, stood speechless, almost 
 overwhelmed by my transcendent hope. She interpreted my manner 
 naturally by what was uppermost in her mind, and exclaimed: 'He has 
 told you--he has written.' In a moment I knew the truth, and I scarcely 
 think that a knife piercing my heart could inflict a deeper pang. I 
 could not rally for a moment or two. When shall I forget the 
 sympathy--the tears that dimmed her dear eyes! I have a religion at 
 last, and I worship the divine nature of that complete woman. The 
 thought that I made her suffer aroused my manhood; and from that moment 
 I strove to make light of the affair--to give the impression that she 
 was taking it more seriously than I did. I even tried to pique her 
 pride--I could not wound her vanity, for she has none--and I partially 
 succeeded. My task, however, was and will be a difficult one, for her 
 organization is so delicate and fine that she feels what she cannot 
 see. But I made her laugh in spite of herself at my prudent, wary 
 wooing. I removed, I think, all constraint, and we can meet as if 
 nothing had happened. Not that we can meet often--that would tax me 
 beyond my strength--but often enough to banish solicitude from her mind 
 and from Hilland's. Now you know the facts sufficiently to become a 
 shrewd and efficient ally. By all your regard for me--what is far more, 
 by all your love for her--I entreat you let me bring no cloud across 
 her bright sky. We are going over to whist as usual to-night. Let all 
 be as usual." 
   
 "Heaven bless you, Alford!" faltered his aunt, with tearful eyes. 
   
 "Heaven! what a mockery! Even the lichen, the insect, lives a complete 
 life, while we, with all our reason, so often blunder, fail, and miss 
 that which is essential to existence." 
   
 Mrs. Mayburn shook her head slowly and thoughtfully, and then said: 
 "This very fact should teach us that our philosophy of life is false. 
 We are both materialists--I from the habit of living for this world 
 only; you, I suppose, from mistaken reasoning; but in hours like these 
 the mist is swept aside, and I feel, I know, that this life cannot, 
 must not, be all in all." 
   
 "Oh, hush!" cried Graham, desperately. "To cease to exist and therefore 
 to suffer, may become the best one can hope for. Were it not cowardly, 
 I would soon end it all." 
   
 "You may well use the word 'cowardly,'" said his aunt in strong 
 emphasis; "and brave Grace St. John would revolt at and despise such 
 cowardice by every law of her nature." 
   
 "Do not fear. I hope never to do anything to forfeit her respect, 
 except it is for the sake of her own happiness, as when to-day I tried 
 to make her think my veins were filled with ice-water instead of blood. 
 Come, I have kept you far too long. Let us go through the formality of 
 supper; and then I will prove to you that if I have been weak here I 
 can be strong for her sake. I do not remember my mother; but nature is 
 strong, and I suppose there comes a time in every one's life when he 
 must speak to some one as he would to a mother. You have been very 
 kind, dear aunt, and I shall never forget that you have wished and 
 schemed for my happiness." 
   
 The old lady came and put her arm around the young man's neck and 
 looked into his face with a strange wistfulness as she said, slowly: 
 "There is no blood relationship between us, Alford, but we are nearer 
 akin than such ties could make us. You do not remember your mother; I 
 never had a child. But, as you say, nature is strong; and although I 
 have tried to satisfy myself with a hundred things, the mother in my 
 heart has never been content. I hoped, I prayed, that you and Grace 
 might become my children. Alford, I have been learning of late that I 
 am a lonely, unhappy old woman. Will you not be my boy? I would rather 
 share your sorrow than be alone in the world again." 
   
 Graham was deeply touched. He bowed his head upon her shoulder as if he 
 were her son, and a few hot tears fell from his eyes. "Yes, aunt," he 
 said, in a low tone, "you have won the right to ask anything that I can 
 give. Fate, in denying us both what our hearts most craved, has indeed 
 made us near akin; and there can be an unspoken sympathy between us 
 that may have a sustaining power that we cannot now know. You have 
 already taken the bitterness, the despair out of my sorrow; and should 
 I go to the ends of the earth I shall be the better for having you to 
 think of and care for." 
   
 "And you feel that you cannot remain here, Alford?" 
   
 "No, aunt, that is now impossible; that is, for the present." 
   
 "Yes, I suppose it is," she admitted, sadly. 
   
 "Come, aunty dear, I promised Miss St. John that we would go over as 
 usual to-night, and I would not for the world break my word." 
   
 "Then we shall go at once. We shall have a nice little supper on our 
 return. Neither of us is in the mood for it now." 
   
 After a hasty toilet Graham joined his aunt. She looked at him, and had 
 no fears. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XI (THE ORDEAL) 
 Grace met them at the door. "It is very kind of you," she said, "to 
 come over this evening after a fatiguing journey." 
   
 "Very," he replied, laughingly; "a ride of fifty miles in the cars 
 should entitle one to a week's rest." 
   
 "I hope you are going to take it." 
   
 "Oh, no; my business man in New York has at last aroused me to heroic 
 action. With only the respite of a few hours' sleep I shall venture 
 upon the cars again and plunge into all the perils and excitements of a 
 real estate speculation. My property is going up, and 'there's a tide,' 
 you know, 'which, taken at its flood--'" 
   
 "Leads away from your friends. I see that it is useless for us to 
 protest, for when did a man ever give up a chance for speculation?" 
   
 "Then it is not the fault of man: we merely obey a general law." 
   
 "That is the way with you scientists," she said with a piquant nod and 
 smile. "You do just as you please, but you are always obeying some 
 profound law that we poor mortals know nothing about. We don't fall 
 back upon the arrangements of the universe for our motives, do we, Mrs. 
 Mayburn?" 
   
 "Indeed we don't," was the brusque response. "'When she will, she will, 
 and when she won't, she won't,' answers for us." 
   
 "Grace! Mrs. Mayburn!" called the major from the parlor; "if you don't 
 come soon I'll order out the guard and have you brought in. Mr. 
 Graham," he continued, as the young man hastened to greet him, "you are 
 as welcome as a leave of absence. We have had no whist since you left 
 us, and we are nearly an hour behind time to-night. Mrs. Mayburn, your 
 humble servant. Excuse me for not rising. Why the deuce my gout should 
 trouble me again just now I can't see. I've not seen you since that 
 juvenile picnic which seemed to break up all our regular habits. I 
 never thought that you would desert me. I suppose Mr. Graham carries a 
 roving commission and can't be disciplined. I propose, however, that we 
 set to at once and put the hour we've lost at the other end of the 
 evening." 
   
 It was evident that the major was in high spirits, in spite of his 
 catalogue of ills; and in fact his daughter's engagement had been 
 extremely satisfactory to him. Conscious of increasing age and 
 infirmity, he was delighted that Grace had chosen one so abundantly 
 able to take care of her and of him also. For the last few days he had 
 been in an amiable mood, for he felt that fortune had dealt kindly by 
 him. His love for his only child was the supreme affection of his 
 heart, and she by her choice had fulfilled his best hopes. Her future 
 was provided for and safe. Then from the force of long habit he thought 
 next of himself. If his tastes were not luxurious, he had at least a 
 strong liking for certain luxuries, and to these he would gladly add a 
 few more did his means permit. He was a connoisseur in wines and the 
 pleasures of the table--not that he had any tendencies toward excess, 
 but he delighted to sip the great wines of the world, to expatiate on 
 their age, character, and origin. Sometimes he would laughingly say, 
 "Never dilate on the treasures bequeathed to us by the old poets, 
 sages, and artists, but for inspiration and consolation give me a 
 bottle of old, old wine--wine made from grapes that ripened before I 
 was born." 
   
 He was too upright a man, however, to gratify these tastes beyond his 
 means; but Grace was an indulgent and skilful housekeeper, and made 
 their slender income minister to her father's pleasure in a way that 
 surprised even her practical friend, Mrs. Mayburn. In explanation she 
 would laughingly say, "I regard housekeeping as a fine art. The more 
 limited your materials the greater the genius required for producing 
 certain results. Now, I'm a genius, Mrs. Mayburn. You wouldn't dream 
 it, would you? Papa sometimes has a faint consciousness of the fact 
 when he finds on his table wines and dishes of which he knows the usual 
 cost. 'My dear,' he will say severely, 'is this paid for?' 'Yes,' I 
 reply, meekly. 'How did you manage it?' Then I stand upon my dignity, 
 and reply with offended majesty, 'Papa, I am housekeeper. You are too 
 good a soldier to question the acts of your superior officer.' Then he 
 makes me a most profound bow and apology, and rewards me amply by his 
 almost childlike enjoyment of what after all has only cost me a little 
 undetected economy and skill in cookery." 
   
 But the major was not so blind as he appeared to be. He knew more of 
 her "undetected" economies, which usually came out of her allowance, 
 than she supposed, and his conscience often reproached him for 
 permitting them; but since they appeared to give her as much pleasure 
 as they afforded him, he had let them pass. It is hard for a petted and 
 weary invalid to grow in self-denial. While the old gentleman would 
 have starved rather than angle for Hilland or plead his cause by a 
 word--he had given his consent to the young man's addresses with the 
 mien of a major-general--he nevertheless foresaw that wealth as the 
 ally of his daughter's affection would make him one of the most 
 discriminating and fastidious gourmands in the land. 
   
 In spite of his age and infirmity the old soldier was exceedingly fond 
 of travel and of hotel life. He missed the varied associations of the 
 army. Pain he had to endure much of the time, and from it there was no 
 escape. Change of place, scene, and companionship diverted his mind, 
 and he partially forgot his sufferings. As we have shown, he was a 
 devourer of newspapers, but he enjoyed the world's gossip far more when 
 he could talk it over with others, and maintain on the questions of the 
 day half a dozen good-natured controversies. When at the seashore the 
 previous summer he had fought scores of battles for his favorite 
 measures with other ancient devotees of the newspaper. Grace had made 
 Graham laugh many a time by her inimitable descriptions of the quaint 
 tilts and chaffings of these graybeards, as each urged the views of his 
 favorite journals; and then she would say, "You ought to see them sit 
 down to whist. Such prolonged and solemn sittings upset my gravity more 
 than all their _bric-a-brac_ jokes." And then she had sighed and said, 
 "I wish we could have remained longer, for papa improved so much and 
 was so happy." 
   
 The time was coming when he could stay longer--as long as he 
 pleased--for whatever pleased her father would please Grace, and would 
 have to please her husband. Her mother when dying had committed the old 
 man to her care, and a sacred obligation had been impressed upon her 
 childish mind which every year had strengthened. 
   
 As we have seen, Grace had given her heart to Hilland by a compulsion 
 which she scarcely understood herself. No thrifty calculations had had 
 the slightest influence in bringing the mysterious change of feeling 
 that had been a daily surprise to the young girl. She had turned to 
 Hilland as the flower turns to the sun, with scarcely more than the 
 difference that she was conscious that she was turning. When at last 
 she ceased to wonder at the truth that her life had become blended with 
 that of another--for, as her love developed, this union seemed the most 
 natural and inevitable thing in the world--she began to think of 
 Hilland more than of herself, and of the changes which her new 
 relations would involve. It became one of the purest sources of her 
 happiness that she would eventually have the means of gratifying every 
 taste and whim of her father, and could surround him with all the 
 comforts which his age and infirmities permitted him to enjoy. 
   
 Thus the engagement ring on Miss St. John's finger had its heights and 
 depths of meaning to both father and daughter; and its bright golden 
 hue pervaded all the prospects and possibilities--the least as well as 
 the greatest--of the future. It was but a plain, heavy circlet of gold, 
 and looked like a wedding-ring. Such to Graham it seemed to be, as its 
 sheen flashed upon his eyes during their play, which continued for two 
 hours or more, with scarcely a remark or an interruption beyond the 
 requirements of the game. The old major loved this complete and 
 scientific absorption, and Grace loved to humor him. Moreover, she 
 smiled more than once at Graham's intentness. Never had he played so 
 well, and her father had to put forth all his veteran skill and 
 experience to hold his own. "To think that I shed tears over his 
 disappointment, when a game of whist can console him!" she thought. 
 "How different he is from his friend! I suppose that is the reason that 
 they are such friends--they are so unlike. The idea of Warren playing 
 with that quiet, steady hand and composed face under like 
 circumstances! And yet, why is he so pale?" 
   
 Mrs. Mayburn understood this pallor too well, and she felt that the 
 ordeal had lasted long enough. She, too, had acted her part admirably, 
 but now she pleaded fatigue, saying that she had not been very well for 
 the last day or two. She was inscrutable to Grace, and caused no 
 misgivings. It is easier for a woman than for a man to hide emotions 
 from a woman, and Mrs. Mayburn's gray eyes and strong features rarely 
 revealed anything that she meant to conceal. The major acquiesced 
 good-naturedly, saying, "You are quite right to stop, Mrs. Mayburn, and 
 I surely have no cause to complain. We have had more play in two hours 
 than most people have in two weeks. I congratulate you, Mr. Graham; you 
 are becoming a foeman worthy of any man's steel." 
   
 Graham rose with the relief which a man would feel on leaving the rack, 
 and said, smilingly, "Your enthusiasm is contagious. Any man would soon 
 be on his mettle who played often with you." 
   
 "Is enthusiasm one of your traits?" Grace asked, with an arch smile 
 over her shoulder, as she went to ring the bell. 
   
 "What! Have you not remarked it?" 
   
 "Grace has been too preoccupied to remark anything--sly puss!" said the 
 major, laughing heartily. "My dear Mrs. Mayburn, I shall ask for your 
 congratulations tonight. I know we shall have yours, Mr. Graham, for 
 Grace has informed me that Hilland is your best and nearest friend. 
 This little girl of mine has been playing blind-man's-buff with her old 
 father. She thought she had the handkerchief tight over my eyes, but I 
 always keep One corner raised a little. Well, Mr. Graham, this dashing 
 friend of yours, who thinks he can carry all the world by storm, asked 
 me last summer if he could lay siege to Grace. I felt like wringing his 
 neck for his audacity and selfishness. The idea of any one taking Grace 
 from me!" 
   
 "And no one shall, papa," said Grace, hiding her blushing face behind 
 his white shock of hair. "But I scarcely think these details will 
 interest--" 
   
 "What!" cried the bluff, frank old soldier--"not interest Mrs. Mayburn, 
 the best and kindest of neighbors? not interest Hilland's alter ego?" 
   
 "I assure you," said Graham, laughing, "that I am deeply interested; 
 and I promise you, Miss Grace, that I shall give Hilland a severer 
 curtain lecture than he will ever receive from you, because he has left 
 me in the dark so long." 
   
 "Stop pinching my arm," cried the major, who was in one of his jovial 
 moods, and often immensely enjoyed teasing his daughter. "You may well 
 hide behind me. Mrs. Mayburn, I'm going to expose a rank case of filial 
 deception that was not in the least successful. This 'I came, I saw, I 
 conquered' friend of yours, Mr. Graham, soon discovered that he was 
 dealing with a race that was not in the habit of surrendering. But your 
 friend, like Wellington, never knew when he was beaten. He wouldn't 
 retreat an inch, but drawing his lines as close as he dared, sat down 
 to a regular siege." 
   
 Graham again laughed outright, and with a comical glance at the young 
 girl, asked, "Are you sure, sir, that Miss St. John was aware of these 
 siege operations?" 
   
 "Indeed she was. Your friend raised his flag at once, and nailed it to 
 the staff. And this little minx thought that she could deceive an old 
 soldier like myself by playing the role of disinterested friend to a 
 lonely young man condemned to the miseries of a mining town. I was 
 often tempted to ask her why she did not extend her sympathy to scores 
 of young fellows in the service who are in danger of being scalped 
 every day. But the joke of it was that I knew she was undermined and 
 must surrender long before Hilland did." 
   
 "Now, papa, it's too bad of you to expose me in this style. I appeal to 
 Mrs. Mayburn if I did not keep my flag flying so defiantly to the last 
 that even she did not suspect me." 
   
 "Yes," said the old lady, dryly; "I can testify to that." 
   
 "Which is only another proof of my penetration," chuckled the major. 
 "Well, well, it is so seldom I can get ahead of Grace in anything that 
 I like to make the most of my rare good fortune; and it seems, Mr. 
 Graham, as if you and your aunt had already become a part of our 
 present and prospective home circle. I have seen a letter in which 
 Warren speaks of you in a way that reminds me of a friend who was shot 
 almost at my side in a fight with the Indians. That was nearly half a 
 century ago, and yet no one has taken his place. With men, friendships 
 mean something, and last." 
   
 "Come, come," cried Mrs. Mayburn, bristling up, "neither Grace nor I 
 will permit such an implied slur upon our sex." 
   
 "My friendship for Hilland will last," said Graham, with quiet 
 emphasis. "Most young men are drawn together by a mutual liking--by 
 something congenial in their natures. I owe him a debt of gratitude 
 that can never be repaid, He found me a lonely, neglected boy, who had 
 scarcely ever known kindness, much less affection, and his ardent, 
 generous nature became an antidote to my gloomy tendencies. From the 
 first he has been a constant and faithful friend. He has not one 
 unworthy trait. But there is nothing negative about him, for he abounds 
 in the best and most manly qualities; and I think," he concluded, 
 speaking slowly and deliberately, as if he were making an inward vow, 
 "that I shall prove worthy of his trust and regard." 
   
 Grace looked at him earnestly and gratefully, and the thought again 
 asserted itself that she had not yet gauged his character or his 
 feeling toward herself. To her surprise she also noted that Mrs. 
 Mayburn's eyes were filled with tears, but the old lady was equal to 
 the occasion, and misled her by saying, "I feel condemned, Alford, that 
 you should have been so lonely and neglected in early life, but I know 
 it was so." 
   
 "Oh, well, aunt, you know I was not an interesting boy, and had I been 
 imposed upon you in my hobbledehoy period, our present relations might 
 never have existed. I must ask your congratulations also," he 
 continued, turning toward the major and his daughter. "My aunt and I 
 have in a sense adopted each other. I came hither to pay her a formal 
 call, and have made another very dear friend." 
   
 "Have you made only one friend since you became our neighbor?" asked 
 Grace, with an accent of reproach in her voice. 
   
 "I would very gladly claim you and your father as such," he replied, 
 smilingly. 
   
 The old major arose with an alacrity quite surprising in view of his 
 lameness, and pouring out two glasses of the wine that Jinny had 
 brought in answer to Grace's touch of the bell, he gave one of the 
 glasses to Graham, and with the other in his left hand, he said, "And 
 here I pledge you the word of a soldier that I acknowledge the claim in 
 full, not only for Hilland's sake, but your own. You have generously 
 sought to beguile the tedium of a crotchety and irritable old man; but 
 such as he is he gives you his hand as a true, stanch friend; and Grace 
 knows this means a great deal with me." 
   
 "Yes, indeed," she cried. "I declare, papa, you almost make me jealous. 
 You treated Warren as if you were the Great Mogul, and he but a 
 presuming subject. Mr. Graham, if so many new friends are not an 
 embarrassment of riches, will you give me a little niche among them?" 
 "I cannot give you that which is yours already," he replied; "nor have 
 I a little niche for you. You have become identified with Hilland, you 
 know, and therefore require a large space." 
   
 "Now, see here, my good friends, you are making too free with my own 
 peculiar property. You are already rich in each other, not counting Mr. 
 Hilland, who, according to Alford, seems to embody all human 
 excellence. I have only this philosophical nephew, and even with him 
 shall find a rival in every book he can lay hands upon. I shall 
 therefore carry him off at once, especially as he is to be absent 
 several days." 
   
 The major protested against his absence, and was cordiality itself in 
 his parting words. 
   
 Grace followed them out on the moonlit piazza. "Mr. Graham," she said, 
 hesitatingly, "you will not be absent very long, I trust." 
   
 "Oh, no," he replied, lightly; "only two or three weeks. In addition to 
 my affairs in the city, I have some business in Vermont, and while 
 there shall follow down some well-remembered trout-streams." 
   
 She turned slightly away, and buried her face in a spray of roses from 
 the bush that festooned the porch. He saw that a tinge of color was in 
 her cheeks, as she said in a low tone, "You should not be absent long; 
 I think your friend will soon visit us, and you should be here to 
 welcome him," and she glanced hastily toward him. Was it the moonlight 
 that made him look so very pale? His eyes held hers. Mrs. Mayburn had 
 walked slowly on, and seemingly he had forgotten her. The young girl's 
 eyes soon fell before his fixed gaze, and her face grew troubled. He 
 started, and said lightly, "I beg your pardon, Miss Grace, but you have 
 no idea what a picture you make with the aid of those roses. The human 
 face in clear moonlight reveals character, it is said, and I again 
 congratulate my friend without a shadow of doubt. Unversed as I am in 
 such matters, I am quite satisfied that Hilland will need no other 
 welcome than yours, and that he will be wholly content with it for some 
 time to come. Moreover, when I find myself among the trout, there's no 
 telling when I shall get out of the woods." 
   
 "Is fishing, then, one of your ruling passions?" the young girl asked, 
 with an attempt to resume her old piquant style of talk with him. 
   
 "Yes," he replied, laughing, so that his aunt might hear him; "but when 
 one's passions are of so mild a type one may be excused for having a 
 half-dozen. Good-by!" 
   
 She stepped forward and held out her hand. "You have promised to be my 
 friend," she said, gently. 
   
 His hand trembled in her grasp as he said quietly and firmly, "I will 
 keep my promise." 
   
 She looked after him wistfully, as she thought, "I'm not sure about 
 him. I hope it's only a passing disappointment, for we should not like 
 to think that our happiness had brought him wretchedness." 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XII (FLIGHT TO NATURE) 
 Graham found his aunt waiting for him on the rustic seat beneath the 
 apple-tree. Here, a few hours before, his heart elate with hope, he had 
 hastened forward to meet Grace St. John. Ages seemed to have passed 
 since that moment of bitter disappointment, teaching him how relative a 
 thing is time. 
   
 The old lady joined him without a word, and they passed on silently to 
 the house. As they entered, she said, trying to infuse into the 
 commonplace words something of her sympathy and affection, "Now we will 
 have a cosey little supper." 
   
 Graham placed his hand upon her arm, and detained her, as he replied, 
 "No, aunt; please get nothing for me. I must hide myself for a few 
 hours from even your kind eyes. Do not think me weak or unmanly. I 
 shall soon get the reins well in hand, and shall then be quiet enough." 
   
 "I think your self-control has been admirable this evening." 
   
 "It was the self-control of sheer, desperate force, and only partial at 
 that. I know I must have been almost ghostly in my pallor. I have felt 
 pale--as if I were bleeding to death. I did not mean to take her hand 
 in parting, for I could not trust myself; but she held it out so kindly 
 that I had to give mine, which, in spite of my whole will power, 
 trembled. I troubled and perplexed her. I have infused an element of 
 sorrow and bitterness into her happy love; for in the degree in which 
 it gives her joy she will fear that it brings the heartache to me, and 
 she is too good and kind not to care. I must go away and not return 
 until my face is bronzed and my nerves are steel. Oh, aunt! you cannot 
 understand me; I scarcely understand myself. It seems as if all the 
 love that I might have given to many in the past, had my life been like 
 that of others, had been accumulating for this hopeless, useless 
 waste--this worse than waste, since it only wounds and pains its 
 object." 
   
 "And do I count for so little, Alford?" 
   
 "You count for more now than all others save one; and if you knew how 
 contrary this utter unreserve is to my nature and habit, you would 
 understand how perfect is my confidence in you and how deep is my 
 affection. But I am learning with a sort of dull, dreary astonishment 
 that there are heights and depths of experience of which I once had not 
 the faintest conception. This is a kind of battle that one must fight 
 out alone. I must go away and accustom myself to a new condition of 
 life. But do not worry about me. I shall come back a vertebrate;" and 
 he tried to summon a reassuring smile, as he kissed her in parting. 
   
 That night Graham faced his trouble, and decided upon his future course. 
   
 After an early breakfast the next morning, the young man bade his aunt 
 good-by. With moist eyes, she said, "Alford, I am losing you, just as I 
 find how much you are and can be to me." 
   
 "No, aunty dear; my course will prove best for us both," he replied, 
 gently. "You would not be happy if you saw me growing more sad and 
 despairing every day through inaction, and--and--well, I could never 
 become strong and calm with that cottage there just beyond the trees. 
 You have not lost me, for I shall try to prove a good correspondent." 
   
 Graham kept his word. His "real estate speculation" did not detain him 
 long in the city, for his business agent was better able to manage such 
 interests than the inexperienced student; and soon a letter dated among 
 the mountains and the trout streams of Vermont assured Mrs. Mayburn 
 that he had carried out his intentions. Not long after, a box with a 
 score of superb fish followed the letter, and Major St. John's name was 
 pinned on some of the largest and finest. During the next fortnight 
 these trophies of his sport continued to arrive at brief intervals, and 
 they were accompanied by letters, giving in almost journal form graphic 
 descriptions of the streams he had fished, their surrounding scenery, 
 and the amusing peculiarities of the natives. There was not a word that 
 suggested the cause that had driven him so suddenly into the 
 wilderness, but on every page were evidences of tireless activity. 
   
 The major was delighted with the trout, and enjoyed a high feast almost 
 every day. Mrs. Mayburn, imagining that she had divined Graham's wish, 
 read from his letters glowing extracts which apparently revealed an 
 enthusiastic sportsman. 
   
 After his departure Grace had resumed her frequent visits to her 
 congenial old friend, and confidence having now been given in respect 
 to her absent lover, the young girl spoke of him out of the abundance 
 of her heart. Mrs. Mayburn tried to be all interest and sympathy, but 
 Grace was puzzled by something in her manner--something not absent when 
 she was reading Graham's letters. One afternoon she said: "Tell your 
 father that he may soon expect something extraordinarily fine, for 
 Alford has written me of a twenty-mile tramp through the mountains to a 
 stream almost unknown and inaccessible." 
   
 "Won't you read the description to us this evening? You have no idea 
 how much pleasure papa takes in Mr. Graham's letters. He says they 
 increase the gamy flavor of the fish he enjoys so much; and I half 
 believe that Mr. Graham in this indirect and delicate way is still 
 seeking to amuse my father, and so compensate him for his absence. 
 Warren will soon be here, however, and then we can resume our whist 
 parties. Do you know that I am almost jealous? Papa talks more of 
 Vermont woods than of Western mines. You ought to hear him expatiate 
 upon the trout. He seems to follow Mr. Graham up and down every stream; 
 and he explains to me with the utmost minuteness just how the flies are 
 cast and just where they were probably thrown to snare the speckled 
 beauties. By the way, Mr. Graham puzzles me. He seems to be the most 
 indefatigable sportsman I ever heard of. But I should never have 
 suspected it from the tranquil weeks he spent with us. He seemed above 
 all things a student of the most quiet and intellectual tastes, one who 
 could find more pleasure in a library and laboratory than in all the 
 rest of the world together. Suddenly he develops into the most ardent 
 disciple of Izaak Walton. Indeed, he is too ardent, too full of 
 restless activity, to be a true follower of the gentle, placid Izaak. 
 At his present rate he will soon overrun all Vermont;" and she looked 
 searchingly at her friend. 
   
 A faint color stole into the old lady's cheeks, but she replied, 
 quietly: "I have learned to know Alford well enough to love him dearly; 
 and yet you must remember that but a few weeks ago he was a comparative 
 stranger to me. He certainly is giving us ample proof of his 
 sportsmanship, and now that I recall it, I remember hearing of his 
 fondness for solitary rambles in the woods when a boy." 
   
 "His descriptions certainly prove that he is familiar with them," was 
 the young girl's answer to Mrs. Mayburn's words. Her inward comment on 
 the slight flush that accompanied them was: "She knows. He has told 
 her; or she, less blind than I, has seen." But she felt that the 
 admission of his love into which Graham had been surprised was not a 
 topic for her to introduce, although she longed to be assured that she 
 had not seriously disturbed the peace of her lover's friend. A day or 
 two later Hilland arrived, and her happiness was too deep, too 
 complete, to permit many thoughts of the sportsman in the Vermont 
 forests. Nor did Hilland's brief but hearty expressions of regret at 
 Graham's temporary absence impose upon her. She saw that the former was 
 indeed more than content with her welcome; that while his friendship 
 was a fixed star of the first magnitude, it paled and almost 
 disappeared before the brightness and fulness of her presence. 
 "Nature," indeed, became "radiant" to both "with purple light, the 
 morning and the night varied enchantments." 
   
 Grace waited for Graham to give his own confidence to his friend if he 
 chose to do so, for she feared that if she spoke of it estrangement 
 might ensue. The unsuspecting major was enthusiastic in his praises of 
 the successful fisherman, and Hilland indorsed with emphasis all he 
 said. Graham's absence and Grace's reception had banished even the 
 thought that he might possibly find a rival in his friend, and his 
 happiness was unalloyed. 
   
 One sultry summer evening in early July Graham returned to his aunt's 
 residence, and was informed that she was, as usual, at her neighbor's. 
 He went immediately to his room to remove the dust and stains of 
 travel. On his table still lay the marked copy of Emerson that Grace 
 had lent him, and he smiled bitterly as he recalled his complacent, 
 careless surmises over the underscored passage, now so well understood 
 and explained. Having finished his toilet, he gazed steadily at his 
 reflection in the mirror, as a soldier might have done to see if his 
 equipment was complete. It was evident he had not gone in vain to 
 nature for help. His face was bronzed, and no telltale flush or pallor 
 could now be easily recognized. His expression was calm and resolute, 
 indicating nerves braced and firm. Then he turned away with the look of 
 a man going into battle, and without a moment's hesitancy he sought the 
 ordeal. The windows and doors of Major St. John's cottage were open, 
 and as he mounted the piazza the group around the whist-table was in 
 full view--the major contracting his bushy eyebrows over his hand as if 
 not altogether satisfied, Mrs. Mayburn looking at hers with an interest 
 so faint as to suggest that her thoughts were wandering, and Hilland 
 with his laughing blue eyes glancing often from his cards to the fair 
 face of his partner, as if he saw there a story that would deepen in 
 its inthralling interest through life. There was no shadow, no doubt on 
 his wide, white brow. It was the genial, frank, merry face of the boy 
 who had thawed the reserve and banished the gathering gloom of a 
 solitary youth at college, only now it was marked by the stronger lines 
 of early manhood. His fine, short upper lip was clean shaven, and its 
 tremulous curves indicated a nature quick, sensitive, and ready to 
 respond to every passing influence, while a full, tawny beard and broad 
 shoulders banished all suggestion of effeminacy. He appeared to be, 
 what in truth he was, an unspoiled favorite of fortune, now supremely 
 happy in her best and latest gift. "If I could but have known the truth 
 at first," sighed Graham, "I would not have lingered here until my very 
 soul was enslaved; for he is the man above all others to win and hold a 
 woman's heart." 
   
 That he held the heart of the fair girl opposite him was revealed by 
 every glance, and Graham's heart ached with a pain hard to endure, as 
 he watched for a moment the exquisite outlines of her face, her wide, 
 low brow with its halo of light-colored hair that was in such marked 
 contrast with the dark and lustrous eyes, now veiled by silken lashes 
 as she looked downward intent on the game, now beaming with the very 
 spirit of mirth and mischief as she looked at her opponents, and again 
 softening in obedience to the controlling law of her life as she 
 glanced half shyly from time to time at the great bearded man on the 
 other side of the table. 
   
 "Was not the world wide enough for me to escape seeing that face?" he 
 groaned. "A few months since I was content with my life and lot. Why 
 did I come thousands of miles to meet such a fate? I feared I should 
 have to face poverty and privation for a time. Now they are my lot for 
 life, an impoverishment that wealth would only enhance. I cannot stay 
 here, I will not remain a day longer than is essential to make the 
 impression I wish to leave;" and with a firm step he crossed the 
 piazza, rapped lightly in announcement of his presence, and entered 
 without ceremony. 
   
 Hilland sprang forward joyously to meet him, and gave him just such a 
 greeting as accorded with his ardent spirit. "Why, Graham!" he cried, 
 with a crushing grasp, and resting a hand on his shoulder at the same 
 time, "you come unexpectedly, like all the best things in the world. We 
 looked for a letter that would give us a chance to celebrate your 
 arrival as that of the greatest fisherman of the age." 
   
 "Having taken so many unwary trout, it was quite in keeping to take us 
 unawares," said Grace, pressing forward with outstretched hand, for she 
 had determined to show in the most emphatic way that Hilland's friend 
 was also hers. 
   
 Graham took the proffered hand and held it, while, with a humorous 
 glance at his friend, he said: "See here, Hilland, I hold an 
 indisputable proof that it's time you appeared on the confines of 
 civilization and gave an account of yourself." 
   
 "I own up, old fellow. You have me on the hip. I have kept one secret 
 from you. If we had been together the thing would have come out, but 
 somehow I couldn't write, even to you, until I knew my fate." 
   
 "Mr. Graham," broke in the major, "if we were in the service, I should 
 place you in charge of the commissary department, and give you a roving 
 commission. I have lived like a lord for the past two weeks;" and he 
 shook Graham's hand so cordially as to prove his heart had sympathized 
 with an adjacent organ that had been highly gratified. 
   
 "I have missed you, Alford," was his aunt's quiet greeting, and she 
 kissed him as if he were her son, causing a sudden pang as he 
 remembered how soon he would bid her farewell again. 
   
 "Why, Graham, how you have improved! You have gained a splendid color 
 in the woods. The only trouble is that you are as attenuated as some of 
 the theories we used to discuss." 
   
 "And you, giddy boy, begin to look quite like a man. Miss Grace, you 
 will never know how greatly you are indebted to me for my restraining 
 influence. There never was a fellow who needed to be sat down upon so 
 often as Hilland. I have curbed and pruned him; indeed, I have almost 
 brought him up." 
   
 "He does you credit," was her reply, spoken with mirthful 
 impressiveness, and with a very contented glance at the laughing 
 subject of discussion. 
   
 "Yes, Graham," he remarked, "you were a trifle heavy at times, and were 
 better at bringing a fellow down than up. It took all the leverage of 
 my jolly good nature to bring you up occasionally. But I am glad to see 
 and hear that you have changed so happily. Grace and the major say you 
 have become the best of company, taking a human interest in other 
 questions than those which keep the scientists by the ears." 
   
 "That is because I have broken my shell and come out into the world. 
 One soon discovers that there are other questions, and some of them 
 conundrums that the scientists may as well give up at the start. I say, 
 Hilland, how young we were over there in Germany when we thought 
 ourselves growing hourly into _savants!_" 
   
 "Indeed we were, and as sublimely complacent as we were young. Would 
 you believe it, Mrs. Mayburn, your nephew and I at one time thought we 
 were on the trail of some of the most elusive secrets of the universe, 
 and that we should soon drag them from cover. I have learned since that 
 this little girl could teach me more than all the universities." 
   
 Graham shot a swift glance at his aunt, which Grace thought she 
 detected; but he turned to the latter, and said genially: "I 
 congratulate you on excelling all the German doctors. I know he's 
 right, and he'll remember the lore obtained from you long after he has 
 forgotten the deep, guttural abstractions that droned on his ears 
 abroad. It will do him more good, too." 
   
 "I fear I am becoming a subject of irony to you both," said Grace. 
   
 "They are both becoming too deep for us, are they not, Mrs. Mayburn?" 
 put in the major. "You obtained your best knowledge, Mr. Graham, when 
 you trampled the woods as a boy, and though you gathered so much of it 
 by hook it's like the fish you killed, rare to find. If we were in the 
 service and I had the power, I'd have you brevetted at once, and get 
 some fellow knocked on the head to make a vacancy. You have been 
 contributing royally to our mess, and now you must take a soldier's 
 luck with us to-night. Grace, couldn't you improvise a nice little 
 supper?" 
   
 "Please do not let me cause any such trouble this hot evening," Graham 
 began; "I dined late in town, and--" 
   
 "No insubordination," interrupted Grace, rising with alacrity. 
 "Certainly I can, papa," and as she paused near Graham, she murmured: 
 "Don't object; it will please papa." 
   
 She showed what a provident housekeeper she was, for they all soon sat 
 down to an inviting repast, of which fruit was the staple article, with 
 cake so light and delicate that it would never disturb a man's 
 conscience after he retired. Then with genial words and smiles that 
 masked all heartache, Graham and his aunt said good-night and departed, 
 Hilland accompanying his friend, that he might pour out the 
 long-delayed confidence. Graham shivered as he thought of the ordeal, 
 as a man might tremble who was on his way to the torture-chamber, but 
 outwardly he was quietly cordial. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XIII (THE FRIENDS) 
 After accompanying Mrs. Mayburn to her cottage door, the friends 
 strolled away together, the sultry evening rendering them reluctant to 
 enter the house. When they reached the rustic seat under the 
 apple-tree, Hilland remarked: "Here's a good place for our--" 
   
 "Not here," interrupted Graham, in a tone that was almost sharp in its 
 tension. 
   
 "Why not?" asked his friend, in the accent of surprise. 
   
 "Oh, well," was the confused answer, "some one may be passing--servants 
 may be out in the grounds. Suppose we walk slowly." 
   
 "Graham, you seem possessed by the very demon of restlessness. The idea 
 of walking this hot night!" 
   
 "Oh, well, it doesn't matter," Graham replied, carelessly, although his 
 face was rigid with the effort; and he threw himself down on the rustic 
 seat. "We are not conspirators that we need steal away in the darkness. 
 Why should I not be restless after sitting in the hot cars all day, and 
 with the habit of tramping fresh upon me?" 
   
 "What evil spirit drove you into the wilderness and made you the 
 champion tramp of the country? It seems to me you must have some 
 remarkable confidences also." 
   
 "No evil spirit, I assure you; far from it. My tramp has done me good; 
 indeed, I never derived more benefit from an outing in the woods in my 
 life. You will remember that when we were boys at college no fellow 
 took longer walks than I. I am simply returning to the impulses of my 
 youth. The fact is, I've been living too idly, and of course there 
 would be a reaction in one of my temperament and habits. The vital 
 force which had been accumulating under my aunt's high feeding and the 
 inspiration resulting from the society of two such charming people as 
 Major and Miss St. John had to be expended in some way. Somehow I've 
 lost much of my old faith in books and laboratories. I've been thinking 
 a great deal about it, and seeing you again has given a strong impulse 
 to a forming purpose. I felt a sincere commiseration when you gave up 
 your life of a student. I was a fool to do so. I have studied your face 
 and manner this evening, and can see that you have developed more 
 manhood out in those Western mines, in your contact with men and things 
 and the large material interests of the world, than you could have 
 acquired by delving a thousand years among dusty tomes." 
   
 "That little girl over there has done more for me than Western mines 
 and material interests." 
   
 "That goes without saying; and yet she could have done little for you, 
 had you been a dawdler. Indeed, in that case she would have had nothing 
 to do with you. She recognized that you were like the gold you are 
 mining--worth taking and fashioning; and I tell you she is not a girl 
 to be imposed upon." 
   
 "Flatterer!" 
   
 "No; friend." 
   
 "You admire Grace very much." 
   
 "I do indeed, and I respect her still more. You know I never was a 
 lady's man; indeed, the society of most young women was a weariness to 
 Don't imagine I am asserting any superiority. You enjoyed their 
 
 conversation, and you are as clever as I am." 
   
 "I understand," said Hilland, laughing; "you had nothing in common. You 
 talked to a girl as if she were a mile off, and often broached topics 
 that were cycles away. Now, a girl likes a fellow to come reasonably 
 close--metaphorically, if not actually--when he chats with her. 
 Moreover, many that you met, if they had brains, had never cultivated 
 them. They were as shallow as a duck-pond, and with their small 
 deceits, subterfuges, and affectations were about as transparent. Some 
 might imagine them deep. They puzzled and nonplussed you, and you slunk 
 away. Now I, while rating them at their worth, was able from previous 
 associations to talk a little congenial nonsense, and pass on. They 
 amused me, too. You know I have a sort of laughing philosophy, and 
 everything and everybody amuses me. The fellows would call these 
 creatures angels, and they would flap their little butterfly wings as 
 if they thought they were. How happened it that you so soon were _en 
 rapport_ with Grace?" 
   
 "Ah, wily wretch!" Graham laughed gayly, while the night hid his 
 lowering brows; "praise of your mistress is sweeter than flattery to 
 yourself. Why, simply because she is Grace St. John. I imagine that it 
 is her army life that has so blended unconventionality with perfect 
 good breeding. She is her bluff, honest, high-spirited old father over 
 again, only idealized, refined, and womanly. Then she must have 
 inherited some rare qualities from her Southern mother: you see my aunt 
 has told me all about them. I once met a Southern lady abroad, and 
 although she was middle-aged, she fascinated me more than any girl I 
 had ever met. In the first place, there was an indescribable accent 
 that I never heard in Europe--slight, indeed, but very pleasing to the 
 ear. I sometimes detect traces of it in Miss St. John's speech. Then 
 this lady had a frankness and sincerity of manner which put you at your 
 ease at once; and yet with it all there was a fine reserve. You no more 
 feared that she would blurt out something unsanctioned by good taste 
 than that she would dance a hornpipe. She was singularly gentle and 
 retiring in her manner; and yet one instinctively felt he would rather 
 insult a Southern fire-eater than offend her. She gave the impression 
 that she had been accustomed to a chivalric deference from men, rather 
 than mere society attentions; and one unconsciously infused a subtle 
 homage in his very accent when speaking to her. Now, I imagine that 
 Miss St. John's mother must have been closely akin to this woman in 
 character. You know my weakness for analyzing everything. You used to 
 say I couldn't smoke a cigar without going into the philosophy of it. I 
 had not spent one evening in the society of Miss St. John before I saw 
 that she was a _rara avis_. Then her devotion to her invalid father is 
 superb. She enlisted me in his service the first day of my arrival. 
 Although old, crippled, often racked with pain, and afflicted with a 
 temper which arbitrary command has not improved, she beguiles him out 
 of himself, smiles away his gloom--in brief, creates so genial an 
 atmosphere about him that every breath is balm, and does it all, too, 
 without apparent effort You see no machinery at work. Now, this was all 
 a new and very interesting study of life to me, and I studied it. 
 There, too, is my aunt, who is quite as interesting in her way. Such 
 women make general or wholesale cynicism impossible, or else 
 hypocritical;" and he was about to launch out into as extended an 
 analysis of the old lady's peculiarities, when Hilland interrupted him 
 with a slap on the shoulder and a ringing laugh. 
   
 "Graham, you haven't changed a mite. You discourse just as of old, when 
 in our den at the university we befogged ourselves in the tobacco-smoke 
 and the denser obscurities of German metaphysics, only your theme is 
 infinitely more interesting. Now, when I met my paragon, Grace, whom 
 you have limned with the feeling of an artist rather than of an 
 analyst, although with a blending of both, I fell in love with her." 
   
 "Yes, Hilland, it's just like you to fall in love. My fear has ever 
 been that you would fall in love with a face some day, and not with a 
 woman. But I now congratulate you from the depths of my soul." 
   
 "How comes it that _you_ did not fall in love with one whom you admire 
 so much? You were not aware of my suit." 
   
 "I suppose it is not according to my nature to 'fall in love,' as you 
 term it. The very phrase is repugnant to me. When a man is falling in 
 any sense of the word, his reason is rather apt to be muddled and 
 confused, and he cannot be very sure where he will land. If you had not 
 appeared on the scene my reason would have approved of my marriage with 
 Miss St. John--that is, if I had seen the slightest chance of 
 acceptance, which, of course, I never have. I should be an egregious 
 fool were it otherwise." 
   
 "How about your heart?" 
   
 "The heart often leads to the sheerest folly," was the sharp rejoinder. 
   
 Hilland laughed in his good-humored way. His friend's reply seemed the 
 result of irritation at the thought that the heart should have much to 
 say when reason demurred. "Well, Graham," he said, kindly and 
 earnestly, "if I did not know you so well, I should say you were the 
 most cold-blooded, frog-like fellow in existence. You certainly are an 
 enigma to me on the woman question. I must admit that my heart went 
 headlong from the first; but when at last reason caught up, and had 
 time to get her breath and look the case over, she said it was 'all 
 right'--far better than she had expected. To one of my temperament, 
 however, it seems very droll that reason should lead the way to love, 
 and the heart come limping after." 
   
 "Many a one has taken the amatory tumble who would be glad to reason 
 his way up and back. But we need not discuss this matter in the 
 abstract, for we have too much that is personal to say to each other. 
 You are safe; your wonted good fortune has served you better than ever. 
 All the wisdom of Solomon could not have enabled you to fall in love 
 more judiciously. Indeed, when I come to think of it, the wisdom of 
 Solomon, according to history, was rather at fault in these matters. 
 Tell me how it all came about" (for he knew the story must come); "only 
 outline the tale to-night. I've been speculating and analyzing so long 
 that it is late; and the major, hearing voices in the grounds, may 
 bring some of his old army ordnance to bear on us." 
   
 But Hilland, out of the abundance of his heart, found much to say; and 
 his friend sat cold, shivering in the sultry night, his heart growing 
 more despairing as he saw the heaven of successful wooing that he could 
 never enter. At last Hilland closed with the words, "I say, Graham, are 
 you asleep?" 
   
 "Oh, no," in a husky voice. 
   
 "You are taking cold." 
   
 "I believe I am." 
   
 "I'm a brute to keep you up in this style. As I live, I believe there 
 is the tinge of dawn in the east." 
   
 "May every dawn bring a happy day to you, Warren," was said so gently 
 and earnestly that Hilland rested his arm on his friend's shoulder as 
 he replied, "You've a queer heart, Alford, but such as it is I would 
 not exchange it for that of any man living." Then abruptly, "Do you 
 hold to our old views that this life ends all?" 
   
 A thrill of something like exultation shot through Graham's frame as he 
 replied, "Certainly." 
   
 Hilland sprang up and paced the walk a moment, then said, "Well, I 
 don't know. A woman like Grace St. John shakes my faith in our old 
 belief. It seems profanation to assert that she is mere clay." 
   
 The lurid gleam of light which the thought of ceasing to exist and to 
 suffer had brought to Graham faded. It did seem like profanation. At 
 any rate, at that moment it was a hideous truth that such a creature 
 might by the chance of any accident resolve into mere dust. And yet it 
 seemed a truth which must apply to her as well as to the grossest of 
 her sisterhood. He could only falter, "She is very highly organized." 
   
 They both felt that it was a lame and impotent conclusion. 
   
 But the spring of happiness was in Hilland's heart. The present was too 
 rich for him to permit such dreary speculations, and he remarked 
 cordially and laughingly, "Well, Graham, we have made amends for our 
 long separation and silence. We have talked all the summer night. I am 
 rich, indeed, in such a friend and such a sweetheart; and the latter 
 must truly approach perfection when my dear old philosopher of the 
 stoic school could think it safe and wise to marry her, were all the 
 conditions favorable. You don't wish that I was at the bottom of one of 
 my mines, do you, Alford?" 
   
 Graham felt that the interview must end at once, so he rose and said, 
 "No, I do not. My reason approves of your choice. If you wish more, my 
 'queer heart, such as it is,' approves of it also. If I had the power 
 to change everything this moment I would not do so. You have fairly won 
 your love, and may all the forces of nature conspire to prosper you 
 both. But come," he added in a lighter vein, "Miss St. John may be 
 watching and waiting for your return, and even imagining that I, with 
 my purely intellectual bent, may regard you as a disturbing element in 
 the problem, and so be led to eliminate you in a quiet, scientific 
 manner." 
   
 "Well, then, good night, or morning, rather. Forgive a lover's 
 garrulousness." 
   
 "I was more garrulous than you, without half your excuse. No, I'll see 
 you safely home. I wish to walk a little to get up a circulation. With 
 your divine flame burning so brightly, I suppose you could sit through 
 a zero night; but you must remember that such a modicum of philosophy 
 as I possess will not keep me warm. There, good-by, old fellow. Sleep 
 the sleep of the just, and, what is better in this chance-medley world, 
 of the happy. Don't be imagining that you have any occasion to worry 
 about me." 
   
 Hilland went to his room in a complacent mood, and more in love than 
 ever. Had not his keen-eyed, analytical friend, after weeks of careful 
 observation, testified to the exceeding worth of the girl of his heart? 
 He had been in love, and he had ever heard that love is blind. It 
 seemed to him that his friend could never love as he understood the 
 word; and yet the peerless maiden had so satisfied the exactions of 
 Graham's taste and reason, and had proved herself so generally 
 admirable, that he felt it would be wise and advantageous to marry her. 
   
 "It's a queer way of looking at these things," he concluded, with a 
 shrug, "but then it is Graham's way." 
   
 Soon he was smiling in his repose, for the great joy of his waking 
 hours threw its light far down into the obscurity of sleep. 
   
 Graham turned slowly away, and walked with downcast face to the rustic 
 seat. He stood by it a moment, and then sank into it like a man who has 
 reached the final limit of human endurance. He uttered no sound, but at 
 brief intervals a shiver ran through his frame. His head sank into his 
 hands, and he looked and felt like one utterly crushed by a fate from 
 which there was no escape. His ever-recurring thought was, "I have but 
 one life, and it's lost, worse than lost. Why should I stagger on 
 beneath the burden of an intolerable existence, which will only grow 
 heavier as the forces of life fail?" 
   
 At last in his agony he uttered the words aloud. A hand was laid upon 
 his shoulder, and a husky, broken voice said, "Here is one reason." 
   
 He started up, and saw that his aunt stood beside him. 
   
 The dawn was gray, but the face of the aged woman was grayer and more 
 pallid. She did not entreat--her feeling seemed too deep for words--but 
 with clasped hands she lifted her tear-dimmed eyes to his. Her withered 
 bosom rose and fell in short, convulsive sobs, and it was evident that 
 she could scarcely stand. 
   
 His eyes sank, and a sudden sense of guilt and shame at his 
 forgetfulness of her overcame him. Then yielding to an impulse, all the 
 stronger because mastering one who had few impulses, he took her in his 
 arms, kissed her repeatedly, and supported her tenderly to the cottage. 
 When at last they reached the quaint little parlor he placed her 
 tenderly in her chair, and, taking her hand, he kissed it, and said 
 solemnly, "No, aunty, I will not die. I will live out my days for your 
 sake, and do my best." 
   
 "Thank God!" she murmured--"thank God!" and for a moment she leaned her 
 head upon his breast as he knelt beside her. Suddenly she lifted 
 herself, with a return of her old energy; and he rose and stood beside 
 her. She looked at him intently as if she would read his thoughts, and 
 then shook her finger impressively as she said, "Mark my words, Alford, 
 mark my words: good will come of that promise." 
   
 "It has come already," he gently replied, "in that you, my best friend, 
 are comforted. Now go and rest and sleep. Have no fear, for your touch 
 of love has broken all evil spells." 
   
 Graham went to his room, calmed by an inflexible resolution. It was no 
 longer a question of happiness or unhappiness, or even of despair; it 
 was simply a question of honor, of keeping his word. He sat down and 
 read once more the paragraph in the marked copy of Emerson, "No man 
 ever forgot--" He gave the words a long, wistful look, and then closed 
 the volume as if he were closing a chapter of his life. 
   
 "Well," he sighed, "I did my best last night not to dispel their 
 enchantment, for of course Hilland will tell her the substance of our 
 talk. Now, it must be my task for a brief time to maintain and deepen 
 the impression that I have made." 
   
 Having no desire for sleep, he softly paced his room, but it was not in 
 nervous excitement. His pulse was quiet and regular, and his mind 
 reverted easily to a plan of extended travel upon which he had been 
 dwelling while in the woods. At last he threw himself upon his couch, 
 and slept for an hour or two. On awaking he found that it was past the 
 usual breakfast hour, and after a hasty toilet he went in search of his 
 aunt, but was informed that she was still sleeping. 
   
 "Do not disturb her," he said to the servant. "Let her sleep as long as 
 she will." 
   
 He then wrote a note, saying that he had decided to go to town to 
 attend to some business which had been neglected in his absence, and 
 was soon on his way to the train. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XIV (NOBLE DECEPTION) 
 In the course of the forenoon Hilland called on his friend, and was 
 informed that Graham had gone to the city on business, but would return 
 in the evening. He also learned that Mrs. Mayburn was indisposed, and 
 had not yet risen. At these tidings Grace ran over to see her old 
 friend, hoping to do something for her comfort, and the young girl was 
 almost shocked when she saw Mrs. Mayburn's pinched and pallid face upon 
 her pillow. She seemed to have aged in a night. 
   
 "You are seriously ill!" she exclaimed, "and you did not let me know. 
 Mr. Graham should not have left you." 
   
 "He did not know," said the old lady, sharply, for the slightest 
 imputation against Graham touched her keenly. "He is kindness itself to 
 He only heard this morning that I was sleeping, and he left word 
 
 that I should not be disturbed. He also wrote a note explaining the 
 business which had been neglected in his absence. Oh, I assure you, no 
 one could be more considerate." 
   
 "Dear, loyal Mrs. Mayburn, you won't hear a word against those you 
 love. I think Mr. Graham wonderfully considerate for a man. You know we 
 should not expect much of men. I have to manage two, and it keeps me 
 busy, but never so busy that I cannot do all in my power for my dear 
 old friend. I'll get your breakfast myself, and bring it to you with my 
 own hands, and force it upon you with the inexorable firmness of Sairy 
 Gamp;" and she vanished to the kitchen. 
   
 The old lady turned her face to the wall and moaned, "Oh, if it could 
 only have been! Why is it that we so often set our hearts on that which 
 is denied? After a long, dull sleep of years it seemed as if my heart 
 had wakened in my old age only to find how poor and lonely I am. Alford 
 cannot stay with me--I could not expect it--neither can Grace; and so I 
 must go on alone to the end. I'm punished, punished that years ago I 
 did not make some one love me; but I was self-sufficient then." 
   
 Her regret was deepened when Grace returned with a dainty breakfast, 
 and waited on her with a daughter's gentleness and tenderness, making 
 her smile in spite of herself at her funny speeches, and beguiling her 
 into enjoyment of the present moment with a witchery that none could 
 resist. 
   
 Presently Mrs. May burn sighed, "It's a fearfully hot day for Alford to 
 be in town." 
   
 "For a student," cried Grace, "he is the most indefatigable man I ever 
 heard of. Warren told me that they sat out there under the apple-tree 
 and poured out their hearts till dawn. Talk about schoolgirls babbling 
 all night. My comment on Warren's folly was a dose of quinine. It's 
 astonishing how these _savants_, these intellectual giants, need taking 
 care of like babies. Woman's mission will never cease as long as there 
 are learned men in the world. They will sit in a draught and discuss 
 some obscure law concerning the moons of Jupiter; but when the law 
 resulting in influenza manifests itself, then they learn our worth." 
   
 "Oh, dear!" groaned Mrs. Mayburn, "I didn't give Alford any quinine. 
 You were more provident than I." 
   
 "How could you, when you were asleep?" 
   
 "Ah, true!" was the confused reply. "But then I should have been awake. 
 I should have remembered that he did not come in when I did last night." 
   
 The faint color that stole into the face that had been so pale gave 
 some surprise to the young girl. When once her mind was directed to a 
 subject her intuitions were exceedingly keen. 
   
 From the time the secret of his regard for her had been, surprised from 
 him, Graham had been a puzzle to her. Was he the cool, philosophical 
 lover that he would have her think? Hilland was so frank in nature and 
 so wholly under her influence that it was next to impossible for him 
 not to share with her his every thought. She had, therefore, learned 
 substantially the particulars of last night's interview, and she could 
 not fully accept his belief that Graham's intellect alone had been 
 captivated. She remembered how he had leaned against the tree for 
 support; how pale he had been during the evening that followed; and how 
 his hand had trembled in parting. She remembered his sudden flight to 
 the mountains, his tireless energy there, as if driven on by an aching 
 wound that permitted no rest. True, he had borne himself strongly and 
 well in her presence the evening before; and he had given the friend 
 who knew him so well the impression that it was merely an instance of 
 the quiet weighing of the pros and cons, in which, after much 
 deliberation, the pros had won. There had been much in his course, too, 
 to give color to this view of the case; but her woman's instinct 
 suggested that there was something more--something she did not know 
 about; and she would have been less or more than woman had she not 
 wished to learn the whole truth in a matter of this nature. She hoped 
 that her lover was right, and that Graham's heart, in accordance with 
 his development theory, was so inchoate as to be incapable of much 
 suffering. She was not sure, however. There was something she surmised 
 rather than detected. She felt it now in Mrs. Mayburn's presence, and 
 caught a glimpse of it in the flush that was fading from her cheeks. 
 Had the nephew given his aunt his confidence? or had she with her ripe 
 experience and keen insight discovered the ultimate truth? 
   
 It was evident that while Mrs. Mayburn still loved her dearly, and 
 probably was much disappointed that things had turned out as they had, 
 she had given her loyalty to Graham, and would voluntarily neither do 
 nor say anything that would compromise him. The slight flush suggested 
 to Grace that the aunt had awaited the nephew's return in the early 
 dawn, and that they had spoken freely together before separating; but 
 she was the last one in the world to attempt to surprise a secret from 
 another. 
   
 Still she wished to know the truth, for she felt a little guilty over 
 her reticence in regard to her relations with Hilland. She, perhaps, 
 had made too much of the luxury of keeping her secret until it could 
 shine forth as the sun of her life; and Graham had been left in an 
 ignorance that had not been fair to him. With a growing perception of 
 his character, now that she had given thought to the subject, she saw 
 that if he had learned to love her at all, it must have been in 
 accordance with his nature, quietly, deliberately, even analytically. 
 He was the last man to fall tumultuously in love. But when he had given 
 it in his own way, could she be sure it was a cool, easily managed 
 preference that he might at his leisure transfer to another who 
 satisfied his reason and taste even more fully than herself? If this 
 were true, her mind would be at rest; and she could like Hilland's 
 friend heartily, as one of the most agreeable human oddities it had 
 been her fortune to meet. She had serious misgivings, however, which 
 Mrs. Mayburn's sudden indisposition, and the marks of suffering upon 
 her face, did not tend to banish. 
   
 Whatever the truth might be, she felt that he had shown much 
 thoughtfulness for her in his frankness with Hilland. He had rendered 
 it unnecessary for her to conceal her knowledge of his regard. She need 
 have no secrets, so far as he was concerned. The only question was as 
 to the nature of this regard. If the impression he sought to give her 
 lover was correct, neither of them had cause for much solicitude. If to 
 save them pain he was seeking to hide a deeper wound, it was a noble 
 deception, and dictated by a noble, unselfish nature. If the latter 
 supposition should prove true, she felt that she would discover it 
 without any direct effort. But she also felt that her lover should be 
 left, if possible, under the impression his friend had sought to make, 
 and that Graham should have the solace of thinking he had concealed his 
 feelings from them both. 
   
 As the long evening shadows stretched eastward across the sloping lawn 
 in front of the St. John cottage, the family gathered on the piazza to 
 enjoy the welcome respite from the scorching heat of the day. 
   
 The old major looked weary and overcome. A July sun was the only fire 
 before which he had ever flinched. Hilland still appeared a little 
 heavy from his long hot afternoon nap, his amends for the vigils of the 
 previous night. Grace was enchanting in her light clinging draperies, 
 which made her lovely form tenfold more beautiful, because clothed in 
 perfect taste. The heat had deepened the flush upon her cheeks, and 
 brought a soft languor into her eyes, and as she stood under an arch of 
 the American woodbine, that mantled the supports of the piazza roof, 
 she might easily have fulfilled an artist's dream of summer. Hilland's 
 eyes kindled as he looked upon her, as she stood with averted face, 
 conscious meanwhile of his admiration, and exulting in it. What sweeter 
 incense is ever offered to a woman? 
   
 "Grace," he whispered, "you would create a pulse in a marble statue 
 to-night. You never looked more lovely." 
   
 "There is a glamour on your eyes, Warren," she replied; and yet the 
 quick flash of joy that came into her face proved the power of his 
 words, which still had all the exquisite charm of novelty. 
   
 "It's the glamour that will last while I do," he responded, earnestly. 
 "Are not this scene and hour perfect? and you are the gem of it all. I 
 don't see how a man could ask or wish for more than I have to-night, 
 except that it might last forever." A shadow passed over his face, and 
 he added, presently, "To think that after a few weeks I must return to 
 those blasted mines! One thing is settled, however. I shall close out 
 my interests there as speedily as possible; and were it not for my 
 obligations to others, I'd never go near them again. I have money 
 enough twice over, and am a fool to miss one hour with you." 
   
 "You will be all the happier, Warren, if you close up your interests in 
 the West in a manly, business-like way. I always wish to be as proud of 
 you as I am now. What's more, I don't believe in idle men, no matter 
 how rich they are. I should be worried at once if you had nothing to do 
 but sit around and make fine speeches. You'd soon weary of the 
 sugar-plum business, and so should I. I have read somewhere that the 
 true way to keep a man a lover is to give him plenty of work." 
   
 "Will you choose my work for me?" 
   
 "No; anything you like, so it is not speculation." 
   
 "I think I'll come and be your father's gardener." 
   
 "If you do," she replied, with a decisive little nod, "you will have to 
 rake and hoe so many hours a day before you can have any dinner." 
   
 "But you, fair Eve, would bring your fancy-work, and sit with me in the 
 shade." 
   
 "The idea of a gardener sitting in the shade, with weeds growing on 
 every side." 
   
 "But you would, my Eve." 
   
 "Possibly, after I had seen that you had earned your bread by the 
 'perspiration of your brow,' as a very nice maiden lady, a neighbor of 
 ours, always phrases it." 
   
 "That shall be my calling as soon as I can get East again. Major, I 
 apply for the situation of gardener as soon as I can sell out my 
 interests in the mines." 
   
 "I have nothing to do with it," was the reply. "Grace commands this 
 post, and while here you are under her orders." 
   
 "And you'll find out, too, what a martinet I am," she added. "There's 
 no telling how often I'll put you under arrest and mount guard over you 
 myself. So!" 
   
 "What numberless breaches of discipline there will be!" 
   
 Lovers' converse consists largely in tone and glance, and these cannot 
 be written; and were this possible, it could have but the slenderest 
 interest to the reader. 
   
 After a transient pause Hilland remarked: "Think of poor Graham in the 
 fiery furnace of New York to-day. I can imagine what a wilted and 
 dilapidated-looking specimen he will be if he escapes alive--By Jove, 
 there he is!" and the subject of his speech came as briskly up the walk 
 as if the thermometer had been in the seventies instead of the 
 nineties. His dress was quiet and elegant, and his form erect and step 
 elastic. 
   
 As he approached the piazza and doffed his hat, Hilland cried: "Graham, 
 you are the coolest fellow I ever saw. I was just commiserating you, 
 and expecting you to look like a cabbage--no, rose-leaf that had been 
 out in the sun; and you appear just as if you had stepped from a 
 refrigerator." 
   
 "All a matter of temperament and will, my dear fellow. I decided I 
 would not be hot to-day; and I've been very comfortable." 
   
 "Why did you not decide not to be cold last night?" 
   
 "I was so occupied with your interminable yarns that I forgot to think 
 about it. Miss Grace, for your sake and on this evening, I might wish 
 that there was a coolness between us, but from your kind greeting I see 
 there is not. Good-evening, major; I have brought with me a slight 
 proof that I do not forget my friends;" and he handed him a large 
 package of newspapers, several of them being finely illustrated foreign 
 prints. 
   
 "I promote you on the spot," cried the delighted veteran. "I felt that 
 fate owed me some amends for this long, horrid day. My paper did not 
 come this morning, and I had too much regard for the lives of my 
 household to send any one up the hot streets after one." 
   
 "Oh, papa!" cried Grace, "forgive me that I did not discover the fact. 
 I'm sure I saw you reading a paper." 
   
 "It was an old one. I read it through again, advertisements and all. 
 Oh, I know you. You'd have turned out the whole garrison at twelve M., 
 had you found it out." 
   
 Graham dropped carelessly into an easy-chair, and they all noted the 
 pleasure with which the old gentleman adjusted his glasses, and scanned 
 the pictures of the world's current history. Like many whose sight is 
 failing, and to whom the tastes and memories of childhood are 
 returning, the poor old man found increasing delight in a picture which 
 suggested a great deal, and aided him to imagine more; and he would 
 often beguile his tedium by the hour with the illustrated journals. 
   
 "Mr. Graham," said Grace, after a pause in their talk, "have you seen 
 your aunt since your return?" 
   
 "No," he replied, turning hastily toward her. 
   
 "She is not very well; I've been to see her twice." 
   
 He gave her a momentary but searching glance, rose instantly, and said: 
 "Please excuse me, then. I feel guilty that I have delayed a moment, 
 but this piazza was so inviting!" and he hastened away. 
   
 "Does he look and act like a man who 'hid a secret sorrow'?" whispered 
 Hilland, confidently. "I never saw him appear so well before." 
   
 Grace smiled, but kept her thoughts to herself. To her also Graham had 
 never appeared so well. There was decision in his step and slightest 
 movement. The old easy saunter of leisure was gone; the old half-dreamy 
 and slightly cynical eyes of the student showed a purpose which was 
 neither slight nor indefinite; and that brief, searching glance--what 
 else could it be than a query as to the confidences his aunt may have 
 bestowed during the day? Moreover, why did he avoid looking at her 
 unless there was distinct occasion for his glance? 
   
 She would have known too well had she heard poor Graham mutter: "My 
 will must be made of Bessemer steel if I can see her often as she 
 looked to-night and live." 
   
 In the evening Hilland walked over to call on his friend and make 
 inquiries. Through the parlor windows he saw Graham reading to his 
 aunt, who reclined on a lounge; and he stole away again without 
 disturbing them. 
   
 The next few days passed uneventfully away, and Graham's armor was 
 almost proof against even the penetration of Grace. He did not assume 
 any mask of gayety. He seemed to be merely his old self, with a subtle 
 difference, and a very unobtrusive air of decision in all his 
 movements. He was with his friend a great deal; and she heard them 
 talking over their old life with much apparent zest. He was as good 
 company for the major as ever, and when a whist played so good a game 
 as to show that he was giving it careful attention. There was a 
 gentleness toward his aunt that rather belied his character of stoic 
 philosopher. Indeed, he seemed to have dropped this phase also, and was 
 simply a well-bred man of the world, avoiding reference to himself, and 
 his past or present views, as far as possible. 
   
 To a question of Hilland's one day he replied: "No; I shall not go back 
 to my studies at present. As I told you the other night, my excursion 
 into the world has shown me the advantage of studying it more fully. 
 While I shall never be a Croesus like yourself, I am modestly 
 independent; and I mean to see the world we live in, and then shall 
 know better what I am studying about." 
   
 When Hilland told Grace of this purpose, she felt it was in keeping 
 with all the rest. It might mean what was on the surface; it might mean 
 more. It might be a part of the possible impulse that had driven him 
 into the Vermont woods, or the natural and rational step he would have 
 taken had he never seen her. At any rate, she felt that he was daily 
 growing more remote, and that by a nice gradation of effort he was 
 consciously withdrawing himself. And yet she could scarcely dwell on a 
 single word or act, and say: "This proves it." His manner toward her 
 was most cordial. When they conversed he looked at her steadily and 
 directly, and would respond in kind to her mirthful words and Hilland's 
 broad raillery; but she never detected one of the furtive, lingering 
 glances that she now remembered with compunction were once frequent. It 
 was quite proper that this should be so, but it was unnatural. If 
 hitherto she had only pleased his taste and satisfied his reason, it 
 would be a safe and harmless pastime for him to linger near her still 
 in thought and reality. If he was struggling with a passion that had 
 struck its root deep, then there was good reason for that steady 
 withdrawal from her society which he managed so naturally that no one 
 observed it but herself. Hilland had no misgivings, and she suggested 
 none; but whenever she was in the presence of Graham or Mrs. Mayburn, 
 although their courtesy and kind manner were unexceptionable, she felt 
 there was "something in the air." 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XV ("I WISH HE HAD KNOWN") 
 The heat continued so oppressive that the major gave signs of 
 prostration, and Grace decided to take him to his old haunt by the 
 seashore. The seclusion of their cottage was, of course, more agreeable 
 to Hilland and herself under the circumstances; but Grace never 
 hesitated when her father was concerned. Shortly after the decision was 
 reached, Hilland met his friend, and promptly urged that he and Mrs. 
 Mayburn should accompany them. 
   
 "Certainly," was the quiet reply, "if my aunt wishes to go." 
   
 But for some cause, if not for the reasons given, the old lady was 
 inexorable that evening, even though the major with much gallantry 
 urged her compliance. She did not like the seashore. It did not agree 
 with her; and, what was worse, she detested hotels. She was better in 
 her own quiet nook, etc. Alford might go, if he chose. 
   
 But Graham when appealed to said it was both his duty and his pleasure 
 to remain with his aunt, especially as he was going abroad as soon as 
 he could arrange his affairs. "Don't put on that injured air," he 
 added, laughingly, to Hilland. "As if you needed me at present! You two 
 are sufficient for yourselves; and why should I tramp after you like 
 the multitude I should be? 
   
 "What do you know about our being sufficient for our-selves, I'd like 
 to ask?" was the bantering response. 
   
 "I have the best authority for saying what I do--written authority, and 
 that of a sage, too. Here it is, heavily under-scored by a hand that I 
 imagine is as heavy as your own. Ah! Miss Grace's conscious looks prove 
 that I am right," he added, as he laid the open volume of Emerson, 
 which he had returned, before her. "I remember reading that paragraph 
 the first evening I came to my aunt's house; and I thought it a very 
 curious statement. It made me feel as if I were a sort of polyp or 
 mollusk, instead of a man." 
   
 "Let me see the book," cried Hilland. "Oh, yes," he continued, 
 laughing; "I remember it all well--the hopes, the misgivings with which 
 I sent the volume eastward on its mission--the hopes and fears that 
 rose when the book was acknowledged with no chidings or coldness, and 
 also with no allusions to the marked passage--the endless surmises as 
 to what this gentle reader would think of the sentiments within these 
 black lines. Ha! ha! Graham. No doubt but this is Sanscrit; and all the 
 professors of all the universities could not interpret it to you." 
   
 "That's what I said in substance on the evening referred to--that 
 Emerson never learned this at a university. I confess that it's an 
 experience that is and ever will be beyond me. But it's surely good 
 authority for remaining here with my aunt, who needs me more than you 
 do." 
   
 "How is it, then, Mr. Graham, that you can leave your aunt for months 
 of travel?" Grace asked. 
   
 "Why, Grace," spoke up Mrs. Mayburn, quickly, "you cannot expect Alford 
 to transform himself into an old lady's life-long attendant. He will 
 enjoy his travel and come back to me." 
   
 The young girl made no answer, but thought: "Their defensive alliance 
 is a strong one." 
   
 "Besides," continued the old lady, after a moment, "I think it's very 
 kind of him to remain with me, instead of going to the beach for his 
 own pleasure and the marring of yours." 
   
 "Now, that's putting it much too strong," cried Hilland. "Graham never 
 marred our pleasure." 
   
 "And I hope he never will," was the low, earnest response. To Grace's 
 ear it sounded more like a vow or the expression of a controlling 
 purpose than like a mere friendly remark. 
   
 The next day the St. John cottage was alive with the bustle of 
 preparation for departure. Graham made no officious offers of 
 assistance, which, of course, would be futile, but quietly devoted 
 himself to the major. Whenever Grace appeared from the upper regions, 
 she found her father amused or interested, and she smiled her 
 gratitude. In the evening she found a chance to say in a low aside: 
 "Mr. Graham, you are keeping your word to be my friend. If the 
 sea-breezes prove as beneficial to papa as your society to-day, I shall 
 be glad indeed. You don't know how much you have aided me by 
 entertaining him so kindly." 
   
 Both her tone and glance were very gentle as she spoke these words, and 
 for a moment his silence and manner perplexed her. Then he replied 
 lightly: "You are mistaken, Miss Grace. Your father has been 
 entertaining me." 
   
 They were interrupted at this point, and Graham seemed to grow more 
 remote than ever. 
   
 Hilland was parting from his friend with evident and sincere regret. He 
 had made himself very useful in packing, strapping trunks, and in a 
 general eagerness to save his betrothed from all fatigue; but whenever 
 occasion offered he would sally forth upon Graham, who, with the major, 
 followed the shade on the piazza. Some jocular speech usually 
 accompanied his appearance, and he always received the same in kind 
 with such liberal interest that he remarked to Grace more than once, 
 "You are the only being in the world for whom I'd leave Graham during 
 his brief stay in this land." 
   
 "Oh, return to him by all means," she had said archly upon one 
 occasion. "We did very well alone last year before we were aware of 
 your existence." 
   
 "YOU may not care," was his merry response, "but it is written in one 
 of the oldest books of the world, 'It is not good for MAN to be alone.' 
 Oh, Grace, what an infinite difference there is between love for a 
 woman like you and the strongest friendship between man and man! Graham 
 just suits me as a friend. After a separation of years I find him just 
 the same even-pulsed, half-cynical, yet genial good fellow he always 
 was. It's hard to get within his shell; but when you do, you find the 
 kernel sweet and sound to the core, even if it is rather dry. From the 
 time we struck hands as boys there has never been an unpleasant jar in 
 our relations. We supplement each other marvellously; but how 
 infinitely more and beyond all this is your love! How it absorbs and 
 swallows up every other consideration, so that one hour with you is 
 more to me than an age with all the men of wit and wisdom that ever 
 lived! No; I'm not a false friend when I say that I am more than 
 content to go and remain with you; and if Graham had a hundredth part 
 as much heart as brains he would understand me. Indeed, his very 
 intellect serves in the place of a heart after a fashion; for he took 
 Emerson on trust so intelligently as to comprehend that I should not be 
 inconsolable." 
   
 "Mr. Graham puzzles me," Grace had remarked, as she absently inspected 
 the buttons on one of her father's vests. "I never met just such a man 
 before." 
   
 "And probably never will again. He has been isolated and peculiar from 
 childhood. I know him well, and he has changed but little in essentials 
 since I left him over two years ago." 
   
 "I wish I had your complacent belief about him," was her mental 
 conclusion. "I sometimes think you are right, and again I feel as if 
 some one in almost mortal pain is near me, and that I am to blame in 
 part." 
   
 Whist was dispensed with the last night they were together, for the 
 evening was close, and all were weary. Grace thought Graham looked 
 positively haggard; but, whether by design or chance, he kept in the 
 shadows of the piazza most of the time. Still she had to admit that he 
 was the life of the party. Mrs. Mayburn was apparently so overcome by 
 the heat as to be comparatively silent; and Hilland openly admitted 
 that the July day and his exertions had used him up. Therefore the last 
 gathering at the St. Johns' cottage came to a speedy end; and Graham 
 not only said good-night, but also good-by; for, as he explained, 
 business called him to town early the following morning. He parted 
 fraternally with Hilland, giving a promise to spend a day with him 
 before he sailed for Europe. Then he broke away, giving Grace as a 
 farewell only a strong, warm pressure of the hand, and hastened after 
 his aunt, who had walked on slowly before. The major, after many 
 friendly expressions, had retired quite early in the evening. 
   
 Grace saw the dark outline of Graham's form disappear like a shadow, 
 and every day thereafter he grew more shadowy to her. To a degree she 
 did not imagine possible he had baffled her scrutiny and left her in 
 doubt. Either he had quietly and philosophically accepted the 
 situation, or he wished her to think so. In either case there was 
 nothing to be done. Once away with father and lover she had HER world 
 with her; and life grew richer and more full of content every day. 
   
 Lassitude and almost desperate weariness were in Graham's step as he 
 came up the path the following evening, for there was no further reason 
 to keep up the part he was acting. When he greeted his aunt he tried to 
 appear cheerful, but she said gently, "Put on no mask before me, 
 Alford. Make no further effort. You have baffled even Grace, and 
 thoroughly satisfied your friend that all is well. Let the strain cease 
 now; and let my home be a refuge while you remain. Your wound is one 
 that time only can heal. You have made an heroic struggle not to mar 
 their happiness, and I am proud of you for it. But don't try to deceive 
 me or put the spur any longer to your jaded spirit. Reaction into new 
 hopes and a new life will come all the sooner if you give way for the 
 present to your mood." 
   
 The wise old woman would have been right in dealing with most natures. 
 But Graham would not give way to his bitter disappointment, and for him 
 there would come no reaction. He quietly read to her the evening 
 papers, and after she had retired stole out and gazed for hours on the 
 St. John cottage, the casket that had contained for him the jewel of 
 the world. Then, compressing his lips, he returned to his room with the 
 final decision, "I will be her friend for life; but it must be an 
 absent friend. I think my will is strong; but half the width of the 
 world must be between us." 
   
 For the next two weeks he sought to prepare his aunt for a long 
 separation. He did not hide his feeling; indeed, he spoke of it with a 
 calmness which, while it surprised, also convinced her that it would 
 dominate his life. She was made to see clearly the necessity of his 
 departure, if he would keep his promise to live and do his best. He 
 promised to be a faithful and voluminous correspondent, and she knew 
 she would live upon his letters. After the lapse of three weeks he had 
 arranged his affairs so as to permit a long absence, and then parted 
 with his aunt as if he had been her son. 
   
 "Alford," she said, "all that I have is yours, as you will find in my 
 will." 
   
 "Dear aunty," was his reply, "in giving me your love you have given me 
 all that I crave. I have more than enough for my wants. Forgive me that 
 I cannot stay; but I cannot. I have learned the limit of my power of 
 endurance. I know that I cannot escape myself or my memories, but new 
 scenes divert my thoughts. Here, I believe, I should go mad, or else do 
 something wild and desperate. Forgive me, and do not judge me harshly 
 because I leave you. Perhaps some day this fever of unrest will pass 
 away, When it does, rest assured you shall see me again." 
   
 He then went to the seaside resort where Hilland with the major and his 
 daughter was sojourning, and never had they seen a man who appeared so 
 far removed from the lackadaisical, disconsolate lover. His dress was 
 elegant, although very quiet, his step firm and prompt, and his manner 
 that of a man who is thoroughly master of the situation. The major was 
 ill from an indiscretion at the table during the preceding day, and 
 Grace could not leave him very long. He sent to his favorite companion 
 and antagonist at whist many feeling messages and sincere good wishes, 
 and they lost nothing in hearty warmth as they came from Grace's lips; 
 and for some reason, which she could scarcely explain to herself, tears 
 came into her eyes as she gave him her hand in parting. 
   
 He had been laughing and jesting vivaciously a moment before; but as he 
 looked into her face, so full of kindly feeling which she could not 
 wholly repress, his own seemed to grow rigid, and the hand she held was 
 so cold and tense as to remind her of a steel gauntlet. In the supreme 
 effort of his spiritual nature he belied his creed. His physical being 
 was powerless in the grasp of the dominant soul. No martyr at the stake 
 ever suffered more than he at that moment, but he merely said with 
 quiet emphasis, "Good-by, Grace St. John. I shall not forget my 
 promise, nor can there come a day on which I shall not wish you all the 
 happiness you deserve." 
   
 He then bowed gravely and turned away. She hastily sought her room, and 
 then burst into an irrepressible passion of tears. "It's all in vain," 
 she sobbed. "I felt it. I know it. He suffers as I should suffer, and 
 his iron will cannot disguise the truth." 
   
 The friends strolled away up the beach for their final talk, and at 
 length Hilland came back in a somewhat pensive but very complacent 
 mood. Grace looked at him anxiously, but his first sentences reassured 
 her. 
   
 "Well," he exclaimed, "if Graham is odd, he's certainly the best and 
 most sensible fellow that ever lived, and the most steadfast of 
 friends. Here we've been separated for years, and yet, for any change 
 in his attitude toward me, we might have parted overnight at the 
 university. He was as badly smitten by the girl I love as a man of his 
 temperament could be; but on learning the facts he recognizes the 
 situation with a quiet good taste which leaves nothing to be desired. 
 He made it perfectly clear to me that travel for the present was only a 
 broader and more effective way of continuing his career as a student, 
 and that when tired of wandering he can go back to books with a larger 
 knowledge of how to use them. One thing he has made clearer still--if 
 we do not see each other for ten years, he will come back the same 
 stanch friend." 
   
 "I think you are right, Warren. He certainly has won my entire respect." 
   
 "I'm glad he didn't win anything more, sweetheart." 
   
 "That ceased to be possible long before he came, but I--I wish he had 
 known it," was her hesitating response, as she pushed Hilland's hair 
 back from his heated brow. 
   
 "Nonsense, you romantic little woman! You imagine he has gone away with 
 a great gaping wound in his heart. Graham is the last man in the world 
 for that kind of thing, and no one would smile more broadly than he, 
 did he know of your gentle solicitude." 
   
 Grace was silent a moment, and then stole away to her father's side. 
   
 The next tidings they had of Graham was a letter dated among the fiords 
 and mountains of Norway. 
   
 At times no snowy peak in that wintry land seemed more shadowy or 
 remote to Grace than he. Again, while passing to and fro between their 
 own and Mrs. Mayburn's cottage in the autumn, she would see him, with 
 almost the vividness of life, deathly pale as when he leaned against 
 the apple-tree at their well-remembered interview. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XVI (THE CLOUD IN THE SOUTH) 
 The summer heat passed speedily, and the major returned to his cottage 
 invigorated and very complacent over his daughter's prospects. Hilland 
 had proved himself as manly and devoted a lover as he had been an 
 ardent and eventually patient suitor. The bubbling, overflowing stream 
 of happiness in Grace's heart deepened into a wide current, bearing her 
 on from day to day toward a future that promised to satisfy every 
 longing of her woman's heart. There was, of course, natural regret that 
 Hilland was constrained to spend several months in the West in order to 
 settle up his large interests with a due regard to the rights of 
 others, and yet she would not have it otherwise. She was happy in his 
 almost unbounded devotion; she would have been less happy had this 
 devotion kept him at her side when his man's part in the world required 
 his presence elsewhere. Therefore she bade him farewell with a heart 
 that was not so very heavy, even though tears gemmed her eyes. 
   
 The autumn and early winter months lapsed quietly and uneventfully, and 
 the inmates of the two cottages ever remembered that period of their 
 lives as the era of letters--Graham's from over the sea abounding in 
 vivid descriptions of scenes that to Mrs. Mayburn's interested eyes 
 were like glimpses of another world, and Hilland's, even more 
 voluminous and infinitely more interesting to one fair reader, to whom 
 they were sacred except as she doled out occasional paragraphs which 
 related sufficiently to the general order of things to be read aloud. 
   
 Graham's letters, however, had a deep interest to Grace, who sought to 
 trace in them the working of his mind in regard to herself. She found 
 it difficult, for his letters were exceedingly impersonal, while the 
 men and things he saw often stood out upon his page with vivid realism. 
 It seemed to her that he grew more shadowy, and that he was wandering 
 rather than travelling, drifting whithersoever his fancy or 
 circumstances pointed the way. It was certain he avoided the beaten 
 paths, and freely indulged his taste for regions remote and 
 comparatively unknown. His excuse was that life was far more 
 picturesque and unhackneyed, with a chance for an occasional adventure, 
 in lands where one was not jostled by people with guide-books--that he 
 saw men and women as the influences of the ages had been fashioning 
 them, and not conventionalized by the mode of the hour. "Chief of all," 
 he concluded, jestingly, "I can send to my dear aunt descriptions of 
 people and scenery that she will not find better set forth in half a 
 dozen books within her reach." 
   
 After a month in Norway, he crossed the mountains into Sweden, and as 
 winter approached drifted rapidly to the south and east. One of his 
 letters was dated at the entrance of the Himalayas in India, and 
 expressed his purpose to explore one of the grandest mountain systems 
 in the world. 
   
 Mrs. Mayburn gloated over the letters, and Grace laughingly told her 
 she had learned more about geography since her nephew had gone abroad 
 than in all her life before. The major, also, was deeply interested in 
 them, especially as Graham took pains in his behalf to give some 
 account of the military organizations with which he came in contact. 
 They had little of the nature of a scientific report. The soldier, his 
 life and weapons, were sketched with a free hand merely, and so became 
 even to the ladies a picturesque figure rather than a military 
 abstraction. From time to time a letter appeared in Mrs. Mayburn's 
 favorite journal signed by the initials of the traveller; and these 
 epistles she cut out and pasted most carefully in a book which Grace 
 jestingly called her "family Bible." 
   
 But as time passed, Graham occupied less and less space in the thoughts 
 of all except his aunt. The major's newspaper became more absorbing 
 than ever, for the clouds gathering in the political skies threatened 
 evils that seemed to him without remedy. Strongly Southern and 
 conservative in feeling, he was deeply incensed at what he termed 
 "Northern fanaticism." Only less hateful to him was a class in the 
 South known in the parlance of the times as "fire-eaters." 
   
 All through the winter and spring of 1860 he had his "daily growl," as 
 Grace termed it; and she assured him it was growing steadily deeper and 
 louder. Yet it was evidently a source of so much comfort to him that 
 she always smiled in secret over his invective--noting, also, that 
 while he deplored much that was said and done by the leaders of the 
 day, the prelude of the great drama interested him so deeply that he 
 half forgot his infirmities. In fact, she had more trouble with 
 Hilland, who had returned, and was urging an early date for their 
 marriage. Her lover was an ardent Republican, and hated slavery with 
 New England enthusiasm. The arrogance and blindness of the South had 
 their counterpart at the North, and Hilland had not escaped the 
 infection. He was much inclined to belittle the resources of the former 
 section, to scoff at its threats, and to demand that the North should 
 peremptorily and imperiously check all further aggressions of slavery. 
 At first it required not a little tact on the part of Grace to preserve 
 political harmony between father and lover; but the latter speedily 
 recognized that the major's age and infirmities, together with his 
 early associations, gave him almost unlimited privilege to think and 
 say what he pleased. Hilland soon came to hear with good-natured 
 nonchalance his Northern allies berated, and considered himself well 
 repaid by one mirthful, grateful glance from Grace. 
   
 After all, what was any political squabble compared with the fact that 
 Grace had promised to marry him in June? The settlement of the 
 difference between the North and South was only a question of time, and 
 that, too, in his belief, not far remote. 
   
 "Why should I worry about it?" he said to Grace. "When the North gets 
 angry enough to put its foot down, all this bluster about State-rights, 
 and these efforts to foist slavery on a people who are disgusted with 
 it, will cease." 
   
 "Take care," she replied, archly. "I'm a Southern girl. Think what 
 might happen if I put my foot down." 
   
 "Oh, when it comes to you," was his quick response, "I'm the Democratic 
 party. I will get down on my knees at any time; I'll yield anything and 
 stand everything." 
   
 "I hope you will be in just such a frame of mind ten years hence." 
   
 It was well that the future was hidden from her. 
   
 Hilland wrote to his friend, asking, indeed almost insisting, that he 
 should return in time for the wedding. Graham did not come, and 
 intimated that he was gathering materials which might result in a book. 
 He sent a letter, however, addressed to them both, and full of a spirit 
 of such loyal good-will that Hilland said it was like a brother's grip. 
 "Well, well," he concluded, "if Graham has the book-making fever upon 
 him, we shall have to give him up indefinitely." 
   
 Grace was at first inclined to take the same view, feeling that, even 
 if he had been sorely wounded, his present life and the prospects it 
 gave of authorship had gained so great a fascination that he would come 
 back eventually with only a memory of what he had suffered. Her 
 misgivings, however, returned when, on seeing the letter, Mrs. 
 Mayburn's eyes became suddenly dimmed with tears. She turned away 
 abruptly and seemed vexed with herself for having shown the emotion, 
 but only said quietly, "I once thought Alford had no heart; but that 
 letter was not written 'out of his head,' as we used to say when 
 children." 
   
 She gave Grace no reason to complain of any lack of affectionate 
 interest in her preparations; and when the wedding day came she assured 
 the blushing girl that "no one had ever looked upon a lovelier bride." 
   
 Ever mindful of her father, Grace would take no wedding journey, 
 although her old friend offered to come and care for him. She knew well 
 how essential her voice and hand were to his comfort; and she would not 
 permit him to entertain, even for a moment, the thought that in any 
 sense he had lost her. So they merely returned to his favorite haunt by 
 the sea, and Hilland was loyal to the only condition in their 
 engagement--that she should be permitted to keep her promise to her 
 dying mother, and never leave her father to the care of others, unless 
 under circumstances entirely beyond her control. 
   
 Later in the season Mrs. Mayburn joined them at the beach, for she 
 found her life at the cottage too lonely to be endured. 
   
 It was a summer of unalloyed happiness to Hilland and his wife, and the 
 major promised to renew his youth in the warm sunlight of his 
 prosperity. The exciting presidential canvass afforded abundant theme 
 for the daily discussions in his favorite corner of the piazza, where, 
 surrounded by some veteran cronies whom he had known in former years, 
 he joined them in predictions and ominous head-shakings over the 
 monstrous evils that would follow the election of Mr. Lincoln. Hilland, 
 sitting in the background with Grace, would listen and stroke his tawny 
 beard as he glanced humorously at his wife, who knew that he was 
 working, quietly out of deference to his father-in-law, but most 
 effectively, in the Republican campaign. Although Southern born she had 
 the sense to grant to men full liberty of personal opinion--a quality 
 that it would be well for many of her sisterhood to imitate. Indeed, 
 she would have despised a man who had not sufficient force to think for 
 himself; and she loved her husband all the more because in some of his 
 views he differed radically with her father and herself. 
   
 Meantime the cloud gathering in the South grew darker and more 
 portentous; and after the election of President Lincoln the lightning 
 of hate and passion began to strike from it directly at the nation's 
 life. The old major was both wrong and right in regard to the most 
 prominent leaders of the day. Many whom he deemed the worst fanatics in 
 the land were merely exponents of a public opinion that was rising like 
 an irresistible tide from causes beyond human control--from the 
 God-created conscience illumined by His own truth. In regard to the 
 instigators of the Rebellion, he was right. Instead of representing 
 their people, they deceived and misled them; and, with an astute 
 understanding of the chivalrous, hasty Southern temper, they so wrought 
 upon their pride of section by the false presentation of fancied and 
 prospective wrongs, that loyalty to the old flag, which at heart they 
 loved, was swept away by the madness which precedes destruction. Above 
 all and directing all was the God of nations; and He had decreed that 
 slavery, the gangrene in the body politic, must be cut out, even though 
 it should be with the sword. The surgery was heroic, indeed; but as its 
 result the slave, and especially the master and his posterity, will 
 grow into a large, healthful, and prosperous life; and the evidences of 
 such life are increasing daily. 
   
 At the time of which I am writing, however, the future was not dreamed 
 of by the sagacious Lincoln even, or his cabinet, much less was it 
 foreseen by the humbler characters of my story. Hilland after reading 
 his daily journal would sit silent for a long time with contracted 
 brow. The white heat of anger was slowly kindling in his heart and in 
 that of the loyal North; and the cloud in the South began to throw its 
 shadow over the hearth of the happy wife. 
   
 Although Hilland hated slavery it incensed him beyond measure that the 
 South could be made to believe that the North would break through or 
 infringe upon the constitutional safeguards thrown around the 
 institution. At the same time he knew, and it seemed to him every 
 intelligent man should understand, that if a sufficient majority should 
 decide to forbid the extension of the slave system to new territory, 
 that should end the question, or else the Constitution was not worth 
 the paper on which it was written. "Law and order," was his motto; and 
 "All changes and reforms under the sanction of law, and at the command 
 of the majority," his political creed. 
   
 The major held the Southern view. "Slaves are property," he said; "and 
 the government is bound to permit a man to take his property where he 
 pleases, and protect him in all his rights." The point where the 
 veteran drew the line was in disloyalty to the flag which he had sworn 
 to defend, and for which he had become a cripple for life. As the 
 Secession spirit became more rampant and open in South Carolina, the 
 weight of his invective fell more heavily upon the leaders there than 
 upon the hitherto more detested abolitionists. 
   
 When he read the address of Alexander H. Stephens, delivered to the 
 same people on the following evening, wherein that remarkable man said, 
 "My object is not to stir up strife, but to allay it; not to appeal to 
 your passions, but to your reason. Shall the people of the South secede 
 from the Union in consequence of the election of Mr. Lincoln? My 
 countrymen, I tell you frankly, candidly, and earnestly, that I do not 
 think they ought. In my judgment the election of no man, 
 constitutionally chosen, is sufficient cause for any State to separate 
 from the Union. It ought to stand by and aid still in maintaining the 
 Constitution of the country. We are pledged to maintain the 
 Constitution. Many of us are sworn to support it"--when the veteran 
 came to these words, he sprang to his feet without a thought of his 
 crutch, and cried in a tone with which he would order a charge, "There 
 is the man who ought to be President. Read that speech." 
   
 Hilland did read it aloud, and then said thoughtfully, "Yes; if the 
 leaders on both sides were of the stamp of Mr. Stephens and would stand 
 firm all questions at issue could be settled amicably under the 
 Constitution. But I fear the passion of the South, fired by the 
 unscrupulous misrepresentations of a few ambitious men, will carry the 
 Cotton States into such violent disloyalty that the North in its 
 indignation will give them a lesson never to be forgotten." 
   
 "Well!" shouted the major, "if they ever fire on the old flag, I'll 
 shoulder my crutch and march against them myself--I would, by heaven! 
 though my own brother fired the gun." Grace's merry laugh rang out--for 
 she never lost a chance to throw oil on the troubled waters--and she 
 cried, "Warren, if this thing goes on, you and papa will stand shoulder 
 to shoulder." 
   
 But the time for that had not yet come. Indeed, there would ever remain 
 wide differences of opinion between the two men. The major believed 
 that if Congress conceded promptly all that the slave power demanded, 
 "the demagogues of the South would soon be without occupation;" while 
 Hilland asserted that the whole thing originated in bluster to frighten 
 the North into submission, and that the danger was that the unceasing 
 inflammatory talk might so kindle the masses that they would believe 
 the lies, daily iterated, and pass beyond the control of their leaders. 
   
 When at last South Carolina seceded, and it became evident that other 
 States would follow, the major often said with bitter emphasis that the 
 North would have to pay dearly for its sentiment in regard to the 
 negro. In Hilland's case strong exultation became a growing element in 
 his anger, for he believed that slavery was destined to receive heavier 
 blows from the mad zeal of its friends than Northern abolitionists 
 could have inflicted in a century. 
   
 "If the South casts aside constitutional protection," he reasoned, "she 
 must take the consequences. After a certain point is passed, the North 
 will make sharp, quick work with anything that interferes with her 
 peace and prosperity." 
   
 "The work will be sharp enough, young man," replied the major testily; 
 "but don't be sure about its being quick. If the South once gets to 
 fighting, I know her people well enough to assure you that the 
 Republican party can reach its ends only through seas of blood, if they 
 are ever attained." 
   
 Hilland made no reply--he never contradicted the old gentleman--but he 
 wrote Graham a rather strong letter intimating that it was time for 
 Americans to come home. 
   
 Graham would not have come, however, had not Grace, who had just 
 returned from Mrs. Mayburn's cottage, caused a postscript to be added, 
 giving the information that his aunt was seriously ill, and that her 
 physician thought it might be a long time before she recovered, even if 
 life was spared. 
   
 This decided him at once; and as he thought he might never see his kind 
 old friend again, he bitterly regretted that he had remained away so 
 long. And yet he felt he could scarcely have done otherwise; for in 
 bitter disappointment he found that his passion, so far from being 
 conquered, had, by some uncontrollable law of his nature, simply grown 
 with time and become interwoven with every fibre of his nature. 
 Hitherto he had acted on the principle that he must and would conquer 
 it; but now that duty called him to the presence of the one whose love 
 and kindness formed an indisputable claim upon him, he began to reason 
 that further absence was futile, that he might as well go back, and--as 
 he promised his aunt--"do the best he could." 
   
 It must be admitted that Hilland's broad hint, that in the coming 
 emergency Americans should be at home, had little weight with him. From 
 natural bent he had ever been averse to politics. In accordance with 
 his theory of evolution, he believed the negro was better off in his 
 present condition than he could be in any other. He was the last man to 
 cherish an enthusiasm for an inferior race. Indeed, he would have much 
 preferred it should die out altogether and make room for better 
 material. The truth was that his prolonged residence abroad had made 
 the questions of American politics exceedingly vague and 
 inconsequential. He believed them to be ephemeral to the last 
 degree--in the main, mere struggles of parties and partisans for power 
 and spoils; and for their hopes, schemes, and stratagems to gain 
 temporary success, he cared nothing. 
   
 He had not been an idler in his prolonged absence. In the first place, 
 he had striven with the whole force of a powerful will to subdue a 
 useless passion, and had striven in vain. He had not, however, yielded 
 for a day to a dreamy melancholy, but, in accordance with his promise 
 "to do his best," had been tireless in mental and physical activity. 
 The tendency to wander somewhat aimlessly had ceased, and he had 
 adopted the plan of studying modern life at the old centres of 
 civilization and power. 
   
 Hilland's letter found him in Egypt, and only a few weeks had elapsed 
 after its reception when, with deep anxiety, he rang the bell at his 
 aunt's cottage door. He had not stopped to ask for letters in London, 
 for he had learned that by pushing right on he could catch a fast 
 outgoing steamer and save some days. 
   
 The servant who admitted him uttered a cry of joy; and a moment later 
 his aunt rose feebly from the lounge in her sitting-room, and greeted 
 him as her son. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XVII (PREPARATION) 
 Graham learned with deep satisfaction that the dangerous symptoms of 
 his aunt's illness had passed away, and that she was now well advanced 
 in convalescence. They gave to each other an hour or two of unreserved 
 confidence; and the old lady's eyes filled with tears more than once as 
 she saw how vain had been her nephew's struggle. It was equally clear, 
 however, that he had gained strength and a nobler manhood in the 
 effort; and so she told him. 
   
 "If supper is ready," he replied, "I'll prove to you that I am in very 
 fair condition." 
   
 An hour later he left her, cheerful and comparatively happy, for the 
 St. Johns' cottage. From the piazza he saw through the lighted windows 
 a home-scene that he had once dreamed might bless his life. Hilland, 
 evidently, was reading the evening paper aloud, and his back was toward 
 his friend. The major was nervously drumming on the table with his 
 fingers, and contracting his frosty eyebrows, as if perturbed by the 
 news. But it was on the young wife that Graham's eyes dwelt longest. 
 She sat with some sewing on the further side of the open fire, and her 
 face was toward him. Had she changed? Yes; but for the better. The 
 slight matronly air and fuller form that had come with wifehood became 
 her better than even her girlish grace. As she glanced up to her 
 husband from time to time, Graham saw serene loving trust and content. 
   
 "It is all well with them," he thought; "and so may it ever be." 
   
 A servant who was passing out opened the door, and thus he was admitted 
 without being announced, for he cautioned the maid to say nothing. Then 
 pushing open the parlor door, which was ajar, he entered, and said 
 quietly: "I've come over for a game of whist." 
   
 But the quietness of his greeting was not reciprocated. All rose 
 hastily, even to the major, and stared at him. Then Hilland half 
 crushed the proffered hand, and the major grasped the other, and there 
 came a fire of exclamations and questions that for a moment or two left 
 no space for answer. 
   
 Grace cried: "Come, Warren, give Mr. Graham a chance to get his breath 
 and shake hands with me. I propose to count for something in this 
 welcome." 
   
 "Give him a kiss, sweetheart," said her delighted husband. 
   
 Grace hesitated, and a slight flush suffused her face. Graham quickly 
 bent over her hand, which he now held, and kissed it, saying: "I've 
 been among the Orientals so long that I've learned some of their 
 customs of paying homage. I know that you are queen here as of old, and 
 that Hilland is by this time the meekest of men." 
   
 "Indeed, was I so imperious in old times?" she asked, as he threw 
 himself, quite at home, into one of the easy-chairs. 
   
 "You are of those who are born to rule. You have a way of your own, 
 however, which some other rulers might imitate to advantage." 
   
 "Well, my first command is that you give an account of yourself. So 
 extensive a traveller never sat down at our quiet fireside before. Open 
 your budget of wonders. Only remember we have some slight acquaintance 
 with Baron Munchausen." 
   
 "The real wonders of the world are more wonderful than his inventions. 
 Beyond that I hastened home by the shortest possible route after 
 receiving Hilland's letter, I have little to say." 
   
 "I thought my letter would stir you up." 
   
 "In sincerity, I must say it did not. The postscript did, however." 
   
 "Then, in a certain sense, it was I who brought you home, Mr. Graham," 
 said Grace. "I had just returned from a call on Mrs. Mayburn, and I 
 made Warren open the letter and add the postscript. I assure you we 
 were exceedingly anxious about her for weeks." 
   
 "And from what she has told me I am almost convinced that she owes her 
 life more to you than to her physician. Drugs go but a little way, 
 especially at her time of life; but the delicacies and nourishing food 
 you saw she was provided with so regularly rallied her strength. Yes; 
 it was your postscript that led to my immediate return, and not 
 Hilland's political blast." 
   
 "Why, Graham! Don't you realize what's going on here?" 
   
 "Not very seriously." 
   
 "You may have to fight, old fellow." 
   
 "I've no objections after I have decided which side to take." 
   
 "Good heavens, Graham! you will be mobbed if you talk that way here in 
 New England. This comes of a man's living abroad so much that he loses 
 all love for his native land." 
   
 "Squabbling politicians are not one's native land. I am not a hater of 
 slavery as you are; and if it produces types of men and women like that 
 Southern lady of whom I told you, it must be an excellent institution." 
   
 "Oh, yes," cried Hilland laughing. "By the way, Grace, my cool, cynical 
 friend was once madly in love--at first sight, too--and with a lady old 
 enough to be his mother. I never heard a woman's character sketched 
 more tenderly; and his climax was that your mother must have closely 
 resembled her." 
   
 "Mr. Graham is right," said the major impressively. "The South produces 
 the finest women in the world; and when the North comes to meet its 
 men, as I fear it must, it will find they are their mothers' sons." 
   
 "Poor Warren!" cried Grace; "here are all three of us against you--all 
 pro-slavery and Southern in our sympathies." 
   
 "I admit at once that the South has produced THE finest woman in the 
 world," said Hilland, taking his wife's hand. "But I must add that many 
 of her present productions are not at all to my taste; nor will they be 
 to yours, Graham, after you have been here long enough to understand 
 what is going on--that is, if anything at home can enlist your 
 interest." 
   
 "I assure you I am deeply interested. It's exhilarating to breathe 
 American air now, especially so after just coming from regions where 
 everything has been dead for centuries; for the people living there now 
 are scarcely alive. Of course I obtained from the papers in Egypt very 
 vague ideas of what was going on; and after receiving your letter my 
 mind was too preoccupied with my aunt's illness to dwell on much 
 besides. If the flag which gave me protection abroad, and under which I 
 was born, is assailed, I shall certainly fight for it, even though I 
 may not be in sympathy with the causes which led to the quarrel. What I 
 said about being undecided as to which side I would take was a 
 half-jocular way of admitting that I need a great deal of information; 
 and between you and the major I am in a fair way to hear both sides. I 
 cannot believe, however, that a civil war will break out in this land 
 of all others. The very idea seems preposterous, and I am not beyond 
 the belief that the whole thing is political excitement. I have learned 
 this much, that the old teachings of Calhoun have borne their 
 legitimate fruit, and that the Cotton States by some hocus-pocus 
 legislation declare themselves out of the Union. But then the rational, 
 and to my mind inevitable, course will be, that the representative men 
 of both sides will realize at last to what straits their partisanship 
 is bringing them, and so come together and adjust their real or fancied 
 grievances. Meanwhile, the excitement will die out; and a good many 
 will have a dim consciousness that they have made fools of themselves, 
 and go quietly about their own business the rest of their days." 
   
 "Graham, you don't know anything about the true state of affairs," said 
 Hilland; and before the evening was over he proved his words true to 
 his friend, who listened attentively to the history of his native land 
 for the past few months. In conclusion, Hilland said, "At one time--not 
 very long ago, either--I held your opinion that it was the old game of 
 bluster and threatening on the part of Southern politicians. But they 
 are going too far; they have already gone too far. In seizing the 
 United States forts and other property, they have practically waged war 
 against the government. My opinions have changed from week to week 
 under the stern logic of events, and I now believe that the leading 
 spirits in the South mean actual and final separation. I've no doubt 
 that they hope to effect their purpose peaceably, and that the whole 
 thing will soon be a matter of diplomacy between two distinct 
 governments. But they are preparing for war, and they will have it, 
 too, to their hearts' content. President Buchanan is a muff. He sits 
 and wrings his hands like an old woman, and declares he can do nothing. 
 But the new administration will soon be in power, and it will voice the 
 demand of the North that this nonsense be stopped; and if no heed is 
 given, it will stop it briefly, decisively." 
   
 "My son Warren," said the major, "you told your friend some time since 
 that he knew nothing about this affair. You must permit me to say the 
 same to you. I feat that both sides have gone too far, much too far; 
 and what the end will be, and when it will come, God only knows." 
   
 Before many weeks passed Graham shared the same view. 
   
 Events crowded upon each other; pages of history were made daily, and 
 often hourly. In every home, as well as in the cottages wherein dwelt 
 the people of my story, the daily journals were snatched and read at 
 the earliest possible moment. Many were stern and exultant like 
 Hilland; more were dazed and perplexed, feeling that something ought to 
 be done to stem the torrent, and at the same time were astonished and 
 troubled to find that perhaps a next-door neighbor sympathized with the 
 rebellion and predicted its entire success. The social atmosphere was 
 thick with doubt, heavy with despondency, and often lurid with anger. 
   
 Graham became a curious study to both Grace and his aunt; and sometimes 
 his friend and the major were inclined to get out of patience with him. 
 He grew reticent on the subject concerning which all were talking, but 
 he read with avidity, not only the history of the day, but of the past 
 as it related to the questions at issue. 
   
 One of his earliest acts had been the purchase of a horse noted in town 
 as being so powerful, spirited, and even vicious, that few dared to 
 drive or ride him. He had finally brought his ill-repute to a climax by 
 running away, wrecking the carriage, and breaking his owner's ribs. He 
 had since stood fuming in idleness; and when Graham wished him brought 
 to the unused stable behind his aunt's cottage, no one would risk the 
 danger. Then the young man went after the horse himself. 
   
 "I've only one man in my employ who dares clean and take care of him," 
 remarked the proprietor of the livery stable where he was kept; "and he 
 declares that he won't risk his life much longer unless the brute is 
 used and tamed down somewhat. There's your property and I'd like to 
 have it removed as soon as possible." 
   
 "I'll remove it at once," said Graham, quietly; and paying no heed to 
 the crowd that began to gather when it was bruited that 
 "Firebrand"--for such was the horse's name--was to be brought out, he 
 took a bridle and went into the stall, first speaking gently, then 
 stroking the animal with an assured touch. The horse permitted himself 
 to be bridled and led out; but there was an evil fire in his eye, and 
 he gave more than one ominous snort of defiance. The proprietor, 
 smitten by a sudden compunction, rushed forward and cried, "Look here, 
 sir; you are taking your life in your hand." 
   
 "I say, Graham," cried Hilland's voice, "what scrape are you in, that 
 you have drawn such a crowd?" 
   
 "No scrape at all," said Graham, looking around and recognizing his 
 friend and Grace mounted and passing homeward from their ride. "I've 
 had the presumption to think that you would permit me to join you 
 occasionally, and so have bought a good horse. Isn't he a beauty?" 
   
 "What, Firebrand?" 
   
 "That's his present name. I shall re-christen him." 
   
 "Oh, come, Graham! if you don't value your neck, others do. You've been 
 imposed upon." 
   
 "I've warned him--" began the keeper of the livery stable; but here the 
 horse reared and tried to break from Graham's grasp. 
   
 "Clear the way," the young man cried; and as the brute came down he 
 seized his mane and vaulted upon his bare back. The action was so 
 sudden and evidently so unexpected that the horse stood still and 
 quivered for a moment, then gave a few prodigious bounds; but the rider 
 kept his seat so perfectly that he seemed a part of the horse. The 
 beast next began to rear, and at one time it seemed as if he would fall 
 over backward, and his master sprang lightly to the ground. But the 
 horse was scarcely on all fours before Graham was on his back again. 
 The brute had the bit in his teeth, and paid no attention to it. Graham 
 now drew a flexible rawhide from his pocket, and gave his steed a 
 severe cut across the flanks. The result was another bound into the 
 air, such as experts present declared was never seen before; and then 
 the enraged animal sped away at a tremendous pace There was a shout of 
 applause; and Hilland and Grace galloped after, but soon lost sight of 
 Graham. Two hours later he trotted quietly up to their door, his 
 coal-black horse white with foam, quivering in every muscle, but 
 perfectly subdued. 
   
 "I merely wished to assure you that my neck was safe, and that I have a 
 horse fit to go to the war that you predict so confidently," he said to 
 Hilland, who with Grace rushed out on the piazza. 
   
 "I say, Graham, where did you learn to ride?" asked his friend. 
   
 "Oh, the horses were nobler animals than the men in some of the lands 
 where I have been, and I studied them. This creature will be a faithful 
 friend in a short time. You have no idea how much intelligence such a 
 horse as this has if he is treated intelligently. I don't believe he 
 has ever known genuine kindness. I'll guarantee that I can fire a 
 pistol between his ears within two weeks, and that he won't flinch. 
 Good-by. I shall be my own hostler for a short time, and must work an 
 hour over him after the run he's had." 
   
 "Well," exclaimed Hilland, as he passed into the house with his wife, 
 "I admit that Graham has changed. He was always great on tramps, but I 
 never knew him to care for a horse before." 
   
 Grace felt that he had changed ever since he had leaned for support 
 against the apple-tree by which he was now passing down the frozen 
 walk, but she only said, "I never saw such superb horsemanship." 
   
 She had not thought Graham exactly fine-looking in former days; but in 
 his absence his slight figure had filled out, and his every movement 
 was instinct with reserved force. The experiences through which he had 
 passed removed him, as she was conscious, beyond the sphere of ordinary 
 men. Even his marked reticence about himself and his views was 
 stimulating to the imagination. Whether he had conquered his old regard 
 for her she could not tell. He certainly no longer avoided her, and he 
 treated her with the frank courtesy he would naturally extend to his 
 friend's wife. But he spent far more time with his aunt than with them; 
 and it became daily more and more evident that he accepted the major's 
 view, and was preparing for what he believed would be a long and 
 doubtful conflict. Since it must come, he welcomed the inevitable, for 
 in his condition of mind it was essential that he should be intensely 
 occupied. Although his aunt had to admit that he was a little peculiar, 
 his manner was simple and quiet; and when he joined his friends on 
 their drives or at their fireside, he was usually as genial as they 
 could desire, and his tenderness for his aunt daily increased the 
 respect which he had already won from Grace. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII (THE CALL TO ARMS) 
 On the 4th of March, 1861, was inaugurated as President the best friend 
 the South ever had. He would never have deceived or misled her. In all 
 the bloody struggle that followed, although hated, scoffed at, and 
 maligned as the vilest monster of earth, he never by word or act 
 manifested a vindictive spirit toward her. Firm and sagacious, Lincoln 
 would have protected the South in her constitutional rights, though 
 every man at the North had become an abolitionist. Slavery, however, 
 had long been doomed, like other relics of barbarism, by the spirit of 
 the age; and his wisdom and that of men like him, with the logic of 
 events and the irresistible force of the world's opinion, would have 
 found some peaceful, gradual remedy for an evil which wrought even more 
 injury to the master than to the bondman. In his inaugural address he 
 repeated that he had "no purpose, directly or indirectly, to interfere 
 with slavery in the States where it existed." 
   
 An unanswerable argument against disunion, and an earnest appeal to 
 reason and lawful remedy, he followed by a most impressive declaration 
 of peace and good-will: "In your hands, my dissatisfied 
 fellow-countrymen, and not mine, is the momentous issue of civil war. 
 The government will not assail you. You can have no conflict without 
 being yourselves the aggressors. You have no oath registered in heaven 
 to destroy the government; while I shall have the most solemn one to 
 preserve, protect, and defend it." 
   
 These were noble words, and to all minds not confused by the turmoil, 
 passion, and prejudices of the hour, they presented the issue squarely. 
 If the leaders of the South desired peaceful negotiation, the way was 
 opened, the opportunity offered; if they were resolved on the 
 destruction of the Union, Lincoln's oath meant countless men and 
 countless treasure to defend it. 
   
 Men almost held their breath in suspense. The air became thick with 
 rumors of compromise and peace. Even late in March, Mr. Seward, the 
 President's chief adviser, "believed and argued that the revolution 
 throughout the South had spent its force and was on the wane; and that 
 the evacuation of Sumter and the manifestation of kindness and 
 confidence to the Rebel and Border States would undermine the 
 conspiracy, strengthen the Union sentiment and Union majorities, and 
 restore allegiance and healthy political action without resort to civil 
 war." 
   
 To Graham, who, in common with millions in their homes, was studying 
 the problem, this course seemed so rational and so advantageous to all 
 concerned, that he accepted it as the outline of the future. The old 
 major shook his head and growled, "You don't know the South; it's too 
 late; their blood is up." 
   
 Hilland added exultantly, "Neither do you know the North, Graham. There 
 will come a tidal wave soon that will carry Mr. Seward and the 
 hesitating President to the boundaries of Mexico." 
   
 The President was not hesitating, in the weak sense of the word. 
 Equally removed from Mr. Buchanan's timidity and Mr. Seward's 
 optimistic confidence, he was feeling his way, gathering the reins into 
 his hands, and seeking to comprehend an issue then too obscure and vast 
 for mortal mind to grasp. What is plain to-day was not plain then. 
   
 It speedily became evident, however, that all talk of compromise on the 
 part of the Southern leaders was deceptive--that they were relentlessly 
 pursuing the course marked out from the first, hoping, undoubtedly, 
 that the government would be paralyzed by their allies at the North, 
 and that their purposes would be effected by negotiation and foreign 
 intervention. 
   
 And so the skies grew darker and the political and social atmosphere so 
 thick with doubt and discordant counsels that the horizon narrowed 
 about even those on the mountain-top of power. All breathed heavily and 
 felt the oppression that precedes some convulsion of nature. 
   
 At length, on the morning of the 12th of April, as the darkness which 
 foreruns the dawn was lifting from Charleston Harbor, and Sumter lay 
 like a shadow on the waves, a gun was fired whose echoes repeated 
 themselves around the world. They were heard in every home North and 
 South, and their meaning was unmistakable. The flash of that mortar gun 
 and of the others that followed was as the lightning burning its way 
 across the vault of heaven, revealing everything with intense 
 vividness, and rending and consuming all noxious vapors. The clouds 
 rolled speedily away, and from the North came the sound of "a rushing, 
 mighty wind." 
   
 The crisis and the leader came together. The news reached Washington on 
 Saturday. On Sunday Mr. Lincoln drafted his memorable call to arms, and 
 on Monday it was telegraphed throughout the land. The response to that 
 call forms one of the sublimest chapters of history. 
   
 In the St. John cottage, as in nearly all other homes, differences of 
 opinion on minor questions melted into nothingness. 
   
 Graham read the electric words aloud, and his friend's only excited 
 comment was: 
   
 "Graham, you will go." 
   
 "Not yet," was the quiet response "and I sincerely hope you will not." 
   
 "How can a man do otherwise?" 
   
 "Because he is a man, and not an infuriated animal. I've been very 
 chary in giving my opinion on this subject, as you know. You also know 
 that I have read and thought about it almost constantly since my 
 return. I share fully in Major St. John's views that this affair is not 
 to be settled by a mad rush southward of undisciplined Northern men. I 
 have traced the history of Southern regiments and officers in the 
 Revolution and in our later wars, and I assure you that we are on the 
 eve of a gigantic conflict. In that degree that we believe the 
 government right, we, as rational men, should seek to render it 
 effective service. The government does not need a mob: it needs 
 soldiers, and such are neither you nor I. I have informed myself 
 somewhat on the militia system of the country, and there are plenty of 
 organized regiments of somewhat disciplined men who can go at an hour's 
 notice. If you went now, you--a millionaire--would not count for as 
 much as an Irishman who had spent a few months in a drill-room. The 
 time may come when you can equip a regiment if you choose. Moreover, 
 you have a controlling voice in large business interests; and this 
 struggle is doomed from the start if not sustained financially." 
   
 "Mr. Graham is right," said Grace, emphatically. "Even my woman's 
 reason makes so much clear to me." 
   
 "Your woman's reason would serve most men better than their own," was 
 his smiling reply. Then, as he looked into her lovely face, pale at the 
 bare thought that her husband was going into danger, he placed his hand 
 on Hilland's shoulder and continued, "Warren, there are other sacred 
 claims besides those of patriotism. The cause should grow desperate 
 indeed before you leave that wife." 
   
 "Mr. Graham," Grace began, with an indignant flush mantling the face 
 that had been so pale, "I am a soldier's daughter; and if Warren 
 believed it to be his duty--" Then she faltered, and burst into a 
 passion of tears, as she moaned, "O God! it's--it's true. The bullet 
 that struck him would inflict a deadlier wound on me;" and she hid her 
 face on Hilland's breast and sobbed piteously. 
   
 "It is also true," said Graham, in tones that were as grave and solemn 
 as they were gentle, "that your father's spirit--nay, your own--would 
 control you. Under its influence you might not only permit but urge 
 your husband's departure, though your heart broke a thousand times, 
 Therefore, Hilland, I appeal to your manhood. You would be unworthy of 
 yourself and of this true woman were you guided by passion or 
 excitement. As a loyal man you are bound to render your country your 
 best service. To rush to the fray now would be the poorest aid you 
 could give." 
   
 "Graham talks sense," said the major, speaking with the authority of a 
 veteran. "If I had to meet the enemy at once, I'd rather have a 
 regiment of _canaille_, and cowards at that, who could obey orders like 
 a machine, than one of hot-headed millionaires who might not understand 
 the command 'Halt!' Mr. Graham is right again when he says that Grace 
 will not prevent a man from doing his duty any more than her mother 
 did." 
   
 "What do _you_ propose to do?" asked Hilland, breathing heavily. It was 
 evident that a tremendous struggle was going on in his breast, for it 
 had been his daily and nightly dream to join the grand onset that 
 should sweep slavery and rebellion out of existence. 
   
 "Simply what I advise--watch, wait, and act when I can be of the most 
 service." 
   
 "I yield," said Hilland, slowly, "for I suppose you are right. You all 
 know well, and you best of all, sweetheart"--taking his wife's face in 
 his hands and looking down into her tearful eyes--"that here is the 
 treasure of my life. But you also know that in all the past there have 
 come times when a man must give up everything at the need of his 
 country." 
   
 "And when that time comes," sobbed his wife, "I--I--will not--" But she 
 could not finish the sentence. 
   
 Graham stole away, awed, and yet with a peace in his heart that he had 
 not known for years. He had saved his friend from the first wild melee 
 of the war--the war that promised rest and nothingness to him, even 
 while he kept his promise to "live and do his best." 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XIX (THE BLOOD-RED SKY) 
 Days and weeks of intense excitement followed the terrific Union 
 reverses which at one time threatened the loss of the national capital; 
 and the North began to put forth the power of which it was only half 
 conscious, like a giant taken unawares; for to all, except men of 
 Hilland's hopeful confidence, it soon became evident that the opponent 
 was a giant also. It is not my purpose to dwell upon this, however, 
 except as it influenced the actors of my story. 
   
 Hilland, having given up his plans, was contentedly carrying out the 
 line of action suggested by his friend. By all the means within his 
 power he was furthering the Union cause, and learned from experience 
 how much more he could accomplish as a business man than by shouldering 
 a musket, or misleading a regiment in his ignorance. He made frequent 
 trips to New York, and occasionally went to Washington. Graham often 
 accompanied him, and also came and went on affairs of his own. 
 Ostensibly he was acting as correspondent for the journal to which he 
 had written when abroad. In reality, he was studying the great drama 
 with an interest that was not wholly patriotic or scientific. He had 
 found an antidote. The war, dreaded so unspeakably by many, was a boon 
 to him; and the fierce excitement of the hour a counter-irritant to the 
 pain at heart which he believed had become his life-long heritage. 
   
 He had feared the sorrowful reproaches of his aunt, as he gave himself 
 almost wholly up to its influences, and became an actor in the great 
 struggle. In this he was agreeably mistaken, for the spirited old lady, 
 while averse to politics as such, had become scarcely less belligerent 
 than the major since the fall of Sumter. She cheerfully let him come 
 and go at his will; and in his loving gratitude it must be admitted 
 that his letters to her were more frequent and interesting than those 
 to the journal whose badge was his passport to all parts of our lines. 
 He spent every hour he could with her, also; and she saw with pleasure 
 that his activity did him good. Grace thought he found few 
 opportunities to pass an evening with them. She was exceedingly 
 grateful--first, that he had interpreted her so nobly, but chiefly 
 because it was his influence and reasoning that had led her husband 
 into his present large, useful, happy action; and she could not help 
 showing it. 
   
 Graham's position of correspondent gave him far better opportunities 
 for observation than he could have had in any arm of the service. Of 
 late he was following the command of General Patterson, believing from 
 his sanguinary vaporing that in his army would be seen the first real 
 work of the war.[Footnote: Patterson wrote to the Secretary of War: 
 "You have the means; place them at my disposal, and shoot me if I do 
 not use them to advantage."] He soon became convinced, however, that 
 the veteran of the Mexican War, like the renowned King of France, would 
 march his "twenty thousand men" up the hill only to march them down 
 again. Hearing that McDowell proposed to move against the enemy at 
 Manassas, he hastily repaired to Washington, hoping to find a general 
 that dared to come within cannon-range of the foe. 
   
 A sultry day late in the month of July was drawing to a close. Hilland 
 and his wife, with Mrs. Mayburn, were seated under the apple-tree, at 
 which point the walk intersected with the main one leading to the 
 street. The young man, with a heavy frown, was reading from an "extra" 
 a lurid outline of General McDowell's overwhelming defeat and the mad 
 panic that ensued. Grace was listening with deep solicitude, her work 
 lying idle in her lap. It had been a long, hard day for her. Of late 
 her father had been deeply excited, and now was sleeping from sheer 
 reaction. Mrs. Mayburn, looking as grim as fate, sat bolt upright and 
 knitted furiously. One felt instinctively that in no emergency of life 
 could she give way to a panic. 
   
 "Well," cried Hilland, springing to his feet and dashing the paper to 
 the ground with something like an oath, "one battle has been fought in 
 America at which I thank the immortal gods I was not present. Why did 
 not McDowell drive a flock of sheep against the enemy, and furnish his 
 division commanders with shepherds' crooks? Oh, the burning, indelible 
 disgrace of it all! And yet--and the possibility of it makes me feel 
 that I would destroy myself had it happened--I might have run like the 
 blackest sheep of them all. I once read up a little on the subject of 
 panics; and there's a mysterious, awful contagion about them impossible 
 to comprehend. These men were Americans; they had been fighting 
 bravely; what the devil got into them that they had to destroy 
 themselves and everything in an insane rush for life?" 
   
 "Oh, Warren, see the sky!" cried his wife, the deep solicitude of her 
 expression giving place to a look of awe. 
   
 They all turned to the west, and saw a sunset that from the excitable 
 condition of their minds seemed to reflect the scenes recently enacted, 
 and to portend those in prospect now for years to come. Lines of light 
 and broken columns of cloud had ranged themselves across the western 
 arch of the sky, and almost from the horizon to the zenith they were 
 blood-red. So deep, uniform, and ensanguined was the crimson, that the 
 sense of beauty was subordinated to the thought of the national tragedy 
 reflected in the heavens. Hilland's face grew stern as he looked, and 
 Grace hid hers on his breast. 
   
 After a moment, he said, lightly, "What superstitious fools we are! 
 It's all an accidental effect of light and cloud." 
   
 A cry from Mrs. Mayburn caused them to turn hastily, and they saw her 
 rushing down the path to the street entrance. Two men were helping some 
 one from a carriage. As their obscuring forms stood aside, Graham was 
 seen balancing himself on crutches. 
   
 Hilland placed his wife hastily but tenderly on the seat, and was at 
 the gateway in almost a single bound. 
   
 "You had better let us carry you," Grace heard one of the men say in 
 gruff kindness. 
   
 "Nonsense!" was the hearty reply. "I have not retreated thus far so 
 masterfully only to give my aunt the hysterics at last." 
   
 "Alford," said his aunt, sternly, "if it's wise for you to be carried, 
 be carried. Any man here is as liable to hysterics as I am." 
   
 "Graham, what does this mean?" cried his friend, in deep excitement. 
 "You look as if half cut to pieces." 
   
 "It's chiefly my clothes; I am a fitter subject for a tailor than for a 
 surgeon. Come, good people, there is no occasion for melodrama. With 
 aunty's care I shall soon be as sound as ever. Very well, carry me, 
 then. Perhaps I ought not to use my arm yet;" for Hilland, taking in 
 his friend's disabled condition more fully, was about to lift him in 
 his arms without permission or apology. It ended in his making what is 
 termed a "chair" with one of the men, and Graham was borne speedily up 
 the path. 
   
 Grace stood at the intersection with hands clasped in the deepest 
 anxiety; but Graham smiled reassuringly, as he said, "Isn't this an 
 heroic style of returning from the wars? Not quite like Walter Scott's 
 knights; but we've fallen on prosaic times. Don't look so worried. I 
 assure you I'm not seriously hurt." 
   
 "Mrs. Mayburn," said Hilland, excitedly, "let us take him to our 
 cottage. We can all take better care of him there." 
   
 "Oh, do! please do!" echoed Grace. "You are alone; and Warren and I 
 could do so much--" 
   
 "No," said the old lady quietly and decisively; for the moment the 
 proposition was broached Graham's eyes had sought hers in imperative 
 warning. "You both can help me as far as it is needful." 
   
 Grace detected the glance and noted the result, but Hilland began 
 impetuously: "Oh, come, dear Mrs. Mayburn, I insist upon it. Graham is 
 making light of it; but I'm sure he'll need more care than you 
 realize--" 
   
 "Hilland, I know the friendship that prompts your wish," interrupted 
 Graham, "but my aunt is right. I shall do better in my own room. I need 
 rest more than anything else. You and your wife can do all you wish for 
 Indeed, I shall visit you to-morrow and fight the battle over again 
 
 with the major. Please take me to my room at once," he added in a low 
 tone. "I'm awfully tired." 
   
 "Come, Mr. Hilland," said Mrs. Mayburn, in a tone almost authoritative; 
 and she led the way decisively. 
   
 Hilland yielded, and in a few moments Graham was in his own room, and 
 after taking a little stimulant, explained. 
   
 "My horse was shot and fell on me. I am more bruised, scratched and 
 used up, than hurt;" and so it proved, though his escape had evidently 
 been almost miraculous. One leg and foot had been badly crushed. There 
 were two flesh wounds in his arm; and several bullets had cut his 
 clothing, in some places drawing blood. All over his clothes, from head 
 to foot, were traces of Virginia soil; and he had the general 
 appearance of a man who had passed through a desperate melee. 
   
 "I tried to repair damages in Washington," he said, "but the confusion 
 was so dire I had to choose between a hospital and home; and as I had 
 some symptoms of fever last night, I determined to push on till under 
 the wing of my good old aunty and your fraternal care. Indeed, I think 
 I was half delirious when I took the train last evening; but it was 
 only from fatigue, lack of sleep, and perhaps loss of blood. Now, 
 please leave me to aunty's care to-night, and I will tell you all about 
 it to-morrow." 
   
 Hilland was accordingly constrained to yield to his friend's wishes. He 
 brought the best surgeon in town, however, and gave directions that, 
 after he had dressed Graham's wounds, he should spend the night in Mrs. 
 Mayburn's parlor, and report to him if there was any change for the 
 worse. Fortunately, there was no occasion for his solicitude. Graham 
 slept with scarcely a break till late the next morning; and his pulse 
 became so quiet that when he waked with a good appetite the physician 
 pronounced all danger passed. 
   
 In the evening he was bent on visiting the major. He knew they were all 
 eager for his story, and, calculating upon the veteran's influence in 
 restraining Hilland from hasty action, he resolved that his old and 
 invalid friend should hear it with the first. From the character of 
 Hilland he knew the danger to be apprehended was that he would throw 
 himself into the struggle in some way that would paralyze, or at the 
 least curtail, his efficiency. Both his aunt and the physician, who 
 underrated the recuperative power of Graham's fine physical condition, 
 urged quiet until the following day; but he assured them he would 
 suffer more from restlessness than from a moderate degree of effort. He 
 also explained to his aunt that he wished to talk with Hilland, and, if 
 possible, in the presence of his wife and the major. 
   
 "Then they must come here," said the old lady, resolutely. 
   
 With this compromise he had to be content; and Hilland, who had been 
 coming and going, readily agreed to fetch the major. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XX (TWO BATTLES) 
 In less than an hour Graham was in the parlor, looking, it is true, 
 somewhat battered, but cheerful and resolute. His friends found him 
 installed in a great armchair, with his bruised foot on a cushion, his 
 arm in a sling, and a few pieces of court-plaster distributed rather 
 promiscuously over his face and head. He greeted Hilland and his wife 
 so heartily, and assured the major so genially that he should now 
 divide with him his honors as a veteran, that they were reassured, and 
 the rather tragic mood in which they had started on the visit was 
 dispelled. 
   
 "I must admit, though," he added to his old friend, who was also made 
 comfortable in his chair, which Hilland had brought over, "that in my 
 fall on the field of glory I made a sorry figure. I was held down by my 
 horse and trampled on as if I had been a part of the 'sacred soil.'" 
   
 "'Field of glory,' indeed!" exclaimed Hilland, contemptuously. 
   
 "I did not know that you had become a soldier," said Grace, with 
 surprise. 
   
 "I was about as much of a soldier as the majority, from the generals 
 down," was the laughing reply. 
   
 "I don't see how you could have been a worse one, if you had tried," 
 was his friend's rejoinder. "I may do no better; but I should be less 
 than a man if I did not make an effort to wipe out the disgrace as soon 
 as possible. No reflection on you, Graham. Your wounds exonerate you; 
 and I know you did not get them in running away." 
   
 "Yes, I did--two of them, at least--these in my arm. As to 'wiping out 
 this disgrace as soon as possible,' I think that is a very secondary 
 matter." 
   
 "Well! I don't understand it at all," was Hilland's almost savage 
 answer. "But I can tell you from the start you need not enter on your 
 old prudent counsels that I should serve the government as a 
 stay-at-home quartermaster and general supply agent. In my opinion, 
 what the government needs is men--men who at least won't run away. I 
 now have Grace's permission to go--dear, brave girl!--and go I shall. 
 To stay at home because I am rich seems to me the very snobbishness of 
 wealth; and the kind of work I have been doing graybeards can do just 
 as well, and better." 
   
 Graham turned a grave look of inquiry upon the wife. She answered it by 
 saying with a pallid face: "I had better perish a thousand times than 
 destroy Warren's self-respect." 
   
 "What right have you to preach caution," continued Hilland, "when you 
 went far enough to be struck by half a dozen bullets?" 
   
 "The right of a retreat which scarcely slackened until I was under my 
 aunt's roof." 
   
 "Come, Graham, you are tantalizing us," said Hilland, impatiently. 
 "There, forgive me, old fellow. I fear you are still a little out of 
 your head," he added, with a slight return of his old good-humor. "Do 
 give us, then, if you can, some account of your impetuous advance on 
 Washington, instead of Richmond." 
   
 "Yes, Mr. Graham," added the major, "if you are able to give me some 
 reason for not blushing that I am a Northern man, I shall be glad to 
 hear it." 
   
 "Mrs. Hilland," said Graham, with a smiling glance at the young wife's 
 troubled face, "you have the advantage of us all. You can proudly say, 
 'I'm a Southerner.' Hilland and I are nothing but 'low-down Yankees.' 
 Come, good friends, I have seen enough tragedy of late; and if, I have 
 to describe a little to-night, let us look at matters philosophically. 
 If I received some hard knocks from your kin, Mrs. Hilland--" 
   
 "Don't say 'Mrs. Hilland,'" interrupted his friend. "As I've told you 
 before, my wife is 'Grace' to you." 
   
 "So be it then. The hard knocks from your kin have materially added to 
 my small stock of sense; and I think the entire North will be wiser as 
 well as sadder before many days pass. We have been taught that taking 
 Richmond and marching through the South will be no holiday picnic. 
 Major St. John has been right from the start. We must encounter brave, 
 determined men; and, whatever may be true of the leaders, the people 
 are as sincere in their patriotism as we are. They don't even dream 
 that they are fighting in a bad cause. The majority will stand up for 
 it as stoutly and conscientiously as your husband for ours. Have I not 
 done justice to your kin, Grace?" 
   
 "Yes," she replied, with a faint smile. 
   
 "Then forgive me if I say that until four o'clock last Sunday 
 afternoon, and in a fair, stand-up fight between a Northern mob and a 
 Southern mob, we whipped them." 
   
 "But I thought the men of the North prided themselves on their 'staying 
 power.'" 
   
 "They had no 'staying power' when they found fresh regiments and 
 batteries pouring in on their flank and rear. I believe that retreat 
 was then the proper thing. The wild panic that ensued resulted 
 naturally from the condition of the men and officers, and especially 
 from the presence of a lot of nondescript people that came to see the 
 thing as a spectacle, a sort of gladiatorial combat, upon which they 
 could look at a safe distance. Two most excellent results have been 
 attained: I don't believe we shall ever send out another mob of 
 soldiers; and I am sure that a mob of men and women from Washington 
 will never follow it to see the fun." 
   
 "I wish Beauregard had corralled them all--the mob of sight-seers, I 
 mean," growled the major. "I must say, Mr. Graham, that the hard knocks 
 you and others have received may result in infinite good. I think I 
 take your meaning, and that we shall agree very nearly before you are 
 through. You know that I was ever bitterly opposed to the mad 'On to 
 Richmond' cry; and now the cursed insanity of the thing is clearly 
 proved." 
   
 "I agree with you that it was all wrong--that it involved risks that 
 never should have been taken at this stage of the war; and I am told 
 that General Scott and other veteran officers disapproved of the 
 measure. Nevertheless, it came wonderfully near being successful. We 
 should have gained the battle if the attack had been made earlier, or 
 if that old muff, Patterson, had done his duty." 
   
 "If you are not too tired, give us the whole movement, just as you saw 
 it," said Hilland, his eyes glowing with excitement. 
   
 "Oh, I feel well enough for another retreat tonight. My trouble was 
 chiefly fatigue and lack of sleep." 
   
 "Because you make light of wounds, we do not," said Grace. 
   
 "Hilland knows that the loss of a little blood as pale and watery as 
 mine would be of small account," was Graham's laughing response. 
   
 "Well, to begin at the beginning, I followed Patterson till convinced 
 that his chief impulse was to get away from the enemy. I then hastened 
 to Washington only to learn that McDowell had already had a heavy 
 skirmish which was not particularly to our advantage. This was Saturday 
 morning, and the impression was that a general engagement would be 
 fought almost immediately. The fact that our army had met little 
 opposition thus far created a false confidence. I did not care to risk 
 my pet horse, Mayburn. You must know, aunty, I've rechristened 
 Firebrand in your honor," said Graham. "I tried to get another mount, 
 but could not obtain one for love or money. Every beast and conveyance 
 in the city seemed already engaged for the coming spectacle. The 
 majority of these civilians did not leave till early on Sunday morning, 
 but I had plenty of company on Saturday, when with my good horse I went 
 in a rather leisurely way to Centerville; for as a correspondent I had 
 fairly accurate information of what was taking place, and had heard 
 that there would be no battle that day. 
   
 "I reached Centerville in the evening, and soon learned that the 
 forward movement would take place in the night. Having put my horse in 
 thorough condition for the morrow, and made an enormous supper through 
 the hospitality of some staff-officers, I sought a quiet knoll on which 
 to sleep in soldier fashion under the sky, but found the scene too 
 novel and beautiful for such prosaic oblivion. I was on the highest 
 ground I could find, and beneath and on either side of me were the 
 camp-fires of an army. Around the nearest of these could be seen the 
 forms of the soldiers in every picturesque attitude; some still cooking 
 and making their rude suppers, others executing double-shuffles like 
 war-dances, more discussing earnestly and excitedly the prospects of 
 the coming day, and not a few looking pensively into the flames as if 
 they saw pictures of the homes and friends they might never see again. 
 In the main, however, animation and jollity prevailed; and from far and 
 near came the sound of song, and laughter, and chaffing. Far down the 
 long slope toward the dark, wooded valley of Bull Run, the light of the 
 fires shaded off into such obscurity as the full moon permitted, while 
 beyond the stream in the far distance a long, irregular line of 
 luminous haze marked the encampments of the enemy. 
   
 "As the night advanced the army grew quiet; near and distant sounds 
 died away; the canvas tents were like mounds of snow; and by the 
 flickering, dying flames were multitudes of quiet forms. At midnight 
 few scenes could be more calm and beautiful, so tenderly did the light 
 of the moon soften and etherealize everything. Even the parked 
 artillery lost much of its grim aspect, and all nature seemed to 
 breathe peace and rest. 
   
 "It was rumored that McDowell wished to make part of the march in the 
 evening, and it would have been well if he had done so. A little past 
 midnight a general stir and bustle ran through the sleeping army. 
 Figures were seen moving hurriedly, men forming into lines, and there 
 was a general commotion. But there was no promptness of action. The 
 soldiers stood around, sat down, and at last lay on their arms and 
 slept again. Mounting my horse, with saddle-bags well stuffed with such 
 rations as I could obtain, I sought the centres of information. It 
 appeared that the division under General Tyler was slow in starting, 
 and blocked the march of the Second and the Third Division. As I picked 
 my way around, only a horse's sagacity kept me from crushing some 
 sleeping fellow's leg or arm, for a horse won't step on a man unless 
 excited. 
   
 "Well, Tyler's men got out of the way at last in a haphazard fashion, 
 and the Second and Third Divisions were also steadily moving, but hours 
 behind time. Such marching! It reminded one of countrymen streaming 
 along a road to a Fourth of July celebration. 
   
 "My main policy was to keep near the commander-in-chief, for thus I 
 hoped to obtain from the staff some idea of the plan of battle and 
 where its brunt would fall. I confess that I was disgusted at first, 
 for the general was said to be ill, and he followed his columns in a 
 carriage. It seemed an odd way of leading an army. But he came out all 
 right; and he did his duty as a soldier and a general, although every 
 one is cursing him to-day. He was the first man on the real 
 battlefield, and by no means the first to leave it. 
   
 "Of course I came and went along the line of march, or of straggling 
 rather, as I pleased; but I kept my eye on the general and his staff. I 
 soon observed that he decided to make his headquarters at the point 
 where a road leading from the great Warrenton Turnpike passed to the 
 north through what is known as the 'Big Woods.' Tyler's command 
 continued westward down the turnpike to what is known as the Stone 
 Bridge, a single substantial arch at which the enemy were said to be in 
 force. It now became clear that the first fighting would be there, and 
 that it was McDowell's plan to send his main force under Hunter and 
 Heintzelman further north through the woods to cross at some point 
 above. I therefore followed Tyler's column, as that must soon become 
 engaged. 
   
 "The movements had all been so mortally slow that any chance for 
 surprise was lost. As we approached the bridge it was as lovely a 
 summer morning as you would wish to see. I had ridden ahead with the 
 scouts. Thrushes, robins, and other birds were singing in the trees. 
 Startled rabbits, and a mother-bird with a brood of quails, scurried 
 across the road, and all seemed as still and peaceful as any Sunday 
 that had ever dawned on the scene. It was hard to persuade one's self 
 that in front and rear were the forces of deadly war. 
   
 "We soon reached an eminence from which we saw what dispelled at once 
 the illusion of sylvan solitude. The sun had been shining an hour or 
 two, and the bridge before us and the road beyond were defended by 
 _abatis_ and other obstructions. On the further bank a line of infantry 
 was in full view with batteries in position prepared to receive us. I 
 confess it sent a thrill through every nerve when I first saw the ranks 
 of the foe we must encounter in no mere pageant of war. 
   
 "In a few moments our forces came up, and at first one brigade deployed 
 on the left and another on the right of the pike. At last I witnessed a 
 scene that had the aspect of war. A great thirty-pound Parrot gun 
 unlimbered in the centre of the pike, and looked like a surly mastiff. 
 In a moment an officer, who understood his business, sighted it. There 
 was a flash, bright even in the July sunlight, a grand report awakening 
 the first echoes of a battle whose thunder was heard even in 
 Washington; and a second later we saw the shell explode directly over 
 the line of Confederate infantry. Their ranks broke and melted away as 
 if by magic." 
   
 "Good shot, well aimed. Oh heavens! what would I not give to be thirty 
 years younger! Go on, Graham, go on;" for the young man had stopped to 
 take a sip of wine. 
   
 "Yes, Graham," cried Hilland, springing to his feet; "what next?" 
   
 "I fear we are doing Mr. Graham much wrong," Grace interrupted. "He 
 must be going far beyond his strength." 
   
 The young man had addressed his words almost solely to the major, not 
 only out of courtesy, but also for a reason that Grace partially 
 surmised. He now turned and smiled into her flushed, troubled face, and 
 said, "I fear you find these details of war dull and wearisome." 
   
 "On the contrary, you are so vivid a _raconteur_ that I fear Warren 
 will start for the front before you are through." 
   
 "When I am through you will think differently." 
   
 "But you _are_ going beyond your strength." 
   
 "I assure you I am not; though I thank you for your thoughtfulness. I 
 never felt better in my life; and it gives me a kind of pleasure to 
 make you all realize things as I saw them." 
   
 "And it gives us great pleasure to listen," cried Hilland. "Even Mrs. 
 Mayburn there is knitting as if her needles were bayonets; and Grace 
 has the flush of a soldier's daughter on her cheeks." 
   
 "Oh, stop your chatter, and let Graham go on," said the major--"that 
 is, if it's prudent for him," he added from a severe sense of duty. 
 "What followed that blessed shell?" 
   
 "A lame and impotent conclusion in the form of many other shells that 
 evoked no reply; and beyond his feeble demonstration Tyler did nothing. 
 It seemed to me that a determined dash at the bridge would have carried 
 I was fretting and fuming about when a staff-officer gave me a hint 
 
 that nothing was to be done at present--that it was all only a feint, 
 and that the columns that had gone northward through the woods would 
 begin the real work. His words were scarcely spoken before I was making 
 my way to the rear. I soon reached McDowell's carriage at the 
 intersection of the roads, and found it empty. Learning that the 
 general, in his impatience, had taken horse and galloped off to see 
 what had become of his tardy commanders, I followed at full speed. 
   
 "It was a wild, rough road, scarcely more than a lane through the 
 woods; but Mayburn was equal to it, and like a bird carried me through 
 its gloomy shades, where I observed not a few skulkers cowering in the 
 brush as I sped by. I overtook Heintzelman's command as it was crossing 
 the run at Sudley's Ford; and such a scene of confusion I hope never to 
 witness again. The men were emptying their canteens and refilling them, 
 laving their hands and faces, and refreshing themselves generally. It 
 was really quite a picnic. Officers were storming and ordering 'the 
 boys'--and boys they seemed, indeed--to move on; and by dint of much 
 profanity, and the pressure of those following, regiment after regiment 
 at last straggled up the further bank, went into brigade formation, and 
 shambled forward." 
   
 "The cursed mob!" muttered the major. 
   
 "Well, poor fellows! they soon won my respect; and yet, as I saw them 
 then, stopping to pick blackberries along the road, I did feel like 
 riding them down. I suppose my horse and I lowered the stream somewhat 
 as we drank, for the day had grown sultry and the sun's rays intensely 
 hot. Then I hastened on to find the general. It seemed as if we should 
 never get out of the woods, as if the army had lost itself in an 
 interminable forest. Wild birds and game fled before us; and I heard 
 one soldier call out to another that it was 'a regular Virginia 
 coon-hunt.' As I reached the head of the column the timber grew 
 thinner, and I was told that McDowell was reconnoitring in advance. 
 Galloping out into the open fields, I saw him far beyond me, already 
 the target of Rebel bullets. His staff and a company of cavalry were 
 with him; and as I approached he seemed rapidly taking in the 
 topographical features of the field. Having apparently satisfied 
 himself, he galloped to the rear; and at the same time Hunter's troops 
 came pouring out of the woods. 
   
 "There was now a prospect of warm work and plenty of it. For the life 
 of me I can't tell you how the battle began. Our men came forward in an 
 irregular manner, rushing onward impetuously, halting unnecessarily, 
 with no master mind directing. It seemed at first as if the mere 
 momentum of the march carried us under the enemy's fire; and then there 
 was foolish delay. By the aid of my powerful glass I was convinced that 
 we might have walked right over the first thin Rebel line on the ridge 
 nearest us. 
   
 "The artillery exchanged shots awhile. Regiments under the command of 
 General Burnside deployed in the fields to the left of the road down 
 which we had come; skirmishers were thrown out rapidly and began their 
 irregular firing at an absurd distance from the enemy. There was 
 hesitancy, delay; and the awkwardness of troops unaccustomed to act 
 together in large bodies was enhanced by the excitement inseparable 
 from their first experience of real war. 
   
 "In spite of all this the battlefield began to present grand and 
 inspiring effects. The troops were debouching rapidly from the woods, 
 their bayonets gleaming here and there through the dust raised by their 
 hurrying feet, and burning in serried lines when they were ranged under 
 the cloudless sun. In every movement made by every soldier the metal 
 points in his accoutrements flashed and scintillated. Again there was 
 something very spirited in the appearance of a battery rushed into 
 position at a gallop--the almost instantaneous unlimbering, the 
 caissons moving to the rear, and the guns at the same moment thundering 
 their defiance, while the smoke, lifting slowly on the heavy air, rises 
 and blends with that of the other side, and hangs like a pall to 
 leeward of the field. The grandest thing of all, however, was the 
 change in the men. The uncouth, coarsely jesting, blackberry-picking 
 fellows that lagged and straggled to the battle became soldiers in 
 their instincts and rising excitement and courage, if not in 
 machine-like discipline and coolness. As I rode here and there I could 
 see that they were erect, eager, and that their eyes began to glow like 
 coals from their dusty, sunburned visages. If there were occasional 
 evidences of fear, there were more of resolution and desire for the 
 fray. 
   
 "The aspect of affairs on the ridge, where the enemy awaited us, did 
 not grow encouraging. With my glass I could see re-inforcements coming 
 up rapidly during our delay. New guns were seeking position, which was 
 scarcely taken before there was a puff of smoke and their iron message. 
 Heavens! what a vicious sound those shells had! something between a 
 whiz and a shriek. Even the horses would cringe and shudder when one 
 passed over them, and the men would duck their heads, though the 
 missile was thirty feet in the air. I suppose there was some awfully 
 wild firing on both sides; but I saw several of our men carried to the 
 rear. But all this detail is an old, old story to you, Major." 
   
 "Yes, an old story, but one that can never lose its fierce charm. I 
 see it all as you describe it. Go on, and omit nothing you can remember 
 of the scene. Mrs. Mayburn looks as grim as one of your cannon; and 
 Grace, my child, you won't flinch, will you?" 
   
 "No, papa." 
   
 "That's my brave wife's child. She often said, 'Tell me all. I wish to 
 know just what you have passed through.'" 
   
 A brief glance assured Graham that her father's spirit was then 
 supreme, and that she looked with woman's admiration on a scene replete 
 with the manhood woman most admires. 
   
 "I cannot describe to you the battle, as such," continued Graham. "I 
 can only outline faintly the picture I saw dimly through dust and smoke 
 from my own standpoint. Being under no one's orders, I could go where I 
 pleased, and I tried to find the vital points. Of course, there was 
 much heavy fighting that I saw nothing of, movements unknown to me or 
 caught but imperfectly. During the preliminary conflict I remained on 
 the right of Burnside's command near the Sudley Road by which our army 
 had reached the field. 
   
 "When at last his troops began to press forward, their advance was 
 decided and courageous; but the enemy held their own stubbornly. The 
 fighting was severe and deadly, for we were now within easy musket 
 range. At one time I trembled for Burnside's lines, and I saw one of 
 his aides gallop furiously to the rear for help. It came almost 
 immediately in the form of a fine body of regulars under Major Sykes; 
 and our wavering lines were rendered firm and more aggressive than 
 ever. At the same time it was evident that our forces were going into 
 action off to the right of the Sudley Road, and that another battery 
 had opened on the enemy. I afterward learned that they were Rickett's 
 guns. Under this increasing and relentless pressure the enemy's lines 
 were seen to waver. Wild cheers went up from our ranks; and such is the 
 power of the human voice--the echo direct from the heart--that these 
 shouts rose above the roar of the cannon, the crash of musketry, and 
 thrilled every nerve and fibre. Onward pressed our men; the Rebel lines 
 yielded, broke, and our foes retreated down the hill, but at a dogged, 
 stubborn pace, fighting as they went. Seeing the direction they were 
 taking, I dashed into the Sudley Road near which I had kept as the 
 centre of operations. At the intersection of this road with the 
 Warrenton Turnpike was a stone house, and behind this the enemy rallied 
 as if determined to retreat no further. I had scarcely observed this 
 fact when I saw a body of men forming in the road just above me. In a 
 few moments they were in motion. On they came, a resistless human 
 torrent with a roar of hoarse shouts and cries. I was carried along 
 with them; but before we reached the stone house the enemy broke and 
 fled, and the whole Rebel line was swept back half a mile or more. 
   
 "Thus you see that in the first severe conflict of the day, and when 
 pitted against numbers comparatively equal, we won a decided victory." 
   
 Both the major and Hilland drew a long breath of relief; and the former 
 said: "I have been hasty and unjust in my censure. If that raw militia 
 could be made to fight at all, it can in time be made to fight well. 
 Mr. Graham, you have deeply gratified an old soldier to-night by 
 describing scenes that carry me back to the grand era of my life. I 
 believe I was born to be a soldier; and my old campaigns stand out in 
 memory like sun-lighted mountain-tops. Forgive such high-flown talk--I 
 know it's not like me--but I've had to-night some of my old battle 
 excitement. I never thought to feel it again. We'll hear the rest of 
 your story to-morrow. I outrank you all, by age at least; and I now 
 order 'taps.'" 
   
 Graham was not sorry, for in strong reaction a sudden sense of almost 
 mortal weakness overcame him. Even the presence of Grace, for whose 
 sake, after all, he had unconsciously told his story, could not sustain 
 him any longer, and he sank back looking very white. 
   
 "You _have_ overexerted yourself," she said gently, coming, to his 
 side. "You should have stopped when I cautioned you; or rather, we 
 should have been more thoughtful." 
   
 "Perhaps I have overrated my strength--it's a fault of mine," was his 
 smiling reply, "I shall be perfectly well after a night's rest." 
   
 He had looked up at her as he spoke; and in that moment of weakness 
 there was a wistful, hungry look in his eyes that smote her heart. 
   
 A shallow, silly woman, or an intensely selfish one, would have 
 exulted. Here was a man, cool, strong, and masterful among other men--a 
 man who had gone to the other side of the globe to escape her 
 power--one who within the last few days had witnessed a battle with thes 
 quiet poise that enabled him to study it as an artist or a tactician; 
 and yet he could not keep his eyes from betraying the truth that there 
 was something within his heart stronger than himself. 
   
 Did Grace Hilland lay this flattering unction to her soul? No. She went 
 away inexpressibly sad. She felt that two battle scenes had been 
 presented to her mind; and the conflict that had been waged silently, 
 patiently, and unceasingly in a strong man's soul had to her the higher 
 elements of heroism. It was another of those wretched problems offered 
 by this imperfect world for which there seems no remedy. 
   
 When Hilland hastened over to see his friend and add a few hearty words 
 to those he had already spoken, he was told that he was sleeping. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXI (THE LOGIC OF EVENTS) 
 Graham was right in his prediction that another night's rest would 
 carry him far on the road to recovery; and he insisted, when Hilland 
 called in the morning, that the major should remain in his accustomed 
 chair at home, and listen to the remainder of the story. "My habit of 
 life is so active," he said, "that a little change will do me good;" 
 and so it was arranged. By leaning on Hilland's shoulder he was able to 
 limp the short distance between the cottages; and he found that Grace 
 had made every arrangement for his comfort on the piazza, where the 
 major welcomed him with almost the eagerness of a child for whom an 
 absorbing story is to be continued. 
   
 "You can't know how you interested us all last night," Grace began. "I 
 never knew papa to be more gratified; and as for Warren, he could not 
 sleep for excitement. Where did you learn to tell stories?" 
   
 "I was said to be very good at fiction when a boy, especially when I 
 got into scrapes. But you can't expect in this garish light any such 
 effects as I may have created last evening. It requires the mysterious 
 power of night and other conditions to secure a glamour; and so you 
 must look for the baldest prose to-day." 
   
 "Indeed, Graham, we scarcely know what to expect from you any more," 
 Hilland remarked. "From being a quiet cynic philosopher, content to 
 delve in old libraries like the typical bookworm, you become an 
 indefatigable sportsman, horse-tamer, explorer of the remote parts of 
 the earth, and last, and strangest, a newspaper correspondent who 
 doesn't know that the place to see and write about battles is several 
 miles in the rear. What will you do next?" 
   
 "My future will be redeemed from the faintest trace of eccentricity. I 
 shall do what about a million other Americans will do eventually--go 
 into the army." 
   
 "Ah! now you talk sense, and I am with you. I shall be ready to go as 
 soon as you are well enough." 
   
 "I doubt it." 
   
 "I don't." 
   
 "Grace, what do you say to all this?" turning a troubled look upon the 
 wife. 
   
 "I foresee that, like my mother, I am to be the wife of a soldier," she 
 replied with a smile, while tears stood in her eyes. "I did not marry 
 Warren to destroy his sense of manhood." 
   
 "You see, Graham, how it is. You also perceive what a knight I must be 
 to be worthy of the lady I leave in bower." 
   
 "Yes; I see it all too well. But I must misquote Shakespeare to you, 
 and 'charge you to stand on the _order_ of your going;' and I think the 
 rest of my story will prove that I have good reason for the charge." 
   
 "I should have been sorry," said the major, "to have had Grace marry a 
 man who would consult only ease and safety in times like these. It will 
 be awfully hard to have him go. But the time may soon come when it 
 would be harder for Grace to have him stay; that is, if she is like her 
 mother. But what's the use of looking at the gloomy side? I've been 
 through a dozen battles; and here I am to plague the world yet. But now 
 for the story. You left off, Mr. Graham, at the rout of the first Rebel 
 line of battle." 
   
 "And this had not been attained," resumed Graham, "without serious loss 
 to our side. Colonel Hunter, who commanded the Second Division, you 
 remember, was so severely wounded by a shell that he had to leave the 
 field early in the action. Colonel Slocum of one of the Rhode Island 
 regiments was mortally wounded; and his major had his leg crushed by a 
 cannon ball which at the same time killed his horse. Many others were 
 wounded and must have had a hard time of it, poor fellows, that hot 
 day. As for the dead that strewed the ground--their troubles were over." 
   
 "But not the troubles of those that loved them," said Grace, bitterly. 
   
 Graham turned hastily away. When a moment later he resumed his 
 narrative, she noticed that his eyes were moist and his tones husky. 
   
 "Our heaviest loss was in the demoralization of some of the regiments 
 engaged. They appeared to have so little cohesion that one feared all 
 the time that they might crumble away into mere human atoms. 
   
 "The affair continually took on a larger aspect, as more troops became 
 engaged. We had driven the Confederates down a gentle slope, across a 
 small stream called Young's Branch, and up a hill beyond and to the 
 south. This position was higher and stronger than any they had yet 
 occupied. On the crest of the hill were two houses; and the enemy could 
 be seen forming a line extending from one to the other. They were 
 evidently receiving re-enforcements rapidly. I could see gray columns 
 hastening forward and deploying; and I've no doubt that many of the 
 fugitives were rallied beyond this line. Meanwhile, I was informed that 
 Tyler's Division, left in the morning at Stone Bridge, had crossed the 
 Run, in obedience to McDowell's orders, and were on the field at the 
 left of our line. Such, as far as I could judge, was the position of 
 affairs between twelve and one, although I can give you only my 
 impressions. It appeared to me that our men were fighting well, 
 gradually and steadily advancing, and closing in upon the enemy. Still, 
 I cannot help feeling that if we had followed up our success by the 
 determined charge of one brigade that would hold together, the hill 
 might have been swept, and victory made certain. 
   
 "I had taken my position near Rickett's and Griffin's batteries on the 
 right of our line, and decided to follow them up, not only because they 
 were doing splendid work, but also for the reason that they would 
 naturally be given commanding positions at vital points. By about two 
 o'clock we had occupied the Warrenton Turnpike; and we justly felt that 
 much had been gained. The Confederate lines between the two houses on 
 the hill had given way; and from the sounds we heard, they must have 
 been driven back also by a charge on our extreme left. Indeed, there 
 was scarcely anything to be seen of the foe that thus far had been not 
 only seen but felt. 
   
 "From a height near the batteries where I stood, the problem appeared 
 somewhat clear to me. We had driven the enemy up and over a hill of 
 considerable altitude, and across an uneven plateau, and they were 
 undoubtedly in the woods beyond, a splendid position which commanded 
 the entire open space over which we must advance to reach them. They 
 were in cover; we should be in full view in all efforts to dislodge 
 them. Their very reverses had secured for them a position worth half a 
 dozen regiments; and I trembled as I thought of our raw militia 
 advancing under conditions that would try the courage of veterans. You 
 remember that if Washington, in the Revolution, could get his new 
 recruits behind a rail-fence, they thought they were safe. 
   
 "Well, there was no help for it. The hill and plateau must be crossed 
 under a pointblank fire, in order to reach the enemy, and that, too, by 
 men who had been under arms since midnight, and the majority wearied by 
 a long march under a blazing sun. 
   
 "About half-past two, when the assault began, a strange and ominous 
 quiet rested on the field. As I have said, the enemy had disappeared. 
 The men scarcely knew what to think of it; and in some a false 
 confidence, speedily dispelled, was begotten. Rickett's battery was 
 moved down across the valley to the top of a hill just beyond the 
 residence owned and occupied by a Mrs. Henry. I followed and entered 
 the house, already shattered by shot and shell, curious to know whether 
 it was occupied, and by whom. Pitiful to relate, I found that Mrs. 
 Henry was a widow and a helpless invalid. The poor woman was in mortal 
 terror; and it was my hope to return and carry her to some place of 
 safety, but the swift and deadly tide of war gave me no chance. 
 [Footnote: Mrs. Henry, although confined to her bed, was wounded two or 
 three times, and died soon afterward.] 
   
 "Ricketts' battery had scarcely unlimbered before death was busy among 
 his cannoneers and even his horses. The enemy had the cover not only of 
 the woods, but of a second growth of pines, which fringed them and 
 completely concealed the Rebel sharpshooters. When a man fell, nothing 
 could be seen but a puff of smoke. These little jets and wreaths of 
 smoke half encircled us, and made but a phantom-like target for our 
 people; and I think it speaks well for officers and men that they not 
 only did their duty, but that Griffin's battery also came up, and that 
 both batteries held their own against a terrific pointblank fire from 
 the Rebel cannon, which certainly exceeded ours in number. The range 
 was exceedingly short, and a more terrific artillery duel it would be 
 hard to imagine. At the same time the more deadly little puffs of smoke 
 continued; and men in every attitude of duty would suddenly throw up 
 their hands and fall. The batteries had no business to be so exposed, 
 and their supports were of no real service. 
   
 "I can give you an idea of what occurred at this point only; but, from 
 the sounds I heard, there was very heavy fighting elsewhere, which I 
 fear, however, was too spasmodic and ill-directed to accomplish the 
 required ends. A heavy, persistent, concentrated attack, a swift push 
 with the bayonet through the low pines and woods, would have saved the 
 day. Perhaps our troops were not equal to it; and yet, poor fellows, 
 they did braver things that were utterly useless. 
   
 "I still believe, however, all might have gone well, had it not been 
 for a horrible mistake. I was not very far from Captain Griffin, and 
 was watching his cool, effective superintendence of his guns, when 
 suddenly I noticed a regiment in full view on our right advancing 
 toward us. Griffin caught sight of it at the same moment, and seemed 
 amazed. Were they Confederates or National? was the question to be 
 decided instantly. They might be his own support. Doubtful and yet 
 exceedingly apprehensive, he ordered his guns to be loaded with 
 canister and trained upon this dubious force that had come into view 
 like an apparition; but he still hesitated, restrained, doubtless, by 
 the fearful thought of annihilating a Union regiment. 
   
 "'Captain,' said Major Barry, chief of artillery, 'they are your 
 battery support.' 
   
 "'They are Confederates.' Griffin replied, intensely excited. 'As 
 certain as the world, they are Confederates.' 
   
 "'No,' was the answer, 'I know they are your battery support.' 
   
 "I had ridden up within ear-shot, and levelled my glass upon them. 
 'Don't fire,' cried Griffin, and he spurred forward to satisfy himself. 
   
 "At the same moment the regiment, now within short range, by a sudden 
 instantaneous act levelled their muskets at us. I saw we were doomed, 
 and yet by some instinct tightened my rein while I dug my spurs into my 
 horse. He reared instantly. I saw a line of fire, and then poor Mayburn 
 fell upon me, quivered, and was dead. The body of a man broke my fall 
 in such a way that I was not hurt. Indeed, at the moment I was chiefly 
 conscious of intense anger and disgust. If Griffin had followed his 
 instinct and destroyed that regiment, as he could have done by one 
 discharge, the result of the whole battle might have been different. As 
 it was, both his and Rickett's batteries were practically annihilated." 
   
 [Footnote: Since the above was written Colonel Hasbrouck has given me 
 an account of this crisis in the battle. He was sufficiently near to 
 hear the conversation found in the text, and to enable me to supplement 
 it by fuller details. Captain Griffin emphatically declared that no 
 Union regiment could possibly come from that quarter, adding, "They are 
 dressed in gray." 
   
 Major Barry with equal emphasis asserted that they were National 
 troops, and unfortunately we had regiments in gray uniforms. Seeing 
 that Captain Griffin was not convinced, he said peremptorily, "I 
 command you not to fire on that regiment." 
   
 Of course this direct order ended the controversy, and Captain Griffin 
 directed that his guns be shifted again toward the main body of the 
 enemy, while he rode forward a little space to reconnoitre. 
   
 During all this fatal delay the Confederate regiment was approaching, 
 marching by the flank, and so passed at one time within pointblank 
 range of the guns that would scarcely have left a man upon his feet. 
 The nature of their advance was foolhardy in the extreme, and at the 
 time that Captain Griffin wished to fire they were practically 
 helpless. A Virginia worm-fence was in their path, and so frightened, 
 nervous, and excited were they that, instead of tearing it down, they 
 began clambering over it until by weight and numbers it was trampled 
 under foot. 
   
 They approached so near that the order to "fire low" was distinctly 
 heard by our men as the Confederates went into battle-line formation. 
   
 The scene following their volley almost defies description. The horses 
 attached to caissons not only tore down and through the ascending 
 National battle-line, but Colonel--then Lieutenant--Hasbrouck saw 
 several teams dash over the knoll toward the Confederate regiment, that 
 opened ranks to let them pass. So novel were the scenes of war at that 
 time that the Confederates were as much astonished as the members of 
 the batteries left alive, and at first did not advance, although it was 
 evident that there were, at the moment, none to oppose them. The storm 
 of Rebel bullets had ranged so low that Lieutenant Hasbrouck and 
 Captain Griffin owed their safety to the fact that they were mounted. 
 The horses of both officers were wounded. On the way down the northern 
 slope of the hill, with the few Union survivors, Captain Griffin met 
 Major Barry, and in his intense anger and grief reproached him 
 bitterly. The latter gloomily admitted that he had been mistaken. 
   
 Captain Ricketts was wounded, and the battle subsequently surged back 
 and forth over his prostrate form, but eventually he was sent as a 
 captive to Richmond.] 
   
 The major uttered an imprecation. 
   
 "I was pinned to the ground by the weight of my horse, but not so 
 closely but that I could look around. The carnage had been frightful. 
 But few were on their feet, and they in rapid motion to the rear. The 
 horses left alive rushed down the hill with the caissons, spreading 
 dismay, confusion, and disorder through the ascending line of battle. 
 Our supporting regiment in the rear, that had been lying on their arms, 
 sprang to their feet and stood like men paralyzed with horror; 
 meanwhile, the Rebel regiment, re-enforced, was advancing rapidly on 
 the disabled guns--their defenders lay beneath and around them--firing 
 as they came. Our support gave them one ineffectual volley, then turned 
 and fled." 
   
 Again the major relieved his mind in his characteristic way. 
   
 "But you, Alford?" cried Grace, leaning forward with clasped hands, 
 while his aunt came and buried her face upon his shoulder. "Are you 
 keeping your promise to live?" she whispered. 
   
 "Am I not here safe and sound?" he replied, cheerily. "Nothing much 
 happened to me, Grace. When I saw the enemy was near, I merely doubled 
 myself up under my horse, and was nothing to them but a dead Yankee. I 
 was only somewhat trodden upon, as I told you, when the Confederates 
 tried to turn the guns against our forces. 
   
 "I fear I am doing a wrong to the ladies by going into these sanguinary 
 details." 
   
 "No," said the major, emphatically; "Mrs. Mayburn would have been a 
 general had she been a man; and Grace has heard about battles all her 
 life. It's a great deal better to understand from the start what this 
 war means." 
   
 "I especially wished Hilland to hear the details of this battle as far 
 as I saw them, for I think they contain lessons that may be of great 
 service to him. That he would engage in the war was a foregone 
 conclusion from the first; and with his means and ability he may take a 
 very important part in it. But of this later. 
   
 "As I told you, I made the rather close acquaintance of your kin, 
 Grace, and can testify that the 'fa' of their feet' was not 
 'fairy-like.' Before they could accomplish their purpose of turning the 
 guns on our lines, I heard the rushing tramp of a multitude, with 
 defiant shouts and yells. Rebels fell around me. The living left the 
 guns, sought to form a line, but suddenly gave way in dire confusion, 
 and fled to the cover from which they came. A moment later a body of 
 our men surged like an advancing wave over the spot they had occupied. 
   
 "Now was my chance; and I reached up and seized the hand of a tall, 
 burly Irishman. "What the divil du ye want?" he cried, and in his mad 
 excitement was about to thrust me through for a Confederate. 
   
 "'Halt!' I thundered. The familiar word of command restrained him long 
 enough for me to secure his attention. 'Would you kill a Union man?'" 
   
 "'Is it Union ye are? What yez doin' here, thin, widut a uniform?' 
   
 "I showed him my badge of correspondent, and explained briefly. 
   
 "Strange as it may seem to you, he uttered a loud, jolly laugh. 'Faix, 
 an' it's a writer ye are. Ye'll be apt to git some memmyrandums the day 
 that ye'll carry about wid ye till ye die, and that may be in about a 
 minnit. I'll shtop long enough to give yez a lift, or yez hoss, 
 rather;' and he seized poor Mayburn by the head. His excitement seemed 
 to give him the strength of a giant, for in a moment I was released and 
 stood erect. 
   
 "'Give me a musket,' I cried, 'and I'll stand by you.' 
   
 "'Bedad, hilp yersilf,' he replied, pushing forward. 'There's plenty o' 
 fellers lyin' aroun' that has no use for them;' and he was lost in the 
 confused advance. 
   
 "All this took place in less time than it takes to describe it, for 
 events at that juncture were almost as swift as bullets. Lame as I was, 
 I hobbled around briskly, and soon secured a good musket with a supply 
 of cartridges. As with the rest, my blood was up--don't smile, Hilland: 
 I had been pretty cool until the murderous discharge that killed my 
 horse--and I was soon in the front line, firing with the rest. 
   
 "Excited as I was, I saw that our position was desperate, for a heavy 
 force of Confederates was swarming toward us. I looked around and saw 
 that part of our men were trying to drag off the guns. This seemed the 
 more important work; and discretion also whispered that with my bruised 
 foot I should be captured in five minutes unless I was further to the 
 rear. So I took a pull at a gun; but we had made little progress before 
 there was another great surging wave from the other direction, and our 
 forces were swept down the hill again, I along with the rest. The 
 confusion was fearful; the regiments with which I had been acting went 
 all to pieces, and had no more organization than if they had been mixed 
 up by a whirlwind. 
   
 "I was becoming too lame to walk, and found myself in a serious 
 dilemma." "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Hilland. "It was just becoming serious, 
 eh?" 
   
 "Well, I didn't realize my lameness before; and as retreat was soon to 
 be order of the day, there was little prospect of my doing my share. As 
 I was trying to extricate myself from the shattered regiments, I saw a 
 riderless horse plunging toward me. To seize his bridle and climb into 
 the saddle was the work of a moment; and I felt that, unlike McDowell, 
 I was still master of the situation. Working my out of the press and to 
 our right, I saw that another charge for the guns by fresh troops was 
 in progress. It seemed successful at first. The guns were retaken, but 
 soon the same old story was repeated, and a corresponding rush from the 
 other side swept our men back. 
   
 "Would you believe it, this capture and recapture occurred several 
 times. A single regiment even would dash forward, and actually drive 
 the Rebels back, only to lose a few moments later what they had gained. 
 Never was there braver fighting, never worse tactics. The repeated 
 successes of small bodies of troops proved that a compact battle line 
 could have swept the ridge, and not only retaken the guns, but made 
 them effective in the conflict. As it was, the two sides worried and 
 tore each other like great dogs, governed merely by the impulse and 
 instinct of fight. The batteries were the bone between them. 
   
 "This senseless, wasteful struggle could not go on forever. That it 
 lasted as long as it did speaks volumes in favor of the material of 
 which our future soldiers are to be made. As I rode slowly from the 
 line and scene of actual battle, of which I had had enough, I became 
 disheartened. We had men in plenty--there were thousands on every 
 side--but in what condition! There was no appearance of fear among the 
 men I saw at about four P.M. (I can only guess the time, for my watch 
 had stopped), but abundant evidence of false confidence and still more 
 of the indifference of men who feel they have done all that should be 
 required of them and are utterly fagged out. Multitudes, both officers 
 and privates, were lying and lounging around waiting for their comrades 
 to finish the ball. 
   
 "For instance, I would ask a man to what regiment he belonged, and he 
 would tell me. 
   
 "'Where is it?' 
   
 "'Hanged if I know. Saw a lot of the boys awhile ago.' 
   
 "Said an officer in answer to my inquiries, 'No; I don't know where the 
 colonel is, and I don't care. After one of our charges we all adjourned 
 like a town meeting. I'm played out; have been on my feet since one 
 o'clock last night.' 
   
 "These instances were characteristic of the state of affairs in certain 
 parts of the field that I visited. Plucky or conscientious fellows 
 would join their comrades in the fight without caring what regiment 
 they acted with; but the majority of the great disorganized mass did 
 what they pleased, after the manner of a country fair, crowding in all 
 instances around places where water could be obtained. Great numbers 
 had thrown away their canteens and provisions, as too heavy to carry in 
 the heat, or as impediments in action. Officers and men were mixed up 
 promiscuously, hobnobbing and chaffing in a languid way, and talking 
 over their experiences, as if they were neighbors at home. The most 
 wonderful part of it all was that they had no sense of their danger and 
 of the destruction they were inviting by their unsoldierly course. 
   
 "I tried to impress these dangers on one or two, but the reply was, 
 'Oh, hang it! The Rebs are as badly used up as we are. Don't you see 
 things are growing more quiet? Give us a rest!' 
   
 "By this time I had worked my way well to my right, and was on a little 
 eminence watching our line advance, wondering at the spirit with which 
 the fight was still maintained. Indeed, I grew hopeful once more as I 
 saw the good work that the regiments still intact were doing. There was 
 much truth in the remark that the Rebels were used up also, unless they 
 had reserves of which we knew nothing. At that time we had no idea that 
 we had been fighting, not only Beauregard, but also Johnson from the 
 Shenandoah. 
   
 "My hope was exceedingly intensified by the appearance of a long line 
 of troops emerging from the woods on our flank and rear, for I never 
 dreamed that they could be other than our own re-enforcements. Suddenly 
 I caught sight of a flag which I had learned to know too well. The line 
 halted a moment, muskets were levelled, and I found myself in a perfect 
 storm of bullets. I assure you I made a rapid change of base, for when 
 our line turned I should be between two fires. As it was, I was cut 
 twice in this arm while galloping away. In a few moments a battery also 
 opened upon our flank; and it became as certain as day that a large 
 Confederate force from some quarter had been hurled upon the flank and 
 rear of our exhausted forces. The belief that Johnson's army had 
 arrived spread like wildfire. How absurd and crude it all seems now! We 
 had been fighting Johnson from the first. 
   
 "All aggressive action on our part now ceased; and as if governed by 
 one common impulse, the army began its retreat. 
   
 "Try to realize it. Our retirement was not ordered. There were 
 thousands to whom no order could be given unless with a voice like a 
 thunder peal. Indeed, one may say, the order was given by the thunder 
 of that battery on our flank. It was heard throughout the field; and 
 the army, acting as individuals or in detachments, decided to leave. To 
 show how utterly bereft of guidance, control, and judgment were our 
 forces, I have merely to say that each man started back by exactly the 
 same route he had come, just as a horse would do, while right before 
 them was the Warrenton Pike, a good, straight road direct to 
 Centerville, which was distant but little over four miles. 
   
 "This disorganized, exhausted mob was as truly in just the fatal 
 condition for the awful contagion we call 'panic' as it would have been 
 from improper food and other causes, for some other epidemic. The 
 Greeks, who always had a reason for everything, ascribed the nameless 
 dread, the sudden and unaccountable fear, which bereaves men of manhood 
 and reason, to the presence of a god. It is simply a latent human 
 weakness, which certain conditions rarely fail to develop. They were 
 all present at the close of that fatal day. I tell you frankly that I 
 felt something of it myself, and at a time, too, when I knew I was not 
 in the least immediate danger. To counteract it I turned and rode 
 deliberately toward the enemy, and the emotion passed. I half believe, 
 however, that if I had yielded, it would have carried me away like an 
 attack of the plague. The moral of it all is, that the conditions of 
 the disease should be guarded against. 
   
 "When it became evident that the army was uncontrollable and was 
 leaving the field, I pressed my way to the vicinity of McDowell to see 
 what he would do. What could he do? I never saw a man so overwhelmed 
 with astonishment and anger. Almost to the last I believe he expected 
 to win the day. He and his officers commanded, stormed, entreated. He 
 might as well have tried to stop Niagara above the falls as that human 
 tide. He sent orders in all directions for a general concentration at 
 Centerville, and then with certain of his staff galloped away. I tried 
 to follow, but was prevented by the interposing crowd. 
   
 "I then joined a detachment of regulars and marines, who marched 
 quietly in prompt obedience of orders; and we made our way through the 
 disorder like a steamer through the surging waves. All the treatises on 
 discipline that were ever written would not have been so convincing as 
 that little oasis of organization. They marched very slowly, and often 
 halted to cover the retreat. 
   
 "I had now seen enough on the further bank of Bull Run, and resolved to 
 push ahead as fast as my horse would walk to the eastern side. 
 Moreover, my leg and wounds were becoming painful, and I was 
 exceedingly weary. I naturally followed the route taken by Tyler's 
 command in coming upon and returning from the field, and crossed Bull 
 Run some distance above the Stone Bridge. The way was so impeded by 
 fugitives that my progress was slow, but when I at last reached the 
 Warrenton Turnpike and proceeded toward a wretched little stream called 
 Cub Run, I witnessed a scene that beggars description. 
   
 "Throughout the entire day, and especially in the afternoon, vehicles 
 of every description--supply wagons, ambulances, and the carriages of 
 civilians--had been congregating in the Pike vicinity of Stone Bridge. 
 When the news of the defeat reached this point, and the roar of cannon 
 and musketry began to approach instead of recede, a general movement 
 toward Centerville began. This soon degenerated into the wildest panic, 
 and the road was speedily choked by storming, cursing, terror-stricken 
 men, who in their furious haste, defeated their own efforts to escape. 
 It was pitiful, it was shameful, to see ambulances full of the wounded 
 shoved to one side and left by the cowardly thieves who had galloped 
 away on the horses. It was one long scene of wreck and ruin, through 
 which pressed a struggling, sweating, cursing throng. Horses with their 
 traces cut, and carrying two and even three men, were urged on and over 
 everybody that could not get out of the way. Everything was abandoned 
 that would impede progress, and arms and property of all kinds were 
 left as a rich harvest for the pursuing Confederates. Their cavalry, 
 hovering near, like hawks eager for the prey, made dashes here and 
 there, as opportunity offered. 
   
 "I picked my way through the woods rather than take my chances in the 
 road, and so my progress was slow. To make matters tenfold worse, I 
 found when I reached the road leading to the north through the 'Big 
 Woods' that the head of the column that had come all the way around by 
 Sudley's Ford, the route of the morning march, was mingling with the 
 masses already thronging the Pike. The confusion, the selfish, 
 remorseless scramble to get ahead, seemed as horrible as it could be; 
 but imagine the condition of affairs when on reaching the vicinity of 
 Cub Run we found that a Rebel battery had opened upon the bridge, our 
 only visible means of crossing. A few moments later, from a little 
 eminence, I saw a shot take effect on a team of horses; and a heavy 
 caisson was overturned directly in the centre of the bridge, barring 
 all advance, while the mass of soldiers, civilians, and nondescript 
 army followers, thus detained under fire, became perfectly wild with 
 terror. The caisson was soon removed, and the throng rushed on. 
   
 "I had become so heart-sick, disgusted, and weary of the whole thing, 
 that my one impulse was to reach Centerville, where I supposed we 
 should make a stand. As I was on the north side of the Pike, I skirted 
 up the stream with a number of others until we found a place where we 
 could scramble across, and soon after we passed within a brigade of our 
 troops that were thrown across the road to check the probable pursuit 
 of the enemy. 
   
 "On reaching Centerville, we found everything in the direst confusion. 
 Colonel Miles, who commanded the reserves at that point, was unfit for 
 the position, and had given orders that had imperilled the entire army. 
 It was said that the troops which had come around by Sudley's ford had 
 lost all their guns at Cub Run; and the fugitives arriving were 
 demoralized to the last degree. Indeed, a large part of the army, 
 without waiting for orders or paying heed to any one, continued their 
 flight toward Washington. Holding the bridle of my horse, I lay down 
 near headquarters to rest and to learn what would be done. A council of 
 war was held, and as the result we were soon on the retreat again. The 
 retreat, or panic-stricken flight rather, had, in fact, never ceased on 
 the part of most of those who had been in the main battle. That they 
 could keep up this desperate tramp was a remarkable example of human 
 endurance when sustained by excitement, fear, or any strong emotion. 
 The men who marched or fled on Sunday night had already been on their 
 feet twenty-four hours, and the greater part of them had experienced 
 the terrific strain of actual battle. 
   
 "My story has already been much too long. From the daily journals you 
 have learned pretty accurately what occurred after we reached 
 Centerville. Richardson's and Blenker's brigades made a quiet and 
 orderly retreat when all danger to the main body was over. The sick and 
 wounded were left behind with spoils enough to equip a good-sized 
 Confederate army. I followed the headquarters escort, and eventually 
 made my way into Washington in the drenching rain of Monday, and found 
 the city crowded with fugitives to whom the loyal people were extending 
 unbounded hospitality. I felt ill and feverish, and yielded to the 
 impulse to reach home; and I never acted more wisely. 
   
 "Now you have the history of my first battle; and may I never see one 
 like it again. And yet I believe the battle of Bull Run will become one 
 of the most interesting studies of American history and character. On 
 our side it was not directed by generals, according to the rules of 
 war. It was fought by Northern men after their own fashion and 
 according to their native genius; and I shall ever maintain that it was 
 fought far better than could have been expected of militia who knew 
 less of the practical science of war than of the philosophy of Plato. 
   
 "The moral of my story, Hilland, scarcely needs pointing; and it 
 applies to us both. When we go, let us go as soldiers; and if we have 
 only a corporal's command, let us lead soldiers. The grand Northern 
 onset of which you have dreamed so long has been made. You have seen 
 the result. You have the means and ability to equip and command a 
 regiment. Infuse into it your own spirit; and at the same time make it 
 a machine that will hold together as long as you have a man left." 
   
 "Graham," said Hilland, slowly and deliberately, "there is no resisting 
 the logic of events. You have convinced me of my error, and I shall 
 follow your advice." 
   
 "And, Grace," concluded Graham, "believe me, by so doing he adds 
 tenfold to his chances of living to a good old age." 
   
 "Yes," she said, looking at him gratefully through tear-dimmed eyes. 
 "You have convinced me of that also." 
   
 "Instead of rushing off to some out-of-the-way place or camp, he must 
 spend months in recruiting and drilling his men; and you can be with 
 him." 
   
 "Oh, Alford!" she exclaimed, "is that the heavenly logic of your long, 
 terrible story?" 
   
 "It's the rational logic; you could not expect any other kind from me." 
   
 "Well, Graham," ejaculated the major, with a long sigh of relief, "I 
 wouldn't have missed your account of the battle for a year's pay. And 
 mark my words, young men, you may not live to see it, or I either, but 
 the North will win in this fight. That's the fact that I'm convinced of 
 in spite of the panic." 
   
 "The fact that I'm convinced of," said Mrs. Mayburn brusquely, mopping 
 her eyes meanwhile, "is that Alford needs rest. I'm going to take him 
 home at once." And the young man seconded her in spite of all 
 protestations. 
   
 "Dear, vigilant old aunty," said Graham, when they were alone, "you 
 know when I have reached the limit of endurance." 
   
 "Ah! Alford, Alford," moaned the poor woman, "I fear you are seeking 
 death in this war." 
   
 He looked at her tenderly for a moment, and then said, "Hereafter I 
 will try to take no greater risks than a soldier's duties require." 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXII (SELF-SENTENCED) 
 Days, weeks, and months with their changes came and went. Hilland, with 
 characteristic promptness, carried out his friend's suggestion; and 
 through his own means and personal efforts, in great measure, recruited 
 and equipped a regiment of cavalry. He was eager that his friend should 
 take a command in it; but Graham firmly refused. 
   
 "Our relations are too intimate for discipline," he said. "We might be 
 placed in situations wherein our friendship would embarrass us." 
   
 Grace surmised that he had another reason; for, as time passed, she saw 
 less and less of him. He had promptly obtained a lieutenancy in a 
 regiment that was being recruited at Washington; and by the time her 
 husband's regiment reached that city, the more disciplined organization 
 to which Graham was attached was ordered out on the Virginia picket 
 line beyond Arlington Heights. 
   
 Hilland, with characteristic modesty, would not take the colonelcy of 
 the regiment that he chiefly had raised; but secured for the place a 
 fine officer of the regular army, and contented himself with a 
 captaincy. "Efficiency of the service is what I am aiming at," he said. 
 "I would much rather rise by merit from the ranks than command a 
 brigade by favor." 
   
 Unlike many men of wealth, he had a noble repugnance to taking any 
 public advantage of it; and the numerous officers of the time that had 
 obtained their positions by influence were his detestation. 
   
 Graham's predictions in regard to Grace were fulfilled. For long months 
 she saw her husband almost daily, and, had it not been for the cloud 
 that hung over the future, it would have been one of the happiest 
 periods of her life. She saw Hilland engaged in tasks that brought him 
 a deep and growing satisfaction. She saw her father in his very 
 element. There were no more days of dulness and weariness for him. The 
 daily journals teemed with subjects of interest, and with their aid he 
 planned innumerable campaigns. Military men were coming and going, and 
 with these young officers the veteran was an oracle. He gave Hilland 
 much shrewd advice; and even when it was not good, it was listened to 
 with deference, and so the result was just as agreeable to the major. 
   
 What sweeter joy is there for the aged than to sit in the seat of 
 judgment and counsel, and feel that the world would go awry were it not 
 for the guidance and aid of their experience! Alas for the poor old 
 major, and those like him! The world does not grow old as they do. It 
 only changes and becomes more vast and complicated. What was wisest and 
 best in their day becomes often as antiquated as the culverin that once 
 defended castellated ramparts. 
   
 Happily the major had as yet no suspicion of this; and when he and 
 Grace accompanied Hilland and his regiment to Washington, the measure 
 of his content was full. There he could daily meet other veterans of 
 the regular service; and in listening to their talk, one might imagine 
 that McClellan had only to attend their sittings to learn how to subdue 
 the rebellion within a few months. These veterans were not bitter 
 partisans. General Robert E. Lee was "Bob Lee" to them; and the other 
 chiefs of the Confederacy were spoken of by some familiar _sobriquet_, 
 acquired in many instances when boys at West Point. They would have 
 fought these old friends and acquaintances to the bitter end, according 
 to the tactics of the old school; but after the battle, those that 
 survived would have hobnobbed together over a bottle of wine as 
 sociably as if they had been companions in arms. 
   
 Mrs. Mayburn accompanied the major's party to Washington, for, as she 
 said, she was "hungry for a sight of her boy." As often as his duties 
 permitted, Graham rode in from the front to see her. But it began to be 
 noticed that after these visits he ever sought some perilous duty on 
 the picket line, or engaged in some dash at the enemy or guerillas in 
 the vicinity. He could not visit his aunt without seeing Grace, whose 
 tones were now so gentle when she spoke to him, and so full of her 
 heart's deep gratitude, that a renewal of his old fierce fever of 
 unrest was the result. He was already gaining a reputation for extreme 
 daring, combined with unusual coolness and vigilance; and before the 
 campaign of '62 opened he had been promoted to a first lieutenancy. 
   
 Time passed; the angry torrent of the war broadened and deepened. Men 
 and measures that had stood out like landmarks were engulfed and 
 forgotten. 
   
 It goes without saying that the friends did their duty in camp and 
 field. There were no more panics. The great organizer, McClellan, had 
 made soldiers of the vast army; and had he been retained in the service 
 as the creator of armies for other men to lead, his labors would have 
 been invaluable. 
   
 At last, to the deep satisfaction of Graham and Hilland, their 
 regiments were brigaded together, and they frequently met. It was then 
 near the close of the active operations of '62, and the friends now 
 ranked as Captain Graham and Major Hilland. Notwithstanding the 
 reverses suffered by the Union arms, the young men's confidence was 
 unabated as to the final issue. Hilland had passed through several 
 severe conflicts, and his name had been mentioned by reason of his 
 gallantry. Grace began to feel that fate could never be so cruel as to 
 destroy her very life in his life. She saw that her father exulted more 
 over her husband's soldierly qualities than in all his wealth; and 
 although they spent the summer season as usual at the seaside with Mrs. 
 Mayburn, the hearts of all three were following two regiments through 
 the forests and fields of Virginia. Half a score of journals were daily 
 searched for items concerning them, and the arrival of the mails was 
 the event of the day. 
   
 There came a letter in the autumn which filled the heart of Grace with 
 immeasurable joy and very, very deep sadness. Mrs. Mayburn was stricken 
 to the heart, and would not be comforted, while the old major swore and 
 blessed God by turns. 
   
 The cause was this. The brigade with which the friends were connected 
 was sent on a _reconnaissance_, and they felt the enemy strongly before 
 retiring, which at last they were compelled to do precipitately. It so 
 happened that Hilland commanded the rear-guard. In an advance he ever 
 led; on a retreat he was apt to keep well to the rear. In the present 
 instance the pursuit had been prompt and determined, and he had been 
 compelled to make more than one repelling charge to prevent the 
 retiring column from being pressed too hard. His command had thus lost 
 heavily, and at last overwhelming numbers drove them back at a gallop. 
   
 Graham, in the rear of the main column, which had just crossed a small 
 wooden bridge over a wide ditch or little run through the fields, saw 
 the headlong retreat of Hilland's men, and he instantly deployed his 
 company that he might check the close pursuit by a volley. As the Union 
 troopers neared the bridge it was evidently a race for life and 
 liberty, for they were outnumbered ten to one. In a few moments they 
 began to pour over, but Hilland did not lead. They were nearly all 
 across, but their commander was not among them; and Graham was wild 
 with anxiety as he sat on his horse at the right of his line waiting to 
 give the order to fire. Suddenly, in the failing light of the evening, 
 he saw Hilland with his right arm hanging helpless, spurring a horse 
 badly blown; while gaining fast upon him were four savage-looking 
 Confederates, their sabres emitting a steely, deadly sheen, and 
 uplifted to strike the moment they could reach him. 
   
 With the rapidity of light, Graham's eye measured the distance between 
 his friend and the bridge, and his instantaneous conviction was that 
 Hilland was doomed, for he could not order a volley without killing him 
 almost to a certainty. At that supreme crisis, the suggestion passed 
 through his mind like a lurid flash, "In a few moments Hilland will be 
 dead, and Grace may yet be mine." 
   
 Then, like an avenging demon, the thought confronted him. He saw it in 
 its true aspect, and in an outburst of self-accusing fury he passed the 
 death sentence on himself. Snatching out the long, straight sword he 
 carried, he struck with the spur the noble horse he bestrode, gave him 
 the rein, and made straight for the deep, wide ditch. There was no time 
 to go around by the bridge, which was still impeded by the last of the 
 fugitives. 
   
 His men held their breath as they saw his purpose. The feat seemed 
 impossible; but as his steed cleared the chasm by a magnificent bound, 
 a loud cheer rang down the line. The next moment Hilland, who had 
 mentally said farewell to his wife, saw Graham passing him like a 
 thunderbolt. There was an immediate clash of steel, and then the 
 foremost pursuer was down, cleft to the jaw. The next shared the same 
 fate; for Graham, in what he deemed his death struggle, had almost 
 ceased to be human. His spirit, stung to a fury that it had never known 
 and would never know again, blazed in his eyes and flashed in the 
 lightning play of his sword. The two others pursuers reined up their 
 steeds and sought to attack him on either side. He threw his own horse 
 back almost upon his haunches, and was on his guard, meaning to strike 
 home the moment the fence of his opponents permitted. At this instant, 
 however, there were a dozen shots from the swarming Rebels, that were 
 almost upon him, and he and his horse were seen to fall to the ground. 
 Meantime Hilland had instinctively tried to rein in his horse, that he 
 might return to the help of his friend, although from his wound he 
 could render no aid. Some of his own men who had crossed the bridge, 
 and in a sense of safety had regained their wits, saw his purpose, and 
 dashing back, they formed a body-guard around him, and dragged his 
 horse swiftly beyond the line of battle. 
   
 A yell of anger accompanied by a volley came from Graham's men that he 
 had left in line, and a dozen Confederate saddles were emptied; but 
 their return fire was so deadly, and their numbers were so 
 overwhelming, that the officer next in command ordered retreat at a 
 gallop. Hilland, in his anguish, would not have left his friend had not 
 his men grasped his rein and carried him off almost by force. Meanwhile 
 the darkness set in so rapidly that the pursuit soon slackened and 
 ceased. 
   
 During the remainder of the ride back to their camp, which was reached 
 late at night, the ardent-natured Hilland was almost demented. He wept, 
 raved, and swore. He called himself an accursed coward, that he had 
 left the friend who had saved his life. His broken arm was as nothing 
 to him, and eventually the regimental surgeon had to administer strong 
 opiates to quiet him. 
   
 When late the next day he awoke, it all came back to him with a dully 
 heavy ache at heart. Nothing could be done. His mind, now restored to 
 its balance, recognized the fact. The brigade was under orders to move 
 to another point, and he was disabled and compelled to take a leave of 
 absence until fit for duty. The inexorable mechanism of military life 
 moves on, without the slightest regard for the individual; and Graham's 
 act was only one of the many heroic deeds of the war, some seen and 
 more unnoted. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII (AN EARLY DREAM FULFILLED) 
 A few days later Grace welcomed her husband with a long, close embrace, 
 but with streaming eyes; while he bowed his head upon her shoulder and 
 groaned in the bitterness of his spirit. 
   
 "Next to losing you, Grace," he said, "this is the heaviest blow I 
 could receive; and to think that he gave his life for me! How can I 
 ever face Mrs. Mayburn?" 
   
 But his wife comforted him as only she knew how to soothe and bless; 
 and Mrs. Mayburn saw that he was as sincere a mourner as herself. 
 Moreover they would not despair of Graham, for although he had been 
 seen to fall, he might only have been wounded and made a prisoner. Thus 
 the bitterness of their grief was mitigated by hope. 
   
 This hope was fulfilled in a most unexpected way, by a cheerful letter 
 from Graham himself; and the explanation of this fact requires that the 
 story should return to him. 
   
 He thought that the sentence of death which he had passed upon himself 
 had been carried into effect. He had felt himself falling, and then 
 there had been sudden darkness. Like a dim taper flickering in the 
 night, the spark of life began to kindle again. At first he was 
 conscious of but one truth-that he was not dead. Where he now was, in 
 this world or some other, what he now was, he did not know; but the 
 essential _ego_, Alford Graham, had not ceased to exist. The fact 
 filled him with a dull, wondering awe. Memory slowly revived, and its 
 last impression was that he was to die and had died, and yet he was not 
 dead. 
   
 As a man's characteristic traits will first assert themselves, he lay 
 still and feebly tried to comprehend it all. Suddenly a strange, horrid 
 sound smote upon his senses and froze his blood with dread. It must be 
 life after death, for only his mind appeared to have any existence. He 
 could not move. Again the unearthly sound, which could not be a human 
 shriek, was repeated; and by half-involuntary and desperate effort he 
 started up and looked around. The scene at first was obscure, confused, 
 and awful. His eye could not explain it, and he instinctively stretched 
 out his hands; and through the sense of touch all that had happened 
 came back to his confused brain. He first felt of himself, passed his 
 hand over his forehead, his body, his limbs: he certainly was in the 
 flesh, and that to his awakening intelligence meant much, since it 
 accorded with his belief that life and the body were inseparable. Then 
 he felt around him in the darkness, and his hands touched the grassy 
 field. This fact righted him speedily. As in the old fable, when he 
 touched the earth he was strong. He next noted that his head rested on 
 a smooth rock that rose but little above the plain, and that he must 
 have fallen upon it. He sat up and looked around; and as the brain 
 gradually resumed its action after its terrible shock, the situation 
 became intelligible. The awful sounds that he had heard came from a 
 wounded horse that was struggling feebly in the light of the rising 
 moon, now in her last quarter. He was upon the scene of last evening's 
 conflict, and the obscure objects that lay about him were the bodies of 
 the dead. Yes, there before him were the two men he had killed; and 
 their presence brought such a strong sense of repugnance and horror 
 that he sprang to his feet and recoiled away. 
   
 He looked around. There was not a living object in sight except the 
 dying horse. The night wind moaned about him, and soughed and sighed as 
 if it were a living creature mourning over the scene. 
   
 It became clear to him that he had been left as dead. Yes, and he had 
 been robbed, too; for he shivered, and found that his coat and vest 
 were gone, also his hat, his money, his watch, and his boots. He walked 
 unsteadily to the little bridge, and where he had left his line of 
 faithful men, all was dark and silent. With a great throb of joy he 
 remembered that Hilland must have sped across that bridge to safety, 
 while he had expiated his evil thought. 
   
 He then returned and circled around the place. He was evidently alone; 
 but the surmise occurred to him that the Confederates would return in 
 the morning to bury their dead, and if he would escape he must act 
 promptly. And yet he could not travel in his present condition. He must 
 at least have hat, coat, and boots. His only resource was to take them 
 from the dead; but the thought of doing so was horrible to him. Reason 
 about it as he might, he drew near their silent forms with an 
 uncontrollable repugnance. He almost gave up his purpose, and took a 
 few hasty steps away, but a thorn pierced his foot and taught him his 
 folly. Then his imperious will asserted itself, and with an imprecation 
 on his weakness he returned to the nearest silent form, and took from 
 it a limp felt hat, a coat, and a pair of boots, all much the worse for 
 wear; and having arrayed himself in these, started on the trail of the 
 Union force. 
   
 He had not gone over a mile when, on surmounting an eminence, he saw by 
 dying fires in a grove beneath him that he was near the bivouac of a 
 body of soldiers. He hardly hoped they could be a detachment of Union 
 men; and yet the thought that it was possible led him to approach 
 stealthily within earshot. At last he heard one patrol speak to another 
 in unmistakable Southern accent, and he found that the enemy was in his 
 path. 
   
 Silently as a ghost he stole away, and sought to make a wide detour to 
 the left, but soon lost himself hopelessly in a thick wood. At last, 
 wearied beyond mortal endurance, he crawled into what seemed the 
 obscurest place he could find, and lay down and slept. 
   
 The sun was above the horizon when he awoke, stiff, sore, and hungry, 
 but refreshed, rested. A red squirrel was barking at him derisively 
 from a bough near, but no other evidences of life were to be seen. 
 Sitting up, he tried to collect his thoughts and decide upon his 
 course. It at once occurred to him that he would be missed, and that 
 pursuit might be made with hounds. At once he sprang to his feet and 
 made his way toward a valley, which he hoped would be drained by a 
 running stream. The welcome sound of water soon guided him, and pushing 
 through the underbrush he drank long and deeply, bathed the ugly bruise 
 on his head, and then waded up the current. 
   
 He had not gone much over half a mile before he saw through an opening 
 a negro gazing wonderingly at him. "Come here, my good fellow," he 
 cried. 
   
 The man approached slowly, cautiously. 
   
 "I won't hurt you," Graham resumed; "indeed you can see that I'm in 
 your power. Won't you help me?" 
   
 "Dunno, mas'r," was the non-committal reply. 
   
 "Are you in favor of Lincoln's men or the Confederates?" "Dunno, mas'r. 
 It 'pends." 
   
 "It depends upon what?" 
   
 "On whedder you'se a Linkum man or 'Federate." 
   
 "Well, then, here's the truth. The Lincoln men are your best friends, 
 if you've sense enough to know it; and I'm one of them. I was in the 
 fight off there yesterday, and am trying to escape." 
   
 "Oh golly! I'se sense enough;" and the genial gleam of the man's ivory 
 was an omen of good to Graham. "But," queried the negro, "how you wear 
 'Federate coat and hat?" 
   
 "Because I was left for dead, and mine were stolen. I had to wear 
 something. The Confederates don't wear blue trousers like these." 
   
 "Dat's so; an' I knows yer by yer talk and look. I knows a 'Federate 
 well as I does a coon. But dese yere's mighty ticklish times; an' a 
 nigger hab no show ef he's foun' meddlin'. What's yer gwine ter do?" 
   
 "Perhaps you can advise me. I'm afraid they'll put hounds on my trail" 
   
 "Dat dey will, if dey misses yer." 
   
 "Well, that's the reason I'm here in the stream. But I can't keep this 
 up long. I'm tired and hungry. I've heard that you people befriended 
 Lincoln's men. We are going to win, and now's the time for you to make 
 friends with those who will soon own this country." 
   
 "Ob corse, you'se a-gwine ter win. Linkum is de Moses we're all 
 a-lookin' ter. At all our meetin's we'se a-prayin' for him and to him. 
 He's de Lord's right han' to lead we alls out ob bondage." 
   
 "Well, I swear to you I'm one of his men." 
   
 "I knows you is, and I'se a-gwine to help you, houn's or no houn's. 
 Keep up de run a right smart ways, and you'se'll come ter a big flat 
 stun'. Stan' dar in de water, an I'll be dar wid help." And the man 
 disappeared in a long swinging run. 
   
 Graham did as he was directed, and finally reached a flat rock, from 
 which through the thick bordering growth something like a path led 
 away. He waited until his patience was wellnigh exhausted, and then 
 heard far back upon his trail the faint bay of a hound. He was about to 
 push his way on up the stream, when there was a sound of hasty steps, 
 and his late acquaintance with another stalwart fellow appeared. 
   
 "Dere's no time ter lose, mas'r. Stan' whar you is," and in a moment he 
 splashed in beside him. "Now get on my back. Jake dar will spell me 
 when I wants him; fer yer feet mustn't touch de groun';" and away they 
 went up the obscure path. 
   
 This was a familiar mode of locomotion to Graham, for he had been 
 carried thus by the hour over the mountain passes of Asia. They had not 
 gone far before they met two or three colored women with a basket of 
 clothes. 
   
 "Dat's right," said Graham's conveyance; "wash away right smart, and 
 dunno nothin'. Yer see," he continued, "dis yer is Sunday, and we'se 
 not in de fields, an de women folks can help us;" and Graham though 
 that the old superstition of a Sabbath has served him well for once. 
   
 They soon left the path and entered some very heavy timber, through an 
 opening of which he saw the negro quarters and plantation dwellings in 
 the distance. 
   
 At last they stopped before an immense tree. Some brush was pushed 
 aside, revealing an aperture through which Graham was directed to 
 crawl, and he found himself within a heart of oak. 
   
 "Dar's room enough in dar ter sit down," said his sable friend. "An' 
 you'se 'll find a jug ob milk an' a pone ob corn meal. Luck ter yer. 
 Don't git lonesome like and come out. We'se a-gwine ter look ater yer;" 
 and the opening was hidden by brush again, and Graham was left alone. 
   
 From a small aperture above his head a pencil of sunlight traversed the 
 gloom, to which his eyes soon grew accustomed, and he saw a rude seat 
 and the food mentioned. By extending his feet slightly through the 
 opening by which he had entered, he found the seat really comfortable; 
 and the coarse fare was ambrosial to his ravenous appetite. Indeed, he 
 began to enjoy the adventure. His place of concealment was so 
 unexpected and ingenious that it gave him a sense of security. He had 
 ever had a great love for trees, and now it seemed as if one had opened 
 its very heart to hide him. 
   
 Then his hosts and defenders interested him exceedingly. By reason of 
 residence in New England and his life abroad, he was not familiar with 
 the negro, especially his Southern type. Their innocent guile and 
 preposterous religious belief amused him. He both smiled and wondered 
 at their faith in "Linkum," whom at that time he regarded as a long 
 headed, uncouth Western politician, who had done not a little mischief 
 of interfering with the army. 
   
 "It is ever so with all kinds of superstition and sentimental belief," 
 he soliloquized. "Some conception of the mind is embodied, or some 
 object is idealized and magnified until the original is lost sight of, 
 and men come to worship a mere fancy of their own. Then some mind, 
 stronger and more imaginative than the average, gives shape and form to 
 this confused image; and so there grows in time a belief, a theology, 
 or rather a mythology. To think that this Lincoln, whom I've seen in 
 attitudes anything but divine, and telling broad, coarse stories--to 
 think that he should be a demigod, antitype of the venerated Hebrew! In 
 truth it leads one to suspect, according to analogy, that Moses was a 
 money-making Jew, and his effort to lead his people to Palestine an 
 extensive land speculation." 
   
 Graham lived to see the day when he acknowledged that the poor negroes 
 of the most remote plantations had a truer conception of the grand 
 proportions of Lincoln's character at that time than the majority of 
 his most cultivated countrymen. 
   
 His abstract speculations were speedily brought to a close by the 
 nearer baying of hounds as they surmounted an eminence over which lay 
 his trail. On came the hunt, with its echoes rising and falling with 
 the wind or the inequalities of the ground, until it burst deep-mouthed 
 and hoarse over the brow of the hill that sloped to the stream. Then 
 there were confused sounds, both of the dogs and of men's voices, which 
 gradually approached until there was a pause, caused undoubtedly by a 
 colloquy with Aunt Sheba and her associate washerwomen. It did not last 
 very long; and then, to Graham's dismay, the threatening sounds were 
 renewed, and seemed coming directly toward him. He soon gave up all 
 hope, and felt that he had merely to congratulate himself that, from 
 the nature of his hiding-place, he could not be torn by the dogs, when 
 he perceived that the hunt was coming no nearer--in brief, that it was 
 passing. He then understood that his refuge must be near the bed of the 
 stream, from which his pursuers were seeking on either side his 
 diverging trail. This fact relieved him at once, and quietly he 
 listened to the sounds, dying away as they had come. 
   
 As the sun rose higher the ray of light sloped downward until it 
 disappeared; and in the profound gloom and quiet he fell asleep. He was 
 awaked by hearing a voice call, "Mas'r." 
   
 Looking down, he saw that the brush had been removed, and that the 
 opening was partially obstructed by a goblin-like head with little 
 horns rising all over it. 
   
 "Mas'r," said the apparition, "Aunt Sheba sends you dis, and sez de 
 Lord be wid you." 
   
 "Thanks for Aunt Sheba, and you, too, whatever you are," cried Graham; 
 and to gratify his curiosity he sprang down on his knees and peered out 
 in time to see a little negro girl replacing the brush, while what he 
 had mistaken for horns was evidently the child's manner of wearing her 
 hair. He then gave his attention to the material portion of Aunt 
 Sheba's offering, and found a rude sort of platter, or low basket, made 
 of corn husks, and in this another jug of milk, corn bread, and a 
 delicious broiled chicken done to that turn of perfection of which only 
 the colored aunties of the South are capable. 
   
 "Well!" ejaculated Graham. "From this day I'm an abolitionist, a 
 Republican of the blackest dye." A little later he added, "Any race 
 that can produce a woman capable of such cookery as this has a future 
 before it." 
   
 Indeed, the whole affair was taking such an agreeable turn that he was 
 inclined to be jocular. 
   
 After another long sleep in the afternoon, he was much refreshed, and 
 eager to rejoin his command. But Issachar, or Iss, as his associates 
 called him, the negro who had befriended him in the first instance, 
 came and explained that the whole country was full of Confederates; and 
 that it might be several days before it would be safe to seek the Union 
 lines. 
   
 "We'se all lookin' out fer yer, mas'r," he continued; "you won't want 
 for nothin'. An' we won't kep yer in dis woodchuck hole arter nine ob 
 de ev'nin'. Don't try ter come out. I'm lookin' t'oder way while I'se 
 a-talkin. Mean niggers an' 'Federates may be spyin' aroun'. But I 
 reckon not; I'se laid in de woods all day, a-watchin'. 
   
 "Now I tell yer what 'tis, mas'r, I'se made up my mine to put out ob 
 heah. I'se gwine ter jine de Linkum men fust chance I gits. An' if 
 yer'll wait an' trus' me, I'll take yer slick and clean; fer I know dis 
 yer country and ebery hole whar ter hide well as a fox. If I gits safe 
 ter de Linkum folks, yer'll say a good word fer Iss, I reckon." 
   
 "Indeed, I will. If you wish, I'll take you into my own service, and 
 pay you good wages." 
   
 "Done, by golly; and when dey cotch us, dey'll cotch a weasel asleep." 
   
 "But haven't you a wife and children?" 
   
 "Oh, yah. I'se got a wife, an' I'se got a lot ob chillen somewhar in de 
 'Fed'racy; but I'll come wid you uns bime by, an' gedder up all I can 
 fine. I'se 'll come 'long in de shank ob de ev'nin', mas'r, and guv yer 
 a shakedown in my cabin, an' I'll watch while yer sleeps. Den I'll 
 bring yer back heah befo' light in de mawnin'." 
   
 The presence of Confederate forces required these precautions for 
 several days, and Iss won Graham's whole heart by his unwearied 
 patience and vigilance. But the young man soon prevailed on the 
 faithful fellow to sleep nights while he watched; for after the long 
 inaction of the day he was almost wild for exercise. Cautious Iss would 
 have been nearly crazed with anxiety had he known of the 
 _reconnaissances_ in which his charge indulged while he slept. Graham 
 succeeded in making himself fully master of the disposition of the 
 Rebel forces in the vicinity, and eventually learned that the greater 
 part of them had been withdrawn. When he had communicated this 
 intelligence to Iss, they prepared to start for the Union lines on the 
 following night, which proved dark and stormy. 
   
 Iss, prudent man, kept the secret of his flight from even his wife, and 
 satisfied his marital compunctions by chucking her under the chin and 
 calling her "honey" once or twice while she got supper for him. At 
 eight in the evening he summoned Graham from his hiding-place, and led 
 him, with almost the unerring instinct of some wild creature of the 
 night, due northeast, the direction in which the Union forces were said 
 to be at that time. It was a long, desolate tramp, and the dawn found 
 them drenched and weary. But the glorious sun rose warm and bright, and 
 in a hidden glade of the forest they dried their clothes, rested, and 
 refreshed themselves. After a long sleep in a dense thicket they were 
 ready to resume their journey at nightfall. Iss proved an invaluable 
 guide, for, concealing Graham, he would steal away, communicate with 
 the negroes, and bring fresh provisions. 
   
 On the second night he learned that there was a Union force not very 
 far distant to the north of their line of march. Graham had good cause 
 to wonder at the sort of freemasonry that existed among the negroes, 
 and the facility with which they obtained and transmitted secret 
 intelligence. Still more had he reason to bless their almost universal 
 fidelity to the Union cause. 
   
 Another negro joined them as guide, and in the gray of the morning they 
 approached the Union pickets. Graham deemed it wise to wait till they 
 could advance openly and boldly; and by nine o'clock he was received 
 with acclamations by his own regiment as one risen from the dead. 
   
 After congratulations and brief explanations were over, his first task 
 was to despatch the two brief letters mentioned, to his aunt and 
 Hilland, in time to catch the daily mail that left their advanced 
 position. Then he saw his brigade commander, and made it clear to him 
 that with a force of about two regiments he could strike a heavy blow 
 against the Confederates whom he had been reconnoitring; and he offered 
 to act as guide. His proposition was accepted, and the attacking force 
 started that very night. By forced marches they succeeded in surprising 
 the Confederate encampment and in capturing a large number of 
 prisoners. Iss also surprised his wife and Aunt Sheba even more 
 profoundly, and before their exclamations ceased he had bundled them 
 and their meagre belongings into a mule cart, with such of the 
 "chillen" as had been left to him, and was following triumphantly in 
 the wake of the victorious Union column; and not a few of their sable 
 companions kept them company. 
   
 The whole affair was regarded as one of the most brilliant episodes of 
 the campaign and Graham received much credit, not only in the official 
 reports, but in the press. Indeed, the latter, although with no aid 
 from the chief actor, obtained an outline of the whole story, from the 
 rescue of his friend to his guidance of the successful expedition, and 
 it was repeated with many variations and exaggerations. He cared little 
 for these brief echoes of fame; but the letters of his aunt, Hilland, 
 and even the old major, were valued indeed, while a note from the 
 grateful wife became his treasure of treasures. 
   
 They had returned some time before to the St. John cottage, and she had 
 at last written him a letter "straight from her heart," on the quaint 
 secretary in the library, as he had dreamed possible on the first 
 evening of their acquaintance. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV (UNCHRONICLED CONFLICTS) 
 Graham's friends were eager that he should obtain leave of absence, but 
 he said, "No, not until some time in the winter." 
   
 His aunt understood him sufficiently well not to urge the matter, and 
 it may be added that Grace did also. 
   
 Hilland's arm healed rapidly, and happy as he was in his home life at 
 the cottage he soon began to chafe under inaction. Before very long it 
 became evident that the major had not wholly outlived his influence at 
 Washington, for there came an order assigning Major Hilland to duty in 
 that city; and thither, accompanied by Grace and her father, he soon 
 repaired. The arrangement proved very agreeable to Hilland during the 
 period when his regiment could engage in little service beyond that of 
 dreary picket duty. He could make his labors far more useful to the 
 government in the city, and could also enjoy domestic life with his 
 idolized wife. Mrs. Mayburn promised to join them after the holidays, 
 and the reason for her delay was soon made evident. 
   
 One chilly, stormy evening, when nature was in a most uncomfortable 
 mood, a card was brought to the door of Hilland's rooms at their inn 
 just as he, with his wife and the major, was sitting down to one of 
 those exquisite little dinners which only Grace knew how to order. 
 Hilland glanced at the card, and gave such a shout that the waiter 
 nearly fell over backward. 
   
 "Where is the gentleman? Take me to him on the double-quick. It's 
 Graham. Hurrah! I'll order another dinner!" and he vanished, chasing 
 the man downstairs and into the waiting-room, as if he were a 
 detachment of Confederate cavalry. The decorous people in the hotel 
 parlor were astounded as Hilland nearly ran over the breathless waiter 
 at the door, dashed in like a whirlwind, and carried off his friend, 
 laughing, chaffing, and embracing him all the way up the stairs. It was 
 the old, wild exuberancy of his college days, only intensified by the 
 deepest and most grateful emotion. 
   
 Grace stood within her door blushing, smiling, and with tears of 
 feeling in her lovely eyes. 
   
 "Here he is," cried Hilland--"the very god of war. Give him his reward, 
 Grace--a kiss that he will feel to the soles of his boots." 
   
 But she needed no prompting, for instead of taking Graham's proffered 
 hand, she put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him again and 
 again, exclaiming, "You saved Warren's life; you virtually gave yours 
 for his; and in saving him you saved me. May God bless you every hour 
 you live!" 
   
 "Grace," he said, gravely and gently, looking down into her swimming 
 eyes and retaining her hands in a strong, warm clasp, "I am repaid a 
 thousand-fold. I think this is the happiest moment of my life;" and 
 then he turned to the major, who was scarcely less demonstrative in his 
 way than Hilland had been. 
   
 "By Jove!" cried the veteran, "the war is going to be the making of you 
 young fellows. Why, Graham, you no more look like the young man that 
 played whist with me years since than I do. You have grown 
 broad-shouldered and _distingue_, and you have the true military air in 
 spite of that quiet civilian's dress." 
   
 "Oh, I shall always be comparatively insignificant," replied Graham, 
 laughing. "Wait till Hilland wears the stars, as he surely will, and 
 then you'll see a soldier." 
   
 "We see far more than a soldier in you, Alford," said Grace, earnestly. 
 "Your men told Warren of your almost miraculous leap across the ditch; 
 and Warren has again and again described your appearance as you rushed 
 by him on his pursuers. Oh, I've seen the whole thing in my dreams so 
 often!" 
   
 "Yes, Graham; you looked like one possessed. You reminded me of the few 
 occasions when, in old college days, you got into a fury." 
   
 A frown as black as night lowered on Graham's brow, for they were 
 recalling the most hateful memory of his life--a thought for which he 
 felt he ought to die; but it passed almost instantly, and in the most 
 prosaic tones he said, "Good friends, I'm hungry. I've splashed through 
 Virginia mud twelve mortal hours to-day. Grace, be prepared for such 
 havoc as only a cavalryman can make. We don't get such fare as this at 
 the front." 
   
 She, with the pretty housewifely bustle which he had admired years ago, 
 rang the bell and made preparations for a feast. 
   
 "Every fatted calf in Washington should be killed for you," she 
 cried--"prodigal that you are, but only in brave deeds. Where's Iss? I 
 want to see and feast him also." 
   
 "I left him well provided for in the lower regions, and astounding the 
 'cullud bredren' with stories which only the African can swallow. He 
 shall come up by and by, for I have my final orders to give. He leads 
 my horse back to the regiment in the morning, and takes care of him in 
 my absence. I hope to spend a month with aunt." 
   
 "And how much time with us?" asked Hilland, eagerly. 
   
 "This evening." 
   
 "Now, Graham, I protest--" 
   
 "Now, Hilland, I'm ravenous, and here's a dinner fit for the Great 
 Mogul." 
   
 "Oh, I know you of old. When you employ a certain tone you intend to 
 have your own way; but it isn't fair." 
   
 "Don't take it to heart. I'll make another raid on you when I return, 
 and then we shall soon be at the front together again. Aunty's lonely, 
 you know." 
   
 "Grace and I don't count, I suppose," said the major. 
   
 "I had a thousand questions to ask you;" and he looked so aggrieved 
 that Graham compromised and promised to spend the next day with him. 
   
 Then he gave an almost hilarious turn to the rest of the evening, and 
 one would have thought that he was in the high spirits natural to any 
 young officer with a month's leave of absence. He described the 
 "woodchuck hole" which had been his hiding-place, sketched humorously 
 the portraits of Iss, Aunt Sheba, who was now his aunt's cook, and gave 
 funny episodes of his midnight prowlings while waiting for a chance to 
 reach the Union lines. Grace noted how skilfully he kept his own 
 personality in the background unless he appeared in some absurd or 
 comical light; and she also noted that his eyes rested upon her less 
 and less often, until at last, after Iss had had his most flattering 
 reception, he said good-night rather abruptly. 
   
 The next day he entertained the major in a way that was exceedingly 
 gratifying and flattering to the veteran. He brought some excellent 
 maps, pointed out the various lines of march, the positions of the 
 opposing armies, and showed clearly what had been done and what might 
 have been. He next became the most patient and absorbed listener, as 
 the old gentleman, by the aid of the same maps, planned a campaign 
 which during the coming year would have annihilated the Confederacy. 
 Grace, sitting near the window, might have imagined herself almost 
 ignored. But she interpreted him differently. She now had the key which 
 explained his conduct, and more than once tears came into her eyes. 
   
 Hilland returned early, having hastened through his duties, and was in 
 superb spirits. They spent an afternoon together which stood out in 
 memory like a broad gleam of sunshine in after years; and then Graham 
 took his leave with messages from all to Mrs. Mayburn, who was to 
 return with him. 
   
 As they were parting, Grace hesitated a moment, and then stepping 
 forward impulsively she took Graham's hand in both of hers, and said 
 impetuously: "You have seen how very, very happy we all are. Do you 
 think that I forget for a moment that I owe it to you?" 
   
 Graham's iron nerves gave way. His hand trembled. "Don't speak to me in 
 that way," he murmured. "Come, Hilland, or I shall miss the train;" and 
 in a moment he was gone. 
   
 Mrs. Mayburn never forgot the weeks he spent with her. Sometimes she 
 would look at him wonderingly, and once she said: "Alford, it is hard 
 for me to believe that you have passed through all that you have. Day 
 after day passes, and you seem perfectly content with my quiet, 
 monotonous life. You read to me my old favorite authors. You chaff me 
 and Aunt Sheba about our little domestic economies. Beyond a hasty run 
 through the morning paper you scarcely look at the daily journals. You 
 are content with one vigorous walk each day. Indeed you seem to have 
 settled down and adapted yourself to my old woman's life for the rest 
 of time. I thought you would be restless, urging my earlier return to 
 Washington, or seeking to abridge your leave, so that you might return 
 to the excitement of the camp." 
   
 "No, aunty dear, I am not restless. I have outlived and outgrown that 
 phase of my life. You will find that my pulse is as even as yours. 
 Indeed I have a deep enjoyment of this profound quiet of our house. I 
 have fully accepted my lot, and now expect only those changes that come 
 from without and not from within. To be perfectly sincere with you, the 
 feeling is growing that this profound quietude that has fallen upon me 
 may be the prelude to final rest. It's right that I should accustom 
 your mind to the possibilities of every day in our coming campaign, 
 which I well foresee will be terribly severe. At first our generals did 
 not know how to use cavalry, and beyond escort and picket duty little 
 was asked of it. Now all this is changed. Cavalry has its part in every 
 pitched battle, and in the intervals it has many severe conflicts of 
 its own. Daring, ambitious leaders are coming to the front, and the 
 year will be one of great and hazardous activity. My chief regret is 
 that Hilland's wound did not disable him wholly from further service in 
 the field. Still he will come out all right. He always has and ever 
 will. There are hidden laws that control and shape our lives. It seems 
 to me that you were predestined to be just what you are. Your life is 
 rounded out and symmetrical according to its own law. The same is true 
 of Hilland and of myself thus far. The rudiments of what we are to-day 
 were clearly apparent when we were boys. He is the same ardent, jolly, 
 whole-souled fellow that clapped me on the back after leaving the 
 class-room. Everybody liked him then, everything favored him. Often 
 when he had not looked at a lesson he would make a superb recitation. I 
 was moody and introspective; so I am to-day. Even the unforeseen events 
 of life league together to develop one's characteristics. The 
 conditions of his life today are in harmony with all that has been; the 
 same is true of mine, with the strange exception that I have found a 
 home and a dear staunch friend in one who I supposed would ever be a 
 stranger. See how true my theory is of Grace and her father. Her 
 blithesome girlhood has developed into the happiest wifehood. Her brow 
 is as smooth as ever, and her eyes as bright. They have only gained in 
 depth and tenderness as the woman has taken the place of the girl. Her 
 form has only developed into lovelier proportions, and her character 
 into a more exquisite symmetry. She has been one continuous growth 
 according to the laws of her being; and so it will be to the end. She 
 will be just as beautiful and lovable in old age as now; for nature, in 
 a genial mood, infused into her no discordant, disfiguring elements. 
 The major also is completing his life in consonance with all that has 
 gone before." 
   
 "Alford, you are more of a fatalist than a materialist. In my heart I 
 feel, I know, you are wrong. What you say seems so plausible as to be 
 true; but my very soul revolts at it all. There is a deep undertone of 
 sadness in your words, and they point to a possibility that would 
 imbitter every moment of the remnant of my life. Suppose you should 
 fall, what remedy would there be for me? Oh, in anguish I have learned 
 what life would become then. I am a materialist like yourself, although 
 all the clergymen in town would say I was orthodox. From earliest 
 recollection mere things and certain people have been everything to me; 
 and now you are everything, and yet at this hour the bullet may be 
 molded which will strike you down. Grace, with her rich, beautiful 
 life, is in equal danger. Hilland will go into the field and will 
 expose himself as recklessly as yourself. I have no faith in your 
 obscure laws. Thousands were killed in the last campaign, thousands are 
 dying in hospitals this moment, and all this means thousands of broken 
 hearts, unless they are sustained by something I have not. This world 
 is all very well when all is well, but it can so easily become an 
 accursed world!" The old lady spoke with a strange bitterness, 
 revealing the profound disquietude that existed under the serene 
 amenities of her age and her methodical life. 
   
 Graham sought to give a lighter tone to their talk and said: "Oh, well, 
 aunty, perhaps we are darkening the sun with our own shadows. We must 
 take life as we find it. There is no help for that. You have done so 
 practically. With your strong good sense you could not do otherwise. 
 The trouble is that you are haunted by old-time New England beliefs 
 that, from your ancestry, have become infused into your very blood. You 
 can't help them any more than other inherited infirmities which may 
 have afflicted your grandfather. Let us speak of something else. Ah, 
 here is a welcome diversion--the daily paper--and I'll read it through 
 to you, and we'll gain another hint as to the drift of this great tide 
 of events." 
   
 The old lady shook her head sadly; and the fact that she watched the 
 young man with hungry, wistful eyes, often blinded with tears, proved 
 that neither state nor military policy was uppermost in her mind. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXV (A PRESENTIMENT) 
 On Christmas morning Graham found his breakfast-plate pushed back, and 
 in its place lay a superb sword and belt, fashioned much like the one 
 he had lost in the rescue of his friend. With it was a genial letter 
 from Hilland, and a little note from Grace, which only said: 
   
 "You will find my name engraved upon the sword with Warren's. We have 
 added nothing else, for the good reason that our names mean 
 everything--more than could be expressed, were the whole blade covered 
 with symbols, each meaning a volume. You have taught us how you will 
 use the weapon, my truest and best of friends. GRACE HILLAND." 
   
 His eyes lingered on the name so long that his aunt asked: "Why don't 
 you look at your gift?" 
   
 He slowly drew the long, keen, shining blade, and saw again the name 
 "Grace Hilland," and for a time he saw nothing else. Suddenly he turned 
 the sword and on the opposite side was "Warren Hilland," and he shook 
 his head sadly. 
   
 "Alford, what _is_ the matter?" his aunt asked impatiently. 
   
 "Why didn't they have their names engraved together?" he muttered 
 slowly, "It's a bad omen. See, a sword is between their names. I wish 
 they had been together. Oh, I wish Hilland could be kept out of the 
 field!" 
   
 "There it is, Alford," began his aunt, irritably; "you men who don't 
 believe anything are always the victims of superstition. Bad omen, 
 indeed!" 
   
 "Well, I suppose I am a fool; but a strange chill at heart struck me 
 for which I can't account;" and he sprang up and paced the floor 
 uneasily. "Well," he continued, "I would bury it in my own heart rather 
 than cause her one hour's sorrow, but I wish their names had been 
 together." Then he took it up again and said: "Beautiful as it is, it 
 may have to do some stern work, Grace--work far remote from your 
 nature. All I ask is that it may come between Hilland and danger again. 
 I wish I had not had that strange, cursed presentiment." 
   
 "Oh, Alford! I never saw you in such a mood, and on Christmas morning, 
 too!" 
   
 "That is just what I don't like about it--it's not my habit to indulge 
 such fancies, to say the least. Come what may, however, I dedicate the 
 sword to her service without counting any cost;" and he kissed her 
 name, and laid the weapon reverently aside. 
   
 "You are morbid this morning. Go to the door and see my present to you. 
 You will find no bad omens on his shining coat." 
   
 Graham felt that it was weak to entertain such impressions as had 
 mastered him, and hastened out. There, pawing the frozen ground, was a 
 horse that satisfied even his fastidious eye. There was not a white 
 hair in the coal-black coat. In his enthusiasm he forgot his hat, and 
 led the beautiful creature up and down, observing with exultation his 
 perfect action, clean-cut limbs, and deep, broad chest. 
   
 "Bring me a bridle," he said to the man in attendance, "and my hat." 
   
 A moment later he had mounted. 
   
 "Breakfast is getting cold," cried his aunt from the window, delighted, 
 nevertheless, at the appreciation of her gift. 
   
 "This horse is breakfast and dinner both," he shouted, as he galloped 
 down the path. 
   
 Then, to the old lady's horror, he dashed through the trees and 
 shrubbery, took a picket-fence in a flying leap, and circled round the 
 house till Mrs. Mayburn's head was dizzy. Then she saw him coming 
 toward the door as if he would ride through the house; but the horse 
 stopped almost instantly, and Graham was on his feet, handing the 
 bridle to the gaping groom. 
   
 "Take good care of him," he said to the man, "for he is a jewel." 
   
 "Alford," exclaimed his aunt, "could you make no better return for my 
 gift than to frighten me out of my wits?" 
   
 "Dear aunty, you are too well supplied ever to lose them for so slight 
 a cause. I wanted to show the perfection of your gift, and how well it 
 may serve me. You don't imagine that our cavalry evolutions are all 
 performed on straight turnpike roads, do you? Now you know that you 
 have given me an animal that can carry me wherever a horse can go, and 
 so have added much to my chances of safety. I can skim out of a melee 
 like a bird with Mayburn--for that shall be his name--where a 
 blundering, stupid horse would break my neck, if I wasn't shot. I saw 
 at once from his action what he could do. Where on earth did you get 
 such a creature?" 
   
 "Well," said the old lady, beaming with triumphant happiness, "I have 
 had agents on the lookout a long time. The man of whom you had your 
 first horse, then called Firebrand, found him; and he knew well that he 
 could not impose any inferior animal upon you. Are you really sincere 
 in saying that such a horse as this adds to your chances of safety?" 
   
 "Certainly. That's what I was trying to show you. Did you not see how 
 he would wind in and out among the trees and shrubbery--how he would 
 take a fence lightly without any floundering? There is just as much 
 difference among horses as among men. Some are simply awkward, heavy, 
 and stupid; others are vicious; more are good at times and under 
 ordinary circumstances, but fail you at a pinch. This horse is 
 thoroughbred and well broken. You must have paid a small fortune for 
 him." 
   
 "I never invested money that satisfied me better." 
   
 "It's like you to say so. Well, take the full comfort of thinking how 
 much you have added to my comfort and prospective well-being. That 
 gallop has already done me a world of good, and given me an appetite. 
 I'll have another turn across the country after breakfast, and throw 
 all evil presentiments to the winds." 
   
 "Why, now you talk sense. When you are in any more such moods as this 
 morning I shall prescribe horse." 
   
 Before New Year's day Graham had installed his aunt comfortably in 
 rooms adjoining the Hillands', and had thanked his friends for their 
 gift in a way that proved it to be appreciated. Mrs. Mayburn had been 
 cautioned never to speak of what he now regarded as a foolish and 
 unaccountable presentiment, arising, perhaps, from a certain degree of 
 morbidness of mind in all that related to Grace. Iss was on hand to act 
 as groom, and Graham rode out with Hilland and Grace several times 
 before his leave expired. Even at that day, when the city was full of 
 gallant men and fair women, many turned to look as the three passed 
 down the avenue. 
   
 Never had Grace looked so radiantly beautiful as when in the brilliant 
 sunshine of a Washington winter and in the frosty air she galloped over 
 the smooth, hard roads. Hilland was proud of the almost wondering looks 
 of admiration that everywhere greeted her, and too much in love to note 
 that the ladies they met looked at him in much the same way. The best 
 that was said of Graham was that he looked a soldier, every inch of 
 him, and that he rode the finest horse in the city as if he had been 
 brought up in a saddle. He was regarded by society as reserved, 
 unsocial, and proud; and at two or three receptions, to which he went 
 because of the solicitation of his friends, he piqued the vanity of 
 more than one handsome woman by his courteous indifference. 
   
 "What is the matter with your husband's friend?" a reigning belle asked 
 Grace. "One might as well try to make an impression on a paving-stone." 
   
 "I think your illustration unhappy," was her quiet reply. "I cannot 
 imagine Mr. Graham at any one's feet." 
   
 "Not even your own?" was the malicious retort. 
   
 "Not even my own," and a flash of anger from her dark eyes accompanied 
 her answer. 
   
 Still, wherever he went he awakened interest in all natures not dull or 
 sodden. He was felt to be a presence. There was a consciousness of 
 power in his very attitudes; and one felt instinctively that he was far 
 removed from the commonplace--that he had had a history which made him 
 different from other men. 
   
 But before this slight curiosity was kindled to any extent, much less 
 satisfied, his leave of absence expired; and with a sense of deep 
 relief he prepared to say farewell. His friends expected to see him 
 often in the city; he knew they would see him but seldom, if at all. He 
 bad made his visit with his aunt, and she understood him. His quiet 
 poise was departing, and he longed for the stern, fierce excitement of 
 active service. 
   
 Before he joined his regiment he spent the day with his friends, and 
 took occasion once, when alone with Hilland, to make an appeal that was 
 solemn and almost passionate in its earnestness, adjuring him to remain 
 employed in duties like those which now occupied him. But he saw that 
 his efforts were vain. 
   
 "No, Graham," was Hilland's emphatic reply; "just as soon as there is 
 danger at the front I shall be with my regiment Now I can do more here." 
   
 With Grace he took a short ride in the morning while Hilland was 
 engaged in his duties, and he looked at the fair woman by his side with 
 the thought that he might never see her again. It almost seemed as if 
 Grace understood him, for although the rich color mantled in her cheeks 
 and she abounded in smile and repartee, a look of deep sadness rarely 
 left her eyes. 
   
 Once she said abruptly, "Alford, you will come and see us often before 
 the campaign opens? Oh, I dread this coming campaign. You will come 
 often?" 
   
 "I fear not, Grace," he said, gravely and gently, "I will try to come, 
 but not often." Then he added, with a short, abrupt laugh, "I wish I 
 could break Hilland's leg." In answer to a look of surprise he 
 continued, "Could not your father procure an order that would keep him 
 in the city? He would have to obey orders." 
   
 "Ah, I understand you," and there was a quick rush of tears to her 
 eyes. "It's of no use. I have thought of everything, but Warren's heart 
 is set on joining his regiment in the spring." 
   
 "I know it. I have said all that I could say to a brother on the 
 subject." 
   
 "From the first, Alford, you have tried to make the ordeal of this war 
 less painful to me, and how well you have succeeded! You have been our 
 good genius. Warren, in his impetuous, chivalrous feeling, would have 
 gone into it unadvisedly, hastily; and before this might--Oh, I can't 
 even think of it," she said with a shudder. "But years have passed 
 since your influence guided him into a wiser and more useful course, 
 and think how much of the time I have been able to be with him! And it 
 has all been due to you, Alford. But the war seems no nearer its end. 
 It rather assumes a larger and more threatening aspect Why do not men 
 think of us poor women before they go to war?" 
   
 "You think, then, that even your influence cannot keep him from the 
 field?" 
   
 "No, it could not. Indeed, beyond a certain point I dare not exert it. 
 I should be dumb before questions already asked, 'Why should I shrink 
 when other husbands do not? What would be said of me here? what by my 
 comrades in the regiment? What would your brave father think, though he 
 might acquiesce? Nay, more, what would my wife think in her secret 
 heart?' Alas! I find I am not made of such stern stuff as are some 
 women. Pride and military fame could not sustain me if--if--" 
   
 "Do not look on the gloomy side, Grace. Hilland will come out of it all 
 a major-general." 
   
 "Oh, I don't know, I don't know. I do know that he will often be in 
 desperate danger; what a dread certainty that is for me! Oh, I wish you 
 could be always near him; and yet 'tis a selfish wish, for you would 
 not count the cost to yourself." 
   
 "No, Grace; I've sworn that on the sword you gave me." 
   
 "I might have known as much." Then she added earnestly, "Believe me, if 
 you should fall it would also imbitter my life." 
   
 "Yes, you would grieve sincerely; but there would be an infinite 
 difference, an infinite difference. One question, however, is settled 
 beyond recall. If my life can serve you or Hilland, no power shall 
 prevent my giving it. There is nothing more to be said: let us speak of 
 something else." 
   
 "Yes, Alford, one thing more. Once I misjudged you. Forgive me;" and 
 she caused her horse to spring into a gallop, resolving that no 
 commonplace words should follow closely upon a conversation that had 
 touched the most sacred feelings and impulses of each heart. 
   
 For some reason there was a shadow over their parting early in the 
 evening, for Graham was to ride toward the front with the dawn. Even 
 Hilland's genial spirits could not wholly dissipate it. Graham made 
 heroic efforts, but he was oppressed with a despondency which was 
 wellnigh overwhelming. He felt that he was becoming unmanned, and in 
 bitter self-censure resolved to remain with his regiment until the end 
 came, as he believed would be the case with him before the year closed. 
   
 "Alford, remember your promise. We all may need you yet," were his 
 aunt's last words in the gray of the morning. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI (AN IMPROVISED PICTURE GALLERY) 
 Much to Graham's satisfaction, his regiment, soon after he joined it, 
 was ordered into the Shenandoah Valley, and given some rough, dangerous 
 picket duty that fully accorded with his mood. Even Hilland could not 
 expect a visit from him now; and he explained to his friend that the 
 other officers were taking their leaves of absence, and he, in turn, 
 must perform their duties. And so the winter passed uneventfully away 
 in a cheerful interchange of letters. Graham found that the front 
 agreed with him better than Washington, and that his pulse resumed its 
 former even beat A dash at a Confederate picket post on a stormy night 
 was far more tranquilizing than an evening in Hilland's luxurious rooms. 
   
 With the opening of the spring campaign Hilland joined his regiment, 
 and was eager to remove by his courage and activity the slightest 
 impression, if any existed, that he was disposed to shun dangerous 
 service. There was no such impression, however; and he was most 
 cordially welcomed, for he was a great favorite with both officers and 
 men. 
   
 During the weeks that followed, the cavalry was called upon to do heavy 
 work and severe fighting; and the two friends became more conspicuous 
 than ever for their gallantry. They seemed, however, to bear charmed 
 lives, for, while many fell or were wounded, they escaped unharmed. 
   
 At last the terrific and decisive campaign of Gettysburg opened; and 
 from the war-wasted and guerilla-infested regions of Virginia the 
 Northern troops found themselves marching through the friendly and 
 populous North. As the cavalry brigade entered a thriving village in 
 Pennsylvania the people turned out almost _en masse_ and gave them more 
 than an ovation. The troopers were tired, hungry, and thirsty; and, 
 since from every doorway was offered a boundless hospitality, the 
 column came to a halt. The scene soon developed into a picturesque 
 military picnic. Young maids and venerable matrons, gray-bearded 
 fathers, shy, blushing girls, and eager-eyed children, all vied with 
 each other in pressing upon their defenders every delicacy and 
 substantial viand that their town could furnish at the moment. A pretty 
 miss of sixteen, with a peach-like bloom in her cheeks, might be seen 
 flitting here and there among the bearded troopers with a tray bearing 
 goblets of milk. When they were emptied she would fly back and lift up 
 white arms to her mother for more, and the almost equally blooming 
 matron, smiling from the window, would fill the glasses again to the 
 brim. The magnates of the village with their wives were foremost in the 
 work, and were passing to and fro with great baskets of sandwiches, 
 while stalwart men and boys were bringing from neighboring wells and 
 pumps cool, delicious water for the horses. How immensely the troopers 
 enjoyed it all! No scowling faces and cold looks here. All up and down 
 the street, holding bridle-reins over their arms or leaning against the 
 flanks of their horses, they feasted as they had not done since their 
 last Thanksgiving Day at home. Such generous cups of coffee, enriched 
 with cream almost too thick to flow from the capacious pitchers, and 
 sweetened not only with snow-white sugar, but also with the smiles of 
 some gracious woman, perhaps motherly in appearance, perhaps so fair 
 and young that hearts beat faster under the weather-stained cavalry 
 jackets. 
   
 "How pretty it all is!" said a familiar voice to Graham, as he was 
 dividing a huge piece of cake with his pet Mayburn; and Hilland laid 
 his hand on his friend's shoulder. 
   
 "Ah, Hilland, seeing you is the best part of this banquet _a la 
 militaire_. Yes, it is a heavenly change after the dreary land we've 
 been marching and fighting in. It makes me feel that I have a country, 
 and that it's worth all it may cost." 
   
 "Look, Graham--look at that little fairy creature in white muslin, 
 talking to that great bearded pard of a sergeant. Isn't that a picture? 
 Oh, I wish Grace, with her eye for picturesque effects, could look upon 
 this scene." 
   
 "Nonsense, Hilland! as if she would look at anybody or anything but 
 you! See that white-haired old woman leading that exquisite little girl 
 to yonder group of soldiers. See how they doff their hats to her. 
 There's another picture for you." 
   
 Hilland's magnificent appearance soon attracted half a dozen village 
 belles about him, each offering some dainty; and one--a black-eyed 
 witch a little bolder than the others--offered to fasten a rose from 
 her hair in his button-hole. 
   
 He entered into the spirit of the occasion with all the zest of his old 
 student days, professed to be delighted with the favor as she stood on 
 tiptoe to reach the lappet of his coat; and then he stooped down and 
 pressed his lips to the fragrant petals, assuring the blushing little 
 coquette, meanwhile, that it was the next best thing to her own red 
 lips. 
   
 How vividly in after years Graham would recall him, as he stood there, 
 his handsome head thrown back, looking the ideal of an old Norse 
 viking, laughing and chatting with the merry, innocent girls around 
 him, his deep-blue eyes emitting mirthful gleams on every side! 
 According to his nature, Graham drew off to one side and watched the 
 scene with a smile, as he had viewed similar ones far back in the 
 years, and far away in Germany. He saw the ripples of laughter that his 
 friend's words provoked, and recognized the old, easy grace, the light, 
 French-like wit, that was wholly free from the French _double 
 entendre_, and he thought: "Would that Grace could see him now, and she 
 would fall in love with him anew, for her nature is too large for petty 
 jealousy at a scene like that Oh, Hilland! you and the group around you 
 make the finest picture of this long improvised gallery of pictures." 
   
 Suddenly there was a loud report of a cannon from a hill above the 
 village, and a shell shrieked over their heads. Hilland's laughing 
 aspect changed instantly. He seemed almost to gather the young girls in 
 his arms as he hurried them into the nearest doorway, and then with a 
 bound reached Graham, who held his horse, vaulted into the saddle, and 
 dashed up the street to his men who were standing in line. 
   
 Graham sprang lightly on his horse, for in the scenes resulting from 
 the kaleidoscopic change that had taken place he would be more at home. 
   
 "Mount!" he shouted; and the order, repeated up and down the street, 
 changed the jolly, feasting troopers of a moment since into veterans 
 who would sit like equestrian statues, if so commanded, though a 
 hundred guns thundered against them. 
   
 From the further end of the village came the wild yell characteristic 
 of the cavalry charges of the Confederates, while shell after shell 
 shrieked and exploded where had just been unaffected gayety and 
 hospitality. 
   
 The first shot had cleared the street of all except the Union soldiers; 
 and those who dared to peep from window or door saw, with dismay, that 
 the defenders whom they had so honored and welcomed were retreating at 
 a gallop from the Rebel charge. 
   
 They were soon undeceived, however, for at a gallop the national 
 cavalry dashed into an open field near by, formed with the precision of 
 machinery, and by the time that the Rebel charge had wellnigh spent 
 itself in the sabring or capture of a few tardy troopers, Hilland with 
 platoon after platoon was emerging upon the street again at a sharp 
 trot, which soon developed into a furious gallop as he dashed against 
 their assailants; and the pretty little coquette, bold not only in love 
 but in war, saw from a window her ideal knight with her red rose upon 
 his breast leading a charge whose thunder caused the very earth to 
 tremble; and she clapped her hands and cheered so loudly as he 
 approached that he looked up, saw her, and for an instant a sunny smile 
 passed over the visage that had become so stern. Then came the shock of 
 battle. 
   
 Graham's company was held in reserve, but for some reason his horse 
 seemed to grow unmanageable; and sabres had scarcely clashed before he, 
 with the blade on which was engraved "Grace Hilland," was at her 
 husband's side, striking blows which none could resist. The enemy could 
 not stand the furious onset, and gave way slowly, sullenly, and at last 
 precipitately. The tide of battle swept beyond and away from the 
 village; and its street became quiet again, except for the groans of 
 the wounded. 
   
 Mangled horses, mangled men, some dead, some dying, and others almost 
 rejoicing in wounds that would secure for them such gentle nurses, 
 strewed the streets that had been the scene of merry festivity. 
   
 The pretty little belle never saw her tawny, bearded knight again. She 
 undoubtedly married and tormented some well-to-do dry-goods clerk; but 
 a vision of a man of heroic mold, with a red rose upon his breast, 
 smiling up to her just as he was about to face what might be death, 
 will thrill her feminine soul until she is old and gray. 
   
 That night Graham and Hilland talked and laughed over the whole affair 
 as they sat by a camp-fire. 
   
 "It has all turned out as usual," said Graham, ruefully. "You won a 
 victory and no end of glory; I a reprimand from my colonel." 
   
 "If you have received nothing worse than a reprimand you are 
 fortunate," was Hilland's response. "The idea of any horse becoming 
 unmanageable in your hands! The colonel understands the case as well as 
 I do, and knows that it was your own ravenous appetite for a fight that 
 became unmanageable. But I told him of the good service you rendered, 
 and gave him the wink to wink also. You were fearfully rash to-day, 
 Graham. You were not content to fight at my side, but more than once 
 were between me and the enemy. What the devil makes you so headlong in 
 a fight--you that are usually so cool and self-controlled?" 
   
 Graham's hand rested on a fair woman's name engraved upon his sword, 
 but he replied lightly: "When you teach me caution in a fight I'll 
 learn." 
   
 "Well, excuse me, old fellow, I'm going to write to Grace. May not have 
 a chance very soon again. I say, Graham, we'll have _the_ battle of the 
 war in a day or two." 
   
 "I know it," was the quiet response. 
   
 "And we must win, too," Hilland continued, "or the Johnnies will help 
 themselves to Washington, Baltimore, Philadelphia, and perhaps New 
 York. Every man should nerve himself to do the work of two. As I was 
 saying, I shall write to Grace that your horse ran away with you and 
 became uncontrollable until you were directly in front of me, when you 
 seemed to manage him admirably, and struck blows worthy of the old 
 French duellist who killed a man every morning before breakfast. I 
 think she'll understand your sudden and amazingly poor horsemanship as 
 well as I do." 
   
 She did, and far better. 
   
 Hilland's prediction proved true. The decisive battle of Gettysburg was 
 fought, and its bloody field marked the highest point reached by the 
 crimson tide of the Rebellion. From Cemetery Ridge it ebbed slowly and 
 sullenly away to the south. 
   
 The brigade in which were the friends passed through another fearful 
 baptism of fire in the main conflict and the pursuit which followed, 
 and were in Virginia again, but with ranks almost decimated. Graham and 
 Hilland still seemed to bear charmed lives, and in the brief pause in 
 operations that followed, wrote cheerful letters to those so dear, now 
 again at their seaside resort. Grace, who for days had been so pale, 
 and in whose dark eyes lurked an ever-present dread of which she could 
 not speak, smiled again. Her husband wrote in exuberant spirits over 
 the victory, and signed himself "Lieutenant-Colonel." Graham in his 
 letter said jestingly to his aunt that he had at last attained his 
 "majority," and that she might therefore look for a little more 
 discretion on his part. 
   
 "How the boys are coming on!" exulted the old major. "They will both 
 wear the stars yet. But confound it all, why did Meade let Lee escape? 
 He might have finished the whole thing up." 
   
 Alas! the immeasurable price of liberty was not yet paid. 
   
 One morning Hilland's and Graham's regiments were ordered out on what 
 was deemed but a minor _reconnoissance_; and the friends, rested and 
 strong, started in high spirits with their sadly shrunken forces. But 
 they knew that the remaining handfuls were worth more than full ranks 
 of untrained, unseasoned men. All grow callous, if not indifferent, to 
 the vicissitudes of war; and while they missed regretfully many 
 familiar faces, the thought that they had rendered the enemy's lines 
 more meagre was consoling. 
   
 Graham and Hilland rode much of the long day together. They went over 
 all the past, and dwelt upon the fact that their lives had been so 
 different from what they had planned. 
   
 "By the way, Graham," said Hilland, abruptly, "it seems strange to me 
 that you are so indifferent to women. Don't you expect ever to marry?" 
   
 Graham burst into a laugh as he replied: "I thought we had that subject 
 out years ago, under the apple-tree--that night, you remember, when you 
 talked like a schoolgirl till morning--" 
   
 "And you analyzed and philosophized till long after midnight--" 
   
 "Well, you knew then that Grace had spoiled me for every one else; and 
 she's been improving ever since. When I find her equal I'll marry her, 
 if I can." 
   
 "Poor, forlorn old bachelor that you are, and ever will be!" cried 
 Hilland. "You'll never find the equal of Grace Hilland." 
   
 "I think I shall survive, Hilland. My appetite is good. As I live, 
 there are some Confederates in yonder clump of trees;" and he put spurs 
 to his horse on a little private _reconnoissance_. The few horsemen 
 vanished, in the thick woods beyond, the moment they saw that they were 
 perceived; and they were regarded as prowling guerillas only. 
   
 That night they bivouacked in a grove where two roads intersected, 
 threw out pickets and patrols, and kindled their fires, for they did 
 not expect to strike the enemy in force till some time on the following 
 day. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII (A DREAM) 
 Graham and his friend had bidden each other an early and cordial 
 good-night, for the entire force under the command of Hilland's colonel 
 was to resume its march with the dawn. Although no immediate danger was 
 apprehended, caution had been learned by long experience. The 
 detachment was comparatively small, and it was far removed from any 
 support; and while no hints of the presence of the enemy in formidable 
 numbers had been obtained during the day, what was beyond them could 
 not be known with any certainty. Therefore the horses had been 
 carefully rubbed down, and the saddles replaced. In many instances the 
 bridles also had been put on again, with the bit merely slipped from 
 the mouth. In all cases they lay or hung within reach of the tired 
 troopers, who, one after another, were dropping off into the catlike 
 slumber of a cavalry outpost. 
   
 As the fires died down, the shadows in the grove grew deeper and more 
 obscure, and all was quiet, except when the hours came round for the 
 relief of pickets and the men who were patrolling the roads. Graham 
 remembered the evanescent group of Confederates toward whom he had 
 spurred during the day. He knew that they were in a hostile region, and 
 that their movements must be already well known to the enemy if strong 
 in their vicinity. Therefore all his instincts as a soldier were on the 
 alert. It so happened that he was second in command of his regiment on 
 this occasion, and he felt the responsibility. He had been his own 
 groom on their arrival at the grove, and his faithful charger, Mayburn, 
 now stood saddled and bridled by his side, as he reclined, half dozing, 
 again thinking deeply, by the low, flickering blaze of his fire. He had 
 almost wholly lost the gloomy presentiments that had oppressed him at 
 the beginning of the year. Both he and Hilland had passed through so 
 many dangers that a sense of security was begotten. Still more potent 
 had been the influence of his active out-of-door life. His nerves were 
 braced, while his soldier's routine and the strong excitement of the 
 campaign had become a preoccupying habit. 
   
 Only those who brood in idleness over the misfortunes and 
 disappointments of life are destroyed by them. 
   
 He had not seen Grace for over half a year; and while she was and ever 
 would be his fair ideal, he could now think of her with the quietude 
 akin to that of the devout Catholic who worships a saint removed from 
 him at a heavenly distance. The wisdom of this remoteness became more 
 and more clear to him; for despite every power that he could put forth 
 as a man, there was a deeper, stronger manhood within him which 
 acknowledged this woman as sovereign. He foresaw that his lot would be 
 one of comparative exile, and he accepted it with a calm and inflexible 
 resolution. 
   
 Hearing a step he started up hastily, and saw Hilland approaching from 
 the opposite side of his fire. 
   
 "Ah, Graham, glad you are not asleep," said his friend, throwing 
 himself down on the leaves, with his head resting on his hands. "Put a 
 little wood on the fire, please; I'm chilly in the night air, and the 
 dews are so confoundedly heavy." 
   
 "Why, Hilland, what's the matter?" Graham asked, as he complied. "You 
 are an ideal cavalryman at a nap, and can sleep soundly with one eye 
 open. It has seemed to me that you never lost a wink when there was a 
 chance for it, even under fire." 
   
 "Why are you not sleeping?" 
   
 "Oh, I have been, after my fashion, dozing and thinking by turns. I 
 always was an owl, you know. Moreover, I think it behooves us to be on 
 the alert. We are a good way from support if hard pressed; and the 
 enemy must be in force somewhere to the west of us." 
   
 "I've thought as much myself. My horse is ready, as yours is, and I 
 left an orderly holding him. I suppose you will laugh at me, but I've 
 had a cursed dream; and it has shaken me in spite of my reason. After 
 all, how often our reason fails us at a pinch! I wish it was morning 
 and we were on the road. I've half a mind to go out with the patrols 
 and get my blood in circulation. I would were it not that I feel I 
 should be with my men." 
   
 "Where's your colonel?" 
   
 "The old war-dog is sleeping like a top. Nothing ever disturbs him, 
 much less a dream. I say, Graham, I made a good selection in him, 
 didn't I?" 
   
 "Yes, but he'll be promoted soon, and you will be in command. What's 
 more, I expect to see a star on _your_ shoulder in less than six 
 months." 
   
 "As I feel to-night, I don't care a picayune for stars or anything else 
 relating to the cursed war. I'd give my fortune to be able to kiss 
 Grace and tell her I'm well." 
   
 "You are morbid, Hilland. You will feel differently to-morrow, 
 especially if there's a chance for a charge." 
   
 "No doubt, no doubt. The shadow of this confounded grove seems as black 
 as death, and it oppresses me. Why should I, without apparent cause, 
 have had such a dream?" 
   
 "Your supper and fatigue may have been the cause. If you don't mind, 
 tell me this grisly vision." 
   
 "While you laugh at me as an old woman--you, in whom reason ever sits 
 serene and dispassionate on her throne, except when you get into a 
 fight." 
   
 "My reason's throne is often as rickety as a two-legged stool. No, I 
 won't laugh at you. There's not a braver man in the service than you. 
 If you feel as you say, there's some cause for it; and yet so complex 
 is our organism that both cause and effect may not be worthy of very 
 grave consideration, as I have hinted." 
   
 "Think what you please, this was my dream. I had made my dispositions 
 for the night, and went to sleep as a matter of course. I had not slept 
 an hour by my watch--I looked at it afterward--when I seemed to hear 
 some one moaning and crying, and I thought I started up wide awake, and 
 I saw the old library at home--the room you know so well. Every article 
 of furniture was before me more distinctly than I can see any object 
 now, and on the rug before the open fire Grace was crouching, while she 
 moaned and wrung her hands and cried as if her heart was breaking. She 
 was dressed in black--Oh, how white her hands and neck and face 
 appeared against that mournful black--and, strangest of all, her hair 
 fell around her snowy white, like a silver veil. I started forward to 
 clasp her in my arms, and then truly awoke, for there was nothing 
 before me but my drooping horse, a few red coals of my expiring fire, 
 and over all the black, black shadow of this accursed grove. Oh, for 
 sunlight! Oh, for a gale of wind, that I might breathe freely again!" 
 and the powerful man sprang to his feet and threw open his coat at his 
 breast. 
   
 As he ceased speaking, the silence and darkness of the grove did seem 
 ominous and oppressive, and Graham's old wretched presentiment of 
 Christmas morning returned, but he strove with all the ingenuity in his 
 power to reason his friend out of his morbid mood, as he termed it. He 
 kindled his fire into a cheerful blaze, and Hilland cowered and 
 shivered over it; then looking up abruptly, he said, "Graham, you and I 
 accepted the belief long ago that man was only highly organized matter. 
 I must admit to you that my mind has often revolted at this belief; and 
 the thought that Grace was merely of the earth has always seemed to me 
 sacrilegious. She never was what you would call a religious girl; but 
 she once had a quiet, simple faith in a God and a hereafter, and she 
 expected to see her mother again. I fear that our views have troubled 
 her exceedingly; although with that rare reserve in a woman, she never 
 interfered with one's strong personal convictions. The shallow woman 
 tries to set everybody right with the weighty reason, 'Oh, because it 
 IS so; all good people say it is so.' I fear our views have unsettled 
 hers also. I wish they had not; indeed I wish I could believe somewhat 
 as she did. 
   
 "Once, only once, she spoke to me with a strange bitterness, but it 
 revealed the workings of her mind. I, perhaps, was showing a little too 
 much eagerness in my spirit and preparation for active service, and she 
 broke out abruptly, 'Oh, yes, you and Alford can rush into scenes of 
 carnage very complacently. You believe that if the bullet is only sure 
 enough, your troubles are over forever, as Alford once said. I suppose 
 you are right, for you learned men have studied into things as we poor 
 women never can. If it's true, those who love as we do should die 
 together.' It has often seemed that her very love--nay, that mine--was 
 an argument against our belief. That a feeling so pure, vivid, and 
 unselfish, so devoid of mere earthiness--a feeling that apparently 
 contains within itself the very essence of immortality--can be 
 instantly blotted out as a flame is extinguished, has become a terrible 
 thought. Grace Hilland is worthy of an immortal life, and she has all 
 the capacity for it. It's not her lovely form and face that I love so 
 much as the lovely something--call it soul, spirit, or what you 
 choose--that will maintain her charm through all the changes from youth 
 to feeble and withered age. How can I be sure that the same gentle, 
 womanly spirit may not exist after the final change we call death, and 
 that to those worthy of immortal life the boon is not given? Reason is 
 a grand thing, and I know we once thought we settled this question; but 
 reason fails me to-night, or else love and the intense longings of the 
 heart teach a truer and deeper philosophy-- 
   
 "You are silent, Graham. You think me morbid--that wishes are fathers 
 of my thoughts. Well, I'm not. I honestly don't know what the truth is. 
 I only wish to-night that I had the simple belief in a reunion with 
 Grace which she had with regard to her mother. I fear we have unsettled 
 her faith; not that we ever urged our views--indeed we have scarcely 
 ever spoken of them--but there has been before her the ever-present and 
 silent force of example. It was natural for her to believe that those 
 were right in whom she most believed; and I'm not sure we are 
 right--I'm not _sure_. I've not been sure for a long time." 
   
 "My dear Warren, you are not well. Exposure to all sorts of weather in 
 this malarial country is telling on you; and I fear your feelings 
 to-night are the prelude of a fever. You shall stay and sleep by my 
 fire, and if I hear the slightest suspicious sound I will waken you. 
 You need not hesitate, for I intend to watch till morning, whether you 
 stay or not." 
   
 "Well, Graham, I will. I wish to get through this horrible night in the 
 quickest way possible. But I'll first go and bring my horse here, so 
 the poor orderly can have a nap." 
   
 He soon returned and lay down close to the genial fire, and Graham 
 threw over him his own blankets. 
   
 "What a good, honest friend you are, Graham!--too honest even to say 
 some hollow words favoring my doubts of my doubt and unbelief. If it 
 hadn't been for you, I should have been dead long ago. In my blind 
 confidence, I should have rushed into the war, and probably should have 
 been knocked on the head at Bull Run. How many happy months I've passed 
 with Grace since then!--how many since you virtually gave your life for 
 me last autumn! You made sure that I took a man's, not a fool's, part 
 in the war. Oh, Grace and I know it all and appreciate it; 
 and--and--Alford, if I should fall, I commend Grace to your care." 
   
 "Hilland, stop, or you will unman me. This accursed grove _is_ haunted, 
 I half believe; and were I in command I would order 'Boots and Saddles' 
 to be sounded at once. There, sleep, Warren, and in the morning you 
 will be your own grand self. Why speak of anything I could do for you 
 and Grace? How could I serve myself in any surer way? As schoolgirls 
 say, 'I won't speak to you again.' I'm going to prowl around a little, 
 and see that all is right;" and he disappeared among the shadowy boles 
 of the trees. 
   
 When he returned from his rounds his friend was sleeping, but uneasily, 
 with sudden fits and starts. 
   
 "He is surely going to have a fever," Graham muttered. "I'd give a 
 year's pay if we were safe back in camp." He stood before the fire with 
 folded arms, watching his boyhood's friend, his gigantic shadow 
 stretching away into the obscurity as unwaveringly as those of the 
 tree-trunks around him. His lips were compressed. He sought to make his 
 will as inflexible as his form. He would not think of Grace, of danger 
 to her and Hilland; and yet, by some horrible necromancy of the hour 
 and place, the scene in Hilland's dream would rise before him with a 
 vividness that was overawing. In the sighing of the wind through the 
 foliage, he seemed to hear the poor wife's moans. 
   
 "Oh," he muttered, "would that I could die a thousand deaths to prevent 
 a scene like that!" 
   
 When would the interminable night pass? At last he looked at his watch 
 and saw that the dawn could not be far distant. How still everything 
 had become! The men were in their deepest slumber. Even the wind had 
 died out, and the silence was to his overwrought mind like the hush of 
 expectancy. 
   
 This silence was at last broken by a shot on the road leading to the 
 west. Other shots followed in quick succession. 
   
 Hilland was on his feet instantly. "We're attacked," he shouted, and 
 was about to spring upon his horse when Graham grasped his hand in both 
 of his as he said, "In the name of Grace, Hilland, be prudent." 
   
 Then both the men were in the saddle, Hilland dashing toward his own 
 command, and each shouting, "Awake! Mount!" 
   
 At the same instant the bugle from headquarters rang through the grove, 
 giving the well-known order of "Boots and Saddles." 
   
 In place of the profound stillness of a moment before, there were a 
 thousand discordant sounds--the trampling of feet, the jingling of 
 sabres, the champing of bits by aroused, restless horses that 
 understood the bugle call as well as the men, hoarse, rapid orders of 
 officers, above all which in the distance could be heard Hilland's 
 clarion voice. 
   
 Again and again from headquarters the brief, musical strains of the 
 bugle echoed through the gloom, each one giving to the veterans a 
 definite command. Within four minutes there was a line of battle on the 
 western edge of the grove, and a charging column was in the road 
 leading to the west, down which the patrols were galloping at a 
 headlong pace. Pickets were rushing in, firing as they came. To the 
 uninitiated it might have seemed a scene of dire confusion. In fact, it 
 was one of perfect order and discipline. Even in the darkness each man 
 knew just what to do and where to go, as he heard the bugle calls and 
 the stern, brief, supplementary orders of the officers. 
   
 Graham found himself on the line of battle at the right of the road, 
 and the sound that followed close upon the sharp gallop of the patrol 
 was ominous indeed. It was the rushing, thunderous sound of a heavy 
 body of cavalry--too heavy, his ear soon foretold him, to promise equal 
 battle. 
   
 The experienced colonel recognized the fact at the same moment, and 
 would not leave his men in the road to meet the furious onset. Again, 
 sharp, quick, and decisive as the vocal order had been, the bugle rang 
 out the command for a change of position. Its strains had not ceased 
 when the officers were repeating the order all down the column that had 
 been formed in the road for a charge, and scarcely a moment elapsed 
 before the western pike was clear, and faced by a line of battle a 
 little back among the trees. The Union force would now ask nothing 
 better than that the enemy should charge down that road within 
 pointblank range. 
   
 If the Nationals were veterans they were also dealing with veterans who 
 were masters of the situation in their overwhelming force and their 
 knowledge of the comparative insignificance of their opponents, whose 
 numbers had been quite accurately estimated the day before. 
   
 The patrols were already within the Union lines and at their proper 
 places when the Confederate column emerged into the narrow open space 
 before the grove. Its advance had subsided into a sharp trot; but, 
 instead of charging by column or platoon, the enemy deployed to right 
 and left with incredible swiftness. Men dismounted and formed into line 
 almost instantly, their gray forms looking phantom-like in the gray 
 dawn that tinged the east. 
   
 The vigilant colonel was as prompt as they, and at the first evidence 
 of their tactics the bugle resounded, and the line of battle facing the 
 road which led westward wheeled at a gallop through the open trees and 
 formed at right angles with the road behind the first line of battle. 
 Again there was a bugle call. The men in both lines dismounted 
 instantly, and as their horses were being led to the rear by those 
 designated for the duty, a Union volley was poured into the Confederate 
 line that had scarcely formed, causing many a gap. Then the first Union 
 line retired behind the second, loading as they went, and, with the 
 ready instinct of old fighters, putting trees between themselves and 
 the swiftly advancing foe while forming a third line of battle. From 
 the second Union line a deadly volley blazed in the dim obscurity of 
 the woods. It had no perceptible effect in checking the impetuous onset 
 of the enemy, who merely returned the fire as they advanced. 
   
 The veteran colonel, with cool alertness, saw that he was far 
 outnumbered, and that his assailants' tactics were to drive him through 
 the grove into the open fields, where his command would be speedily 
 dispersed and captured. His only chance was to run for it and get the 
 start. Indeed the object of his reconnoissance seemed already 
 accomplished, for the enemy was found to be in force in that direction. 
 Therefore, as he galloped to the rear his bugler sounded "Retreat" long 
 and shrilly. 
   
 The dim Union lines under the trees melted away as by magic, and a 
 moment later there was a rush of horses through the underbrush that 
 fringed the eastern side of the grove. But some men were shot, some 
 sabred, and others captured before they could mount and extricate 
 themselves. The majority, however, of the Union forces were galloping 
 swiftly away, scattering at first rather than keeping together, in 
 order to distract the pursuit which for a time was sharp and deadly. 
 Not a few succumbed; others would turn on their nearest pursuer in 
 mortal combat, which was soon decided in one way or the other. Graham 
 more than once wheeled and confronted an isolated foe, and the sword 
 bearing the name of the gentle Grace Hilland was bloody indeed. 
   
 All the while his eye was ranging the field for Hilland, and with his 
 fleet steed, that could soon have carried him beyond all danger, he 
 diverged to right and left, as far as their headlong retreat permitted, 
 in his vain search for his friend. 
   
 Suddenly the bugle from the Confederate side sounded a recall. The 
 enemy halted, fired parting shots, and retired briskly over the field, 
 gathering up the wounded and the prisoners. The Union forces drew 
 together on a distant eminence, from which the bugler of the colonel in 
 command was blowing a lively call to rendezvous. 
   
 "Where, Hilland?" cried Graham, dashing up. 
   
 The colonel removed a cigar from his mouth and said, "Haven't seen him 
 since I ordered the retreat. Don't worry. He'll be here soon. Hilland 
 is sure to come out all right. It's a way he has. 'Twas a rather rapid 
 change of base, Major Graham. That the enemy should have ceased their 
 pursuit so abruptly puzzles me. Ah, here comes your colonel, and when 
 Hilland puts in an appearance we must hold a brief council, although I 
 suppose there is nothing left for us but to make our way back to camp 
 and report as speedily as possible. I'd like to come back with a 
 division, and turn the tables on those fellows. I believe we fought a 
 divis--" 
   
 "Hilland!" shouted Graham, in a voice that drowned the colonel's words, 
 and echoed far and wide. 
   
 There was no answer, and the fugitives were nearly all in. 
   
 Graham galloped out beyond the last lagging trooper, and with a cry 
 that smote the hearts of those that heard it he shouted, "Hilland!" and 
 strained his eyes in every direction. There was no response--no form in 
 view that resembled his friend. 
   
 At wild speed he returned and rode among Hilland's command. His manner 
 was so desperate that he drew all eyes upon him, and none seemed able 
 or willing to answer. At last a man said, "I heard his voice just as we 
 were breaking from that cursed grove, and I've seen or heard nothing of 
 him since. I supposed he was on ahead with the colonel;" and that was 
 all the information that could be obtained. 
   
 The men looked very downcast, for Hilland was almost idolized by them. 
 Graham saw that there was an eager quest of information among 
 themselves, and he waited with feverish impatience for further light; 
 but nothing could be elicited from officers or privates beyond the fact 
 that Hilland had been bravely doing his duty up to the moment when, as 
 one of the captains said, "It was a scramble, 'each man for himself, 
 and the devil take the hindmost.'" 
   
 As long as there had been a gleam of hope that Hilland had escaped with 
 the rest, Graham had been almost beside himself in his feverish 
 impatience. 
   
 He now rode to where the two colonels were standing, and the senior 
 began rapidly, "Major Graham, we sympathize with you deeply. We all, 
 and indeed the army, have sustained a severe loss in even the temporary 
 absence of Lieutenant-Colonel Hilland; for I will not believe that 
 worse has happened than a wound and brief captivity. The enemy has 
 acted peculiarly. I have fears that they may be flanking us and trying 
 to intercept us on some parallel road. Therefore I shall order that we 
 return to camp in the quickest possible time. Good God, Graham! don't 
 take it so to heart. You've no proof that Hilland is dead. You look 
 desperate, man. Come, remember that you are a soldier and that Hilland 
 was one too. We've had to discount such experiences from the start." 
   
 "Gentlemen," said Graham, in a low, concentrated voice, and touching 
 his hat to the two colonels, "I am under the command of you both--one 
 as my superior officer, the other as leader of the expedition. I ask 
 permission to return in search of my friend." 
   
 "I forbid it," they both cried simultaneously, while the senior officer 
 continued, "Graham, you are beside yourself. It would be almost suicide 
 to go back. It would certainly result in your capture, while there is 
 not one chance in a thousand that you could do Hilland any good." 
   
 Graham made no immediate reply, but was studying the ill-omened grove 
 with his glass. After a moment he said, "I do not think there will be 
 any further pursuit. The enemy are retiring from the grove. My 
 explanation of their conduct is this: There is some large decisive 
 movement in progress, and we were merely brushed out of the way that we 
 might learn nothing of it. My advice is that we retain this commanding 
 position, throw out scouts on every side, and I doubt whether we find 
 anything beyond a small rearguard in ten miles of us within a few 
 hours." 
   
 "Your anxiety for your friend warps your judgment, and it is contrary 
 to my instructions, which were simply to learn if there was any 
 considerable force of the enemy in this region. Your explanation of the 
 enemy's conduct is plausible, and has already occurred to me as a 
 possibility. If it be the true explanation, all the more reason that we 
 should return promptly and report what we know and what we surmise. I 
 shall therefore order 'Retreat' to be sounded at once." 
   
 "And I, Major Graham," said his own colonel, "must add, that while you 
 have my sympathy, I nevertheless order you to your place in the march. 
 Rather than permit you to carry out your mad project, I would place you 
 under arrest." 
   
 "Gentlemen, I cannot complain of your course, or criticise your 
 military action. You are in a better condition of mind to judge what is 
 wise than I; and under ordinary circumstances I would submit without a 
 word. But the circumstances are extraordinary. Hilland has been my 
 friend since boyhood. I will not remain in suspense as to his fate; 
 much less will I leave his wife and friends in suspense. I know that 
 disobedience of orders in the face of the enemy is one of the gravest 
 offences, but I must disobey them, be the consequences what they may." 
   
 As he wheeled his horse, his colonel cried, "Stop him. He's under 
 arrest!" But Mayburn, feeling the touch of the spur, sprang into his 
 fleet gallop, and they might as well have pursued a bird. 
   
 They saw this at once, and the colonel in command only growled, 
 "---this reconnoissance. Here we've lost two of the finest officers in 
 the brigade, as well as some of our best men. Sound 'Retreat.'" 
   
 There was a hesitancy, and a wild impulse among Hilland's men to follow 
 Graham to the rescue, but it was sternly repressed by their officers, 
 and the whole command was within a few moments on a sharp trot toward 
 camp. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII (ITS FULFILMENT) 
 Graham soon slackened his pace when he found that he was not pursued, 
 and as his friends disappeared he returned warily to the brow of the 
 eminence and watched their rapid march away from the ill-fated 
 locality. He rode over the brow of the hill as if he was following, for 
 he had little doubt that the movements of the Union force were watched. 
 Having tied his horse where he could not be seen from the grove, he 
 crept back behind a sheltering bush, and with his glass scanned the 
 scene of conflict. In the road leading through the grove there were 
 ambulances removing the wounded. At last these disappeared, and there 
 was not a living object in sight. He watched a little longer, and 
 buzzards began to wheel over and settle upon the battleground--sure 
 evidence that for the time it was deserted. 
   
 He hesitated no longer. Mounting his horse he continued down the hill 
 so as to be screened from any possible observers, then struck off to 
 his left to a belt of woods that extended well up to the vicinity of 
 the grove. Making his way through this bit of forest, he soon came to 
 an old wood-road partially grown up with bushes, and pushed his way 
 rapidly back toward the point he wished to attain. Having approached 
 the limits of the belt of woods, he tied his horse in a thicket, 
 listened, then stole to the edge nearest the grove. It appeared 
 deserted. Crouching along a rail fence with revolver in hand, he at 
 last reached its fatal shade, and pushing through its fringe of lower 
 growth, peered cautiously around. Here and there he saw a lifeless body 
 or a struggling, wounded horse, over which the buzzards hovered, or on 
 which they had already settled. Disgusting as was their presence, they 
 reassured him, and he boldly and yet with an awful dread at heart began 
 his search, scanning with rapid eye each prostrate form along the 
 entire back edge of the grove through which the Union forces had burst 
 in their swift retreat. 
   
 He soon passed beyond all traces of conflict, and then retraced his 
 steps, uttering half-unconsciously and in a tone of anguish his 
 friend's name. As he approached what had been the extreme right of the 
 Union line in their retreat, and their left in the advance, he beheld a 
 dead horse that looked familiar. He sprang forward and saw that it was 
 Hilland's. 
   
 "Hilland! Warren!" he shouted, wild with awful foreboding. 
   
 From a dense thicket near he heard a feeble groan. Rushing into it, he 
 stumbled against the immense mossy trunk of a prostrate, decaying tree. 
 Concealed beyond it lay his friend, apparently dying. 
   
 "Oh, Warren!" he cried, "my friend, my brother, don't you know me? Oh, 
 live, live! I can rescue you." 
   
 There was no response from the slowly gasping man. 
   
 Graham snatched a flask from his pocket and wet the pallid lips with 
 brandy, and then caused Hilland to swallow a little. The stimulant 
 kindled for a few moments the flame of life, and the dying man slowly 
 became conscious. 
   
 "Graham," he murmured feebly--"Graham, is that you?" 
   
 "Yes, yes, and I'll save you yet. Oh, in the name of Grace, I adjure 
 you to live." 
   
 "Alas for Grace! My dream--will come true." 
   
 "Oh, Hilland, no, no! Oh, that I could die in your place! What is my 
 life to yours! Rally, Warren, rally. My fleet horse is tied near, or if 
 you are too badly wounded I will stay and nurse you. I'll fire a pistol 
 shot through my arm, and then we can be sent to the hospital together. 
 Here, take more brandy. That's right. With your physique you should not 
 think of death. Let me lift you up and stanch your wound." 
   
 "Don't move me, Graham, or I'll bleed to death instantly, and--and--I 
 want to look in your face--once more, and send my--true love to Grace. 
 More brandy, please. It's getting light again. Before it was dark--oh, 
 so dark! How is it you are here?" 
   
 "I came back for you. Could I ride away and you not with me? Oh, 
 Warren! I must save your life. I must, I must!" 
   
 "Leave me, Graham; leave me at once. You will be captured, if not 
 killed," and Hilland spoke with energy. 
   
 "I will never leave you. There, your voice proves that your strength is 
 coming back. Warren, Warren, can't you live for Grace's sake?" 
   
 "Graham," said Hilland, solemnly, "even my moments are numbered. One 
 more gush of blood from my side and I'm gone. Oh, shall I become 
 nothing? Shall I be no more than the decaying tree behind which I 
 crawled when struck down? Shall I never see my peerless bride again? 
 She would always have been a bride to me. I can't believe it. There 
 must be amends somewhere for the agony of mind, not body, that I've 
 endured as I lay here, and for the anguish that Grace will suffer. Oh, 
 Graham, my philosophy fails me in this strait, my whole nature revolts 
 at it. Mere corruption, chemical change, ought not to be the end of a 
 _man_." 
   
 "Do not waste your strength in words. Live, and in a few short weeks 
 Grace may be your nurse. Take more brandy, and then I'll go for 
 assistance." 
   
 "No, Graham, no. Don't leave me. Life is ebbing again. Ah, ah! 
 farewell--true friend. Un--bounded love--Grace. Commit--her--your care!" 
   
 There was a convulsive shudder and the noble form was still. 
   
 Graham knelt over him for a few moments in silent horror. Then he tore 
 open Hilland's vest and placed his hand over his heart. It was 
 motionless. His hand, as he withdrew it, was bathed in blood. He poured 
 brandy into the open lips, but the powerful stimulant was without 
 effect. The awful truth overwhelmed him. 
   
 Hilland was dead. 
   
 He sat down, lifted his friend up against his breast, and hung over him 
 with short, dry sobs--with a grief far beyond tears, careless, reckless 
 of his own safety. 
   
 The bushes near him were parted, and a sweet girlish face, full of 
 fear, wonder, and pity, looked upon him. The interpretation of the 
 scene was but too evident, and tears gushed from the young girl's eyes. 
   
 "Oh, sir," she began in a low, faltering voice. 
   
 The mourner paid no heed. 
   
 "Please, sir," she cried, "do not grieve so. I never saw a man grieve 
 like that. Oh, papa, papa, come, come here." 
   
 The quick pride of manhood was touched, and Graham laid his friend 
 reverently down, and stood erect, quiet, but with heaving breast. Hasty 
 steps approached, and a gray-haired man stood beside the young girl. 
   
 "I am your prisoner, sir," said Graham, "but in the name of humanity I 
 ask you to let me bury my dead." 
   
 "My dear young sir, in the name of humanity and a more sacred Name, I 
 will do all for you in my power. I am a clergyman, and am here with a 
 party from a neighboring village, charged with the office of burying 
 the dead with appropriate rites. I have no desire to take you prisoner, 
 but will be glad to entertain you as my guest if the authorities will 
 permit. Will you not give me some brief explanation of this scene while 
 they are gathering up the dead?" 
   
 Graham did so in a few sad words. The daughter sat crying on the mossy 
 log meanwhile, and the old man wiped his eyes again and again. 
   
 "Was there ever a nobler-looking man?" sobbed the girl; "and to think 
 of his poor wife! Papa, he must not be buried here. He must be taken to 
 our little cemetery by the church, and I will often put flowers on his 
 grave." 
   
 "If you will carry out this plan, sweet child" said Graham, "one 
 broken-hearted woman will bless you while she lives." 
   
 "Think, papa," resumed the girl--"think if it was our Henry what we 
 would wish." 
   
 "I'm glad you feel as you do, my child. It proves that this horrible 
 war is not hardening your heart or making you less gentle or 
 compassionate. I will carry out your wishes and yours, sir, and will 
 use my whole influence to prevent your noble fidelity to your friend 
 from becoming the cause of your captivity. I will now summon assistance 
 to carry your friend to the road, where a wagon can take him to the 
 village." 
   
 In a few moments two negro slaves, part of the force sent to bury the 
 dead, with their tattered hats doffed out of respect, slowly bore the 
 body of Hilland to the roadside. Graham, with his bare head bowed under 
 a weight of grief that seemed wellnigh crushing, followed closely, and 
 then the old clergyman and his daughter. They laid the princely form 
 down on the grass beside a dark-haired young Confederate officer, who 
 was also to be taken to the cemetery. 
   
 The sad rites of burial which the good old man now performed over both 
 friend and foe of subordinate rank need not be dwelt upon. While they 
 were taking place Graham stood beside his friend as motionless as if he 
 had become a statue, heedless of the crowd of villagers and country 
 people that had gathered to the scene. 
   
 At last a sweet voice said: "Please, sir, it's time to go. You ride 
 with papa. I am young and strong and can walk." 
   
 His only response was to take her hand and kiss it fervently. Then he 
 turned to her father and told him of his horse that was hidden in the 
 nearest edge of the belt of woods, and asked that it might be sent for 
 by some one who was trustworthy. 
   
 "Here is Sampson, one of my own people; I'd trust him with all I have;" 
 and one of the negroes who had borne the body of Hilland hastened away 
 as directed, and soon returned with the beautiful horse that awakened 
 the admiration of all and the cupidity of a few of the nondescript 
 characters that had been drawn to the place. 
   
 A rude wagon was drawn to the roadside, its rough boards covered with 
 leafy boughs, and the Union and the Confederate officer were placed in 
 it side by side. Then the minister climbed into his old-fashioned gig, 
 his daughter sprang lightly in by his side, took the reins and slowly 
 led the way, followed by the extemporized hearse, while Graham on his 
 horse rode at the feet of his friend, chief mourner in bitter truth. 
 The negroes who had buried the dead walked on either side of the wagon 
 bareheaded and oblivious of the summer sun, and the country people and 
 villagers streamed along the road after the simple procession. 
   
 The bodies were first taken to the parsonage, and the stains of battle 
 removed by an old colored aunty, a slave of the clergyman. Graham gave 
 into the care of the clergyman's daughter Hilland's sword and some 
 other articles that he did not wish to carry on his return to the Union 
 lines. Among these was an exquisite likeness of Grace smiling in her 
 happy loveliness. 
   
 Tears again rushed into the young girl's eyes as she asked in accents 
 of deepest commiseration: "And will you have to break the news to her?" 
   
 "No," said Graham hoarsely; "I could not do that. I'd rather face a 
 thousand guns than that poor wife." 
   
 "Why do you not keep the likeness?" 
   
 "I could not look upon it and think of the change which this fatal day 
 will bring to those features. I shall leave it with you until she comes 
 for his sword and to visit his grave. No one has a better right to it 
 than you, and in this lovely face you see the promise of your own 
 womanhood reflected. You have not told me your name. I wish to know it, 
 for I shall love and cherish it as one of my most sacred memories." 
   
 "Margarita Anderson," was the blushing reply. "Papa and my friends call 
 me Rita." 
   
 "Let me call you what your name signifies, and what you have proved 
 yourself to be--Pearl. Who is Henry?" 
   
 "My only brother. He is a captain in our army." 
   
 "You are a true Southern girl?" 
   
 "Yes, in body and soul I'm a Southern girl;" and her dark eyes flashed 
 through her tears. 
   
 "So was the original of this likeness. She is kin to you in blood and 
 feeling as well as in her noble qualities; but she loved her Northern 
 husband more than the whole world, and all in it was nothing compared 
 with him. She will come and see you some day, and words will fail her 
 in thanks." 
   
 "And will you come with her?" 
   
 "I don't know. I may be dead long before that time." 
   
 The young girl turned away, and for some reason her tears flowed faster 
 than ever before. 
   
 "Pearl, my tender-hearted child, don't grieve over what would be so 
 small a grief to me. This evil day has clouded your young life with the 
 sadness of others. But at your age it will soon pass;" and he returned 
 to his friend and took from him the little mementoes that he knew would 
 be so dear to Grace. 
   
 Soon after, the two bodies were borne to the quaint old church and 
 placed before the altar. Both were dressed in their full uniforms, and 
 there was a noble calmness on the face of each as they slumbered side 
 by side in the place sacred to the God of peace, and at peace with each 
 other for evermore. 
   
 For an hour the bell tolled slowly, and the people passed in at one 
 door, looked upon the manly forms, and with awed faces crept out at the 
 other. 
   
 It was indeed a memorable day for the villagers. They had been awakened 
 in the dawn by sounds of distant conflict. They had exulted over a 
 brilliant victory as the Confederate forces came marching rapidly 
 through their streets. 
   
 They had been put on the _qui vive_ to know what the rapid movement of 
 their troops meant. Some of the most severely wounded had been left in 
 their care. The battlefield with its horrors had been visited, and 
 there was to be a funeral service over two actors in the bloody drama, 
 whose untimely fate excited not only sympathy, but the deep interest 
 and curiosity which ever attend upon those around whom rumor has woven 
 a romantic history. The story of Graham's return in search of his 
 friend, of the circumstances of their discovery by Rita, of the 
 likeness of the lovely wife who would soon be heart-broken from the 
 knowledge of what was known to them, had got abroad among the people, 
 and their warm Southern hearts were more touched by the fate of their 
 Northern foe than by that of the officer wearing the livery of their 
 own service, but of whom little was known. 
   
 Graham's profound grief also impressed them deeply; and the presence of 
 a Union officer, sitting among them, forgetful of his danger, of all 
 except that his friend was dead, formed a theme which would be dwelt 
 upon for months to come. 
   
 Near the close of the day, after some appropriate words in the church, 
 the venerable clergyman, with his white locks uncovered, led the way 
 through the cemetery to its further side, where, under the shade of an 
 immense juniper-tree, were two open graves. As before, Graham followed 
 his friend, and after him came Rita with a number of her young 
 companions, dressed in white and carrying baskets of flowers. After an 
 impressive burial service had been read, the young girls passed to and 
 fro between the graves, throwing flowers in each and singing as they 
 went a hymn breathing the certainty of the immortality that had been 
 the object of poor Hilland's longing aspiration. Graham's heart 
 thrilled as he heard the words, for they seemed the answer to his 
 friend's questions. But, though his feelings might be touched deeply, 
 he was the last man to be moved by sentiment or emotion from a position 
 to which his inexorable reason had conducted him. 
   
 The sun threw its level rays over a scene that he never forgot--the 
 white-haired clergyman standing between the open graves; the young 
 maidens, led by the dark-eyed Rita, weaving in and out, their white 
 hands and arms glowing like ivory as they strewed the flowers, 
 meanwhile singing with an unconscious grace and pathos that touched the 
 rudest hearts; the concourse of people, chiefly women, old men, and 
 children, for the young and strong were either mouldering on 
 battlefields or marching to others; the awed sable faces of the negroes 
 in the further background; the exquisite evening sky; the songs of 
 unheeding birds, so near to man in their choice of habitation, so 
 remote from his sorrows and anxieties--all combined to form a picture 
 and a memory which would be vivid and real to his latest day. 
   
 The graves were at last filled and piled up with flowers. Then Graham, 
 standing uncovered before them all, spoke slowly and earnestly: 
   
 "People of the South, you see before you a Northern man, an officer in 
 the Union army; but as I live I cherish no thought of enmity toward one 
 of you. On the contrary, my heart is overwhelmed with gratitude. You 
 have placed here side by side two brave men. You have rendered to their 
 dust equal reverence and honor. I am in accord with you. I believe that 
 the patriotism of one was as sincere as that of the other, the courage 
 of one as high as that of the other, that the impulses which led them 
 to offer up their lives were equally noble. In your generous sympathy 
 for a fallen foe you have proved yourselves Americans in the best sense 
 of the word. May the day come when that name shall suffice for us all. 
 Believe me, I would defend your homes and my own with equal zeal;" and 
 with a bow of profound respect he turned to the grave of his friend. 
   
 With a delicate appreciation of his wish, the people, casting backward 
 lingering, sympathetic glances, ebbed away and he was soon left alone. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX (A SOUTHERN GIRL) 
 When Graham was left alone he knelt and bowed his head in the flowers 
 that Rita had placed on Hilland's grave, and the whole horrible truth 
 seemed to grow, to broaden and deepen, like a gulf that had opened at 
 his feet. Hilland, who had become a part of his own life and seemed 
 inseparable from all its interests, had disappeared forever. But 
 yesterday he was the centre of vast interests and boundless love; now 
 he had ceased to be. The love would remain, but oh, the torture of a 
 boundless love when its object has passed beyond its reach! 
   
 The thought of Grace brought to the mourner an indescribable anguish. 
 Once his profound love for her had asserted itself in a way that had 
 stung him to madness, and the evil thought had never returned. Now she 
 seemed to belong to the dead husband even more than when he was living. 
 The thought that tortured him most was that Grace would not long 
 survive Hilland. The union between the two had been so close and vital 
 that the separation might mean death. The possibility overwhelmed him, 
 and he grew faint and sick. Indeed it would seem that he partially lost 
 consciousness, for at last he became aware that some one was standing 
 near and pleading with him. Then he saw it was Rita. 
   
 "Oh, sir," she entreated, "do not grieve so. It breaks my heart to see 
 a man so overcome. It seems terrible. It makes me feel that there are 
 depths of sorrow that frighten me. Oh, come with me--do, please. I fear 
 you've eaten nothing to-day, and we have supper all ready for you." 
   
 Graham tottered to his feet and passed his hand across his brow, as if 
 to brush away an evil dream. 
   
 "Indeed, sir, you look sick and faint. Take my arm and lean on me. I 
 assure you I am very strong." 
   
 "Yes, Pearl, you are strong. Many live to old age and never become as 
 true a woman as you are to-day. This awful event has wellnigh crushed 
 me, and, now I think of it, I have scarcely tasted food since last 
 evening. Thank you, my child, I will take your arm. In an hour or two I 
 shall gain self-control." 
   
 "My heart aches for you, sir," she said, as they passed slowly through 
 the twilight. 
   
 "May it be long before it aches from any sorrow of your own, Pearl." 
   
 The parsonage adjoined the church. The old clergyman abounded in almost 
 paternal kindness, and pressed upon Graham a glass of home-made wine. 
 After he had taken this and eaten a little, his strength and poise 
 returned, and he gave his entertainers a fuller account of Hilland and 
 his relations, and in that Southern home there was as genuine sympathy 
 for the inmates of the Northern home as if they all had been devoted to 
 the same cause. 
   
 "There are many subjects on which we differ," said his host. "You 
 perceive that I have slaves, but they are so attached to me that I do 
 not think they would leave me if I offered them their freedom. I have 
 been brought up to think slavery right. My father and grandfather 
 before me held slaves and always treated them well. I truly think they 
 did better by them than the bondmen could have done for themselves. To 
 give them liberty and send them adrift would be almost like throwing 
 little children out into the world. I know that there are evils and 
 abuses connected with our system, but I feel sure that liberty given to 
 a people unfitted for it would be followed by far greater evils." 
   
 "It's a subject to which I have given very little attention," Graham 
 replied. "I have spent much of my life abroad, and certainly your 
 servants are better off than the peasantry and very poor in many lands 
 that I have visited." 
   
 With a kind of wonder, he thought of the truth that Hilland, who so 
 hated slavery, had been lifted from the battlefield by slaves, and that 
 his remains had been treated with reverent honor by a slave-holder. 
   
 The old clergyman's words also proved that, while he deprecated the war 
 unspeakably, his whole sympathy was with the South. His only son, of 
 whom neither he nor Rita could speak without looks of pride and 
 affection kindling in their faces, was in the Confederate service, and 
 the old man prayed as fervently for success to the cause to which he 
 had devoted the treasure of his life as any Northern father could 
 petition the God of nations for his boy and the restoration of the 
 Union. At the same time his nature was too large, too highly ennobled 
 by Christianity, for a narrow vindictive bitterness. He could love the 
 enemy that he was willing his son should oppose in deadly battle. 
   
 "We hope to secure our independence," he added, "and to work out our 
 national development according to the genius of our own people. I pray 
 and hope for the time when the North and South may exist side by side 
 as two friendly nations. Your noble words this afternoon found their 
 echo in my heart. Even though my son should be slain by a Northern 
 hand, as your friend has been by a Southern, I wish to cherish no 
 vindictive bitterness and enmity. The question must now be settled by 
 the stern arbitrament of battle; but when the war is over let it not be 
 followed by an era of hate." 
   
 He then told Graham how he had lost his beloved wife years before, and 
 how lonely and desolate he had been until Rita had learned to care for 
 him and provide for his comfort with almost hourly vigilance. 
   
 "Yes," said Graham, "I have seen it; she is to you what my friend's 
 wife is to her invalid father, the immeasurable blessing of his life. 
 How it will be now I hardly know, for I fear that her grief will 
 destroy her, and the old major, her father, could not long survive." 
   
 A note was now handed to the old gentleman, who, having read it, 
 appeared greatly distressed. After a moment's hesitancy he gave it to 
 Graham, who read as follows: 
   
 "I heard the North'ner speak this arternoon, an' I can't be one to take 
 and rob him of his horse and send him to prison. But it'll be done 
 to-night if you can't manage his escape. Every rode is watched, an' 
 your house will be searched to-night. ONE OF THE BAND. 
   
 "You'll burn this an' keep mum or my neck will be stretched." 
   
 "Who brought the note?" Mr. Anderson asked, going to the door and 
 questioning a colored woman. 
   
 "Dunno, mas'r. De do' open a little, and de ting flew in on de flo'." 
   
 "Well," said Graham, "I must mount and go at once;" and he was about to 
 resume his arms. 
   
 "Wait, wait; I must think!" cried his host. "For you to go alone would 
 be to rush into the very evils we are warned against. I am pained and 
 humiliated beyond measure by this communication. Mr. Graham, do not 
 judge us harshly. There is, I suppose, a vile sediment in every 
 community, and there is here a class that won't enlist in open, 
 honorable warfare, but prowl around, chiefly at night, intent on deeds 
 like this." 
   
 "Papa," said Rita, who had read the warning, "I know what to do;" and 
 her brave spirit flashed in her eyes. 
   
 "You, my child?" 
   
 "Yes. I'll prove to Mr. Graham what a Southern girl will do for a 
 guest--for one who has trusted her. The deep, deep disgrace of his 
 capture and robbery shall not come on our heads. I will guide him at 
 once through the woods to old Uncle Jehu's cabin. No one will think of 
 looking for him there; for there is little more than a bridle-path 
 leading to it; but I know the way, every inch of it." 
   
 "But, Rita, I could send one of the servants with Mr. Graham." 
   
 "No, papa; he would be missed and afterward questioned, and some awful 
 revenge taken on him. You must say that I have retired when the 
 villains come. You must keep all our servants in. Mr. Graham and I will 
 slip out. He can saddle his horse, and I, you know well, can saddle 
 mine. Now we must apparently go to our rooms and within half an hour 
 slip out unperceived and start. No one will ever dare touch me, even if 
 it is found out." 
   
 "Pearl, priceless Pearl, I'll fight my way through all the guerillas in 
 the land, rather than subject you to peril." 
   
 "You could not fight your way through them, the cowardly skulkers. What 
 chance would you have in darkness? My plan brings me no peril, for if 
 they met us they would not dare to touch me. But if it costs me my life 
 I _will_ go," she concluded passionately. "This disgrace must not fall 
 on our people." 
   
 "Rita is right," said the old clergyman, solemnly. "I could scarcely 
 survive the disgrace of having a guest taken from my home, and they 
 would have to walk over my prostrate form before it could be done; and 
 to send you out alone would be even more shameful. The plan does not 
 involve much peril to Rita. Although, in a sense, you are my enemy, I 
 will trust this pearl beyond price to your protection, and old Jehu 
 will return with her until within a short distance of the house. As she 
 says, I think no one in this region would harm her. I will co-operate 
 with you, Rita, and entreat the Heavenly Father until I clasp you in my 
 arms again. Act, act at once." 
   
 Graham was about to protest again, but she silenced him by a gesture 
 that was almost imperious. "Don't you see that for papa's sake, for my 
 own, as well as yours, I must go? Now let us say good-night as if we 
 were parting unsuspicious of trouble. When I tap at your door, Mr. 
 Graham, you will follow me; and you, papa, try to keep our people in 
 ignorance." 
   
 Graham wrung the clergyman's hand in parting, and said, "You will 
 always be to me a type of the noblest development of humanity." 
   
 "God bless you, sir," was the reply, "and sustain you through the 
 dangers and trying scenes before you. I am but a simple old man, trying 
 to do right with God's help. And, believe me, sir, the South is full of 
 men as sincere as I am." 
   
 Within half an hour Graham followed his fair guide down a back stairway 
 and out into the darkness. Rita's pony was at pasture in a field 
 adjoining the stable, but he came instantly at her soft call. 
   
 "I shall not put on my saddle," she whispered. "If I leave it hanging 
 in the stable it will be good evidence that I am in my room. There will 
 be no need of our riding fast, and, indeed, I have often ridden without 
 a saddle for fun. I will guide you to your horse and saddle in the dark 
 stable, for we must take him out of a back door, so that there will be 
 no sound of his feet on the boards." 
   
 Within a few moments they were passing like shadows down a shaded lane 
 that led from the house to the forest, and then entered what was a mere 
 bridle-path, the starlight barely enabling the keen-eyed Rita to make 
 it out at times. The thick woods on either side prevented all danger of 
 flank attacks. After riding some little time they stopped and listened. 
 The absolute silence, broken only by the cries of the wild creatures of 
 the night, convinced them that they were not followed. Then Rita said, 
 "Old Jehu has a bright boy of sixteen or thereabout, and he'll guide 
 you north through the woods as far as he can, and then God will protect 
 and guide you until you are safe. I know He will help you to escape, 
 that you may say words of comfort to the poor, broken-hearted wife." 
   
 "Yes, Pearl, I think I shall escape. I take your guidance as a good 
 omen. If I could only be sure that no harm came to you and your noble 
 father!" 
   
 "The worst of harm would have come to us had we permitted the evil that 
 was threatened." 
   
 "You seem very young, Pearl, and yet you are in many ways very mature 
 and womanly." 
   
 "I am young--only sixteen-but mamma's death and the responsibility it 
 brought me made my childhood brief. Then Henry is five years older than 
 I, and I always played with him, and, of course, you know I tried to 
 reach up to those things that he thought about and did. I've never been 
 to school. Papa is educating me, and oh, he knows so much, and he makes 
 knowledge so interesting, that I can't help learning a little. And then 
 Henry's going into the war, and all that is happening, makes me feel so 
 very, very old and sad at times;" and so she continued in low tones to 
 tell about herself and Henry and her father, of their hopes of final 
 victory, and all that made up her life. This she did with a guileless 
 frankness, and yet with a refined reserve that was indescribable in its 
 simple pathos and beauty. In spite of himself Graham was charmed and 
 soothed, while he wondered at the exquisite blending of girlhood and 
 womanhood in his guide. She also questioned him about the North and the 
 lands he had visited, about his aunt and Grace and her father; and 
 Graham's tremulous tones as he spoke of Grace led her to say 
 sorrowfully, "Ah, she is very, very dear to you also." 
   
 "Yes," he said, imitating her frankness, "she is dearer to me than my 
 life. I would gladly have died in Hilland's place to have saved her 
 this sorrow. Were it not for the hope of serving her in some way, death 
 would have few terrors to me. There, my child, I have spoken to you as 
 I have to only one other, my dear old aunty, who is like a mother. Your 
 noble trust begets trust." 
   
 Then he became aware that she was crying bitterly. 
   
 "Pearl, Pearl," he said, "don't cry. I have become accustomed to a sad 
 heart, and it's an old, old story." 
   
 "Oh, Mr. Graham, I remember hearing mamma say once that women learn 
 more through their hearts than their heads. I have often thought of her 
 words, and I think they must be true. Almost from the first my heart 
 told me that there was something about you which made you different 
 from other people. Why is the world so full of trouble of every kind? 
 Ah, well, papa has taught me that heaven will make amends for 
 everything." 
   
 They had now reached a little clearing, and Rita said that they were 
 near Jehu's cabin, and that their final words had better be said before 
 awakening the old man. "I must bathe my face, too," she added, "for he 
 would not understand my tears," and went to a clear little spring but a 
 few paces away. 
   
 Graham also dismounted. When she returned he took her hand and raised 
 it reverently to his lips as he said, "Pearl, this is not a case for 
 ordinary thanks. I no doubt owe my life, certainly my liberty, to you. 
 On that I will not dwell. I owe to you and your father far more, and so 
 does poor Grace Hilland. You insured a burial for my friend that will 
 bring a world of comfort to those who loved him. The thought of your 
 going to his grave and placing upon it fresh flowers from time to time 
 will contain more balm than a thousand words of well-meant condolence. 
 Pearl, my sweet, pure, noble child, is there nothing I can do for you?" 
   
 "Yes," she faltered; "it may be that you can return all that we have 
 done a hundred-fold. It may be that you will meet Henry in battle. In 
 the memory of his little sister you will spare him, will you not? If he 
 should be captured I will tell him to write to you, and I feel sure 
 that you will remember our lonely ride and the gray old father who is 
 praying for you now, and will not leave him to suffer." 
   
 Graham drew a seal ring from his finger and said: "Dear Pearl, take 
 this as a pledge that I will serve him in any way in my power and at 
 any cost to myself. I hope the day will come when he will honor me with 
 his friendship, and I would as soon strike the friend I have lost as 
 your brother." 
   
 "Now I am content," she said. "I believe every word you say." 
   
 "And Grace Hilland will come some day and claim you as a sister dearly 
 beloved. And I, sweet Pearl, will honor your memory in my heart of 
 hearts. The man who wins you as his bride may well be prouder than an 
 emperor." 
   
 "Oh, no, Mr. Graham, I'm just a simple Southern girl." 
   
 "There are few like you, I fear, South or North. You are a girl to 
 kindle every manly instinct and power, and I shall be better for having 
 known you. The hope of serving you and yours in some way and at some 
 time will give a new zest and value to my life." 
   
 "Do not speak so kindly or I shall cry again. I've been afraid you 
 would think me silly, I cry so easily. I do not think we Southern girls 
 are like those at the North. They are colder, I imagine, or at least 
 more able to control their feelings. Papa says I am a child of the 
 South. I can't decide just how much or how little I ought to feel on 
 all occasions, and ever since I saw you mourning over your friend with 
 just such passionate grief as I should feel, my whole heart has ached 
 for you. You will come and see us again if you have a chance?" 
   
 "I will make chances, Pearl, even though they involve no little risk." 
   
 "No, no; don't do that. You ought to care too much for us to do that. 
 Nothing would give me pleasure that brought danger to you. If I could 
 only know that you reached your friends in safety!" 
   
 "I'll find a way of letting you know if I can." 
   
 "Well, then, good-by. It's strange, but you seem like an old, old 
 friend. Oh, I know Henry will like you, and that you will like him. 
 Next to mamma's, your ring shall be my dearest treasure. I shall look 
 at it every night and think I have added one more chance of Henry's 
 safety. Oh, I could worship the man who saved his life." 
   
 "And any man might worship you. Good-by, Pearl;" and he kissed her hand 
 again and again, then lifted her on her pony with a tenderness that was 
 almost an embrace, and she rode slowly to the door of a little log 
 cabin, while Graham remained concealed in the shadow of the woods until 
 it was made certain that no one was in the vicinity except Jehu and his 
 family. 
   
 The old man was soon aroused, and his ejaculations and exclamations 
 were innumerable. 
   
 "No, missy, dars no un been roun' heah for right smart days. It's all 
 safe, an' Jehu an' his ole ooman knows how ter keep mum when Mas'r 
 Anderson says mum; an' so does my peart boy Huey"--who, named for his 
 father, was thus distinguished from him. "An' de hossifer is a Linkum 
 man? Sho, sho! who'd a tink it, and his own son a 'Federate! Well, 
 well, Mas'r Anderson isn't low-down white trash. If he thought a ting 
 was right I reckon de hull worl' couldn't make him cut up any 
 white-trash didoes." 
   
 When Rita explained further the old negro replied with alacrity: "Ob 
 cose Jehu will took you home safe, an' proud he'll be ter go wid you, 
 honey. You'se a mighty peart little gal, an' does youse blood an' 
 broughten up jestice. Mighty few would dar' ride five mile troo de 
 lonesome woods wid a strange hossifer, if he be a Linkum man. He mus' 
 be sumpen like Linkum hisself. Yes, if you bain't afeared ter show him 
 de way, Huey needn't be;" and the boy, who was now wide awake, said 
 he'd "like notten better dan showin' a Linkum man troo de woods." 
   
 Graham was summoned, and in a few moments all was arranged. 
   
 He then drew the old man aside and said, "You good, faithful old soul, 
 take care of that girl as the apple of your eye, for she has only one 
 equal in the world. Here is one hundred dollars. That will pay for a 
 good many chickens and vegetables, won't it?" 
   
 "Lor' bless you, mas'r, dey ain't chickens nuff in Ole Virginny to 
 brought hundred dollars." 
   
 "Well, I'll tell you what I'm afraid of. This region may be wasted by 
 war, like so many others. You may not be troubled in this 
 out-of-the-way place. If Mr. Anderson's family is ever in need, you are 
 now paid to supply them with all that you can furnish." 
   
 "'Deed I is, mas'r, double paid." 
   
 "Be faithful to them and you shall have more 'Linkum money,' as you 
 call it. Keep it, for your money down here won't be worth much soon." 
   
 "Dat's shoah. De cullud people bain't all prayin' for Linkum for 
 notten." 
   
 "Good-by. Do as I say and you shall be taken care of some day. Say 
 nothing about this." 
   
 "Mum's de word all roun' ter-night, mas'r." 
   
 "Huey, are you ready?" 
   
 "I is, mas'r." 
   
 "Lead the way, then;" and again approaching Rita, Graham took off his 
 hat and bowed low as he said, "Give my grateful greeting to your 
 honored father, and may every hope of his heart be fulfilled in return 
 for his good deeds today. As for you, Miss Anderson, no words can 
 express my profound respect and unbounded gratitude. We shall meet 
 again in happier times;" and backing his horse, while he still remained 
 uncovered, he soon turned and followed Huey. 
   
 "Well, now," ejaculated Jehu. "'Clar ter you ef dat ar Linkum hossifer 
 bain't nigh onter bein' as fine a gemman as Mas'r Henry hisself. Won't 
 you take some 'freshment, missy? No? Den I'se go right 'long wid you." 
   
 Rita enjoined silence, ostensibly for the reason that it was prudent, 
 but chiefly that she might have a respite from the old man's 
 garrulousness. Her thoughts were very busy. The first romance of her 
 young life had come, and she still felt on her hands the kisses that 
 had been so warm and sincere, although she knew they were given by one 
 who cherished a hopeless love. After all, it was but her vivid Southern 
 imagination that had been kindled by the swift, strange events of the 
 past twenty-four hours. With the fine sense of the best type of dawning 
 womanhood, she had been deeply moved by Graham's strong nature. She had 
 seen in him a love for another man that was as tender and passionate as 
 that of a woman, and yet it was bestowed upon the husband of the woman 
 whom he had loved for years. That he had not hesitated to risk 
 captivity and death in returning for his friend proved his bravery to 
 be unlimited, and a Southern girl adores courage. For a time Graham 
 would be the ideal of her girlish heart. His words of admiration and 
 respect were dwelt upon, and her cheeks flushed up seen in the deep 
 shadow of the forest. Again her tears would fall fast as she thought of 
 his peril and of all the sad scenes of the day and the sadder ones 
 still to come. Grace Hilland, a Southern girl like herself, became a 
 glorified image to her fancy, and it would now be her chief ambition to 
 be like her. She would keep her lovely portrait on her bureau beside 
 her Bible, and it should be almost equally sacred. 
   
 In the edge of the forest she parted from Jehu with many and warm 
 thanks, for she thought it wise that there should not be the slightest 
 chance of his being seen. She also handed him a Confederate bill out of 
 her slender allowance, patted him on the shoulder as she would some 
 faithful animal, and rode away. He crept along after her till he saw 
 her let down some bars and turn her pony into the fields. He then crept 
 on till he saw her enter a door, and then stole back to the forest and 
 shambled homeward as dusky as the shadows in which he walked, 
 chuckling, "Missy Rita, sweet honey, guv me one of dern 'Federate rags. 
 Oh, golly! I'se got more money--live Linkum money--dan Mas'r Anderson 
 hisself, and I'se got notten ter do but raise chickens an' garden sass 
 all my born days. Missy Rita's red cheeks never grow pale long as Jehu 
 or Huey can tote chickens and sass." 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXX (GUERILLAS) 
 Graham, beyond a few low, encouraging words, held his peace and also 
 enjoined silence on his youthful guide. His plan was to make a wide 
 circuit around the battlefield of the previous day, and then strike the 
 trail of the Union forces, which he believed he could follow at night. 
 Huey thought that this could be done and that they could keep in the 
 shelter of the woods most of the distance, and this they accomplished, 
 reconnoitring the roads most carefully before crossing them. Huey was 
 an inveterate trapper; and as his pursuit was quite as profitable as 
 raising "sass," old Jehu gave the boy his own way. Therefore he knew 
 every path through the woods for miles around. 
   
 The dawn was in the east before Graham reached the Union trail, and he 
 decided to spend the day in a dense piece of woods not very far 
 distant. Huey soon settled the question of Mayburn's provender by 
 purloining a few sheaves of late oats from a field that they passed; 
 but when they reached their hiding-place Graham was conscious that he 
 was in need of food himself, and he also remembered that a boy is 
 always ravenous. 
   
 "Well, Huey," he said, "in providing for the horse you have attended to 
 the main business, but what are we going to do?" 
   
 "We'se gwine ter do better'n de hoss. If mas'r'll 'zamine his 
 saddle-bags, reckon he'll fine dat Missy Rita hain't de leddy to sen' 
 us off on a hunt widout a bite of suthin' good. She sez, sez she to me, 
 in kind o' whisper like, 'Mas'r Graham'll fine suthin' you'll like, 
 Huey;'" and the boy eyed the saddle-bags like a young wolf. 
   
 "Was there ever such a blessed girl!" cried Graham, as he pulled out a 
 flask of wine, a fowl cut into nice portions, bread, butter, and 
 relishes--indeed, the best that her simple housekeeping afforded in the 
 emergency. In the other bag there was also a piece of cake of such 
 portentous size that Huey clasped his hands and rolled up his eyes as 
 he had seen his parents do when the glories of heaven were expatiated 
 upon in the negro prayer-meetings. 
   
 "That's all for you, Huey, and here's some bread and cold ham to go 
 with it. When could she have provided these things so thoughtfully? It 
 must have been before she called me last night. Now, Huey, if you ever 
 catch anything extra nice in the woods you take it to Miss Rita. There 
 is ten dollars to pay you; and when the Lincoln men get possession here 
 I'll look after you and give you a fine chance, if you have been 
 faithful. You must not tell Miss Rita what I say, but seem to do all of 
 your own accord. I wish I had more money with me, but you will see me 
 again, and I will make it all right with you." 
   
 "It's all right now, mas'r. What wouldn't I do for Missy Rita? When my 
 ole mammy was sick she bro't med'cin, and a right smart lot ob tings, 
 and brung her troo de weariness. Golly! Wonder Missy Rita don't go 
 straight up ter heben like dem rackets dey shoots when de 'Federates 
 say dey hab a vict'ry;" and then the boy's mouth became so full that he 
 was speechless for a long time. 
   
 The sense of danger, and the necessity for the utmost vigilance, had 
 diverted Graham's thoughts during his long night ride; and with a 
 soldier's habit he had concentrated his faculties on the immediate 
 problem of finding the trail, verifying Huey's local knowledge by 
 observation of the stars. Now, in the cool summer morning, with Rita's 
 delicious repast before him, life did not seem so desperate a thing as 
 on the day before. Although exceedingly wearied, the strength of mind 
 which would enable him to face his sad tasks was returning. He thought 
 little about the consequences of his disobedience to orders, and cared 
 less. If he lost his rank he would enlist as a private soldier after he 
 had done all in his power for Grace, who had been committed to his care 
 by Hilland's last words. He felt that she had the most sacred claims 
 upon him, and yet he queried, "What can I do for her beyond 
 communicating every detail of her husband's last hours and his burial? 
 What remedy is there for a sorrow like hers?" 
   
 At the same time he felt that a lifelong and devoted friendship might 
 bring solace and help at times, and this hope gave a new value to his 
 life. He also thought it very possible that the strange vicissitudes of 
 war might put it in his power to serve the Andersons, in whom he felt a 
 grateful interest that only such scenes as had just occurred could have 
 awakened. It would ever be to him a source of unalloyed joy to add 
 anything to Rita Anderson's happiness. 
   
 His kind old aunt, too, had her full share of his thoughts as he 
 reclined on the dun-colored leaves of the previous year and reviewed 
 the past and planned for the future. He recalled her words, "that good 
 would come of it," when he had promised to "live and do his best." 
 Although in his own life he had missed happiness, there was still a 
 prospect of his adding much to the well-being of others. 
   
 But how could he meet Grace again? He trembled at the very thought. Her 
 grief would unman him. It was agony even to imagine it; and she might, 
 in her ignorance of an officer's duties in battle, think that if he had 
 kept near Hilland the awful event might have been averted. 
   
 After all, he could reach but one conclusion--to keep his old promise 
 "to do his best," as circumstances indicated. 
   
 Asking Huey, who had the trained ear of a hunter, to watch and listen, 
 he took some sleep in preparation for the coming night, and then gave 
 the boy a chance to rest. 
   
 The day passed quietly, and in the evening he dismissed Huey, with 
 assurances to Rita and her father that a night's ride would bring him 
 within the Union lines, and that he now knew the way well. The boy 
 departed in high spirits, feeling that he would like "showin' Linkum 
 men troo de woods" even better than trapping. 
   
 Then looking well to his arms, and seeing that they were ready for 
 instant use, Graham started on his perilous ride, walking his horse and 
 stopping to listen from time to time. Once in the earlier part of the 
 night he heard the sound of horses' feet, and drawing back into the 
 deep shadow of the woods he saw three or four men gallop by. They were 
 undoubtedly guerillas looking for him, or on some prowl with other 
 objects in view. At last he knew he must be near his friends, and he 
 determined to push on, even though the dawn was growing bright; but he 
 had hardly reached this conclusion when but a short distance in advance 
 a dozen horsemen dashed out of a grove and started toward him. 
   
 They were part of "The Band," who, with the instincts of their class, 
 conjectured too truly that, since he had eluded them thus far, their 
 best chance to intercept him would be at his natural approach to the 
 Union lines; and now, with the kind of joy peculiar to themselves, they 
 felt that their prey was in their power, beyond all hope of escape, for 
 Graham was in plain sight upon a road inclosed on either side by a high 
 rail fence. There were so many guerillas that there was not a ghost of 
 a chance in fighting or riding through them, and for a moment his 
 position seemed desperate. 
   
 "It's Mayburn to the rescue now," he muttered, and he turned and sped 
 away, and every leap of his noble horse increased the distance between 
 him and his pursuers. His confidence soon returned, for he felt that 
 unless something unforeseen occurred he could ride all around them. His 
 pursuers fired two shots, which were harmless enough, but to his dismay 
 Graham soon learned that they were signals, for from a farmhouse near 
 other horsemen entered the road, and he was between two parties. 
   
 There was not a moment to lose. Glancing ahead, he saw a place where 
 the fence had lost a rail or two. He spurred toward it, and the gallant 
 horse flew over like a bird into a wide field fringed on the further 
 side by a thick growth of timber. Bullets from the intercepting party 
 whizzed around him; but he sped on unharmed, while his pursuers only 
 stopped long enough to throw off a few rails, and then both of the 
 guerilla squads rode straight for the woods, with the plan of keeping 
 the fugitive between them, knowing that in its tangle he must be caught. 
   
 Graham resolved to risk another volley in order to ride around the 
 pursuers nearest the Union lines, thus throwing them in the rear, with 
 no better chance than a stern chase would give them. In order to 
 accomplish this, however, he had to circle very near the woods, and in 
 doing so saw a promising wood-road leading into them. The yelling 
 guerillas were so close as to make his first plan of escape extremely 
 hazardous; therefore, following some happy instinct he plunged into the 
 shade of the forest. The road proved narrow, but it was open and 
 unimpeded by overhanging boughs. Indeed, the trees were the straight, 
 slender pines in which the region abounded, and he gained on all of his 
 pursuers except two, who, like himself, were superbly mounted. The thud 
 of their horses' hoofs kept near, and he feared that he might soon come 
 to some obstruction which would bring them to close quarters. Mayburn 
 was giving signs of weariness, for his mettle had been sorely tried of 
 late, and Graham resolved to ambush his pursuers if possible. An 
 opportunity occurred speedily, for the road made a sharp turn, and 
 there was a small clearing where the timber had been cut. The dawn had 
 as yet created but a twilight in the woods, and the obscurity aided his 
 purpose. He drew up by the roadside at the beginning of the clearing, 
 and in a position where he could not readily be seen until the 
 guerillas were nearly abreast, and waited, with his heavy revolver in 
 hand and his drawn sword lying across the pommel of his saddle. 
   
 On they came at a headlong pace, and passed into the clearing but a few 
 feet away. There were two sharp reports, with the slightest possible 
 interval. The first man dropped instantly; the other rode wildly for a 
 few moments and then fell headlong, while the riderless horses galloped 
 on for a time. 
   
 Graham, however, soon overtook them, and with far more compunction than 
 he had felt in shooting their riders, he struck them such a blow with 
 his sword on their necks, a little back of their ears, that they reeled 
 and fell by the roadside. He feared those horses more than all "The 
 Band"; for if mounted again they might tire Mayburn out in a prolonged 
 chase. 
   
 To his great joy the wood lane soon emerged into another large open 
 field, and he now felt comparatively safe. 
   
 The guerillas, on hearing the shots, spurred on exultantly, feeling 
 sure of their prey, but only to stumble over their fallen comrades. One 
 was still able to explain the mode of their discomfiture; and the dusky 
 road beyond at once acquired wholesome terrors for the survivors, who 
 rode on more slowly and warily, hoping now for little more than the 
 recapture of the horses, which were the envy of all their lawless 
 hearts. Your genuine guerilla will always incur a heavy risk for a fine 
 horse. They soon discovered the poor brutes, and saw at a glance that 
 they would be of no more service in irregular prowlings. Infuriated 
 more at the loss of the beasts than at that of the men, they again 
 rushed forward only to see Graham galloping easily away in the distance. 
   
 Even in their fury they recognized that further pursuit was useless, 
 and with bitter curses on their luck, they took the saddles from the 
 fallen horses, and carried their associates, one dead and the other 
 dying, to the farmhouse in which dwelt a sympathizer, who had given 
 them refreshment during the night. 
   
 A few hours later--for he travelled the rest of the way very 
 warily--Graham reported to his colonel, and found the brigade under 
 orders to move on the following morning, provided with ten days' 
 rations. 
   
 The officer was both delighted and perplexed. "It's a hard case," he 
 said. "You acted from the noblest impulses; but it was flat 
 disobedience to orders." 
   
 "I know it. I shall probably be dismissed from the service. If so, 
 colonel, I will enlist as a private in your regiment. Then you can 
 shoot me if I disobey again." 
   
 "Well, you are the coolest fellow that ever wore the blue. Come with me 
 to headquarters." 
   
 The fact of his arrival, and an imperfect story of what had occurred, 
 soon got abroad among the men; and they were wild in their approval, 
 cheering him with the utmost enthusiasm as he passed to the brigadier's 
 tent. The general was a genuine cavalryman; and was too wise in his day 
 and generation to alienate his whole brigade by any martinetism. He 
 knew Graham's reputation well, and he was about starting on a dangerous 
 service. The cheers of the men crowding to his tent spoke volumes. 
 Hilland's regiment seemed half beside themselves when they learned that 
 Graham had found their lieutenant-colonel dying on the field, and that 
 he had been given an honorable burial. The general, therefore, gave 
 Graham a most cordial welcome; and said that the question was not 
 within his jurisdiction, and that he would forward full particulars at 
 once through the proper channels to the Secretary of War, adding, 
 "We'll be on the march before orders can reach you. Meanwhile take your 
 old command." 
   
 Then the story had to be repeated in detail to the chief officers of 
 the brigade. Graham told it in as few words as possible, and they all 
 saw that his grief was so profound that the question of his future 
 position in the army was scarcely thought of. "I am not a sentimental 
 recruit," he said in conclusion. "I know the nature of my offence, and 
 will make no plea beyond that I believed that all danger to our command 
 had passed, and that it would ride quietly into camp, as it did. I also 
 thought that my superiors in giving the order were more concerned for 
 my safety than, for anything else. What the consequences are to myself 
 personally, I don't care a straw. There are some misfortunes which 
 dwarf all others." The conference broke up with the most hearty 
 expressions of sympathy, and the regret for Hilland's death was both 
 deep and genuine. 
   
 "I have a favor to ask my colonel, with your approval, General," said 
 Graham. "I would like to take a small detachment and capture the owner 
 of the farmhouse at which was harbored part of the guerilla band from 
 which I escaped. I would like to make him confess the names of his 
 associates, and send word to them that if harm comes to any who showed 
 kindness or respect to officers of our brigade, severe punishment will 
 be meted out on every one whenever the region is occupied by Union 
 forces." 
   
 "I order the thing to be done at once," cried the general. "Colonel, 
 give Major Graham as many men as he needs; and, Graham, send word we'll 
 hang every mother's son of 'em and burn their ranches if they indulge 
 in any more of their devilish outrages. Bring the farmer into camp, and 
 I will send him to Washington as a hostage." 
   
 On this occasion Graham obeyed orders literally. The farmer and two of 
 the guerillas were captured; and when threatened with a noosed rope 
 confessed the names of the others. A nearly grown son of the farmer was 
 intrusted with the general's message to their associates; and Graham 
 added emphatically that he intended to come himself some day and see 
 that it was obeyed. "Tell them to go into the army and become 
 straightforward soldiers if they wish, but if I ever hear of another 
 outrage I'll never rest till the general's threat is carried out." 
   
 Graham's deadly pistol shots and the reputation he had gained in the 
 vicinity gave weight to his words; and "The Band" subsided into the 
 most humdrum farmers of the region. Rita had ample information of his 
 safety, for it soon became known that he had killed two of the most 
 active and daring of the guerillas and captured three others; and she 
 worshipped the hero of her girlish fancy all the more devoutly. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI (JUST IN TIME) 
 Graham returned to camp early in the afternoon, and was again greeted 
 with acclamations, for the events that had occurred had become better 
 known. The men soon saw, however, from his sad, stern visage that he 
 was in no mood for ovations, and that noisy approval of his course was 
 very distasteful. After reporting, he went directly to his tent; its 
 flaps were closed, and Iss was instructed to permit no one to approach 
 unless bearing orders. The faithful negro, overjoyed at his master's 
 safe return, marched to and fro like a belligerent watch-dog. 
   
 Graham wrote the whole story to his aunt, and besought her to make 
 known to Grace with all the gentleness and tact that she possessed the 
 awful certainty of her husband's death. A telegram announcing him among 
 the missing had already been sent. "Say to her," he said, in 
 conclusion, "that during every waking moment I am grieving for her and 
 with her. Oh, I tremble at the effect of her grief: I dread its 
 consequences beyond all words. You know that every power I possess is 
 wholly at her service. Write me daily and direct me what to do--if, 
 alas! it is within my power to do anything in regard to a grief that is 
 without remedy." 
   
 He then explained that the command was under orders to move the 
 following day, and that he would write again when he could. 
   
 During the next two weeks he saw some active service, taking part in 
 several skirmishes and one severe engagement. In the last it was his 
 fortune to receive on the shoulder a sabre-cut which promised to be a 
 painful though not a dangerous wound, his epaulet having broken the 
 force of the blow. 
   
 On the evening of the battle a telegram was forwarded to him containing 
 the words: 
   
 "Have written fully. Come home if you can for a short time. All need 
 you. CHARLOTTE MAYBURN." 
   
 In the rapid movements of his brigade his aunt's letters had failed 
 to reach him, and now he esteemed his wound most fortunate since it 
 secured him a leave of absence. 
   
 His journey home was painful in every sense of the word. He was 
 oppressed by the saddest of memories. He both longed and dreaded 
 unspeakably to see Grace, and the lack of definite tidings from her 
 left his mind a prey to the dreariest forebodings, which were enhanced 
 by his aunt's telegram. The physical pain from which he was never free 
 was almost welcomed as a diversion from his distress of mind. He 
 stopped in Washington only long enough to have his wound re-dressed, 
 and pushed northward. A fatality of delays irritated him beyond 
 measure; and it was late at night when he left the cars and was driven 
 to his aunt's residence. 
   
 A yearning and uncontrollable interest impelled him to approach first 
 the cottage which contained the woman, dearer to him than all the 
 world, who had been so strangely committed to his care. To his surprise 
 there was a faint light in the library; and Hilland's ill-omened dream 
 flashed across his mind. With a prophetic dread at heart, he stepped 
 lightly up the piazza to a window. As he turned the blinds he witnessed 
 a scene that so smote his heart that he had to lean against the house 
 for support. Before him was the reality of poor Hilland's vision. 
   
 On the rug before the flickering fire the stricken wife crouched, 
 wringing her hands, which looked ghostly in their whiteness. A candle 
 burning dimly on a table increased the light of the fire; and by their 
 united rays he saw, with a thrill of horror, that her loosened hair, 
 which covered her bowed face and shoulders, was, in truth, silver 
 white; and its contrast with her black wrapper made the whole scene, 
 linked as it was with a dead man's dream, so ghostly that he shuddered, 
 and was inclined to believe it to be the creation of his overwrought 
 senses. In self-distrust he looked around. Other objects were clear in 
 the faint moonlight. He was perfectly conscious of the dull ache of his 
 wound. Had the phantom crouched before the fire vanished? No; but now 
 the silver hair was thrown back, and Grace Hilland's white, agonized 
 face was lifted heavenward. Oh, how white it was! 
   
 She slowly took a dark-colored vial from her bosom. 
   
 Thrilled with unspeakable horror, "Grace!" he shouted, and by a 
 desperate effort threw the blind upward and off from its hinges, and it 
 fell with a crash on the veranda. Springing into the apartment, he had 
 not reached her side before the door opened, and his aunt's frightened 
 face appeared. 
   
 "Great God! what does this mean, Alford?" 
   
 "What _does_ it mean, indeed!" he echoed in agonized tones, as he knelt 
 beside Grace, who had fallen on the floor utterly unconscious. "Bring 
 the candle here," he added hoarsely. 
   
 She mechanically obeyed and seemed almost paralyzed. After a moment's 
 search he snatched up something and cried: "She's safe, she's safe! The 
 cork is not removed." Then he thrust the vial into his pocket, and 
 lifted Grace gently on the lounge, saying meanwhile: "She has only 
 fainted; surely 'tis no more. Oh, as you value my life and hers, act. 
 You should know what to do. I will send the coachman for a physician 
 instantly, and will come when you need me." 
   
 Rushing to the man's room, he dragged him from his bed, shook him 
 awake, and gave him instructions and offers of reward that stirred the 
 fellow's blood as it had never been stirred before; and yet when he 
 reached the stable he found that Graham had broken the lock and had a 
 horse saddled and ready. 
   
 "Now ride," he was commanded, "as if the devil you believe in was after 
 you." 
   
 Then Graham rushed back into the house, for he was almost beside 
 himself. But when he heard the poor old major calling piteously, and 
 asking what was the matter, he was taught his need of self-control. 
 Going up to the veteran's room, he soothed him by saying that he had 
 returned late in the night in response to his aunt's telegram, and that 
 he had found Grace fainting on the floor, that Mrs. Mayburn and the 
 servants were with her, and that a physician had been sent for. 
   
 "Oh, Graham, Graham," moaned the old man, "I fear my peerless girl is 
 losing her mind, she has acted so strangely of late. It's time you 
 came. It's time something was done, or the worst may happen." 
   
 With an almost overwhelming sense of horror, Graham remembered how 
 nearly the worst had happened, but he only said: "Let us hope the worst 
 has passed. I will bring you word from Mrs. Mayburn from time to time." 
   
 His terrible anxiety was only partially relieved, for his aunt said 
 that Grace's swoon was obstinate, and would not yield to the remedies 
 she was using. "Come in," she cried. "This is no time for ceremony. 
 Take brandy and chafe her wrists." 
   
 What a mortal chill her cold hands gave him! It was worse than when 
 Hilland's hands were cold in his. 
   
 "Oh, aunt, she will live?" 
   
 "Certainly," was the brusque reply. "A fainting turn is nothing. Come, 
 you are cool in a battle: be cool now. It won't do for us all to lose 
 our wits, although Heaven knows there's cause enough." 
   
 "How white her face and neck are!"--for Mrs. Mayburn had opened her 
 wrapper at the throat, that she might breathe more easily--"just as 
 Hilland saw her in his dream." 
   
 "Have done with your dreams, and omens, and all your weird nonsense. 
 It's time for a little more _common_-sense. Rub her wrists gently but 
 strongly; and if she shows signs of consciousness, disappear." 
   
 At last she said hastily, "Go" 
   
 Listening at the door, he heard Grace ask, a few moments later, in a 
 faint voice, "What has happened?'" 
   
 "You only fainted, deary." 
   
 "Why--why--I'm in the library." 
   
 "Yes, you got up in your sleep, and I followed you; and the doctor will 
 soon be here, although little need we have of him." 
   
 "Oh, I've had a fearful dream. I thought I saw Warren or Alford. I 
 surely heard Alford's voice." 
   
 "Yes, dear, I've no doubt you had a bad dream; and it may be that 
 Alford's voice caused it, for he arrived late last night and has been 
 talking with your father." 
   
 "That must be it," she sighed; "but my head is so confused. Oh, I am so 
 glad he's come! When can I see him?" 
   
 "Not till after the doctor comes and you are much stronger." 
   
 "I wish to thank him; I can't wait to thank him." 
   
 "He doesn't want thanks, deary; he wants you to get well. You owe it to 
 him and your father to get well--as well as your great and lifelong 
 sorrow permits. Now, deary, take a little more stimulant, and then 
 don't talk. I've explained everything, and shown you your duty; and I 
 know that my brave Grace will do it." 
   
 "I'll try," she said, with a pathetic weariness in her voice that 
 brought a rush of tears to Graham's eyes. 
   
 Returning to Major St. John, he assured him that Grace had revived, and 
 that he believed she would be herself hereafter. 
   
 "Oh, this cursed war!" groaned the old man; "and how I have exulted in 
 it and Warren's career! I had a blind confidence that he would come out 
 of it a veteran general while yet little more than a boy. My ambition 
 has been punished, punished; and I may lose both the children of whom I 
 was so proud. Oh, Graham, the whole world is turning as black as 
 Grace's mourning robes." 
   
 "I have felt that way myself. But, Major, as soldiers we must face this 
 thing like men. The doctor has come; and I will bring him here before 
 he goes, to give his report." 
   
 "Well, Graham, a father's blessing on you for going back for Warren. If 
 Grace had been left in suspense as to his fate she would have gone mad 
 in very truth. God only knows how it will be now; but she has a better 
 chance in meeting and overcoming the sharp agony of certainty." 
   
 Under the physician's remedies Grace rallied more rapidly; and he said 
 that if carried to her room she would soon sleep quietly. 
   
 "I wish to see Mr. Graham first," she said, decisively. 
   
 To Mrs. Mayburn's questioning glance, he added, "Gratify her. I have 
 quieting remedies at hand." 
   
 "He will prove more quieting than all remedies. He saved my husband's 
 life once, and tried to do so again; and I wish to tell him I never 
 forget it night or day. He is brave, and strong, and tranquil; and I 
 feel that to take his hand will allay the fever in my brain." 
   
 "Grace, I am here," he said, pushing open the door and bending his knee 
 at her side while taking her hand. "Waste no strength in thanks. School 
 your broken heart into patience; and remember how dear, beyond all 
 words, your life is to others. Your father's life depends on yours." 
   
 "I'll try," she again said; "I think I feel better, differently. An 
 oppression that seemed stifling, crushing me, is passing away. Alford, 
 was there no chance--no chance at all of saving him?" 
   
 "Alas! no; and yet it is all so much better than it might have been! 
 His grave is in a quiet, beautiful spot, which you can visit; and fresh 
 flowers are placed upon it every day. Dear Grace, compare your lot with 
 that of so many others whose loved ones are left on the field." 
   
 "As he would have been were it not for you, my true, true friend," and 
 she carried his hand to her lips in passionate gratitude. Then tears 
 gushed from her eyes, and she sobbed like a child. 
   
 "Thank the good God!" ejaculated Mrs. Mayburn. "These are the first 
 tears she has shed. She will be better now. Come, deary, you have seen 
 Alford. He is to stop with us a long time, and will tell you everything 
 over and over. You must sleep now." 
   
 Graham kissed her hand and left the room, and the servants carried her 
 to her apartment. Mrs. Mayburn and the physician soon joined him in the 
 library, which was haunted by a memory that would shake his soul to his 
 dying day. 
   
 The physician in a cheerful mood said, "I now predict a decided change 
 for the better. It would almost seem that she had had some shock which 
 has broken the evil spell; and this natural flow of tears is better 
 than all the medicine in the world;" and then he and Mrs. Mayburn 
 explained how Grace's manner had been growing so strange and unnatural 
 that they feared her mind was giving way. 
   
 "I fear you were right," Graham replied sadly; and he told them of the 
 scene he had witnessed, and produced the vial of laudanum. 
   
 The physician was much shocked, but Mrs. Mayburn had already guessed 
 the truth from her nephew's words and manner when she first discovered 
 him. 
   
 "Neither Grace nor her father must ever know of this," she said, with a 
 shudder. 
   
 "Certainly not; but Dr. Markham should know. As her physician, he 
 should know the whole truth." 
   
 "I think that phase of her trouble has passed," said the doctor, 
 thoughtfully; "but, as you say, I must be on my guard. Pardon me, you 
 do not look well yourself. Indeed, you look faint;" for Graham had sunk 
 into a chair. 
   
 "I fear I have been losing considerable blood," said Graham, 
 carelessly; "and now that this strong excitement is passing, it begins 
 to tell. I owe my leave of absence to a wound." 
   
 "A wound!" cried his aunt, coming to his side. "Why did you not speak 
 of it?" 
   
 "Indeed, there has been enough to speak of beyond this trifle. Take a 
 look at my shoulder, doctor, and do what you think best." 
   
 "And here is enough to do," was his reply as soon as Graham's shoulder 
 was bared: "an ugly cut, and all broken loose by your exertions this 
 evening. You must keep very quiet and have good care, or this reopened 
 wound will make you serious trouble." 
   
 "Well, doctor, we have so much serious trouble on hand that a little 
 more won't matter much." 
   
 His aunt inspected the wound with grim satisfaction, and then said, 
 sententiously: "I'm glad you have got it, Alford, for it will keep you 
 home and divert Grace's thoughts. In these times a wound that leaves 
 the heart untouched may be useful; and nothing cures a woman's trouble 
 better than having to take up the troubles of others. I predict a deal 
 of healing for Grace in your wound." 
   
 "All which goes to prove," added the busy physician, "that woman's 
 nature is different from man's." 
   
 When he was gone, having first assured the major over and over again 
 that all danger was past, Graham said, "Aunt, Grace's hair is as white 
 as yours." 
   
 "Yes; it turned white within a week after she learned the certainty of 
 her husband's death." 
   
 "Would that I could have died in Hilland's place!" 
   
 "Yes," said the old lady, bitterly; "you were always too ready to die." 
   
 He drew her down to him as he lay on the lounge, and kissed her 
 tenderly, as he said, "But I have kept my promise 'to live and do my 
 best.'" 
   
 "You have kept your promise _to live_ after a fashion. My words have 
 also proved true, 'Good has come of it, and more good will come of it.'" 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII (A WOUNDED SPIRIT) 
 Grace's chief symptom when she awoke on the following morning was an 
 extreme lassitude. She was almost as weak as a violent fever would have 
 left her, but her former unnatural and fitful manner was gone. Mrs. 
 Mayburn told Graham that she had had long moods of deep abstraction, 
 during which her eyes would be fixed on vacancy, with a stare terrible 
 to witness, and then would follow uncontrollable paroxysms of grief. 
   
 "This morning," said her anxious nurse, "she is more like a broken lily 
 that has not strength to raise its head. But the weakness will pass; 
 she'll rally. Not many die of grief, especially when young." 
   
 "Save her life, aunty, and I can still do a man's part in the world." 
   
 "Well, Alford, you must help me. She has been committed to your care; 
 and it's a sacred trust." 
   
 Graham was now installed in his old quarters, and placed under Aunt 
 Sheba's care. His energetic aunt, however, promised to look in upon him 
 often, and kept her word. The doctor predicted a tedious time with his 
 wound, and insisted on absolute quiet for a few days. He was mistaken, 
 however. Time would not be tedious, with frequent tidings of Grace's 
 convalescence and her many proofs of deep solicitude about his wound. 
   
 Grace did rally faster than had been expected. Her system had received 
 a terrible shock, but it had not been enfeebled by disease. With 
 returning strength came an insatiate craving for action--an almost 
 desperate effort to occupy her hands and mind. Before it was prudent 
 for Graham to go out or exert himself--for his wound had developed some 
 bad symptoms--she came to see him, bringing delicacies made with her 
 own hands. 
   
 Never had her appearance so appealed to his heart. Her face had grown 
 thin, but its lovely outlines remained; and her dark eyes seemed 
 tenfold more lustrous in contrast with her white hair. She had now a 
 presence that the most stolid would turn and look after with a 
 wondering pity and admiration, while those gifted with a fine 
 perception could scarcely see her without tears. Graham often thought 
 that if she could be turned into marble she would make the ideal statue 
 representing the women of both the contending sections whose hearts the 
 war had broken. 
   
 As she came and went, and as he eventually spent long hours with her 
 and her father, she became to him a study of absorbing interest, in 
 which his old analytical bent was not wholly wanting. "What," he asked 
 himself every hour in the day, "will be the effect of an experience 
 like this on such a woman? what the final outcome?" There was in this 
 interest no curiosity, in the vulgar sense of the word. It was rather 
 the almost sleepless suspense of a man who has everything at stake, and 
 who, in watching the struggle of another mind to cope with misfortune, 
 must learn at the same time his own fate. It was far more than this--it 
 was the vigilance of one who would offer help at all times and at any 
 cost, Still, so strong are natural or acquired characteristics that he 
 could not do this without manifesting some of the traits of the Alford 
 Graham who years before had studied the mirthful Grace St. John with 
 the hope of analyzing her power and influence. And had he been wholly 
 indifferent to her, and as philosophical and cynical as once it was his 
 pride to think he was, she would still have remained an absorbing 
 study. Her sudden and awful bereavement had struck her strong and 
 exceptional spiritual nature with the shattering force of the ball that 
 crashes through muscle, bone, and nerves. In the latter case the wound 
 may be mortal, or it may cause weakness and deformity. The wounded 
 spirit must survive, although the effects of the wound may be even more 
 serious and far-reaching--changing, developing, or warping character to 
 a degree that even the most experienced cannot predict. Next to God, 
 time is the great healer; and human love, guided by tact, can often 
 achieve signal success. 
   
 But for Graham there was no God; and it must be said that this was 
 becoming true of Grace also. As Hilland had feared, the influence of 
 those she loved and trusted most had gradually sapped her faith, which 
 in her case had been more a cherished tradition, received from her 
 mother, than a vital experience. 
   
 Hilland's longings for a life hereafter, and his words of regret that 
 she had lost the faith of her girlhood, were neutralized by the bitter 
 revolt of her spirit against her immeasurable misfortune. Her own 
 experience was to her a type of all the desolating evil and sorrow of 
 the world; and in her agony she could not turn to a God who permitted 
 such evil and suffering. It seemed to her that there could be no 
 merciful, overruling Providence--that her husband's view, when his mind 
 was in its most vigorous and normal state, was more rational than a 
 religion which taught that a God who loved good left evil to make such 
 general havoc. 
   
 "It's the same blind contention of forces in men as in nature," she 
 said to herself; "and only the strong or the fortunate survive." 
   
 One day she asked Graham abruptly, "Do you believe that the human 
 spirit lives on after death?" 
   
 He was sorely troubled to know how to answer her, but after a little 
 hesitation said, "I feel, as your husband did, that I should be glad if 
 you had the faith of your girlhood. I think it would be a comfort to 
 you." 
   
 "That's truly the continental view, that superstition is useful to 
 women. Will you not honestly treat me as your equal, and tell me what 
 you, as an educated man, believe?" 
   
 "No," he replied, gravely and sadly, "I will only recall with emphasis 
 your husband's last words." 
   
 "You are loyal to him, at least; and I respect you for it. But I know 
 what you believe, and what Warren believed when his faculties were 
 normal and unbiased by the intense longing of his heart. I am only a 
 woman, Alford, but I must use such little reason as I have; and no 
 being except one created by man's ruthless imagination could permit the 
 suffering which this war daily entails. It's all of the earth, earthy. 
 Alford," she added, in low, passionate utterance, "I could believe in a 
 devil more easily than in a God; and yet my unbelief sinks me into the 
 very depths of a hopeless desolation. What am I? A mere little atom 
 among these mighty forces and passions which rock the world with their 
 violence. Oh, I was so happy! and now I am crushed by some haphazard 
 bullet shot in the darkness." 
   
 He looked at her wonderingly, and was silent. 
   
 "Alford," she continued, her eyes glowing in the excitement of her 
 strong, passionate spirit, "I will not succumb to all this monstrous 
 evil. If I am but a transient emanation of the earth, and must soon 
 return to my kindred dust, still I can do a little to diminish the 
 awful aggregate of suffering. My nature, earth-born as it is, revolts 
 at a selfish indifference to it all. Oh, if there is a God, why does He 
 not rend the heavens in His haste to stay the black torrents of evil? 
 Why does He not send the angels of whom my mother told me when a child, 
 and bid them stand between the armies that are desolating thousands of 
 hearts like mine? Or if He chooses to work by silent, gentle influences 
 like those of spring, why does He not bring human hearts together that 
 are akin, and enhance the content and happiness which our brief life 
 permits? But no. Unhappy mistakes are made. Alas, my friend, we both 
 know it to our sorrow! Why should I feign ignorance of that which your 
 unbounded and unselfish devotion has proved so often? Why should you 
 not know that before this deadly stroke fell my one grief was that you 
 suffered; and that as long as I could pray I prayed for your happiness? 
 Now I can see only merciless force or blind chance, that in nature 
 smites with the tornado the lonely forest or the thriving village, the 
 desolate waves or some ship upon them. Men, with all their boasted 
 reason, are even worse. What could be more mad and useless than this 
 war? Alford, I alone have suffered enough to make the thing accursed; 
 and I must suffer to the end: and I am only one of countless women. 
 What is there for me, what for them, but to grow lonelier and sadder 
 every day? But I won't submit to the evil. I won't be a mere bit of 
 helpless drift. While I live there shall be a little less suffering in 
 the world. Ah, Alford! you see how far removed I am from the sportive 
 girl you saw on that May evening years ago. I am an old, white-haired, 
 broken-hearted woman; and yet," with a grand look in her eyes, she 
 concluded, "I have spirit enough left to take up arms against all the 
 evil and suffering within my reach. I know how puny my efforts will be; 
 but I would rather try to push back an avalanche than cower before it." 
   
 Thus she revealed to him the workings of her mind; and he worshipped 
 her anew as one of the gentlest and most loving of women, and yet 
 possessed of a nature so strong that under the guidance of reason it 
 could throw off the shackles of superstition and defy even fate. Under 
 the spell of her words the evil of the world did seem an avalanche, not 
 of snow, but of black molten lava; while she, too brave and noble to 
 cower and cringe, stood before it, her little hand outstretched to stay 
 its deadly onset. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII (THE WHITE-HAIRED NURSE) 
 Life at the two cottages was extremely secluded. All who felt entitled 
 to do so made calls, partly of condolence and partly from curiosity. 
 The occupants of the two unpretending dwellings had the respect of the 
 community; but from their rather unsocial ways could not be popular. 
 The old major had ever detested society in one of its phases--that is, 
 the claims of mere vicinage, the duty to call and be called upon by 
 people who live near, when there is scarcely a thought or taste in 
 common. With his Southern and army associations he had drifted to a New 
 England city; but he ignored the city except as it furnished friends 
 and things that pleased him. His attitude was not contemptuous or 
 unneighborly, but simply indifferent. 
   
 "I don't thrust my life on any one," he once said to Mrs. Mayburn, 
 "except you and Grace. Why should other people thrust their lives on 
 me?" 
   
 His limited income had required economy, and his infirmities a life 
 free from annoyance. As has been shown, Grace had practiced the one 
 with heart as light as her purse; and had interposed her own sweet self 
 between the irritable veteran and everything that could vex him. The 
 calling world had had its revenge. The major was profane, they had 
 said; Grace was proud, or led a slavish life. The most heinous sin of 
 all was, they were poor. There were several families, however, whom 
 Grace and the major had found congenial, with various shades of 
 difference; and the young girl had never lacked all the society she 
 cared for. Books had been her chief pleasure; the acquaintance of good 
 whist-players had been cultivated; army and Southern friends had 
 appeared occasionally; and when Mrs. Mayburn had become a neighbor, she 
 had been speedily adopted into the closest intimacy. When Hilland had 
 risen above their horizon he soon glorified the world to Grace. To the 
 astonishment of society, she had married a millionaire, and they had 
 all continued to live as quietly and unostentatiously as before. There 
 had been another slight effort to "know the people at the St. John 
 cottage," but it had speedily died out. The war had brought chiefly 
 military associations and absence. Now again there was an influx of 
 callers largely from the church that Grace had once attended. Mrs. 
 Mayburn received the majority with a grim politeness, but discriminated 
 very favorably in case of those who came solely from honest sympathy. 
 All were made to feel, however, that, like a mourning veil, sorrow 
 should shield its victims from uninvited observation. 
   
 Hilland's mother had long been dead, and his father died at the time 
 when he was summoned from his studies in Germany. While on good terms 
 with his surviving relatives, there had been no very close relationship 
 or intimacy remaining. Grace had declared that she wished no other 
 funeral service than the one conducted by the good old Confederate 
 pastor; and the relatives, learning that they had no interest in the 
 will, speedily discovered that they had no further interest whatever. 
 Thus the inmates of the two cottages were left to pursue their own 
 shadowed paths, with little interference from the outside world. The 
 major treasured a few cordial eulogies of Hilland cut from the journals 
 at the time; and except in the hearts wherein he was enshrined a living 
 image, the brave, genial, high-souled man passed from men's thoughts 
 and memories, like thousands of others in that long harvest of death. 
   
 Graham's wound at last was wellnigh healed, and the time was drawing 
 near for his return to the army. His general had given such a very 
 favorable account of the circumstances attending his offence, and of 
 his career as a soldier both before and after the affair, that the 
 matter was quietly ignored. Moreover, Hilland, as a soldier and by 
 reason of the loyal use of his wealth, stood very high in the 
 estimation of the war authorities; and the veteran major was not 
 without his surviving circle of influential friends. Graham, therefore, 
 not only retained his rank, but was marked for promotion. 
   
 Of all this, however, he thought and cared little. If he had loved 
 Grace before, he idolized her now. And yet with all her deep affection 
 for him and her absolute trust, she seemed more remote than ever. In 
 the new phase of her grief she was ever seeking to do little things 
 which she thought would please him. But this was also true of her 
 course toward Mrs. Mayburn, especially so toward her father, and also, 
 to a certain extent, toward the poor and sick in the vicinity. Her one 
 effort seemed to be to escape from her thoughts, herself, in a 
 ceaseless ministry to others. And the effort sometimes degenerated into 
 restlessness. There was such a lack of repose in her manner that even 
 those who loved her most were pained and troubled. There was not enough 
 to keep her busy all the time, and yet she was ever impelled to do 
 something. 
   
 One day she said to Graham, "I wish I could go back with you to the 
 war; not that I wish to shed another drop of blood, but I would like to 
 march, march forever." 
   
 Shrewd Mrs. Mayburn, who had been watching Grace closely for the last 
 week or two, said quietly: "Take her back with you, Alford. Let her 
 become a nurse in some hospital. It will do both her and a lot of poor 
 fellows a world of good." 
   
 "Mrs. Mayburn, you have thought of just the thing," cried Grace. "In a 
 hospital full of sick and wounded men I could make my life amount to 
 something; I should never need to be idle then." 
   
 "Yes, you would. You would be under orders like Alford, and would have 
 to rest when off duty. But, as you say, you could be of great service, 
 instead of wasting your energy in coddling two old people. You might 
 save many a poor fellow's life." 
   
 "Oh," she exclaimed, clasping her hands, "the bare thought of saving 
 one poor woman from such suffering as mine is almost overwhelming. But 
 how can I leave papa?" 
   
 "I'll take care of the major and insure his consent. If men are so 
 possessed to make wounds, it's time women did more to cure them. It's 
 all settled: you are to go. I'll see the major about it now, if he 
 _has_ just begun his newspaper;" and the old lady took her knitting and 
 departed with her wonted prompt energy. 
   
 At first Graham was almost speechless from surprise, mingled doubt and 
 pleasure; but the more he thought of it, the more he was convinced that 
 the plan was an inspiration. 
   
 "Alford, you will take me?" she said, appealingly. 
   
 "Yes," he replied, smilingly, "if you will promise to obey my orders in 
 part, as well as those of your superiors." 
   
 "I'll promise anything if you will only take me. Am I not under your 
 care?" 
   
 "Oh, Grace, Grace, I can do so little for you!" 
   
 "No one living can do more. In providing this chance of relieving a 
 little pain, of preventing a little suffering, you help me, you serve 
 me, you comfort me, as no one else could. And, Alford, if you are 
 wounded, come to the hospital where I am; I will never leave you till 
 you are well. Take me to some exposed place in the field, where there 
 is danger, where men are brought in desperately wounded, where you 
 would be apt to be." 
   
 "I don't know where I shall be, but I would covet any wound that would 
 bring you to my side as nurse." 
   
 She thought a few moments, and then said, resolutely: "I will keep as 
 near to you as I can. I ask no pay for my services. On the contrary, I 
 will employ my useless wealth in providing for exposed hospitals. When 
 I attempt to take care of the sick or wounded, I will act scrupulously 
 under the orders of the surgeon in charge; but I do not see why, if I 
 pay my own way, I cannot come and go as I think I can be the most 
 useful." 
   
 "Perhaps you could, to a certain extent, if you had a permit," said 
 Graham, thoughtfully; "but I think you would accomplish more by 
 remaining in one hospital and acquiring skill by regular work. It would 
 be a source of indescribable anxiety to me to think of your going about 
 alone. If I know just where you are, I can find you and write to you." 
   
 "I will do just what you wish," she said, gently. 
   
 "I wish for only what is best for you." 
   
 "I know that. It would be strange if I did not." 
   
 Mrs. Mayburn was not long in convincing the major that her plan might 
 be the means of incalculable benefit to Grace as well as to others. He, 
 as well as herself and Graham, had seen with deep anxiety that Grace 
 was giving way to a fever of unrest; and he acquiesced in the view that 
 it might better run its course in wholesome and useful activity, amid 
 scenes of suffering that might tend to reconcile her to her own sorrow. 
   
 Graham, however, took the precaution of calling on Dr. Markham, who, to 
 his relief, heartily approved of the measure. On one point Graham was 
 firm. He would not permit her to go to a hospital in the field, liable 
 to vicissitudes from sudden movements of the contending armies. He 
 found one for her, however, in which she would have ample scope for all 
 her efforts; and before he left he interested those in charge so deeply 
 in the white-haired nurse that he felt she would always be under 
 watchful, friendly eyes. 
   
 "Grace," he said, as he was taking leave, "I have tried to be a true 
 friend to you." 
   
 "Oh, Alford!" she exclaimed, and she seized his hand and held it in 
 both of hers. 
   
 His face grew stern rather than tender as he added: "You will not be a 
 true friend to me--you will wrong me deeply--if you are reckless of 
 your health and strength. Remember that, like myself, you have entered 
 the service, and that you are pledged to do your duty, and not to work 
 with feverish zeal until your strength fails. You are just as much 
 under obligation to take essential rest as to care for the most sorely 
 wounded in your ward. I shall take the advice I give. Believing that I 
 am somewhat essential to your welfare and the happiness of those whom 
 we have left at home, I shall incur no risks beyond those which 
 properly fall to my lot. I ask you to be equally conscientious and 
 considerate of those whose lives are bound up in you." 
   
 "I'll try," she said, with that same pathetic look and utterance which 
 had so moved him on the fearful night of his return from the army. 
 "But, Alford, do not speak to me so gravely, I had almost said sternly, 
 just as we are saying good-by." 
   
 He raised her hand to his lips, and smiled into her pleading face as he 
 replied, "I only meant to impress you with the truth that you have a 
 patient who is not in your ward--one who will often be sleeping under 
 the open sky, I know not where. Care a little for him, as well as for 
 the unknown men in your charge. This you can do only by taking care of 
 yourself. You, of all others, should know that there are wounds besides 
 those which will bring men to this hospital." 
   
 Tears rushed into her eyes as she faltered, "You could not have made a 
 stronger appeal." 
   
 "You will write to me often?" 
   
 "Yes, and you cannot write too often. Oh, Alford, I cannot wish you had 
 never seen me; but it would have been far, far better for you if you 
 had not." 
   
 "No, no," he said, in low, strong emphasis. "Grace Hilland, I would 
 rather be your friend than have the love of any woman that ever lived." 
   
 "You do yourself great wrong (pardon me for saying it, but your 
 happiness is so dear to me), you do yourself great wrong. A girl like 
 Pearl Anderson could make you truly happy; and you could make her 
 happy." 
   
 "Sweet little Pearl will be happy some day; and I may be one of the 
 causes, but not in the way you suggest. It is hard to say good-by and 
 leave you here alone, and every moment I stay only makes it harder." 
   
 He raised her hand once more to his lips, then almost rushed away. 
   
 Days lapsed into weeks, and weeks into months. The tireless nurse 
 alleviated suffering of every kind; and her silvery hair was like a 
 halo around a saintly head to many a poor fellow. She had the deep 
 solace of knowing that not a few wives and mothers would have mourned 
 had it not been for her faithfulness. 
   
 But her own wound would not heal. She sometimes felt that she was 
 slowly bleeding to death. The deep, dark tide of suffering, in spite of 
 all she could do, grew deeper and darker; and she was growing weary and 
 discouraged. 
   
 Graham saw her at rare intervals; and although she brightened greatly 
 at his presence, and made heroic efforts to satisfy him that she was 
 doing well, he grew anxious and depressed. But there was nothing 
 tangible, nothing definite. She was only a little paler, a little 
 thinner; and when he spoke of it she smilingly told him that he was 
 growing gaunt himself with his hard campaigning. 
   
 "But you, Grace," he complained, "are beginning to look like a wraith 
 that may vanish some moonlight night." 
   
 Her letters were frequent, sometimes even cheerful, but brief. He wrote 
 at great length, filling his pages with descriptions of nature, with 
 scenes that were often humorous but not trivial, with genuine life, but 
 none of its froth. Life for both had become too deep a tragedy for any 
 nonsense. He passed through many dangers, but these, as far as 
 possible, he kept in the background; and fate, pitying his one deep 
 wound, spared him any others. 
   
 At last there came the terrible battle of the Wilderness, and the wards 
 were filled with desperately wounded men. The poor nurse gathered up 
 her failing powers for one more effort; and Confederate and Union men 
 looked after her wonderingly and reverently, even in their mortal 
 weakness. To many she seemed like a ministering spirit rather than a 
 woman of flesh and blood; and lips of dying men blessed her again and 
 again. But they brought no blessing. She only shuddered and grew more 
 faint of heart as the scenes of agony and death increased. Each wound 
 was a type of Hilland's wound, and in every expiring man she saw her 
 husband die. Her poor little hands trembled now as she sought to stem 
 the black, black tide that deepened and broadened and foamed around her. 
   
 Late one night, after a new influx of the wounded, she was greatly 
 startled while passing down her ward by hearing a voice exclaim, 
 "Grace--Grace Brentford!" 
   
 It was her mother's name. 
   
 The call was repeated; and she tremblingly approached a cot on which 
 was lying a gray-haired man. 
   
 "Great God!" he exclaimed, "am I dreaming? am I delirious? How is it 
 that I see before me the woman I loved forty-odd years ago? You cannot 
 be Grace Brentford, for she died long years since." 
   
 "No, but I am her daughter." 
   
 "Her daughter!" said the man, struggling to rise upon his elbow--"her 
 daughter! She should not look older than you." 
   
 "Alas, sir, my age is not the work of time, but of grief. I grew old in 
 a day. But if you knew and loved my mother, you have sacred claims upon 
 I am a nurse in this ward, and will devote myself to you." 
 
   
 The man sank back exhausted. "This is strange, strange indeed," he 
 said. "It is God's own providence. Yes, my child, I loved your mother, 
 and I love her still. Harry St. John won her fairly; but he could not 
 have loved her better than I. I am now a lonely old man, dying, I 
 believe, in my enemy's hands, but I thank God that I've seen Grace 
 Brentford's child, and that she can soothe my last hours." 
   
 "Do not feel so discouraged about yourself," said Grace, her tears 
 falling fast. "Think rather that yon have been brought here that I 
 might nurse you back to life. Believe me, I will do so with tender, 
 loving care." 
   
 "How strange it all is!" the man said again. "You have her very voice, 
 her manner. But it was by your eyes that I recognized you. Your eyes 
 are young and beautiful like hers, and full of tears, as hers were when 
 she sent me away with an ache to my heart that has never ceased. It 
 will soon be cured now. Your father will remember a wild young planter 
 down in Georgia by the name of Phil Harkness." 
   
 "Indeed, sir, I've heard both of my parents speak of you, and it was 
 ever with respect and esteem." 
   
 "Give my greeting to your father, and say I never bore him any 
 ill-will. In the saddest life there is always some compensation. I have 
 had wealth and honors; I am a colonel in our army, and have been able 
 to serve the cause I loved; but, chief of all, the child of Grace 
 Brentford is by my side at the end. Is your name Grace also?" 
   
 "Yes. Oh, why is the world so full of hopeless trouble?" 
   
 "Not hopeless trouble, my child. I am not hopeless. For long years I 
 have had peace, if not happiness--a deep inward calm which the 
 confusion and roar of the bloodiest battles could not disturb. I can 
 close my eyes now in my final sleep as quietly as a child. In a few 
 hours, my dear, I may see your mother; and I shall tell her that I left 
 her child assuaging her own sorrow by ministering to others." 
   
 "Oh, oh!" sobbed Grace, "pray cease, or I shall not be fit for my 
 duties; your words pierce my very soul. Let me nurse you back to 
 health. Let me take you to my home until you are exchanged, for I must 
 return. I must, must. My strength is going fast; and you bring before 
 me my dear old father whom I have left too long." 
   
 "My poor child! God comfort and sustain you. Do not let me keep you 
 longer from your duties, and from those who need you more than I. Come 
 and say a word to me when you can. That's all I ask. My wound was 
 dressed before your watch began, and I am doing as well as I could 
 expect. When you feel like it, you can tell me more about yourself." 
   
 Their conversation had been in a low tone as she sat beside him, the 
 patients near either sleeping or too preoccupied by their own 
 sufferings to give much heed. 
   
 Weary and oppressed by bitter despondency, she went from cot to cot, 
 attending to the wants of those in her charge. To her the old colonel's 
 sad history seemed a mockery of his faith, and but another proof of a 
 godless or God-forgotten world. She envied his belief, with its hope 
 and peace; but he had only increased her unbelief. But all through the 
 long night she watched over him, coming often to his side with 
 delicacies and wine, and with gentle words that were far more grateful. 
   
 Once, as she was smoothing back his gray locks from his damp forehead, 
 he smiled, and murmured, "God bless you, my child. This is a foretaste 
 of heaven." 
   
 In the gray dawn she came to him and said, "My watch is over, and I 
 must leave you for a little while; but as soon as I have rested I will 
 come again." 
   
 "Grace," he faltered, hesitatingly, "would you mind kissing an old, old 
 man? I never had a child of my own to kiss me." 
   
 She stooped down and kissed him again and again, and he felt her hot 
 tears upon his face. 
   
 "You have a tender heart, my dear," he said, gently. "Good-by, 
 Grace--Grace Brentford's child. Dear Grace, when we meet again perhaps 
 all tears will be wiped from your eyes forever." 
   
 She stole away exhausted and almost despairing. On reaching her little 
 room she sank on her couch, moaning; "Oh, Warren, Warren, would that I 
 were sleeping your dreamless sleep beside you!" 
   
 Long before it was time for her to go on duty again she returned to the 
 ward to visit her aged friend. His cot was empty. In reply to her eager 
 question she was told that he had died suddenly from internal 
 hemorrhage soon after she had left him. 
   
 She looked dazed for a moment, as if she had received a blow, then fell 
 fainting on the cot from which her mother's friend had been taken. The 
 limit of her endurance was passed. 
   
 Before the day closed, the surgeon in charge of the hospital told her 
 gently and firmly that she must take an indefinite leave of absence. 
 She departed at once in the care of an attendant; but stories of the 
 white-haired nurse lingered so long in the ward and hospital that at 
 last they began to grow vague and marvellous, like the legends of a 
 saint. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV (RITA'S BROTHER) 
 All through the campaign of '64 the crimson tide of war deepened and 
 broadened. Even Graham's cool and veteran spirit was appalled at the 
 awful slaughter on either side. The Army of the Potomac--the grandest 
 army ever organized, and always made more sublime and heroic by 
 defeat--was led by a man as remorseless as fate. He was fate to 
 thousands of loyal men, whom he placed at will as coolly as if they had 
 been the pieces on a chessboard. He was fate to the Confederacy, upon 
 whose throat he placed his iron grasp, never relaxed until life was 
 extinct. In May, 1864, he quietly crossed the Rapidan for the 
 death-grapple. He took the most direct route for Richmond, ignoring all 
 obstacles and the fate of his predecessors. To think that General Grant 
 wished to fight the battle of the Wilderness is pure idiocy. One would 
 almost as soon choose the Dismal Swamp for a battleground. It was 
 undoubtedly his hope to pass beyond that gloomy tangle, over which the 
 shadow of death had brooded ever since fatal Chancellorsville. But Lee, 
 his brilliant and vigilant opponent, rarely lost an advantage; and 
 Graham's experienced eye, as with the cavalry he was in the extreme 
 advance, clearly saw that their position would give their foes enormous 
 advantages. Lee's movements would be completely masked by the almost 
 impervious growth, He and his lieutenants could approach within 
 striking distance, whenever they chose, without being seen, and had 
 little to fear from the Union artillery, which the past had given them 
 much cause to dread. It was a region also to disgust the very soul of a 
 cavalryman; for the low, scrubby growth lined the narrow roads almost 
 as effectually as the most scientifically prepared _abatis_. 
   
 Graham's surmise was correct. Lee would not wait till his antagonist 
 had reached open and favorable ground, but he made an attack at once, 
 where, owing to peculiarities of position, one of his thin regiments 
 had often the strength of a brigade. 
   
 On the morning of the 5th of May began one of the most awful and bloody 
 battles in the annals of warfare. Indeed it was the beginning of one 
 long and almost continuous struggle which ended only at Appomattox. 
   
 With a hundred thousand more, Graham was swept into the bloody vortex, 
 and through summer heat, autumn rains, and winter cold, he marched and 
 fought with little rest. He was eventually given the colonelcy of his 
 regiment, and at times commanded a brigade. He passed through 
 unnumbered dangers unscathed; and his invulnerability became a proverb 
 among his associates. Indeed he was a mystery to them, for his face 
 grew sadder and sterner every day, and his reticence about himself and 
 all his affairs was often remarked upon. His men and officers had 
 unbounded respect for him, that was not wholly unmixed with fear; for 
 while he was considerate, and asked for no exposure to danger in which 
 he did not share, his steady discipline was never relaxed, and he kept 
 himself almost wholly aloof, except as their military relations 
 required contact. He could not, therefore, be popular among the 
 hard-swearing, rollicking, and convivial cavalrymen. In a long period 
 of inaction he might have become very unpopular, but the admirable 
 manner in which he led them in action, and his sagacious care of them 
 and their horses on the march and in camp, led them to trust him 
 implicitly. Chief of all, he had acquired that which with the stern 
 veterans of that day went further than anything else--a reputation for 
 dauntless courage. What they objected to were his "glum looks and 
 unsocial ways," as they termed them. 
   
 They little knew that his cold, stern face hid suffering that was 
 growing almost desperate in its intensity. They little knew that he was 
 chained to his military duty as to a rock, while a vulture of anxiety 
 was eating out his very heart. What was a pale, thin, white-haired 
 woman to them? But what to him? How true it is that often the heaviest 
 burdens of life are those at which the world would laugh, and of which 
 the overweighted heart cannot and will not speak! 
   
 For a long time after his plunge into the dreary depths of the 
 Wilderness he had received no letters. Then he had learned of Grace's 
 return home; and at first he was glad indeed. His aunt had written 
 nothing more alarming than that Grace had overtaxed her strength in 
 caring for the throngs of wounded men sent from the Wilderness, that 
 she needed rest and good tonic treatment. Then came word that she was 
 "better"; then they "hoped she was gaining"; then they were about to go 
 to "the seashore, and Grace had always improved in salt air." It was 
 then intimated that she had found "the summer heat very enervating, and 
 now that fall winds were blowing she would grow stronger." At last, at 
 the beginning of winter, it was admitted that she had not improved as 
 they had hoped; but they thought she was holding her own very 
 well--that the continued and terrific character of the war oppressed 
 her--and that every day she dreaded to hear that he had been stricken 
 among other thousands. 
   
 Thus, little by little, ever softened by some excuse or some hope, the 
 bitter truth grew plain: Grace was failing, fading, threatening to 
 vanish. He wrote as often as he could, and sought with all his skill to 
 cheer, sustain, and reconcile her to life. At first she wrote to him 
 not infrequently, but her letters grew further and further apart, and 
 at last she wrote, in the early spring of '65. 
   
 "I wish I could see you, Alford; but I know it is impossible. You are 
 strong, you are doing much to end this awful war, and it's your duty to 
 remain at your post. You must not sully your perfect image in my mind, 
 or add to my unhappiness by leaving the service now for my sake. I have 
 learned the one bitter lesson of the times. No matter how much 
 _personal_ agony, physical or mental, is involved, the war must go on; 
 and each one must keep his place in the ranks till he falls or is 
 disabled. I have fallen. I am disabled. My wound will not close, and 
 drop by drop life and strength are ebbing. I know I disappoint you, my 
 true, true friend; but I cannot help it. Do not reproach me. Do not 
 blame me too harshly. Think me weak, as I truly am. Indeed, when I am 
 gone your chances will be far better. It costs me a great effort to 
 write this. There is a weight on my hand and brain as well as on my 
 heart. Hereafter I will send my messages through dear, kind Mrs. 
 Mayburn, who has been a mother to me in all my sorrow. Do not fear: I 
 will wait till you can come with honor; for I must see you once more." 
   
 For a long time after receiving this letter a despair fell on Graham. 
 He was so mechanical in the performance of his duties that his 
 associates wondered at him, and he grew more gaunt and haggard than 
 ever. Then in sharp reaction came a feverish eagerness to see the war 
 ended. 
   
 Indeed all saw that the end was near, and none, probably, more clearly 
 than the gallant and indomitable Lee himself. At last the Confederate 
 army was outflanked, the lines around Petersburg were broken through, 
 and the final pursuit began. It was noted that Graham fought and 
 charged with an almost tiger-like fierceness; and for once his men said 
 with reason that he had no mercy on them. He was almost counting the 
 hours until the time when he could sheathe his sword and say with 
 honor, "I resign." 
   
 One morning they struck a large force of the enemy, and he led a 
 headlong charge. For a time the fortunes of the battle wavered, for the 
 Confederates fought with the courage of desperation. Graham on his 
 powerful horse soon became a conspicuous object, and all gave way 
 before him as if he were a messenger of death, at the same time 
 wondering at his invulnerability. 
   
 The battle surged on and forward until the enemy were driven into a 
 thick piece of woods. Graham on the right of his line directed his 
 bugler to give the order to dismount, and a moment later his line of 
 battle plunged into the forest. In the desperate _melee_ that followed 
 in the underbrush, he was lost to sight except to a few of his men. It 
 was here that he found himself confronted by a Confederate officer, 
 from whose eyes flashed the determination either to slay or to be 
 slain. Graham had crossed swords with him but a moment when he 
 recognized that he had no ordinary antagonist; and with his instinct of 
 fight aroused to its highest pitch he gave himself up wholly to a 
 personal and mortal combat, shouting meantime to those near, "Leave 
 this man to me." 
   
 Looking his opponent steadily in the eye, like a true swordsman, he 
 remained first on the defensive; and such was his skill that his long, 
 straight blade was a shield as well as a weapon. Suddenly the dark eyes 
 and features of his opponent raised before him the image of Rita 
 Anderson; and he was so overcome for a second that the Confederate 
 touched his breast with his sabre and drew blood. That sharp prick and 
 the thought that Rita's brother might be before him aroused every 
 faculty and power of his mind and body. His sword was a shield again, 
 and he shouted, "Is not your name Henry Anderson?" 
   
 "My name is our cause," was the defiant answer; "with it I will live or 
 die." 
   
 Then came upon Graham one of those rare moments in his life when no 
 mortal man could stand before him. Ceasing his wary, rapid fence, his 
 sword played like lightning; and in less than a moment the 
 Confederate's sabre flew from his hand, and he stood helpless. 
   
 "Strike," he said, sullenly; "I won't surrender." 
   
 "I'd sooner cut off my right hand," replied Graham, smiling upon him, 
 "than strike the brother of Rita Anderson." 
   
 "Is your name Graham?" asked his opponent, his aspect changing 
 instantly. 
   
 "Yes; and you are Henry. I saw your sister's eyes in yours. Take up 
 your sword, and go quietly to the rear as my friend, not prisoner. I 
 adjure you, by the name of your old and honored father and your 
 noble-hearted sister, to let me keep my promise to them to save your 
 life, were it ever in my power." 
   
 "I yield," said the young man, in deep despondency. "Our cause _is_ 
 lost, and you are the only man in the North to whom I should be willing 
 to surrender. Colonel, I will obey your orders." 
   
 Summoning his orderly and another soldier, he said to them, "Escort 
 this gentleman to the rear. Let him keep his arms. I have too much 
 confidence in you, Colonel Anderson, even to ask that you promise not 
 to escape. Treat him with respect. He will share my quarters to-night." 
 And then he turned and rushed onward to overtake the extreme advance of 
 his line, wondering at the strange scene which had passed with almost 
 the rapidity of thought. 
   
 That night by Graham's camp-fire began a friendship between himself and 
 Henry Anderson which would be lifelong. The latter asked, "Have you 
 heard from my father and sister since you parted with them?" 
   
 "No. My duties have carried me far away from that region. But it is a 
 source of unspeakable gratification that we have met, and that you can 
 tell me of their welfare." 
   
 "It does seem as if destiny, or, as father would say, Providence, had 
 linked my fortunes and those of my family with you. He and Rita would 
 actually have suffered with hunger but for you. Since you were there 
 the region has been tramped and fought over by the forces of both 
 sides, and swept bare. My father mentioned your name and that of 
 Colonel Hilland; and a guard was placed over his house, and he and Rita 
 were saved from any personal annoyance. But all of his slaves, except 
 the old woman you remember, were either run off or enticed away, and 
 his means of livelihood practically destroyed. Old Uncle Jehu and his 
 son Huey have almost supported them. They, simple souls, could not keep 
 your secret, though they tried to after their clumsy fashion. My pay, 
 you know, was almost worthless; and indeed there was little left for 
 them to buy. Colonel Graham, I am indebted to you for far more than 
 life, which has become wellnigh a burden to me." 
   
 "Life has brought far heavier burdens to others than to you, Colonel 
 Anderson. Those you love are living; and to provide for and protect 
 such a father and sister as you possess might well give zest to any 
 life. Your cause is lost; and the time may come sooner than you expect 
 when you will be right glad of it. I know you cannot think so now, and 
 we will not dwell on this topic. I can testify from four years' 
 experience that no cause was ever defended with higher courage or more 
 heroic self-sacrifice. But your South is not lost; and it will be the 
 fault of its own people if it does not work out a grander destiny 
 within the Union than it could ever achieve alone. But don't let us 
 discuss politics. You have the same right to your views that I have to 
 mine. I will tell you how much I owe to your father and sister, and 
 then you will see that the burden of obligation rests upon me;" and he 
 gave his own version of that memorable day whose consequences 
 threatened to culminate in Grace Hilland's death. 
   
 Under the dominion of this thought he could not hide the anguish of his 
 mind; and Rita had hinted enough in her letters to enable Anderson to 
 comprehend his new-found friend. He took Graham's hand, and as he wrung 
 it he said, "Yes, life has brought to others heavier burdens than to 
 me." 
   
 "You may have thought," resumed Graham, "that I fought savagely to-day; 
 but I felt that it is best for all to end this useless, bloody struggle 
 as soon as possible. As for myself, I'm just crazed with anxiety to get 
 away and return home. Of course we cannot be together after tonight, 
 for with the dawn I must be in the saddle. Tonight you shall share my 
 blankets. You must let me treat you as your father and Rita treated me. 
 I will divide my money with you: don't grieve me by objecting. Call it 
 a loan if you will. Your currency is now worthless. You must go with 
 the other prisoners; but I can soon obtain your release on parole, and 
 then, in the name of all that is sacred, return home to those who 
 idolize you. Do this, Colonel Anderson, and you will lift a heavy 
 burden from one already overweighted." 
   
 "As you put the case I cannot do otherwise," was the sad reply. "Indeed 
 I have no heart for any more useless fighting. My duty now is clearly 
 to my father and sister." 
   
 That night the two men slumbered side by side, and in the dawn parted 
 more like brothers than like foes. 
   
 As Graham had predicted, but a brief time elapsed before Lee 
 surrendered, and Colonel Anderson's liberty on parole was soon secured. 
 They parted with the assurance that they would meet again as soon as 
 circumstances would permit. 
   
 At the earliest hour in which he could depart with honor, Graham's 
 urgent entreaty secured him a leave of absence; and he lost not a 
 moment in his return, sending to his aunt in advance a telegram to 
 announce his coming. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV (HIS SOMBRE RIVALS) 
 Never had his noble horse Mayburn seemed to fail him until the hour 
 that severed the military chain which had so long bound him to 
 inexorable duty, and yet the faithful beast was carrying him like the 
 wind. Iss, his servant, soon fell so far behind that Graham paused and 
 told him to come on more leisurely, that Mayburn would be at the 
 terminus of the military railroad. And there Iss found him, with 
 drooping head and white with foam. The steam-engine was driven to City 
 Point with the reckless speed characteristic of military railroads; but 
 to Graham the train seemed to crawl. He caught a steamer bound for 
 Washington, and paced the deck, while in the moonlight the dark shores 
 of the James looked stationary. From Washington the lightning express 
 was in his view more dilatory than the most lumbering stage of the old 
 regime. 
   
 When at last he reached the gate to his aunt's cottage and walked 
 swiftly up the path, the hour and the scene were almost the same as 
 when he had first come, an indifferent stranger, long years before. The 
 fruit-trees were as snowy white with blossoms, the air as fragrant, the 
 birds singing as jubilantly, as when he had stood at the window and 
 gazed with critical admiration on a sportive girl, a child-woman, 
 playing with her little Spitz dog. As he passed the spot where she had 
 stood, beneath his ambush behind the curtains, his excited mind brought 
 back her image with lifelike realism--the breeze in her light hair, her 
 dark eyes brimming with mirth, her bosom panting from her swift 
 advance, and the color of the red rose in her cheeks. 
   
 He groaned as he thought of her now. 
   
 His aunt saw him from the window, and a moment later was sobbing on his 
 breast. 
   
 "Aunt," he gasped, "I'm not too late?" 
   
 "Oh, no," she said, wearily; "Grace is alive; but one can scarcely say 
 much more. Alford, you must be prepared for a sad change." 
   
 He placed her in her chair, and stood before her with heaving breast. 
 "Now tell me all," he said, hoarsely. 
   
 "Oh, Alford, you frighten me. You must be more composed. You cannot see 
 Grace, looking and feeling as you do. She is weakness itself;" and she 
 told him how the idol of his heart was slowly, gradually, but 
 inevitably sinking into the grave. 
   
 "Alford, Alford," she cried, entreatingly, "why do you look so stern? 
 You could not look more terrible in the most desperate battle." 
   
 In low, deep utterance, he said, "This is my most desperate battle; and 
 in it are the issues of life and death." 
   
 "You terrify _me_, and can you think that a weak, dying woman can look 
 upon you as you now appear?" 
   
 "She shall not die," he continued, in the same low, stern utterance, 
 "and she must look upon me, and listen, too. Aunt, you have been 
 faithful to me all these years. You have been my mother. I must entreat 
 one more service. You must second me, sustain me, co-work with me. You 
 must ally all your experienced womanhood with my manhood, and with my 
 will, which may be broken, but which shall not yield to my cruel fate." 
   
 "What do you propose to do?" 
   
 "That will soon be manifest. Go and prepare Grace for my visit. I wish 
 to see her alone. You will please be near, however;" and he abruptly 
 turned and went to his room to remove his military suit and the dust of 
 travel. 
   
 He had given his directions as if in the field, and she wonderingly and 
 tremblingly obeyed, feeling that some crisis was near. 
   
 Grace was greatly agitated when she heard of Graham's arrival; and two 
 or three hours elapsed before she was able to be carried down and 
 placed on the sofa in the library. He, out in the darkness on the 
 piazza, watched with eyes that glowed like coals--watched as he had 
 done in the most desperate emergency of all the bloody years of battle. 
 He saw her again, and in her wasted, helpless form, her hollow cheeks, 
 her bloodless face, with its weary, hopeless look, her mortal weakness, 
 he clearly recognized his _sombre rivals_, _Grief and Death_; and with 
 a look of indomitable resolution he raised his hand and vowed that he 
 would enter the lists against them. If it were within the scope of 
 human will he would drive them from their prey. 
   
 His aunt met him in the hall and whispered, "Be gentle." 
   
 "Remain here," was his low reply. "I have also sent for Dr. Markham;" 
 and he entered. 
   
 Grace reached out to him both her hands as she said, "Oh, Alford, you 
 are barely in time. It is a comfort beyond all words to see you 
 before--before--" She could not finish the sinister sentence. 
   
 He gravely and silently took her hands, and sat down beside her. 
   
 "I know I disappoint you," she continued. "I've been your evil genius, 
 I've saddened your whole life; and you have been so true and faithful! 
 Promise me, Alford, that after I'm gone you will not let my blighted 
 life cast its shadow over your future years. How strangely stern you 
 look!" 
   
 "So you intend to die, Grace?" were his first, low words. 
   
 "Intend to die?" 
   
 "Yes. Do you think you are doing right by your father in dying?" 
   
 "Dear, dear papa! I have long ceased to be a comfort to him. He, too, 
 will be better when I am gone. I am now a hopeless grief to him. 
 Alford, dear Alford, do not look at me in that way." 
   
 "How else can I look? Do you not comprehend what your death means to 
 _me_, if not to others?" 
   
 "Alford, can I help it?" 
   
 "Certainly you can. It will be sheer, downright selfishness for you to 
 die. It will be your one unworthy act. You have no disease: you have 
 only to comply with the conditions of life in order to live." 
   
 "You are mistaken," she said, the faintest possible color coming into 
 her face. "The bullet that caused Warren's death has been equally fatal 
 to me. Have I not tried to live?" 
   
 "I do not ask you to _try_ to live, but to _live_. Nay, more, I demand 
 it; and I have the right. I ask for nothing more. Although I have loved 
 you, idolized you, all these years, I ask only that you comply with the 
 conditions of life and live." The color deepened perceptibly under his 
 emphatic words, and she said, "Can a woman live whose heart, and hope, 
 and soul, if she has one, are dead and buried?" 
   
 "Yes, as surely as a man whose heart and hope were buried long years 
 before. There was a time when I weakly purposed to throw off the burden 
 of life; but I promised to live and do my best, and I am here to-day. 
 You must make me the same promise. In the name of all the past, I 
 demand it. Do you imagine that I am going to sit down tamely and shed a 
 few helpless tears if you do me this immeasurable wrong?" 
   
 "Oh, Alford!" she gasped, "what do you mean?" 
   
 "I am not here, Grace, to make threats," he said gravely; "but I fear 
 you have made a merely superficial estimate of my nature. Hilland is 
 not. You know that I would have died a hundred times in his place. He 
 committed you to my care with his last breath, and that trust gave 
 value to my life. What right have you to die and bring to me the 
 blackness of despair? I am willing to bear my burden patiently to the 
 end. You should be willing to bear yours." 
   
 "I admit your claim," she cried, wringing her hands. "You have made 
 death, that I welcome, a terror. How can I live? What is there left of 
 me but a shadow? What am I but a mere semblance of a woman? The snow is 
 not whiter than my hair, or colder than my heart. Oh, Alford, you have 
 grown morbid in all these years. You cannot know what is best. Your 
 true chance is to let me go. I am virtually dead now, and when my 
 flickering breath ceases, the change will be slight indeed." 
   
 "It will be a fatal change for me," he replied, with such calm emphasis 
 that she shuddered. "You ask how you can live. Again I repeat, by 
 complying with the conditions of life. You have been complying with the 
 conditions of death; and I will not yield you to him. Grief has been a 
 far closer and more cherished friend than I; and you have permitted it, 
 like a shadow, to stand between us. The time has now come when you must 
 choose between this fatal shadow, this useless, selfish grief, and a 
 loyal friend, who only asks that he may see you at times, that he may 
 know where to find the one life that is essential to his life. Can you 
 not understand from your own experience that a word from you is sweeter 
 to me than all the music of the world?--that smiles from you will give 
 me courage to fight the battle of life to the last? Had Hilland come 
 back wounded, would you have listened if he had reasoned, 'I am weak 
 and maimed--not like my old self: you will be better off without me'?" 
   
 "Say no more," she faltered. "If a shadow can live, I will. If a poor, 
 heartless, hopeless creature can continue to breathe, I will. If I die, 
 as I believe I must, I will die doing just what you ask. If it is 
 possible for me to live, I shall disappoint you more bitterly than 
 ever. Alford, believe me, the woman is dead within me. If I live I 
 shall become I know not what--a sort of unnatural creature, having 
 little more than physical life." 
   
 "Grace, our mutual belief forbids such a thought. If a plant is deeply 
 shadowed, and moisture is withdrawn, it begins to die. Bring to it 
 again light and moisture, the conditions of its life, and it gradually 
 revives and resumes its normal state. This principle applies equally to 
 you in your higher order of existence. Will you promise me that, at the 
 utmost exertion of your will and intelligence, you will try to live?" 
   
 "Yes, Alford; but again I warn you. You will be disappointed." 
   
 He kissed both her hands with a manner that evinced profound gratitude 
 and respect, but nothing more; and then summoned his aunt and Dr. 
 Markham. 
   
 Grace lay back on the sofa, white and faint, with closed eyes. 
   
 "Oh, Alford, what have you done?" exclaimed Mrs. Mayburn. 
   
 "What is right and rational. Dr. Markham, Mrs. Hilland has promised to 
 use the utmost exertion of her will and intelligence to live. I ask 
 that you and my aunt employ your utmost skill and intelligence in 
 co-operation with her effort. We here--all four of us--enter upon a 
 battle; and, like all battles, it should be fought with skill and 
 indomitable courage, not sentimental impulse. I know that Mrs. Hilland 
 will honestly make the effort, for she is one to keep her word. Am I 
 not right, Grace?" 
   
 "Yes," was the faint reply. 
   
 "Why, now I can go to work with hope," said the physician briskly, as 
 he gave his patient a little stimulant. 
   
 "And I also," cried the old lady, tears streaming down her face. "Oh, 
 darling Grace, you will live and keep all our hearts from breaking." 
   
 "I'll try," she said, in almost mortal weariness. 
   
 When she had been revived somewhat by his restoratives, Dr. Markham 
 said, "I now advise that she be carried back to her room, and I promise 
 to be unwearied in my care." 
   
 "No," said Graham to his aunt. "Do not call the servants; I shall carry 
 her to her room myself;" and he lifted her as gently as he would take 
 up a child, and bore her strongly and easily to her room. 
   
 "Poor, poor Alford!" she whispered--"wasting your rich, full heart on a 
 shadow."  
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI (ALL MATERIALISTS) 
 When Graham returned to the library he found that the major had 
 tottered in, and was awaiting him with a look of intense anxiety. 
   
 "Graham, Graham!" he cried, "do you think there is any hope?" 
   
 "I do, sir. I think there is almost a certainty that your daughter will 
 live." 
   
 "Now God be praised! although I have little right to say it, for I've 
 put His name to a bad use all my life." 
   
 "I don't think any harm has been done," said Graham, smiling. 
   
 "Oh, I know, I know how wise you German students are. You can't find 
 God with a microscope or a telescope, and therefore there is none. But 
 I'm the last man to criticise. Grace has been my divinity since her 
 mother died; and if you can give a reasonable hope that she'll live to 
 close my eyes, I'll thank the God that my wife worshipped, in spite of 
 all your new-fangled philosophies." 
   
 "And I hope I shall never be so wanting in courtesy, to say the least, 
 as to show anything but respect for your convictions. You shall know 
 the whole truth about Grace; and I shall look to you also for aid in a 
 combined effort to rally and strengthen her forces of life. You know, 
 Major, that I have seen some service." 
   
 "Yes, yes; boy that you are, you are a hundred-fold more of a veteran 
 than I am. At the beginning of the war I felt very superior and 
 experienced. But the war that I saw was mere child's-play." 
   
 "Well, sir, the war that I've been through was child's play to me 
 compared with the battle begun to-night. I never feared death, except 
 as it might bring trouble to others, and for long years I coveted it; 
 but I fear the death of Grace Hilland beyond anything in this world or 
 any other. As her father, you now shall learn the whole truth;" and he 
 told his story from the evening of their first game of whist together. 
   
 "Strange, strange!" muttered the old man. "It's the story of Philip 
 Harkness over again. But, by the God who made me, she shall reward you 
 if she lives." 
   
 "No, Major St. John, no. She shall devote herself to you, and live the 
 life that her own feelings dictate. She understands this, and I _will_ 
 I assure you that whatever else I lack it's not a will." 
 
   
 "You've proved that, Graham, if ever a man did. Well, well, well, your 
 coming has brought a strange and most welcome state of affairs. Somehow 
 you've given me a new lease of life and courage. Of late we've all felt 
 like hauling down the flag, and letting grim death do his worst. I 
 couldn't have survived Grace, and didn't want to. Only plucky Mrs. 
 Mayburn held on to your coming as a forlorn hope. You now make me feel 
 like nailing the flag to the staff, and opening again with every gun. 
 Grace is like her mother, if I do say it. Grace Brentford never lacked 
 for suitors, and she had the faculty of waking up _men_. Forgive an old 
 man's vanity. Phil Harkness was a little wild as a young fellow, but he 
 had grand mettle in him. He made more of a figure in the world than 
 I--was sent to Congress, owned a big plantation, and all that--but 
 sweet Grace Brentford always looked at me reproachfully when I rallied 
 her on the mistake she had made, and was contentment itself in my rough 
 soldier's quarters," and the old man took off his spectacles to wipe 
 his tear-dimmed eyes. "Grace is just like her. She, too, has waked up 
 men. Hilland was a grand fellow; and, Graham, you are a soldier every 
 inch of you, and that's the highest praise I can bestow. You are in 
 command in this battle, and God be with you. Your unbelief doesn't 
 affect _Him_ any more than a mole's." 
   
 Graham laughed--he could laugh in his present hopefulness--as he 
 replied, "I agree with you fully. If there is a personal Creator of the 
 universe, I certainly am a small object in it." "That's not what I've 
 been taught to believe either; nor is it according to my reason. An 
 infinite God could give as much attention to you as to the solar 
 system." 
   
 "From the present aspect of the world, a great deal would appear 
 neglected," Graham replied, with a shrug. 
   
 "Come, Colonel Graham," said the major, a little sharply, "you and I 
 have both heard the rank and file grumble over the tactics of their 
 general. It often turned out that the general knew more than the men. 
 But it's nice business for me to be talking religion to you or any one 
 else;" and the idea struck him as so comical that he laughed outright. 
   
 Mrs. Mayburn, who entered at that moment, said: "That's a welcome 
 sound. I can't remember, Major, when I've heard you laugh. Alford, you 
 are a magician. Grace is sleeping quietly." 
   
 "Little wonder! What have I had to laugh about?" said the major. "But 
 melancholy itself would laugh at my joke to-night. Would you believe 
 it, I've been talking religion to the colonel,--if I haven't!" 
   
 "I think it's time religion was talked to all of us." 
   
 "Oh, now, Mrs. Mayburn, don't you begin. You haven't any God any more 
 than Graham has. You have a jumble of old-fashioned theological 
 attributes, that are of no more practical use to you than the doctrines 
 of Aristotle. Please ring for Jinny, and tell her to bring us a bottle 
 of wine and some cake. I want to drink to Grace's health. If I could 
 see her smile again I'd fire a _feu de joie_ if I could find any 
 ordnance larger than a popgun. Don't laugh at me, friends," he added, 
 wiping the tears from his dim old eyes; "but the bare thought that 
 Grace will live to bless my last few days almost turns my head. Where 
 is Dr. Markham?" 
   
 "He had other patients to see, and said he would return by and by," 
 Mrs. Mayburn replied. 
   
 "It's time we had a little relief," she continued, "whatever the future 
 may be. The slow, steady pressure of anxiety and fear was becoming 
 unendurable. I could scarcely have suffered more if Grace had been my 
 own child; and I feared for you, Alford, quite as much." 
   
 "And with good reason," he said, quietly. 
   
 She gave him a keen look, and then did as the major had requested. 
   
 "Come, friends," cried he, "let us give up this evening to hope and 
 cheer. Let what will come on the morrow, we'll have at least one more 
 gleam of wintry sunshine to-day." 
   
 Filling the glasses of all with his trembling hand, he added, when they 
 were alone: "Here's to my darling's health. May the good God spare her, 
 and spare us all, to see brighter days. Because I'm not good, is no 
 reason why He isn't." 
   
 "Amen!" cried the old lady, with Methodistic fervor. 
   
 "What are you saying amen to?--that I'm not good?" 
   
 "Oh, I imagine we all average about alike," was her grim reply--"the 
 more shame to us all!" 
   
 "Dear, conscience-stricken old aunty!" said Graham, smiling at her. 
 "Will nothing ever lay your theological ghosts?" 
   
 "No, Alford," she said, gravely. "Let us change the subject." 
   
 "I've told Major St. John everything from the day I first came here," 
 Graham explained; "and now before we separate let it be understood that 
 he joins us as a powerful ally. His influence over Grace, after all, is 
 more potent than that of all the rest of us united. My words to-night 
 have acted more like a shock than anything else. I have placed before 
 her clearly and sharply the consequences of yielding passively, and of 
 drifting further toward darkness. We must possess ourselves with an 
 almost infinite patience and vigilance. She, after all, must bear the 
 brunt of this fight with death; but we must be ever on hand to give her 
 support, and it must be given also unobtrusively, with all the tact we 
 possess. We can let her see that we are more cheerful in our renewed 
 hope, but we must be profoundly sympathetic and considerate." 
   
 "Well, Graham, as I said before, you are captain. I learned to obey 
 orders long ago as well as to give them;" and the major summoned his 
 valet and bade them goodnight. 
   
 Graham, weary in the reaction from his intense feeling and excitement, 
 threw himself on the sofa, and his aunt came and sat beside him. 
   
 "Alford," she said, "what an immense change your coming has made!" 
   
 "The beginning of a change, I hope." 
   
 "It was time--it was time. A drearier household could scarcely be 
 imagined. Oh, how dreary life can become! Grace was dying. Every day I 
 expected tidings of your death. It's a miracle that you are alive after 
 all these bloody years. All zest in living had departed from the major. 
 We are all materialists, after our own fashion, wholly dependent on 
 earthly things, and earthly things were failing us. In losing Grace, 
 you and the major would have lost everything; so would I in losing you. 
 Alford, you have become a son to me. Would you break a mother's heart? 
 Can you not still promise to live and do your best?" 
   
 "Dear aunt, we shall all live and do our best." 
   
 "Is that the best you can say, Alford?" 
   
 "Aunty, there are limitations to the strength of every man. I have 
 reached the boundary of mine. From the time I began the struggle in the 
 Vermont woods, and all through my exile, I fought this passion. I 
 hesitated at no danger, and the wilder and more desolate the region, 
 the greater were its attractions to me. I sought to occupy my mind with 
 all that was new and strange; but such was my nature that this love 
 became an inseparable part of my being. I might just as well have said 
 I would forget my sad childhood, the studies that have interested me, 
 your kindness. I might as well have decreed that I should not look the 
 same and be the same--that all my habits of thought and traits of 
 character should not be my own. Imagine that a tree in your garden had 
 will and intelligence. Could it ignore the law of its being, all the 
 long years which had made it what it is, and decide to be some other 
 kind of tree, totally different? A man who from childhood has had many 
 interests, many affections, loses, no doubt, a sort of concentration 
 when the one supreme love of his life takes possession of him. If Grace 
 lives, and I can see that she has at last tranquilly and patiently 
 accepted her lot, you will find that I can be tranquil and patient. If 
 she dies, I feel that I shall break utterly. I can't look into the 
 abyss that her grave would open. Do not think that I would consciously 
 and deliberately become a vulgar suicide--I hope I long since passed 
 that point, and love and respect for you forbid the thought--but the 
 long strain that I have been under, and the dominating influence of my 
 life, would culminate. I should give way like a man before a cold, 
 deadly avalanche. I have been frank with you, for in my profound 
 gratitude for your love and kindness I would not have you misunderstand 
 me, or think for a moment that I proposed deliberately to forget you in 
 my own trouble. The truth is just this, aunt: I have not strength 
 enough to endure Grace Hilland's death. It would be such a lame, 
 dreary, impotent conclusion that I should sink under it, as truly as a 
 man who found himself in the sea weighted by a ton of lead. But don't 
 let us dwell on this thought. I truly believe that Grace will live, if 
 we give her all the aid she requires. If she honestly makes the effort 
 to live--as she will, I feel sure--she can scarcely help living when 
 the conditions of life are supplied." 
   
 "I think I understand you, Alford," said the old lady, musingly; "and 
 yet your attitude seems a strange one." 
   
 "It's not an unnatural one. I am what I have been growing to be all 
 these years. I can trace the sequence of cause and effect until this 
 moment." 
   
 "Well, then," said the old lady, grimly, "Grace must live, if it be in 
 the power of human will and effort to save her. Would that I had the 
 faith in God that I ought to have! But He is afar off, and He acts in 
 accordance with an infinite wisdom that I can't understand. The 
 happiness of His creatures seems a very secondary affair." 
   
 "Now, aunty, we are on ground where we differ theoretically, to say the 
 least; but I accord to you full right to think what you please, because 
 I know you will employ all the natural and rational expedients of a 
 skilful nurse." 
   
 "Yes, Alford; you and Grace only make me unhappy when you talk in that 
 way. I know you are wrong, just as certainly as the people who believed 
 the sun moved round the earth. The trouble is that I know it only with 
 the same cold mental conviction, and therefore can be of no help to 
 either of you. Pardon me for my bluntness: do you expect to marry 
 Grace, should she become strong and well?" 
   
 "No, I can scarcely say I have any such hope. It is a thought I do not 
 even entertain at present, nor does she. I am content to be her friend 
 through life, and am convinced that she could not think of marriage 
 again for years, if ever. That is a matter of secondary importance. All 
 that I ask is that she shall live." 
   
 "Well, compared with most men, a very little contents you," said his 
 aunt dryly. "We shall see, we shall see. But you have given me such an 
 incentive that, were it possible, I'd open my withered veins and give 
 her half of my poor blood." 
   
 "Dear aunty, how true and stanch your love is! I cannot believe it will 
 be disappointed." 
   
 "I must go back to my post now, nor shall I leave it very often." 
   
 "Here is Dr. Markham. He will see that you have it often enough to 
 maintain your own health, and I will too. I've been a soldier too long 
 to permit my chief of staff to be disabled. Pardon me, doctor, but it 
 seems to me that this is more of a case for nursing and nourishment 
 than for drugs." 
   
 "You are right, and yet a drug can also become a useful ally. In my 
 opinion, it is more a case for change than anything else. When Mrs. 
 Hilland is strong enough, you must take her from this atmosphere and 
 these associations. In a certain sense she must begin life over again, 
 and take root elsewhere." 
   
 "There may be truth in what you say;" and Graham was merged in deep 
 thought when he was left alone. The doctor, in passing out a few 
 moments later, assured him that all promised well. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII (THE EFFORT TO LIVE) 
 As Graham had said, it did seem that infinite patience and courage 
 would be required to defeat the dark adversaries now threatening the 
 life upon which he felt that his own depended. He had full assurance 
 that Grace made her promised effort, but it was little more than an 
 effort of will, dictated by a sense of duty. She had lost her hold on 
 life, which to her enfeebled mind and body promised little beyond 
 renewed weariness and disappointment. How she could live again in any 
 proper sense of the word was beyond her comprehension; and what was 
 bare existence? It would be burdensome to herself and become wearisome 
 to others. The mind acts through its own natural medium, and all the 
 light that came to her was colored by almost despairing memories. 
   
 Too little allowance is often made for those in her condition. The 
 strong man smiles half contemptuously at the efforts of one who is 
 feeble to lift a trifling weight. Still, he is charitable. He knows 
 that if the man has not the muscle, all is explained. So material are 
 the conceptions of many that they have no patience with those who have 
 been enfeebled in mind, will, and courage. Such persons would say, "Of 
 course Mrs. Hilland cannot attend to her household as before; but she 
 ought to have faith, resignation; she ought to make up her mind 
 cheerfully to submit, and she would soon be well. Great heavens! 
 haven't other women lost their husbands? Yes, indeed, and they worried 
 along quite comfortably." 
   
 Graham took no such superficial view. "Other women" were not Grace. He 
 was philosophical, and tried to estimate the effect of her own peculiar 
 experience on her own nature, and was not guilty of the absurdity of 
 generalizing. It was his problem to save Grace as she was, and not as 
 some good people said she ought to be. Still, his firm belief remained, 
 that she could live if she would comply with what he believed to be the 
 conditions of life; indeed, that she could scarcely help living. If the 
 time could come when her brain would be nourished by an abundance of 
 healthful blood, he might hope for almost anything. She would then be 
 able to view the past dispassionately, to recognize that what _was 
 past_ was gone forever, and to see the folly of a grief which wasted 
 the present and the future. If she never became strong enough for 
 that--and the prospect was only a faint, half-acknowledged hope--then 
 he would reverently worship a patient, gentle, white-haired woman, who 
 should choose her own secluded path, he being content to make it as 
 smooth and thornless as possible. 
   
 Beyond a brief absence at the time his regiment was mustered out of the 
 service, he was always at home, and the allies against death--with 
 their several hopes, wishes, and interests--worked faithfully. At last 
 there was a more decided response in the patient. Her sleep became 
 prolonged, as if she were making amends for the weariness of years. 
 Skilful tonic treatment told on the wasted form. New blood was made, 
 and that, in Graham's creed, was new life. 
   
 His materialistic theory, however, was far removed from any gross 
 conception of the problem. He did not propose to feed a woman into a 
 new and healthful existence, except as he fed what he deemed to be her 
 whole nature. In his idea, flowers, beauty in as many forms as he could 
 command and she enjoy at the time, were essential. He ransacked nature 
 in his walks for things to interest her. He brought her out into the 
 sunshine, and taught her to distinguish the different birds by their 
 notes. He had Mrs. Mayburn talk to her and consult with her over the 
 homely and wholesome details of housekeeping. Much of the news of the 
 day was brought to her attention as that which should naturally 
 interest her, especially the reconstruction of the South, as 
 represented and made definite by the experience of Henry Anderson and 
 his sister. He told her that he had bought at a nominal sum a large 
 plantation in the vicinity of the parsonage, and that Colonel Anderson 
 should be his agent, with the privilege of buying at no more of an 
 advance than would satisfy the proud young Southerner's self respect. 
   
 Thus from every side he sought to bring natural and healthful 
 influences to bear upon her mind, to interest her in life at every 
 point where it touched her, and to reconnect the broken threads which 
 had bound her to the world. 
   
 He was aided earnestly and skilfully on all sides. Their success, 
 however, was discouragingly slow. In her weakness Grace made pathetic 
 attempts to respond, but not from much genuine interest. As she grew 
 stronger her manner toward her father was more like that of her former 
 self than was the rest of her conduct. Almost as if from the force of 
 habit, she resumed her thoughtful care for his comfort; but beyond that 
 there seemed to be an apathy, an indifference, a dreary preoccupation 
 hard to combat. 
   
 In Graham's presence she would make visible effort to do all he wished, 
 but it was painfully visible, and sometimes she would recognize his 
 unobtrusive attentions with a smile that was sadder than any words 
 could be. One day she seemed almost wholly free from the deep apathy 
 that was becoming characteristic, and she said to him, "Alas, my 
 friend! as I said to you at first, the woman _is_ dead within me. My 
 body grows stronger, as the result of the skill and help you all are 
 bringing to bear on my sad problem, but my heart is dead, and my hope 
 takes no hold on life. I cannot overcome the feeling that I am a mere 
 shadow, and have no right to be here among the living. You are so 
 brave, patient, and faithful that I am ever conscious of a sort of dull 
 remorse; but there is a weight on my brain and a despairing numbness at 
 my heart, making everything seem vain and unreal. Please do not blame 
 Asking me to feel is like requiring sight of the blind. I've lost 
 
 the faculty. I have suffered so much that I have become numb, if not 
 dead. The shadows of the past mingle with the shadows of to-day. Only 
 you seem real in your strong, vain effort, and as far as I can suffer 
 any more it pains me to see you thus waste yourself on a hopeless 
 shadow of a woman. I told you I should disappoint you." 
   
 "I am not wasting myself, Grace. Remain a shadow till you can be more. 
 I will bear my part of the burden, if you will be patient with yours. 
 Won't you believe that I am infinitely happier in caring for you as you 
 are than I should be if I could not thus take your hand and express to 
 you my thought, my sympathy? Dear Grace, the causes which led to your 
 depression were strong and terrible. Should we expect them to be 
 counteracted in a few short weeks?" 
   
 "Alas, Alford! is there any adequate remedy? Forgive me for saying this 
 to you, and yet you, of all people, can understand me best. You cling 
 to me who should be nothing to a man of your power and force. You say 
 you cannot go on in life without me, even as a weak, dependent 
 friend--that you would lose all zest, incentive, and interest; for I 
 cannot think you mean more. If you feel in this way toward me, who in 
 the eyes of other men would be a dismal burden, think how Warren dwells 
 in my memory, what he was to me, how his strong sunny nature was the 
 sun of my life. Do you not see you are asking of me what you say you 
 could not do yourself, although you would, after your own brave, manly 
 fashion? But your own belief should teach you the nature of my task 
 when you ask me to go on and take up life again, from which I was torn 
 more completely than the vine which falls with the tree to which it 
 clung." 
   
 "Dear Grace, do not think for a moment that I am not always gratefully 
 conscious of the immense self-sacrifice you are making for me and 
 others. You long for rest and forgetfulness, and yet you know well that 
 your absence would leave an abyss of despair. You now add so much to 
 the comfort of your father! Mrs. Mayburn clings to you with all the 
 love of a mother. And I, Grace--what else can I do? Even your frail, 
 sad presence is more to me than the sun in the sky. Is it pure 
 selfishness on my part to wish to keep you? Time, the healer, will 
 gradually bring to you rest from pain, and serenity to us all. When you 
 are stronger I will take you to Hilland's grave--" 
   
 "No, no, no!" she cried, almost passionately. "Why should I go there? 
 Oh, this is the awful part of it! What I so loved has become nothing, 
 worse than nothing--that from which I shrink as something horrible. Oh, 
 Alford! why are we endowed with such natures if corruption is to be the 
 end? It is this thought that paralyzes me. It seems as if pure, 
 unselfish love is singled out for the most diabolical punishment. To 
 think that a form which has become sacred to you may be put away at any 
 moment as a horrible and unsightly thing! and that such should be the 
 end of the noblest devotion of which man is capable! My whole being 
 revolts at it; and yet how can I escape from its truth? I am beset by 
 despairing thoughts on every side when able to think at all, and my 
 best remedy seems a sort of dreary apathy, in which I do little more 
 than breathe. I have read that there comes a time when the tortured 
 cease to feel much pain. There was a time, especially at the hospital, 
 when I suffered constantly--when almost everything but you suggested 
 torturing thoughts. I suffered with you and for you, but there was 
 always something sustaining in your presence. There is still. I should 
 not live a month in your absence, but it seems as if it were your 
 strong will that holds me, not my own. You have given me the power, the 
 incentive, to make such poor effort as I am putting forth. Moreover, in 
 intent, you gave your life for Warren again and again, and as long as I 
 have any volition left I will try and do all you wish, since you so 
 wish it. But my hope is dead. I do not see how any more good can come 
 to me or through me." 
   
 "You are still willing, however, to permit me to think for you, to 
 guide you? You will still use your utmost effort to live?" 
   
 "Yes. I can refuse to the man who went back to my dying husband nothing 
 within my power to grant. It is indeed little. Besides, I am in your 
 care, but I fear I shall prove a sad, if not a fatal legacy." 
   
 "Of that, dear Grace, you must permit me to be the judge. All that you 
 have said only adds strength to my purpose. Does not the thought that 
 you are doing so very much for me and for all who love you bring some 
 solace?" 
   
 "It should. But what have I brought you but pain and deep anxiety? Oh, 
 Alford, Alford! you will waken some bitter day to the truth that you 
 love but the wraith of the girl who unconsciously won your heart. You 
 have idealized her, and the being you now love does not exist. How can 
 I let you go on thus wronging yourself?" 
   
 "Grace," replied he, gravely and almost sternly, "I learned in the 
 northern woods, among the fiords of Norway, under the shadow of the 
 Himalayas, and in my long, lonely hours in the war, whom I loved, and 
 why I loved her. I made every effort at forgetfulness that I, at least, 
 was capable of exerting, and never forgot for an hour. Am I a 
 sentimental boy, that you should talk to me in this way? Let us leave 
 that question as settled for all time. Moreover, never entertain the 
 thought that I am planning and hoping for the future. I see in your 
 affection for me only a pale reflection of your love for Hilland." 
   
 "No, Alford, I love you for your own sake. How tenderly you have ever 
 spoken of little Rita Anderson, and yet--" 
   
 "And yet, as I have told you more than once, the thought of loving her 
 never entered my mind. I could plan for her happiness as I would for a 
 sister, had I one." 
   
 "Therefore you can interpret me." 
   
 "Therefore I have interpreted you, and, from the first, have asked for 
 nothing more than that you still make one of our little circle, each 
 member of which would be sadly missed, you most of all." 
   
 "I ought to be able to do so little as that for you. Indeed, I am 
 trying." 
   
 "I know you are, and, as you succeed, you will see that I am content. 
 Do not feel that when I am present you must struggle and make unwonted 
 effort. The tide is setting toward life; float gently on with it. Do 
 not try to force nature. Let time and rest daily bring their 
 imperceptible healing. The war is over. I now have but one object in 
 life, and if you improve I shall come and go and do some man's work in 
 the world. My plantation in Virginia will soon give me plenty of 
 wholesome out-of-door thoughts." 
   
 She gave him one of her sad smiles as she replied wearily, "You set me 
 a good example." 
   
 This frank interchange of thought appeared at first to have a good 
 effect on Grace, and brought something of the rest which comes from 
 submission to the inevitable. She found that Graham's purpose was as 
 immovable as the hills, and at the same time was more absolutely 
 convinced that he was not looking forward to what seemed an impossible 
 future. Nor did he ask that her effort should be one of feeble 
 struggles to manifest an interest before him which she did not feel. 
 She yielded to her listlessness and apathy to a degree that alarmed her 
 father and Mrs. Mayburn, but Graham said: "It's the course of nature. 
 After such prolonged suffering, both body and mind need this lethargy. 
 Reaction from one extreme to another might be expected." 
   
 Dr. Markham agreed in the main with this view, and yet there was a 
 slight contraction of perplexity on his brows as he added: "I should 
 not like to see this tendency increase beyond a certain point, or 
 continue too long. From the first shock of her bereavement Mrs. 
 Hilland's mind has not been exactly in a normal condition. There are 
 phases of her trouble difficult to account for and difficult to treat. 
 The very fineness of her organization made the terrible shock more 
 serious in its injury. I do not say this to discourage you--far from 
 it--but in sincerity I must call your attention to the fact that every 
 new phase of her grief has tended to some extreme manifestation, 
 showing a disposition toward, not exactly mental weakness, but 
 certainly an abnormal mental condition. I speak of this that you may 
 intelligently guard against it. If due precaution is used, the happy 
 mean between these reactions may be reached, and both mind and body 
 recover a healthful tone. I advise that you all seek some resort by the 
 sea, a new one, without any associations with the past." 
   
 Within a few days they were at a seaside inn, a large one whose very 
 size offered seclusion. From their wide and lofty balconies they could 
 watch the world come and go on the sea and on the land; and the world 
 was too large and too distant for close scrutiny or petty gossip. They 
 could have their meals in their rooms, or in the immense dining-hall, 
 as they chose; and in the latter place the quiet party would scarcely 
 attract a second glance from the young, gay, and sensation-loving. 
 Their transient gaze would see two old ladies, one an invalid, an old 
 and crippled man, and one much younger, who evidently would never take 
 part in a german. 
   
 It was thought and hoped that this nearness to the complex world, with 
 the consciousness that it could not approach her to annoy and pry, 
 might tend to awaken in Grace a passing interest in its many phases. 
 She could see without feeling that she was scanned and surmised about, 
 as is too often the case in smaller houses wherein the guests are not 
 content until they have investigated all newcomers. 
   
 But Grace disappointed her friends. She was as indifferent to the world 
 about her as the world was to her. At first she was regarded as a quiet 
 invalid, and scarcely noticed. The sea seemed to interest her more than 
 all things else, and, if uninterrupted, she would sit and gaze at its 
 varying aspects for hours. 
   
 According to Graham's plan, she was permitted, with little 
 interference, to follow her mood. Mrs. Mayburn was like a watchful 
 mother, the major much his former self, for his habits were too fixed 
 for radical changes. Grace would quietly do anything he asked, but she 
 grew more forgetful and inattentive, coming out of her deep 
 abstraction--if such it could be termed--with increasing effort. With 
 Graham she seemed more content than with any one else. With him she 
 took lengthening walks on the beach. He sat quietly beside her while 
 she watched the billows chasing one another to the shore. Their swift 
 onset, their defeat, over which they appeared to foam in wrath, their 
 backward and disheartened retreat, ever seemed to tell her in some dim 
 way a story of which she never wearied. Often she would turn and look 
 at him with a vague trouble in her face, as if faintly remembering 
 something that was a sorrow to them both; but his reassuring smile 
 quieted her, and she would take his hand as a little child might have 
 done, and sit for an hour without removing her eyes from the waves. He 
 waited patiently day after day, week after week, reiterating to 
 himself, "She will waken, she will remember all, and then will have 
 strength and calmness to meet it. This is nature's long repose." 
   
 It was growing strangely long and deep. 
   
 Meanwhile Grace, in her outward appearance, was undergoing a subtle 
 change. Graham was the first to observe it, and at last it was apparent 
 to all. As her mind became inert, sleeping on a downy couch of 
 forgetfulness, closely curtained, the silent forces of physical life, 
 in her deep tranquillity, were doing an artist's work. The hollow 
 cheeks were gradually rounded and given the faintest possible bloom. 
 Her form was gaining a contour that might satisfy a sculptor's dream. 
   
 The major had met old friends, and it was whispered about who they 
 were--the widow of a millionaire; Colonel Graham, one of the most 
 dashing cavalry officers in the war which was still in all minds; Major 
 St. John, a veteran soldier of the regular service, who had been 
 wounded in the Mexican War and who was well and honorably known to the 
 chief dignitaries of the former generation. Knowing all this, the 
 quidnuncs complacently felt at first that they knew all. The next thing 
 was to know the people. This proved to be difficult indeed. The major 
 soon found a few veteran cronies at whist, but to others was more 
 unapproachable than a major-general of the old school. Graham was far 
 worse, and belles tossed their heads at the idea that he had ever been 
 a "dashing cavalry officer" or dashing anything else. Before the summer 
 was over the men began to discover that Mrs. Hilland was the most 
 beautiful woman in the house--strangely, marvellously, supernaturally 
 beautiful. 
   
 An artist, who had found opportunity to watch the poor unconscious 
 woman furtively--not so furtively either but that any belle in the 
 hostelry would know all about it in half a minute--raved about the 
 combination of charms he had discovered. 
   
 "Just imagine," he said, "what a picture she made as she sat alone on 
 the beach! She was so remarkable in her appearance that one might think 
 she had arisen from the sea, and was not a creature of the earth. Her 
 black, close-fitting dress suggested the form of Aphrodite as she rose 
 from the waves. Her profile was almost faultless in its exquisite 
 lines. Her complexion, with just a slight warm tinge imparted by the 
 breeze, had not the cold, dead white of snow, but the clear 
 transparency which good aristocratic blood imparts. But her eyes and 
 hair were her crowning features. How shall I describe the deep, dreamy 
 languor of her large, dark eyes, made a hundred-fold more effective by 
 the silvery whiteness of her hair, which had partly escaped from her 
 comb, and fell upon her neck! And then her sublime, tranquil 
 indifference! That I was near, spellbound with admiration, did not 
 interest her so much as a sail, no larger than a gull's wing, far out 
 at sea." 
   
 "Strange, strange!" said one of his friends, laughing; "her 
 unconsciousness of your presence was the strangest part of it all. Why 
 did you not make a sketch?" 
   
 "I did, but that infernal Colonel Graham, who is said to be her 
 shadow--after her million, you know--suddenly appeared and asked 
 sternly: 'Have you the lady's permission for this sketch?' I stammered 
 about being 'so impressed, that in the interests of art,' etc. He then 
 snatched my sketch and threw it into the waves. Of course I was angry, 
 and I suppose my words and manner became threatening. He took a step 
 toward me, looking as I never saw a man look. 'Hush,' he said, in a low 
 voice. 'Say or do a thing to annoy that lady, and I'll wring your neck 
 and toss you after your sketch. Do you think I've been through a 
 hundred battles to fear your insignificance?' By Jove! he looked as if 
 he could do it as easily as say it. Of course I was not going to brawl 
 before a lady." 
   
 "No; it wouldn't have been prudent--I mean gentlemanly," remarked his 
 bantering friend. 
   
 "Well, laugh at me," replied the young fellow, who was as honest as 
 light-hearted and vain. 'I'd risk the chance of having my neck wrung 
 for another glimpse at such marvellous beauty. Would you believe it? 
 the superb creature never so much as once turned to glance at us. She 
 left me to her attendant as completely as if he were removing an 
 annoying insect. Heavens! but it was the perfection of high breeding. 
 But I shall have my revenge: "I'll paint her yet." 
   
 "Right, my friend, right you are; and your revenge will be terrible. 
 Her supernatural and high-bred nonchalance will be lost forever should 
 she see her portrait;" and with mutual chaffing, spiced with 
 good-natured satire, as good-naturedly received, the little party in a 
 smoking-room separated. 
   
 But furtive eyes soon relieved the artist from the charge of 
 exaggeration. Thus far Grace's manner had been ascribed to high-bred 
 reserve and the natural desire for seclusion in her widowhood. Now, 
 however, that attention was concentrated upon her, Graham feared that 
 more than her beauty would be discovered. 
   
 He himself also longed inexpressibly to hide his new phase of trouble 
 from the chattering throng of people who were curious to know about 
 them. To know? As if they could know! They might better sit down to 
 gossip over the secrets of the differential and the integral calculus. 
   
 But he saw increasing evidences that they were becoming objects of 
 "interest," and the beautiful millionaire widow "very interesting," as 
 it was phrased; and he knew that there is no curiosity so penetrating 
 as that of the fashionable world when once it is aroused, and the game 
 deemed worthy of pursuit. 
   
 People appeared from Washington who had known Lieutenant-Colonel 
 Hilland and heard something of Graham, and the past was being ferreted 
 out. "Her hair had turned white from grief in a night," it was 
 confidently affirmed. 
   
 Poor Jones shrugged his shoulders as he thought: "I shall never be the 
 cause of my wife's hair turning white, unless I may, in the future, 
 prevent her from dyeing it." 
   
 After all, sympathy was not very deep. It was generally concluded that 
 Colonel Graham would console her, and one lady of elegant leisure, 
 proud of her superior research, declared that she had seen the colonel 
 "holding Mrs. Hilland's hand," as they sat in a secluded angle of the 
 rocks. 
   
 Up to a certain time it was comparatively easy to shield Grace; but 
 now, except as she would turn her large, dreamy eyes and unresponsive 
 lips upon those who sought her acquaintance, she was as helpless as a 
 child. The major and Mrs. Mayburn at once acquiesced in Graham's wish 
 to depart. Within a day or two the gossips found that their prey had 
 escaped, and Grace was once more in her cottage home. 
   
 At first she recognized familiar surroundings with a sigh of content. 
 Then a deeply troubled look flitted across her face and she looked at 
 Graham inquiringly. 
   
 "What is it, Grace?" he asked, gently. 
   
 She pressed her hand to her brow, glanced around once more, shook her 
 head sadly, and went to her room to throw off her wraps. 
   
 They all looked at one another with consternation. Hitherto they had 
 tried to be dumb and blind, each hiding the growing and awful 
 conviction that Grace was drifting away from them almost as surely as 
 if she had died. 
   
 "Something must be done at once," said practical Mrs. Mayburn. 
   
 "I have telegraphed for Dr. Markham," replied Graham, gloomily. 
 "Nothing can be done till he returns. He is away on a distant trip." 
   
 "Oh!" groaned the old major, "there will be an end of me before there 
 is to all this trouble." 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII (GRAHAM'S LAST SACRIFICE) 
 A terrible foreboding oppressed Graham. Would Grace fulfil her 
 prediction and disappoint him, after all? Would she elude him, escape, 
 _die_, and yet remain at his side, beautiful as a dream? Oh, the agony 
 of possessing this perfect casket, remembering the jewel that had 
 vanished! He had vowed to defeat his gloomy rivals, Grief and Death, 
 and they were mocking him, giving the semblance of what he craved 
 beyond even imagined perfection, but carrying away into their own 
 inscrutable darkness the woman herself. 
   
 What was Grace?--what becoming? As he looked he thought of her as a 
 sculptor's ideal embodied, a dream of beauty only, not a woman--as the 
 legend of Eve, who might, before becoming a living soul, have 
 harmonized with the loveliness of her garden without seeing or feeling 
 it. 
   
 He could not think of her mind as blotted out or perverted; he could 
 not conceive of it otherwise than as corresponding with her outward 
 symmetry. To his thought it slumbered, as her form might repose upon 
 her couch, in a death-like trance. She went and came among them like a 
 somnambulist, guided by unconscious instincts, memories, and habits. 
   
 She knew their voices, did, within limitations, as they requested; but 
 when she waited on her father there was a sad, mechanical repetition of 
 what she had done since childhood. Mrs. Mayburn found her docile and 
 easily controlled, and the heart-stricken old lady was vigilance itself. 
   
 Toward Graham, however, her manner had a marked characteristic. He was 
 her master, and she a dumb, lovely, unreasoning creature, that looked 
 into his eyes for guidance, and gathered more from his tones than from 
 his words. Some faint consciousness of the past had grown into an 
 instinct that to him she must look for care and direction; and she 
 never thought of resisting his will. If he read to her, she turned to 
 him her lovely face, across which not a gleam of interest or 
 intelligence would pass. If he brought her flowers, she would hold them 
 until they were taken from her. She would pace the garden walks by his 
 side, with her hand upon his arm, by the hour if he wished it, 
 sometimes smiling faintly at his gentle tones, but giving no proof that 
 she understood the import of his words. At Hilland's name only she 
 would start and tremble as if some deep chord were struck, which could 
 merely vibrate until its sounds were faint and meaningless. 
   
 It was deeply touching also to observe in her sad eclipse how her 
 ingrained refinement asserted itself. In all her half-conscious action 
 there was never a coarse look or word. She was a rose without its 
 perfume. She was a woman without a woman's mind and heart. These had 
 been subtracted, with all the differences they made; otherwise she was 
 Grace Hilland. 
   
 Graham was profoundly perplexed and distressed. The problem had become 
 too deep for him. The brain, nourished by good blood, had not brought 
 life. All his skill and that of those allied with him had failed. The 
 materialist had matter in the perfection of breathing outline, but 
 where was the woman he loved? How could he reach her, how make himself 
 understood by her, except as some timid, docile creature responds to a 
 caress or a tone? His very power over her was terrifying. It was built 
 upon the instinct, the allegiance that cannot reason but is 
 unquestioning. Nothing could so have daunted his hope, courage, and 
 will as the exquisite being Grace had become, as she looked up to him 
 with her large, mild, trusting eyes, from which thought, intelligence, 
 and volition had departed. 
   
 At last Dr. Markham came, and for several days watched his patient 
 closely, she giving little heed to his presence. They all hung on his 
 perturbed looks with a painful anxiety. For a time he was very 
 reticent, but one day he followed Graham to his quarters in Mrs. 
 Mayburn's cottage, where he was now much alone. Grace seemed to miss 
 him but slightly, although she always gave some sign of welcome on his 
 return. The mocking semblance of all that he could desire often so 
 tantalized him that her presence became unendurable. The doctor found 
 him pacing his room in a manner betokening his half-despairing 
 perplexity. 
   
 "Colonel Graham," he said, "shall I surprise you when I say physicians 
 are very fallible? I know that it is not the habit of the profession to 
 admit this, but I have not come here to talk nonsense to you. You have 
 trusted me in this matter, and admitted me largely into your 
 confidence, and I shall speak to you in honest, plain English. Mrs. 
 Hilland's symptoms are very serious. What I feared has taken place. 
 From her acute and prolonged mental distress and depression, of which 
 she would have died had you not come, she reacted first into mental 
 lethargy, and now into almost complete mental inactivity. I cannot 
 discover that any disturbed physical functions have been an element in 
 her mental aberration, for more perfect physical life and loveliness I 
 have never seen. Her white hair, which might have made her look old, is 
 a foil to a beauty which seems to defy age. 
   
 "Pardon me for saying it, but I fear our treatment has been 
 superficial. We men of the world may believe what we please, but to 
 many natures, especially to an organization like Mrs. Hilland's, hope 
 and faith are essential. She has practically been without these from 
 the first, and, as you know, she was sinking under the struggle 
 maintained by her own brave, womanly spirit. She was contending with 
 more than actual bereavement. It was the hopelessness of the struggle 
 that crushed her, for she is not one of that large class of women who 
 can find consolation in crape and becoming mourning. 
   
 "In response to your appeal, she did make the effort you required, but 
 it was the effort of a mind still without hope or faith--one that saw 
 no remedy for the evils that had already overwhelmed her--and I must 
 bear witness that her efforts were as sincere as they were pathetic. We 
 all watched to give every assistance in our power. I've lain awake 
 nights, Colonel Graham, to think of remedies that would meet her needs; 
 and good Mrs. Mayburn and your old black cook, Aunt Sheba, prepared 
 food fit for the gods. You were more untiring and effective than any of 
 us, and the major's very infirmities were among her strongest allies. 
 Well, we have the result--a woman who might be a model for a goddess, 
 even to her tranquil face, in which there is no trace of varying human 
 feeling. Explanation of the evil that crushed her, hope, and faith were 
 not given--who can give them?--but they were essential to her from the 
 first. Unbelief, which is a refuge to some, was an abyss to her. In it 
 she struggled and groped until her mind, appalled and discouraged and 
 overwhelmed, refused to act at all. In one sense it is a merciful 
 oblivion, in another a fatal one, from which she must be aroused if 
 possible. But it's a hard, hard case." 
   
 "You make it hard indeed," said Graham, desperately. "What faith can I 
 instil except the one I have? I can't lie, even for Grace Hilland. She 
 knew well once that I could easily die for her." 
   
 "Well, then," said the physician, "permit a plain, direct question. 
 Will you marry her?" 
   
 "Marry her--as she now is?" cried Graham, in unfeigned astonishment. 
   
 "You said you could die for her. This may be going much further. Indeed 
 I should call it the triumph of human affection, for in honesty I must 
 tell you that she may never be better, she may become worse. But I 
 regard it as her only chance. At any rate, she needs a vigilant 
 caretaker. Old Mrs. Mayburn will not be equal to the task much longer, 
 and her place will have to be filled by hired service. I know it is 
 like suggesting an almost impossible sacrifice to broach even the 
 thought, remembering her condition, but--" 
   
 "Dr. Markham," said Graham, pacing the floor in great agitation, "you 
 wholly misunderstand me. I was thinking of her, not of myself. What 
 right have I to marry Grace Hilland without her consent? She could give 
 no intelligent assent at present." 
   
 "The right of your love; the right her husband gave when he committed 
 her to your care; the right of your desire to prevent her from drifting 
 into hopeless, lifelong imbecility, wherein she would be almost at the 
 mercy of hired attendants, helpless to shield herself from any and 
 every wrong; the right of a man to sacrifice himself absolutely for 
 another if he chooses." 
   
 "But she might waken from this mental trance and feel that I had taken 
 a most dishonorable advantage of her helplessness." 
   
 "Yes, you run that risk; but here is one man who will assure her to the 
 contrary, and you would be sustained by the consciousness of the purest 
 motives. It is that she may waken that I suggest the step; mark, I do 
 not advise it. As I said at first, I am simply treating you with 
 absolute confidence and sincerity. If matters go on as they are, I have 
 little or no hope. Mrs. Mayburn is giving way under the strain, and 
 symptoms of her old disorder are returning. She cannot watch Mrs. 
 Hilland much longer as she has been doing. Whom will you put in her 
 place? Will you send Mrs. Hilland to an asylum, with its rules and 
 systems and its unknown attendants? Moreover, her present tranquil 
 condition may not last. She may become as violent as she now is gentle. 
 She may gradually regain her intelligence, or it may be restored to her 
 by some sudden shock. If the mysteries of the physical nature so baffle 
 us, who can predict the future of a disordered intellect? I have 
 presented the darkest side of the picture; I still think it has its 
 bright side. She has no hereditary mental weakness to contend with. As 
 it developed somewhat gradually, it may pass in the same manner. If you 
 should marry her and take her at once to Europe, change of scene, of 
 life, with your vigilant presence ever near, might become important 
 factors in the problem. The memory that she was committed to your care 
 has degenerated into a controlling instinct; but that is far better 
 than nothing. The only real question in my mind is, Are you willing to 
 make the sacrifice and take the risks? You know the world will say you 
 married her for her money, and that will be hard on a man like you." 
   
 Graham made a gesture of contempt: "That for the world," he said. "Have 
 you broached this subject to her father and my aunt?" 
   
 "Certainly not before speaking to you." 
   
 "You then give me your assurance, as a man, that you believe this 
 right, and that it is Grace Hilland's best chance--indeed, almost her 
 only chance--for recovery?" 
   
 "I do most unhesitatingly, and I shall do more. I shall bring from New 
 York an eminent physician who has made mental disease a study all his 
 life, and he shall either confirm my opinion or advise you better." 
   
 "Do so, Dr. Markham," said Graham, very gravely. "I have incurred risks 
 before in my life, but none like this. If from any cause Mrs. Hilland 
 should recover memory and full intelligence, and reproach me for having 
 taken advantage of a condition which, even among savage tribes, renders 
 the afflicted one sacred, all the fiendish tortures of the Inquisition 
 would be nothing to what I should suffer. Still, prove to me, prove to 
 her father, that it is her best chance, and for Grace Hilland I will 
 take even this risk. Please remember there must be no professional 
 generalities. I must have your solemn written statement that it is for 
 Mrs. Hilland's sake I adopt the measure." 
   
 "So be it," was the reply. "I shall telegraph to Dr. Armand immediately 
 to expect me, and shall say that I wish him to be prepared to come at 
 once." 
   
 "Do so, and consider no question of expense. I am no longer poor, and 
 if I were, I would mortgage my blood at this juncture." 
   
 On the following evening Dr. Armand was almost startled by the vision 
 on the veranda of the St. John cottage. A silvery-haired woman sat 
 looking placidly at the glowing sunset, with its light and its 
 rose-hues reflected in her face. 
   
 "If ever there was a picture of a glorified saint, there is one," he 
 muttered, as he advanced and bowed. 
   
 She gave him no attention, but with dark eyes, made brilliant by the 
 level rays, she gazed steadily on the closing day. The physician stole 
 a step or two nearer, and looked as steadily at her, while his 
 experienced eye detected in all her illuminated beauty the absence of 
 the higher, more subtle light of reason. Dr. Markham had told him next 
 to nothing about the case, and had asked him to go and see for himself, 
 impressing him only with the fact that it was a question of vital 
 importance that he was to aid in deciding; that he must give it his 
 whole professional skill, and all the necessary time, regardless of 
 expense. The moment he saw Grace, however, the business aspect of the 
 affair passed from his mind. His ruling passion was aroused, and he was 
 more than physician--a student--as the great in any calling ever are. 
   
 Graham came to the door and recognized instinctively the intent, 
 eagle-eyed man, who merely nodded and motioned him to approach his 
 patient. Graham did so, and Grace turned her eyes to him with a timid, 
 questioning glance. He offered her his arm; she rose instantly and took 
 it, and began walking with him. 
   
 "Were you looking at the sunset, Grace?" 
   
 She turned upon him the same inquiring eyes, but did not answer. 
   
 "Do you not think it very beautiful? Does it not remind you of the 
 sunset you saw on the evening when I returned from my first battle?" 
   
 She shook her head, and only looked perplexed, 
   
 "Why, Grace," he continued, as if provoked, "you _must_ remember. I was 
 carried, you know, and you and Mrs. Mayburn acted as if my scratches 
 were mortal wounds." 
   
 She looked frightened at his angry tones, clasped her hands, and with 
 tears in her eyes looked pleadingly up to him. 
   
 "Dear Grace, don't be worried." He now spoke in the gentlest tones, and 
 lifted her hand to his lips. A quick, evanescent smile illumined her 
 face. She fawned against his shoulder a moment, placed his hand against 
 her cheek, and then leaned upon his arm as they resumed their walk, Dr. 
 Armand keeping near them without in the least attracting her attention. 
   
 "Grace," resumed Graham, "you must remember. Hilland, Warren, you know." 
   
 She dropped his arm, looked wildly around, covered her face with her 
 hands, and shuddered convulsively. 
   
 After a moment he said, kindly but firmly, "Grace, dear Grace." 
   
 She sprang to him, seized his hand, and casting a look of suspicion at 
 Dr. Armand, drew him away. 
   
 A few moments later she was again looking tranquilly at the west, but 
 the light had departed from the sky and from her face. It had the look 
 of one who saw not, thought and felt not. It was breathing, living 
 death. 
   
 Graham looked at her mournfully for a few moments, and then, with a 
 gesture that was almost despairing, turned to the physician, who had 
 not lost a single expression. 
   
 "Thank you," was that gentleman's first laconic remark; and he dropped 
 into a chair, still with his eyes on the motionless figure of Grace. 
   
 At last he asked, "How long would she maintain that position?" 
   
 "I scarcely know," was the sad response; "many hours certainly." 
   
 "Please let her retain it till I request you to interfere. The moon is 
 rising almost full, the evening is warm, and she can take no harm." 
   
 The major tottered out on his crutches, and was given his chair, the 
 physician meanwhile being introduced. Brief and courteous was Dr. 
 Armand's acknowledgment, but he never took his eyes from his patient. 
 The same was true of his greeting to Mrs. Mayburn; but that good lady's 
 hospitable instincts soon asserted themselves, and she announced that 
 dinner was ready. 
   
 "Take Mrs. Hilland to dinner," said the physician to Graham; "but first 
 introduce me." 
   
 The young man approached and said, "Grace." She rose instantly and took 
 his arm. "This is Dr. Armand, Grace. He has called to see you." She 
 made him a courteous inclination, and then turned to Graham to see what 
 next was expected of her, but he only led her to the dining-room. 
   
 "Gracie, darling, bring me my cushion," said her father, speaking as he 
 had been used to do when she was a little girl. 
   
 She brought it mechanically and arranged it, then stood in expectancy. 
 "That will do, dear;" and she returned to her seat in silence. 
 Throughout the meal she maintained this silence, although Dr. Armand 
 broached many topics, avoiding only the name of her husband. Her manner 
 was that of a little, quiet, well-bred child, who did not understand 
 what was said, and had no interest in it. The physician's scrutiny did 
 not embarrass her; she had never remembered, much less forgotten him. 
   
 When the meal was over they all returned to the piazza. At the 
 physician's request she was placed in her old seat, and they all sat 
 down to watch. The moon rose higher and higher, made her hair more 
 silvery, touched her still face with a strange, ethereal beauty, and 
 threw the swaying shadow of a spray of woodbine across her motionless 
 figure--so motionless that she seemed a sculptured rather than a 
 breathing woman. 
   
 After a while the old major rose and groaned as he tottered away. Mrs. 
 Mayburn, in uncontrollable nervous restlessness, soon followed, that 
 she might find relief in household cares. The two men watched on till 
 hours had passed, and still the lovely image had not stirred. At last 
 Dr. Armand approached her and said, "Mrs. Hilland." 
   
 She rose, and stood coldly aloof. The name, with her prefix, did not 
 trouble her. She had long been accustomed to that "Hilland," as Graham 
 uttered the word, alone affected her, touching some last deep chord of 
 memory. 
   
 "Mrs. Hilland," the doctor continued, "it is getting late. Do you not 
 think you had better retire?" 
   
 She looked at him blankly, and glanced around as if in search of some 
 one. 
   
 "I am here, Grace," said Graham, emerging from the doorway. 
   
 She came to him at once, and he led her to Mrs. Mayburn, kissing her 
 hand, and receiving, in return, her strange, brief, fawning caress. 
   
 "I would like to know the history of Mrs. Hilland's malady from the 
 beginning," said Dr. Armand, when Graham returned. 
   
 "I cannot go over it again," replied Graham, hoarsely. "Dr. Markham can 
 tell you about all, and I will answer any questions. Your room is ready 
 for you here, where Dr. Markham will join you presently. I must bid you 
 good-night;" and he strode away. 
   
 But as he passed under the apple-tree and recalled all that had 
 occurred there, he was so overcome that once more he leaned against it 
 for support. 
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX (MARRIED UNCONSCIOUSLY) 
 There was no sleep for Graham that night, for he knew that two skilful 
 men were consulting on a question beyond any that had agitated his 
 heart before. As he paced the little parlor with restless steps, Aunt 
 Sheba's ample form filled the doorway, and in her hands was a tray 
 bearing such coffee as only she knew how to brew. 
   
 "Thanks, Aunt Sheba," he said, motioning to a table, without pausing in 
 his distracted walk. 
   
 She put down the tray, retreated hesitatingly, and then began: "Dear 
 Mas'r Graham, my ole heart jes aches for yer. But don't yer be so cast 
 down, mas'r; de good Lord knows it all, and I'se a-prayin' for yer and 
 de lubly Miss Grace night and day." 
   
 He was so utterly miserable that he was grateful for even this homely 
 sympathy, and he took the old woman's hand in his as he said kindly, 
 "Pray on, then, good old aunty, if it's any comfort to you. It 
 certainly can do no harm." 
   
 "Oh, Mas'r Graham, you dunno, you dunno. Wid all yer wise knowin' yer 
 dunno. You'se all--good Mis' Mayburn, de ole major, an' all--are in de 
 dark land ob unbelievin', like poor Missy Grace. She doesn't know how 
 you'se all tink about her an' lub her; needer does you know how de good 
 Lord tinks about you and lubs you. You guv me my liberty; you guv what 
 I tinks a sight more on; you'se been kind to de poor old slave dat los' 
 all her chillen in de weary days dat's gone. I'se a 'memberin' yer all 
 de time. You hab no faith, Mas'r Graham, and poor ole Aunt Sheba mus' 
 hab faith for yer. An' so I will. I'se a wrastlin' wid de Lord for yer 
 all de time, an' I'se a-gwine to wrastle on till I sees yer an' Missy 
 Grace an' all comin' inter de light;" and she threw her apron over her 
 head, and went sobbing away. 
   
 He paused for a moment when she left him, touched deeply by the strong, 
 homely, human sympathy and gratitude of the kind old soul who fed 
 him--as he never forgot--when he was a fugitive in a hostile land. That 
 she had manifested her feeling after what he deemed her own ignorant, 
 superstitious fashion was nothing. It was the genuine manifestation of 
 the best human traits that touched him--pure gems illumining a nature 
 otherwise so clouded and crude. 
   
 Late at night footsteps approached, and the two physicians entered. "I 
 first permitted Dr. Armand to form his own impressions, and since have 
 told him everything," said Dr. Markham, "and he strongly inclines to my 
 view. Realizing the gravity of the case, however, he has consented to 
 remain a day or two longer. We will give you no hasty opinion, and you 
 shall have time on your part to exercise the most deliberate judgment." 
   
 Dr. Armand confirmed his associate's words, and added, "We will leave 
 you now to the rest you must need sorely. Let me assure you, however, 
 that I do not by any means consider Mrs. Hilland's case hopeless, and 
 that I am strongly impressed with the belief that her recovery must 
 come through you. A long train of circumstances has given you almost 
 unbounded influence over her, as you enabled me to see this evening. It 
 would be sad to place such a glorious creature in the care of 
 strangers, for it might involve serious risk should she regain her 
 memory and intelligence with no strong, sympathetic friend, acquainted 
 with her past, near her. I am inclined to think that what is now little 
 more than an instinct will again develop into a memory, and that the 
 fact that she was committed to your care will fully reconcile her to 
 the marriage--indeed, render her most grateful for it, if capable of 
 understanding the reasons which led to it. If further observation 
 confirms my present impressions, I and Dr. Markham will plainly state 
 our opinions to her father and Mrs. Mayburn. As my colleague has said, 
 you must comprehend the step in all its bearings. It is one that I 
 would not ask any man to take. I now think that the probabilities are 
 that it would restore Mrs. Hilland to health eventually. A year of 
 foreign travel might bring about a gradual and happy change." 
   
 "Take time to satisfy yourselves, gentlemen, and give me your decision 
 as requested. Then you have my permission to give your opinions to 
 Major St. John." 
   
 Within a week this was done, and the poor old man bowed his head on 
 Graham's shoulder and wept aloud in his gratitude. Mrs. Mayburn also, 
 wiping away her tears, faltered, "You know, Alford, how I schemed for 
 this marriage years ago; you remember my poor blind strategy on that 
 June day, do you not? How little I thought it would take place under 
 circumstances like these! And yet, I've thought of it of late often, 
 very often. I could not go on much longer, for I am old and feeble, and 
 it just broke my heart to think of Grace, our Grace, passing into the 
 hands of some hired and indifferent stranger or strangers. I believe 
 she will recover and reward your sacrifice." 
   
 "It is no sacrifice on my part, aunt, except she wakens only to 
 reproach me." 
   
 "Well, devotion, then; and little sense she'd ever have," concluded the 
 old lady, after her own brusque fashion, "if she does not fall on her 
 knees and bless you. You could now take better care of her than I, for 
 she trusts and obeys you implicitly. She is docile and gentle with me, 
 but often strangely inattentive. She would be still more so with a 
 stranger; and the idea of some strong, unfeeling hands forcing her into 
 the routine of her life!" Thus almost completely was removed from his 
 mind the unspeakable dread lest he was taking an unfair advantage of 
 helplessness. He fully recognized also that the ordeal for himself 
 would be a terrible one--that it would be the fable of Tantalus 
 repeated for weeks, months, perhaps for years, or for life. The 
 unfulfilled promise of happiness would ever be before him. His 
 dark-visaged rivals, Grief and Death, would jeer and mock at him from a 
 face of perfect beauty. In a blind, vindictive way he felt that his 
 experience was the very irony of fate. He could clasp the perfect 
 material form of a woman to his heart, and at the same time his heart 
 be breaking for what could not be seen or touched. 
   
 The question, however, was decided irrevocably. He knew that he could 
 not leave helpless Grace Hilland to the care of strangers, and that 
 there was no place for him in the world but at her side; and yet it was 
 with something of the timidity and hesitation of a lover that he asked 
 her, as they paced a shady garden-walk, "Grace, dear Grace, will you 
 marry me?" 
   
 His voice was very low and gentle, and yet she turned upon him a 
 startled, inquiring look. "Marry you?" she repeated slowly. 
   
 "Yes, let me take care of you always," he replied, smilingly, and yet 
 as pale almost as herself. 
   
 The word "care" reassured her, and she gave him her wonted smile of 
 content, as she replied, very slowly, "Yes. I want you to take care of 
 me always. Who else can?" 
   
 "That's what I mean by marrying you--taking care of you always," he 
 said, raising her hand to his lips. 
   
 "You are always to take care of me," she replied, leaning her head on 
 his shoulder for a moment. 
   
 "Mrs. Mayburn is not strong enough to take care of you any longer. She 
 will take care of your father. Will you let me take care of you as she 
 does?" 
   
 She smiled contentedly, for the word "care" appeared to make all 
 natural and right. 
   
 It was arranged that they should be married in the presence of Dr. 
 Markham, Aunt Sheba, and Jinny, in addition to those so deeply 
 interested. The physician prepared the clergyman for the ceremony, 
 which was exceedingly brief and simple, Grace smiling into Graham's 
 face when he promised to take care of her always, and she signifying 
 her consent and pleasure in the manner that was so mute and sad. Then 
 he told her that he was going to take her away, that she might get 
 perfectly strong and well; and she went at his request without 
 hesitancy, although seeming to wonder slightly at the strong emotion of 
 her father and Mrs. Mayburn when parting from her. Jinny, who had been 
 her nurse in childhood, accompanied her. Dr. Markham also went with 
 them as far as the steamer, and they sailed away into a future as vague 
 and unknown to them as the ocean they were crossing. 
   
 The waves seen from the deck of the steamer produced in Grace the same 
 content with which she had gazed at them from the shore during the 
 previous summer; only now there were faint signs of wonder in her 
 expression, and sometimes of perplexity. Her eyes also wandered around 
 the great vessel with something of the interest of a child, but she 
 asked no questions. That Graham was with her and smiled reassuringly 
 seemed sufficient, while the presence of her old colored nurse, who in 
 some dim way was connected with her past, gave also an additional sense 
 of security. 
   
 As time elapsed and they began their wanderings abroad, it seemed to 
 Graham that his wife was beginning life over again, as a very little 
 quiet child would observe the strange and unaccountable phenomena about 
 Instead of her fixed vacancy of gaze, her eyes began to turn from 
 
 object to object with a dawning yet uncomprehending interest. He in 
 simplest words sought to explain and she to listen, though it was 
 evident that their impression was slight indeed. Still there was 
 perceptible progress, and when in his tireless experimenting he began 
 to bring before her those things which would naturally interest a 
 child, he was encouraged to note that they won a larger and more 
 pleased attention. A garden full of flowers, a farmyard with its sleek, 
 quiet cattle, a band of music, a broad, funny pantomime, were far more 
 to her than Westminster Abbey or St. Paul's. Later, the variety, color, 
 and movement of a Paris boulevard quite absorbed her attention, and she 
 followed one object after another with much the same expression that 
 might be seen on the face of a little girl scarcely three years old. 
 This infantile expression, in contrast with her silver hair and upon 
 her mature and perfect features, was pathetic to the last degree, and 
 yet Graham rejoiced with exceeding joy. With every conscious glance and 
 inquiring look the dawn of hope brightened. He was no longer left alone 
 in the awful solitude of living death. The beautiful form was no longer 
 like a deserted home. It now had a tenant, even though it seemed but 
 the mind of a little child. The rays of intelligence sent out were 
 feeble indeed, but how much better than the blank darkness that had 
 preceded! Something like happiness began to soften and brighten the 
 husband's face as he took his child-wife here and there. He made the 
 long galleries of the Louvre and of Italy her picture-books, and while 
 recognizing that she was pleased with little more than color, form, and 
 action--that the sublime, equally with the vicious and superstitious 
 meanings of the great masters, were hidden--he was nevertheless cheered 
 and made more hopeful by the fact that she _was_ pleased and 
 observant--that she began to single out favorites; and before these he 
 would let her stand as long as she chose, and return to them when so 
 inclined. 
   
 She had lost the power of reading a line. She did not know even her 
 letters; and these he began to teach her with unflagging zeal and 
 patience. How the mysterious problem would end he could not tell. It 
 might be that by kindling a little light the whole past would become 
 illumined; it might be that he would have to educate her over again; 
 but be the future what it would, the steadfast principle of devotion to 
 her became more fixed, and to care for her the supreme law of his being. 
   
 From the time of his first message to them he had rarely lost an 
 opportunity to send a letter to the anxious ones at home, and their 
 replies abounded in solicitous, grateful words. Dr. Markham often 
 called, and rubbed his hands with increasing self-gratulation over the 
 success of his bold measure, especially as encomiums on his sagacity 
 had been passed by the great Dr. Armand. 
   
 Nearly a year had passed, and Graham and his wife, after their 
 saunterings over the Continent, were spending the summer in the 
 Scottish Highlands. They sailed on the lochs, fished from their banks, 
 and climbed the mountain passes on little shaggy ponies that were 
 Scotch in their stubbornness and unflinching endurance. Grace had 
 become even companionable in her growing intelligence, and in the place 
 of her silent, inquiring glances there were sometimes eager, childlike 
 questionings. 
   
 Of late, however, Graham noted the beginnings of another change. With 
 growing frequency she passed her hand over her brow, that was 
 contracted in perplexity. Sometimes she would look at him curiously, at 
 Jinny, and at the unfamiliar scenes of her environment, then shake her 
 head as if she could not comprehend it all. Speedily, however, she 
 would return with the zest of a quiet little girl to the pleasures and 
 tasks that he unweariedly provided. But Graham grew haggard and 
 sleepless in his vigilance, for he believed that the time of her 
 awakening was near. 
   
 One day, while sailing on a loch, they were overtaken by a heavy storm 
 and compelled to run before it, and thus to land at no little distance 
 from their inn. Grace showed much alarm at the dashing waves and 
 howling tempest. Nor was her fright at the storm wholly that of an 
 unreasoning child. Its fury seemed to arouse and shock her, and while 
 she clung to Graham's hand, she persisted in sitting upright and 
 looking about, as if trying to comprehend it all. After landing they 
 had a long, fatiguing ride in the darkness, and she was unusually 
 silent. On reaching her room she glanced around as if all was 
 unfamiliar and incomprehensible. Graham had a presentiment that the 
 hour was near, and he left her wholly to the care of her old colored 
 nurse, but almost immediately, from excessive weariness, she sank into 
 a deep slumber. 
   
 Her lethargy lasted so late in the following day that he was alarmed, 
 fearing lest her old symptoms were returning. With anxious, hollow 
 eyes, he watched and waited, and at last she awoke and looked at him 
 with an expression that he had longed for through many weary months, 
 and yet now it terrified him. 
   
 "Alford--Mr. Graham," she began, in deep surprise. 
   
 "Hush, dear Grace. You have been very ill." 
   
 "Yes, but where am I? What has happened?" 
   
 "Very much; but you are better now. Here is Jinny, your old nurse, who 
 took care of you as a child." 
   
 The old colored woman came in, and, as instructed, said: "Yes, honey, 
 I'se tooken care ob you since you was a baby, and I'se nebber lef' you." 
   
 "Everything looks very strange. Why, Alford, I had a long, sad talk 
 with you but a short time since in the library, and you were so kind 
 and unselfish!" 
   
 "Yes, Grace; we spoke frankly to each other, but you have been very ill 
 since then, worse than ever before. At your father's request and Dr. 
 Markham's urgent counsel, I brought you to Europe. It was said to be 
 your only chance." 
   
 "But where is Mrs. Mayburn?" 
   
 "She is at home taking care of your father. Her old sickness threatened 
 to return. She could take care of you no longer, and you needed 
 constant care." 
   
 A slow, deep flush overspread her face and even her neck as she 
 faltered: "And--and--has no one else been with me but Jinny?" 
   
 "No one else except myself. Grace, dear Grace, I am your husband. I was 
 married to you in the presence of your father, Mrs. Mayburn, and your 
 family physician." 
   
 "Now long since?" she asked, in a constrained voice. 
   
 "About a year ago." 
   
 "Have we been abroad ever since?" 
   
 "Yes, and you have been steadily improving. You were intrusted to my 
 care, and there came a time when I must either be faithful to that 
 trust, or place you in the hands of strangers. You were helpless, dear 
 Grace." 
   
 "Evidently," in the same low, constrained tone. "Could--could you not 
 have fulfilled your trust in some other way?" 
   
 "Your father, your second mother, and your physician thought not." 
   
 "Still--" she began, hesitated, and again came that deep, deep flush. 
   
 "For your sake, Grace, I incurred the risk of this awful moment." 
   
 She turned, and saw an expression which brought tears to her eyes. "I 
 cannot misjudge you," she said slowly; "the past forbids that. But I 
 cannot understand it, I cannot understand it at all." 
   
 "Perhaps you never will, dear Grace; I took that risk also to save your 
 life and mind." 
   
 "My mind?" 
   
 "Yes, your mind. If, in recalling the past, the memory of which has 
 returned, you can preserve sufficient confidence in me to wait till all 
 is clear and explained, I shall be profoundly grateful. I foresaw the 
 possibility of this hour; I foresaw it as the chief danger and trial of 
 my life; and I took the risk of its consequences for your sake because 
 assured by the highest authority that it was your one chance for 
 escape, not from death, but from a fate worse than death, which also 
 would have removed you from my care--indeed the care of all who loved 
 you. I have prepared myself for this emergency as well as I could. Here 
 are letters from your father, Mrs. Mayburn, Dr. Markham, and Dr. 
 Armand, one of the most eminent authorities in the world on brain 
 diseases. But after all I must be judged by your woman's heart, and so 
 stand or fall. I now have but one request, or entreaty rather, to 
 make--that you do not let all the efforts we have made in your behalf 
 be in vain. Can you not calmly and gradually receive the whole truth? 
 There must be no more relapses, or they will end in black ruin to us 
 all. Now that you can think for yourself, your slightest wish shall be 
 my law. Jinny, remain with your mistress." 
   
 He lifted her passive hand to his lips, passed into their little 
 parlor, and closed the door. Grace turned to her nurse, and in low, 
 almost passionate utterance, said: "Now tell me all." 
   
 "Lor' bress you, Missy Grace, it 'ud take a right smart time to tell 
 yer all. When de big doctors an' all de folks say you'se got to hab 
 strangers take care ob you or go ter a'sylum, and arter all you'd git 
 wuss, Mas'r Graham he guv in, and said he'd take care ob you, and dey 
 all bress 'im and tank 'im, and couldn't say 'nuff. Den he took you 
 'cross de big ocean--golly I how big it be--jes' as de doctor said; an' 
 nebber hab I seed sich lub, sich 'votion in a moder as Mas'r Graham hab 
 had fer you. He had to take care ob you like a little chile, an' he was 
 teachin' you how to read like a little chile when, all on a suddint, 
 you wakes up an' knows ebryting you'se forgotten. But de part you 
 doesn't know is de part mos' wuth knowin'. No woman eber had sich a 
 husban' as Mas'r Graham, an' no chile sich a moder. 'Clar' ter grashus 
 ef I b'lieve he's ebber slep' a wink wid his watchin' an' a-tinkin' 
 what he could do fer you." 
   
 "But, Jinny, I'm not ill; I never felt stronger in my life." 
   
 "Laws, Missy Grace, dar's been a mirackle. You'se strong 'nuff 'cept 
 your mine's been off wisitin' somewhar. Golly! you jes' git up an' let 
 me dress you, an' I'll show yer de han'somest woman in de worl'. All 
 yer's got ter do now is jes' be sensible like, an' yer won't have yer 
 match." 
   
 Grace cast an apprehensive look toward the door of the parlor in which 
 was her husband, and then said hurriedly: "Yes, dress me quick. Oh, 
 heavens! how much I have to think about, to realize!" 
   
 "Now, honey dear, you jes' keep cool. Don't go an' fly right off de 
 handle agin, or Mas'r Graham'll blow his brains out. Good Lor', how dat 
 man do look sometimes! An' yet often, when he was pintin' out yer 
 letters ter yer, or showin' yer pearty tings, like as you was a chile, 
 he look so happy and gentle like, dat I say he jes' like a moder." 
   
 Grace was touched, and yet deep, deep in her soul she felt that a wrong 
 had been done her, no matter what had been the motives. Jinny had no 
 such fine perceptions, but with a feminine tact which runs down through 
 the lowliest natures, she chose one of Grace's quietest, yet most 
 becoming costumes, and would not let her go to the glass till arrayed 
 to the dusky woman's intense satisfaction. Then she led her mistress to 
 the mirror and said: "Look dar, honey! All de picters you'se eber seen 
 can't beat dat!" and Grace gazed long and fixedly at the lovely 
 creature that gazed back with troubled and bewildered eyes. 
   
 "Was--was I like that when--when he married me?" 
   
 "Yes, an' no, honey. You only look like a picter of a woman den--a 
 berry pearty picter, but nothin' but a picter arter all. Mas'r Graham 
 hab brought yer ter life." 
   
 With another lingering, wondering glance at herself, she turned away 
 and said: "Leave me, now, Jinny; I wish to be alone." 
   
 The woman hesitated, and was about to speak, but Grace waved her away 
 imperiously, and sat down to the letters Graham had given her. She read 
 and re-read them. They confirmed his words. She was a wife: her husband 
 awaited her but a few feet away--her _husband_, and she had never 
 dreamed of marrying again. The past now stood out luminous to her, and 
 Warren Hilland was its centre. But another husband awaited her--one 
 whom she had never consciously promised "to love, honor, and obey." As 
 a friend she could worship him, obey him, die for him; but as her 
 _husband_--how could she sustain that mysterious bond which merges one 
 life in another? She was drawn toward him by every impulse of 
 gratitude. She saw that, whether misled or not, he had been governed by 
 the best of motives--nay, more, by the spirit of self-sacrifice in its 
 extreme manifestation--that he had been made to believe that it was her 
 only chance for health and life. Still, in her deepest consciousness he 
 was but Alford Graham, the friend most loved and trusted, whom she had 
 known in her far distant home, yet not her husband. How could she go to 
 him, what could she say to him, in their new relations that seemed so 
 unreal? 
   
 She trembled to leave him longer in the agony of suspense; but her 
 limbs refused to support her, and her woman's heart shrank with a 
 strange and hitherto unknown fear. 
   
 There was a timid knock at the door. 
   
 "Come in, Alford," she said, tremblingly. 
   
 He stood before her haggard, pale, and expectant. 
   
 "Alford," she said, sadly, "why did you not let me die?" 
   
 "I could not," he replied, desperately. "As I told you, there is a 
 limit to every man's strength. I see it all in your face and 
 manner--what I feared, what I warned Dr. Markham against. Listen to me. 
 I shall take you home at once. You are well. You will not require my 
 further care, and you need never see my face again." 
   
 "And you, Alford?" she faltered. 
   
 "Do not ask about me. Beyond the hour when I place you in your father's 
 arms I know nothing. I have reached my limit. I have made the last 
 sacrifice of which I am capable. If you go back as you are now, you are 
 saved from a fate which it seemed to me you would most shrink from 
 could you know it--the coarse, unfeeling touch and care of strangers 
 who could have treated you in your helplessness as they chose. You 
 might have regained your reason years hence, only to find that those 
 who loved you were broken-hearted, lost, gone. They are now well and 
 waiting for you. Here are their letters, written from week to week and 
 breathing hope and cheer. Here is the last one from your father, 
 written in immediate response to mine. In it he says, 'My hand 
 trembles, but it is more from joy than age.' You were gaining steadily, 
 although only as a child's intelligence develops. He writes, 'I shall 
 have my little Grace once more, and see her mind grow up into her 
 beautiful form.'" 
   
 She bent her head low to hide the tears that were falling fast as she 
 faltered: "Was it wholly self-sacrifice when you married me?" 
   
 "Yes--in the fear of this hour, the bitterest of my life--yes. It has 
 followed me like a spectre through every waking and sleeping hour. 
 Please make the wide distinction. My care for you, the giving up of my 
 life for you, is nothing. That I should have done in any case, as far 
 as I could. But with my knowledge of your nature and your past, I could 
 not seem to take advantage of your helplessness without an unspeakable 
 dread. When shown by the best human skill that I could thus save you, 
 or at least ensure that you would ever have gentle, sympathetic care, I 
 resolved to risk the last extremity of evil to myself for your sake. 
 Now you have the whole truth." 
   
 She rose and came swiftly to him--for he had scarcely entered the room 
 in his wish to show her respect--and putting her arm around his neck, 
 while she laid her head upon his breast, said gently and firmly: "The 
 sacrifice shall not be all on your side. I have never consciously 
 promised to be your wife, but now, as far as my poor broken spirit will 
 permit, I do promise it. But be patient with me, Alford. Do not expect 
 what I have not the power to give. I can only promise that all there is 
 left of poor Grace Hilland's heart--if aught--shall be yours." 
   
 Then for the first time in his life the strong man gave way. He 
 disengaged her so hastily as to seem almost rough, and fell forward on 
 the couch unconscious. The long strain of years had culminated in the 
 hour he so dreaded, and in the sudden revulsion caused by her words 
 nature gave way. 
   
 Almost frantic with terror, Grace summoned her servant, and help from 
 the people of the inn. Fortunately an excellent English physician was 
 stopping at the same house, and he was speedily at work. Graham 
 recovered, only to pass into muttering delirium, and the burden of his 
 one sad refrain was: "If she should never forgive me!" 
   
 "Great heavens, madam! what _has_ he done?" asked the matter-of-fact 
 Englishman. 
   
 What a keen probe that question was to the wife as she sat watching 
 through the long, weary night! In an agony of self-reproach she 
 recalled all that he had done for her and hers in all the years, and 
 now in her turn she entreated _him_ to live; but he was as unconscious 
 as she had been in the blank past. No wooing, no pleading, could have 
 been so potent as his unconscious form, his strength broken at last in 
 her service. 
   
 "O God!" she cried--forgetting in her anguish that she had no 
 God--"have I been more cruel than all the war? Have I given him the 
 wound that shall prove fatal--him who saved Warren's life, my own, my 
 reason, and everything that a woman holds dear?" 
   
 Graham's powerful and unvitiated nature soon rallied, however, and 
 under the skilful treatment the fever within a few days gave place to 
 the first deep happiness he had ever known. Grace was tender, 
 considerate, her own former self, and with something sweeter to him 
 than self-sacrifice in her eyes; and he gave himself up to an 
 unspeakable content. 
   
 It was she who wrote the home letters that week, and a wondrous tale 
 they told to the two old people, who subsisted on foreign news even 
 more than on Aunt Sheba's delicate cookery. 
   
 Graham was soon out again, but he looked older and more broken than his 
 wife, who seemingly had passed by age into a bloom that could not fade. 
 She decided that for his sake they would pass the winter in Italy, and 
 that he should show her again as a woman what he had tried to interest 
 her in as a child. Her happiness, although often deeply shadowed, grew 
 in its quiet depths. Graham had too much tact to be an ardent lover. He 
 was rather her stanch friend, her genial but most considerate 
 companion. His powerful human love at last kindled a quiet flame on the 
 hearth of her own heart that had so long been cold, and her life was 
 warmed and revived by it. He also proved in picture galleries and 
 cathedrals that he had seen much when he was abroad beyond wild 
 mountain regions and wilder people, and her mind, seemingly 
 strengthened by its long sleep, followed his vigorous criticism with 
 daily increasing zest. 
   
 The soft, sun-lighted air of Italy appeared to have a healing balm for 
 both, and even to poor Grace there came a serenity which she had not 
 known since the "cloud in the South" first cast its shadow over her 
 distant hearth. 
   
 To Graham at last there had come a respite from pain and fear, a deep 
 content. His inner life had been too impoverished, and his nature too 
 chastened by stern and bitter experience, for him to crave gayety and 
 exuberant sentiment in his wife. Her quiet face, in which now was the 
 serenity of rest, and not the tranquillity of death in life, grew daily 
 more lovely to him; and he was not without his human pride as he saw 
 the beauty-loving Italians look wonderingly at her. She in turn was 
 pleased to observe how he impressed cultivated people with his quiet 
 power, with a presence that such varied experiences had combined to 
 create. Among fine minds, men and women are more truly felt than seen. 
 We meet people of the plainest appearance and most unostentatious 
 manner, and yet without effort they compel us to recognize their 
 superiority, while those who seek to impress others with their 
 importance are known at once to be weak and insignificant. 
   
 It was also a source of deep gratification to Grace that now, since her 
 husband had obtained rest of mind, he turned naturally to healthful 
 business interests. Her own affairs, of which he had charge in 
 connection with Hilland's lawyer, were looked after and explained fully 
 to her; and his solicitude for Henry Anderson's success led to an 
 exchange of letters with increasing frequency. Much business relating 
 to the Virginia plantation was transacted on the shores of the 
 Mediterranean. 
   
 Grace sought to quiet her compunctions at leaving her father and Mrs. 
 Mayburn so long by frequent letters written in her dear old style, by 
 cases of Italian wines, delicate and rare; exquisite fabrics of the 
 loom, and articles of _vertu_; and between the letters and the gifts 
 the old people held high carnival after their quaint fashion all that 
 winter. 
   
 The soft Italian days lapsed one after another, like bright smiles on 
 the face of nature; but at last there came one on which Grace leaned 
 her head upon her husband's shoulder and whispered, "Alford, take me 
 home, please." 
   
 Had he cared for her before, when she was as helpless as a little 
 child? Jinny, in recalling that journey and in dilating on the wonders 
 of her experience abroad, by which she invariably struck awe into the 
 souls of Aunt Sheba and Iss, would roll up her eyes, and turn outward 
 the palms of her hands, as she exclaimed, "Good Lor', you niggers, how 
 I make you 'prehen' Mas'r Graham's goin's on from de night he sez, sez 
 he ter me, 'Pack up, Jinny; we'se a-gwine straight home.' Iss 'clares 
 dat Mas'r Graham's a ter'ble soger wid his long, straight sword and 
 pistol, an' dat he's laid out more 'Federates dan he can shake a stick 
 Well, you'd nebber b'lieve he'd a done wuss dan say, 'How d'ye' to 
 
 a 'Federate ef yer'd seen how he 'volved roun' Missy Grace. He wouldn't 
 let de sun shine on her, nor de win' blow near her, and eberybody had 
 ter git right up an' git ef she eben wanted ter sneeze. On de ship he 
 had eberybody, from de cap'n to de cabin-boys, a waitin' on her. Dey 
 all said we hab a mighty quiet v'yage, but Lor' bress yer! it was all 
 'long ob Mas'r Graham. He wouldn't let no wabes run ter pitch his 
 darlin' roun'. Missy Grace, she used ter sit an' larf an' larf at 
 'im--bress her dear heart, how much good it do me to hear de honey larf 
 like her ole dear self! Her moder used ter be mighty keerful on her, 
 but 'twan't nothin' 'pared ter Mas'r Graham's goin's on." 
   
 Jinny had never heard of Baron Munchausen, but her accounts of foreign 
 experiences and scenes were much after the type of that famous 
 _raconteur_; and by each repetition her stories seemed to make a 
 portentous growth. There was, however, a residuum of truth in all her 
 marvels. The event which she so vaguely foreshadowed by ever-increasing 
 clouds of words took place. In June, when the nests around the cottage 
 were full of little birds, there was also, in a downy, nest-like 
 cradle, a miniature of sweet Grace Graham; and Jinny thenceforth was 
 the oracle of the kitchen. 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XL (RITA ANDERSON) 
 The belief of children that babies are brought from heaven seems often 
 verified by the experiences that follow their advent. And truly the 
 baby at the St. John cottage was a heavenly gift, even to the crotchety 
 old major, whom it kept awake at night by its unseasonable complaints 
 of the evils which it encountered in spite of Grandma Mayburn, faithful 
 old Aunt Sheba, who pleaded to be its nurse, and the gentle mother, who 
 bent over it with a tenderness new and strange even to her heart. 
   
 She could laugh now, and laugh she would, when Graham, with a 
 trepidation never felt in battle, took the tiny morsel of humanity, and 
 paraded up and down the library. Lying back on the sofa in one of her 
 dainty wrappers, she would cry, "Look at him, papa; look at that grim 
 cavalryman, and think of his leading a charge!" 
   
 "Well, Gracie, dear," the old major would reply, chuckling at his 
 well-worn joke, "the colonel was _only_ a cavalryman, you know. He's 
 not up in infantry tactics." 
   
 One morning Grandma Mayburn opened a high conclave in regard to the 
 baby's name, and sought to settle the question in advance by saying, 
 "Of course it should be Grace." 
   
 "Indeed, madam," differed the major, gallantly, "I think it should be 
 named after its grandmother." 
   
 Grace lifted her eyes inquiringly to her husband, who stood regarding 
 what to him was the Madonna and child. 
   
 "I have already named her," he said, quietly. 
   
 "You, you!" cried his aunt, brusquely. "I'd have you know that this is 
 an affair for grave and general deliberation." 
   
 "Alford shall have his way," said the mother, with quiet emphasis, 
 looking down at the child, while pride and tenderness blended sweetly 
 in her face. 
   
 "Her name is Hilda, in memory of the noblest man and dearest friend I 
 have ever known." 
   
 Instantly she raised her eyes, brimming with tears, to his, and 
 faltered, "Thank you, Alford"; and she clasped the child almost 
 convulsively to her breast, proving that there was one love which no 
 other could obliterate. 
   
 "That's right, dear Grace. Link her name with the memory of Warren. She 
 will thus make you happier, and it's my wish." 
   
 The conclave ended at once. The old major took off his spectacles to 
 wipe his eyes, and Mrs. Mayburn stole away. 
   
 From that hour little Hilda pushed sorrow from Grace's heart with her 
 baby hands, as nothing had ever done before, and the memory of the lost 
 husband ceased to be a shadow in the background. The innocent young 
 life was associated with his, and loved the more intensely. 
   
 Graham had spoken from the impulse of a generous nature, too large to 
 feel the miserable jealousies that infest some minds; but he had spoken 
 more wisely than he knew. Thereafter there was a tenderness in Grace's 
 manner toward him which he had never recognized before. He tasted a 
 happiness of which he had never dreamed, alloyed only by the thought 
 that his treasures were mortal and frail. But as the little one 
 thrived, and his wife bloomed into the most exquisite beauty seen in 
 this world, that of young and happy motherhood, he gave himself up to 
 his deep content, believing that fate at last was appeased. The major 
 grew even hilarious, and had his morning and evening parades, as he 
 called them, when the baby, in its laces and soft draperies, was 
 brought for his inspection. Mrs. Mayburn, with all the accumulated 
 maternal yearnings of her heart satisfied, would preside at the 
 ceremony. Grace, happy and proud, would nod and smile over her shoulder 
 at her husband, who made a poor pretence of reading his paper, while 
 the old veteran deliberately adjusted his spectacles and made comments 
 that in their solemn drollery and military jargon were irresistible to 
 the household that could now laugh so easily. The young life that had 
 come had brought a new life to them all, and the dark shadows of the 
 past shrank further and further into the background. 
   
 But they were there--all the sad mysteries of evil that had crushed the 
 mother's heart. Once they seemed to rush forward and close around her. 
 Little Hilda was ill and Grace in terror. But Dr. Markham speedily 
 satisfied her that it was a trivial matter, and proved it to be so by 
 his remedies. The impression of danger remained, however, and she clung 
 to her little idol more closely than ever; and this was true of all. 
   
 Time sped tranquilly on. Hilda grew in endearing ways, and began to 
 have knowing looks and smiles for each. Her preference for her 
 grandfather with his great frosty eyebrows pleased the old gentleman 
 immensely. It was both droll and touching to observe how one often so 
 irascible would patiently let her take off his spectacles, toy with and 
 often pull his gray locks, and rumple his old-fashioned ruffles, which 
 he persisted in wearing on state occasions. It was also silently noted 
 that the veteran never even verged toward profanity in the presence of 
 the child. 
   
 Each new token of intelligence was hailed with a delight of which 
 natures coarse or blunted never know. The Wise Men of old worshipped 
 the Babe in the manger, and sadly defective or perverted in their 
 organizations are those who do not see something divine in a little 
 innocent child. 
   
 Henry and Rita Anderson, at the urgent solicitation of Graham and his 
 wife, came on in the autumn to make a visit, and, by a very strange 
 coincidence, Graham's favorite captain, a manly, prosperous fellow, 
 happened to be visiting him at the time. By a still more remarkable 
 conjunction of events, he at once shared in his former colonel's 
 admiration of the dark-eyed Southern girl. She was very shy, distant, 
 and observant at first, for this fortuitous captain was a Northerner. 
 But the atmosphere of the two cottages was not in the least conducive 
 to coolness and reserve. The wood fires that crackled on the hearth, or 
 something else, thawed perceptibly the spirited girl. Moreover, there 
 were walks, drives, horseback excursions, daily; and Iss shone forth in 
 a glory of which he had never dreamed as a plantation hand. There were 
 light steps passing to and fro, light laughter, cheery, hearty 
 voices--in which the baby's crowing and cooing were heard as a low, 
 sweet chord--music and whist to the major's infinite consent. The 
 shadows shrank further into the background than ever before. No one 
 thought of or heeded them now; but they were there, cowering and 
 waiting. 
   
 Only Aunt Sheba was ill at ease. Crooning her quaint lullabies to the 
 baby, she would often lift her eyes to heaven and sigh, "De good Lord 
 hab marcy on dem! Dey's all a drinkin' at de little shaller pools dat 
 may dry up any minit. It's all ob de earth; it's all ob tings, nothin' 
 but tings which de eyes can see and de han's can touch. De good Lord 
 lift dar eyes from de earth widout takin' dat mos' dear!" 
   
 But no one thought of old Aunt Sheba except as a faithful creature born 
 to serve them in her humble way. 
   
 The Northern captain soon proved that he had not a little Southern dash 
 and ardor, and he had already discovered that his accidental visit to 
 Graham was quite providential, as he had been taught to regard events 
 that promised favorably. He very significantly asked Colonel Anderson 
 to take a gallop with him one morning, but they had not galloped far 
 before he halted and plumply asked the brother's permission, as the 
 present representative of her father, to pay his addresses to Rita. Now 
 Captain Windom had made a good impression on the colonel, which Graham, 
 in a very casual way, had been at pains to strengthen; and he came back 
 radiant over one point gained. But he was more afraid of that little 
 Virginian girl than he had ever been of all her Southern compatriots. 
 He felt that he must forego his cavalry tactics and open a regular 
 siege; but she, with one flash of her mirthful eyes, saw through it 
 all, laughed over it with Grace, whom from worshipping as a saint she 
 now loved as a sister. Amid the pauses in their mutual worship of the 
 baby, they talked the captain over in a way that would have made his 
 ears tingle could he have heard them; but Grace, underneath all her 
 good-natured criticism, seconded her husband's efforts with a mature 
 woman's tact. Rita should be made happy in spite of all her little 
 perversities and Southern prejudices, and yet the hands that guided and 
 helped her should not be seen. 
   
 The captain soon abandoned his siege tactics, in which he was ill at 
 ease, and resumed his old habit of impetuous advances in which Graham 
 had trained him. Time was growing short. His visit and hers would soon 
 be over. He became so downright and desperately in earnest that the 
 little girl began to be frightened. It was no laughing matter now, and 
 Grace looked grave over the affair. Then Rita began to be very sorry 
 for him, and at last, through Graham's unwonted awkwardness and 
 inattention to his guests, the captain and Rita were permitted to take 
 a different road from the others on an equestrian party. When they 
 appeared the captain looked as if he were returning from a successful 
 charge, and Rita was as shy and blushing as one of the wild roses of 
 her native hills. She fled to Grace's room, as if it were the only 
 refuge left in the world, and her first breathless words were: "I 
 haven't promised anything--that is, nothing definite. I said he might 
 come and see me in Virginia and talk to papa about it, and I'd think it 
 over, and--and--Well, he was so impetuous and earnest! Good heavens! I 
 thought the Northern people were cold, but that captain fairly took 
 away my breath. You never heard a man talk so." 
   
 Grace had put down the baby, and now stood with her arm around her 
 friend, smiling the sweetest encouragement. 
   
 "I'll explain it all to you, Miss Rita," began Graham's deep voice, as 
 he advanced from a recess. 
   
 "Oh, the powers! are you here?" and she started back and looked at him 
 with dismay. 
   
 "Yes," said he, "and I merely wished to explain that my friend Windom 
 was in the cavalry, and from much fighting with your brave, impetuous 
 hard-riders we gradually fell into their habits." 
   
 "I half believe that you are laughing at me--that you are in league 
 with him, and have been all along." 
   
 "Yes, Rita, noble little woman, truest friend at the time of my bitter 
 need, I am in league with any man worthy of you--that is, as far as a 
 man can be who seeks to make you happy;" and he took her hand and held 
 it warmly. 
   
 "Here come my silly tears again," and she dashed them to right and 
 left. Then, looking up at him shyly, she faltered, "I must admit that 
 I'm a little bit happy." 
   
 "I vowed you should be, all through that dark ride on which you led me 
 away from cruel enemies; and every flower you have placed on the grave 
 of that noble man that Grace and I both loved has added strength to my 
 vow." 
   
 "Oh, Rita, Rita, darling!" cried Grace, clasping her in close embrace; 
 "do you think we ever forget it?" 
   
 "Can you think, Rita, that in memory of that never-to-be-forgotten day 
 I would give Captain Windom the opportunities he has enjoyed if I did 
 not think he would make you happy? One cannot live and fight side by 
 side with a man for years and not know his mettle. He was lion-like in 
 battle, but he will ever be gentleness itself toward you. Best of all, 
 he will appreciate you, and I should feel like choking any fellow who 
 didn't." 
   
 "But indeed, indeed, I haven't promised anything; I only said--" 
   
 "No matter what you said, my dear, so long as the captain knows. We are 
 well assured that your every word and thought and act were true and 
 maidenly. Let Windom visit you and become acquainted with your father. 
 The more you all see of him the more you will respect him." 
   
 "You are wonderfully reassuring," said the young girl, "and I learned 
 to trust you long ago. Indeed, after your course toward Henry, I 
 believe I'd marry any one you told me to. But to tell the truth, I have 
 felt, for the last few hours, as if caught up by a whirlwind and landed 
 I don't know where. No one ever need talk to me any more about 
 cold-blooded Northerners. Well, I must land at the dinner-table before 
 long, and so must go and dress. It's proper to eat under the 
 circumstances, isn't it?" 
   
 "I expect to," said Graham, laughing, "and I'm more in love than you 
 are." 
   
 "Little wonder!" with a glance of ardent admiration toward Grace, and 
 she whisked out. In a moment she returned and said, "Now, Colonel, I 
 must be honest, especially as I think of your vow in the dark woods. I 
 am very, _very_ happy;" and then in a meteoric brilliancy of smiles, 
 tears, and excitement, she vanished. 
   
 On the day following Captain Windom marched triumphantly away, and his 
 absence proved to Rita that the question was settled, no matter what 
 she had said when having little breath left to say anything. 
   
 She and her brother followed speedily, and Graham accompanied them, to 
 superintend in person the setting up of a beautiful marble column which 
 he and Grace had designed for Hilland's grave. 
   
 It was a time of sad, yet chastened, memories to both. In their 
 consciousness Hilland had ceased to exist. He was but a memory, 
 cherished indeed with an indescribable honor and love--still only a 
 memory. There was an immense difference, however, in the thoughts of 
 each as they reverted to his distant grave. Graham felt that he had 
 there _closed_ a chapter of his life--a chapter that he would ever 
 recall with the deep melancholy that often broods in the hearts of the 
 happiest of men whose natures are large enough to be truly impressed by 
 life's vicissitudes. Grace knew that her girlhood, her former self, was 
 buried in that grave, and with her early lover had vanished forever. 
 Graham had, in a sense, raised her from the dead. His boundless love 
 and self-sacrifice, his indomitable will, had created for her new life, 
 different from the old, yet full of tranquil joys, new hopes and 
 interests. He had not rent the new from the old, but had bridged with 
 generous acts the existing chasm. He was doing all within his power, 
 not jealously to withdraw her thoughts from that terrible past, but to 
 veil its more cruel and repulsive features with flowers, laurel 
 wreaths, and sculptured marble; and in her heart, which had been dead, 
 but into which his love had breathed a new life, she daily blessed him 
 with a deeper affection. 
   
 He soon returned to her from Virginia, and by his vivid descriptions 
 made real to her the scenes he had visited. He told her how Rita and 
 her brother had changed the plot in which slept the National and the 
 Confederate officer into a little garden of blossoming greenery; how he 
 had arranged with Colonel Anderson to place a fitting monument over the 
 young Confederate officer, whose friends had been impoverished by the 
 war; and he kissed away the tears, no longer bitter and despairing, 
 evoked by the memories his words recalled. Then, in lighter vein, he 
 described the sudden advent of the impetuous captain; the consternation 
 of the little housekeeper, who was not expecting him so soon; her 
 efforts to improvise a feast for the man who would blissfully swallow 
 half-baked "pones" if served by her; her shy presentation of her lover 
 to the venerable clergyman, which he and Henry had witnessed on the 
 veranda through the half-closed blinds, and the fond old man's immense 
 surprise that his little Rita should have a lover at all. 
   
 "My dear sir," he said, "this is all very premature. You must wait for 
 the child to grow up before imbuing her mind with thoughts beyond her 
 years." 
   
 "'My dear Dr. Anderson,' had pleaded the adroit Windom, 'I will wait 
 indefinitely, and submit to any conditions that you and Miss Rita 
 impose. If already she has impressed me so deeply, time can only 
 increase my respect, admiration, and affection, if that were possible. 
 Before making a single effort to win your daughter's regard, I asked 
 permission of her brother, since you were so far away. I have not 
 sought to bind her, but have only revealed the deep feeling which she 
 has inspired, and I now come to ask your sanction also to my addresses.' 
   
 "'Your conduct,' replied the old gentleman, unbending urbanely toward 
 the young man, 'is both honorable and considerate. Of course you know 
 that my child's happiness is my chief solicitude. If, after several 
 years, when Rita's mind has grown more mature, her judgment confirms--' 
   
 "Here Rita made a little _moue_ which only her red lips could form, and 
 Henry and I took refuge in a silent and precipitate retreat, lest our 
 irreverent mirth should offend the blind old father, to whom Rita is 
 his little Rita still. You know well how many years, months rather, 
 Windom will wait. 
   
 "Well, I left the little girl happier than the day was long, for I 
 believe her eyes sparkle all through the night under their long lashes. 
 As for Windom, he is in the seventh heaven. 'My latest campaign in 
 Virginia,' he whispered to me as I was about to ride away; 'good 
 prospects of the best capture yet won from the Confederacy.'" 
   
 And so he made the place familiar to her, with its high lights and deep 
 shadows, and its characters real, even down to old Jehu and his son 
 Huey. 
   
   
 
 
 
 CHAPTER XLI (A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM) 
 Autumn merged imperceptibly into winter, and the days sped tranquilly 
 With the exception of brief absences on business, Graham was mostly 
 
 at home, for there was no place like his own hearth. His heart, so long 
 denied happiness, was content only at the side of his wife and child. 
 The shadows of the past crouched further away than ever, but even their 
 own health and prosperity, their happiness, and the reflected happiness 
 of others could not banish them wholly. The lights which burned so 
 brightly around them, like the fire on their hearth, had been kindled 
 and were fed by human hands only, and were ever liable to die out. The 
 fuel that kept them burning was the best that earth afforded, but the 
 supply had its inherent limitations. Each new tranquil day increased 
 the habitual sense of security. Graham was busy with plans of a large 
 agricultural enterprise in Virginia. The more he saw of Henry Anderson 
 the more he appreciated his sterling integrity and fine business 
 capabilities, and from being an agent he had become a partner. Grace's 
 writing-desk, at which Graham had cast a wistful glance the first time 
 he had seen it, was often covered with maps of the Virginia plantation, 
 which he proposed to develop into its best capabilities. Grace had a 
 cradle by the library fire as well as in her room. Beside this the 
 adopted grandmother knitted placidly, and the major rustled his paper 
 softly lest he should waken the little sleeper. Grace, who persisted in 
 making all of her little one's dainty plumage herself, would lift her 
 eyes from time to time, full of genuine interest in his projects and in 
 his plans for a dwelling on the plantation, which should be built 
 according to her taste and constructed for her convenience. 
   
 The shadows had never been further away. Even old Aunt Sheba was lulled 
 into security. Into her bereaved heart, as into the hearts of all the 
 others, the baby crept; and she grew so bewitching with her winsome 
 ways, so absorbing in her many little wants and her need of watching, 
 as with the dawning spirit of curiosity she sought to explore for 
 herself what was beyond the cradle and the door, that Aunt Sheba, with 
 the doting mother, thought of Hilda during all waking hours and dreamed 
 of her in sleep. 
   
 At last the inconstant New England spring passed away, and June came 
 with its ever-new heritage of beauty. The baby's birthday was to be the 
 grand fete of the year, and the little creature seemed to enter into 
 the spirit of the occasion. She could now call her parents and 
 grandparents by name, and talk to them in her pretty though senseless 
 jargon, which was to them more precious than the wisdom of Solomon. 
   
 It was a day of roses and rose-colors. Roses banked the mantelpieces, 
 wreathed the cradle, crowned the table at which Hilda sat in state in 
 her high chair, a fairy form in gossamer laces, with dark eyes--Grace's 
 eyes--that danced with the unrestrained delight of a child. 
   
 "She looks just like my little Grace of long, long years ago," said the 
 major, with wistful eyes; "and yet, Colonel, it seems but yesterday 
 that your wife was the image of that laughing little witch yonder." 
   
 "Well, I can believe," admitted Grandma Mayburn, "that Grace was as 
 pretty--a tremendous compliment to you, Grace--but there never was and 
 never will be another baby as pretty and cunning as our Hilda." 
   
 The good old lady never spoke of the child as Grace's baby. It was 
 always "ours." In Graham, Grace, and especially Hilda, she had her 
 children about her, and the mother-need in her heart was satisfied. 
   
 "Yes, Hilda darling," said the colonel, with fond eyes, "you have begun 
 well. You could not please me more than by looking like your mother; 
 the next thing is to grow like her." 
   
 "Poor blind papa, with the perpetual glamour on his eyes! He will never 
 see his old white-haired wife as she is." 
   
 He looked at her almost perfect features with the bloom of health upon 
 them, into her dark eyes with their depths of motherly pride and joy, 
 at her snowy neck and ivory arms bare to the summer heat, and longest 
 at the wavy silver of her hair, that crowned her beauty with an almost 
 supernatural charm. 
   
 "Don't I see you as you are, Grace?" he said. "Well, I am often 
 spellbound by what I do see. If Hilda becomes like you, excepting your 
 sorrows, my dearest wish in her behalf will be fulfilled." 
   
 Old Aunt Sheba, standing behind the baby's chair, felt a chill at heart 
 as she thought: "Dey'se all a-worshippin' de chile and each oder. I 
 sees it so plain dat I'se all ob a-tremble." 
   
 Surely the dark shadows of the past have no place near that birthday 
 feast, but they are coming nearer, closing in, remorseless, relentless 
 as ever, and among them are the gloomy rivals against whom Graham 
 struggled so long. He thought he had vanquished them, but they are 
 stealing upon him again like vindictive, unforgiving savages. 
   
 There was a jar of thunder upon the still air, but it was not heeded. 
 The room began to darken, but they thought only of a shower that would 
 banish the sultriness of the day. Darker shadows than those of 
 thunder-clouds were falling upon them, had they known it. 
   
 The wine was brought, and the health of the baby drank. Then Graham, 
 ordering all glasses to be filled, said reverently: "To the memory of 
 Warren Hilland! May the child who is named for him ever remind us of 
 his noble life and heroic death." 
   
 They drank in silence, then put down the glasses and sat for moments 
 with bowed heads, Grace's tears falling softly. Without, nature seemed 
 equally hushed. Not a breath stirred the sultry air, until at last a 
 heavier and nearer jar of thunder vibrated in the distance. 
   
 The unseen shadows are closing around the little Hilda, whose eyelids 
 are heavy with satiety. Aunt Sheba is about to take her from her chair, 
 when a swift gust, cold and spray-laden, rushes through the house, 
 crushing to the doors and whirling all light articles into a carnival 
 of disorder. 
   
 The little gossamer-clad girl shivered, and, while others hastily 
 closed windows, Grace ran for a shawl in which to wrap her darling. 
   
 The shower passed, bringing welcome coolness. Hilda slept quietly 
 through its turmoil and swishing torrents--slept on into the twilight, 
 until Aunt Sheba seemed a shadow herself. But there were darker shadows 
 brooding over her. 
   
 Suddenly, in her sleep, the child gave an ominous barking cough. 
   
 "Oh, de good Lor'!" cried Aunt Sheba, springing to her feet. Then with 
 a swiftness in which there was no sign of age, she went to the landing 
 and called, "Mas'r Graham." 
   
 Grace was in the room before him. "What is it?" she asked breathlessly. 
   
 "Well, Missy Grace, don't be 'larmed, but I tinks Mas'r Graham 'ud 
 better sen' for de doctor, jes' for caution like." 
   
 Again came that peculiar cough, terror-inspiring to all mothers. 
   
 "Alford, Alford, lose not a moment!" she cried. "It's the croup." 
   
 The soldier acted as if his camp were attacked at midnight. There were 
 swift feet, the trampling of a horse; and soon the skill of science, 
 the experience of age, and motherly tenderness confronted the black 
 shadows, but they remained immovable. 
   
 The child gasped and struggled for life. Grace, half frantic, followed 
 the doctor's directions with trembling hands, seeking to do everything 
 for her idol herself as far as possible. Mrs. Mayburn, gray, grim, with 
 face of ashen hue, hovered near and assisted. Aunt Sheba, praying often 
 audibly, proved by her deft hands that the experience of her long-past 
 motherhood was of service now. The servants gathered at the door, eager 
 and impatient to do something for "de bressed chile." The poor old 
 major thumped restlessly back and forth on his crutches in the hall 
 below, half swearing, half praying. Dr. Markham, pale with anxiety, but 
 cool and collected as a veteran general in battle, put forth his whole 
 skill to baffle the destroyer. Graham, standing in the background with 
 clenched hands, more excited, more desperate than he had ever been when 
 sitting on his horse waiting for the bugle to sound the charge, watched 
 his wife and child with eyes that burned in the intensity of his 
 feeling. 
   
 Time, of which no notice was taken, passed, although moments seemed 
 like hours. The child still struggled and gasped, but more and more 
 feebly. At last, in the dawn, the little Hilda lay still, looked up and 
 smiled. Was it at her mother's face, or something beyond? 
   
 "She is better," cried Grace, turning her imploring eyes to the 
 physician, who held the little hand. 
   
 Alas! it was growing cold in his. He turned quickly to Graham and 
 whispered: "Support your wife. The end is near." 
   
 He came mechanically and put his arm around her. 
   
 "Grace, dear Grace," he faltered, hoarsely, "can you not bear this 
 sorrow also for my sake?" 
   
 "Alford!" she panted with horror in her tones--"Alford! why, why, her 
 hand is growing cold!" 
   
 There was a long low sigh from the little one, and then she was still. 
   
 "Take your wife away," said Dr. Markham, in a low, authoritative tone. 
   
 Graham sought to obey in the same mechanical manner. She sprang from 
 him and stood aloof. There was a terrible light in her eyes, before 
 which he quailed. 
   
 "Take me away!" she cried, in a voice that was hoarse, strained, and 
 unnatural. "Never! Tell me the belief of your heart. Have I lost my 
 child forever? Is that sweet image of my Hilda nothing but clay? Is 
 there nothing further for this idol of my heart but horrible 
 corruption? If this is true, no more learned jargon to me about law and 
 force! If this is true, I am the creation of a fiend who, with all the 
 cruel ingenuity of a fiend, has so made me that he can inflict the 
 utmost degree of torture. If this is true, my motherhood is a lie, and 
 good is punished, not evil. If this is true, there is neither God nor 
 law, but only a devil. But let me have the truth: have I lost that 
 child forever?" 
   
 He was dumb, and an awful silence fell upon the chamber of death. 
   
 Graham's philosophy failed him at last. His own father-heart could not 
 accept of corruption as the final end of his child. Indeed, it revolted 
 at it with a resistless rebound as something horrible, monstrous, and, 
 as his wife had said, devilish. His old laborious reasoning was 
 scorched away as by lightning in that moment of intense consciousness 
 when _his_ soul told him that, if this were true, his nature also was a 
 lie and a cheat. He knew not what he believed, or what was true. He was 
 stunned and speechless. 
   
 Despair was turning his wife's face into stone, when old Aunt Sheba, 
 who had been crouching, sobbing and praying at the foot of the little 
 couch, rose with streaming eyes and stretched out her hands toward the 
 desperate mother. 
   
 "No, Missy Grace," she cried, in tones that rang through the house; 
 "no, no, no. Your chile am not lost to you; your chile am not dead. She 
 on'y sleeps. Did not de good Lord say: 'Suffer de little chillen ter 
 come unter Me'? An' Hilda, de dear little lamb, hab gone ter Him, an' 
 is in de Good Shepherd's arms. Your little chile am not lost to you, 
 she's safe at home, de dear bressed home ob heben, whar your moder is 
 Missy Grace. De Hebenly Father say, 'Little Hilda, you needn't walk de 
 long flinty, thorny path and suffer like you'se dear moder. You kin 
 come home now, and I'se 'll take keer ob ye till moder comes.' Bress de 
 little lamb, she smile when de angels come fer her, an' she's safe, 
 safe for ebermore. No tears fer little Hilda, no heartbreak in all her 
 'ternal life. Dear Missy Grace, my little baby die, too, but I hain't 
 los' it. No, no. De Good Shepherd is a keepin' it safe fer me, an' I 
 shall hab my baby again." 
   
 It is impossible to describe the effect of this passionate utterance of 
 faith as it came warm and direct from the heart of another bereaved 
 mother, whose lowliness only emphasized the universal human need of 
 something more than negations and theories of law and force. The major 
 heard it in the hall below, and was awed. Mrs. Mayburn and the servants 
 sobbed audibly. The stony look went out of Grace's face; tears welled 
 up into her hot, dry eyes, and she drew near and bent over her child 
 with an indescribable yearning in her face. Aunt Sheba ceased, sank 
 down on the floor, and throwing her apron over her face she rocked back 
 and forth and prayed as before. 
   
 Suddenly Grace threw herself on the unconscious little form, and cried 
 with a voice that pierced every heart: "O God, I turn to Thee, then. Is 
 my child lost to me forever, or is she in Thy keeping? Was my mother's 
 faith true? Shall I have my baby once more? Jesus, art Thou a Shepherd 
 of the little ones? Hast Thou suffered my Hilda to come unto Thee? Oh, 
 if Thou art, Thou canst reveal Thyself unto me and save a 
 broken-hearted mother from despair. This child _was_ mine. Is it mine 
 still?" and she clasped her baby convulsively to her bosom. 
   
 "Suffer de little chillen ter come unter me, and forbid dem not,'" 
 repeated Aunt Sheba in low tones. 
   
 Again a deep, awed silence fell upon them all. Grace knelt so long with 
 her own face pressed against her child's that they thought she had 
 fainted. The physician motioned Graham to lift her up, but he shook his 
 head. He was crushed and despairing, feeling that in one little hour he 
 had lost the belief of his manhood, the child that had brought into his 
 home a heaven that he at least could understand, and as he heard his 
 wife's bitter cry he felt that her life and reason might soon go also. 
 He recognized again the presence of his bitter rivals, Grief and Death, 
 and felt that at last they had vanquished him. He had not the courage 
 or the will to make another effort. 
   
 "Mrs. Graham, for your husband's sake--" began Dr. Markham. 
   
 "Ah! forgive me, Alford," she said, rising weakly; "I should not have 
 forgotten you for a moment." 
   
 She took an uncertain step toward him, and he caught her in his arms. 
   
 Laying her head upon his breast, she said gently, "Alford, our baby is 
 not dead." 
   
 "Oh, Grace, darling!" he cried in agony, "don't give way, or we are 
 both lost. I have no strength left. I cannot save you again. Oh! if the 
 awful past should come back!" 
   
 "It now can never come back. Alford, we have not lost our child. Aunt 
 Sheba has had a better wisdom than you or I, and from this hour forth 
 my mother's faith is mine. Do not think me wild or wandering. In my 
 very soul has come the answer to my cry. Horrible corruption is not the 
 end of that lovely life. You can't believe it, any more than I. Dear 
 little sleeper, you are still _my_ baby. I shall go to you, and you 
 will never suffer as I have suffered. God bless you, Aunt Sheba! your 
 heaven-inspired words have saved me from despair. Alford, dear Alford, 
 do not give way so; I'll live and be your true and faithful wife. I'll 
 teach you the faith that God has taught me." 
   
 He drew long, deep breaths. He was like a great ship trying to right 
 itself in a storm. At last he said, in broken tones: 
   
 "Grace, you are right. It's not law or force. It's either God, who in 
 some way that I can't understand, will bring good out of all this evil, 
 or else it's all devilish, fiendish. If after this night you can be 
 resigned, patient, hopeful, your faith shall be mine." 
   
 The shadows, affrighted, shrank further away than ever before. "I take 
 you at your word," she replied, as she drew him gently away. "Come, let 
 us go and comfort papa." 
   
 One after another stole out after them until Mrs. Mayburn was alone 
 with the dead. Long and motionless she stood, with her eyes fixed on 
 the quiet, lovely face. 
   
 "Hilda," at last she moaned, "little Hilda, shall poor old grandma ever 
 see our baby again?" 
   
 At that moment the sun rose high enough to send a ray through the 
 lattice, and it lighted the baby's face with what seemed a smile of 
 unearthly sweetness. 
   
 A few moments later Aunt Sheba found the aged woman with her head upon 
 little Hilda's bosom, and there she received a faith that brought peace. 
   
 A few evenings later there was a grassy mound, covered with roses, 
 under the apple-tree by the rustic seat; and at the head of the little 
 grave there was placed a block of marble bearing the simple inscription: 
   
 "Here sleeps our Baby Hilda." 
   
      *       *       *       *       *       *       * 
   
 Years have passed. The little monument is now near another and a 
 stately one in a Virginia cemetery. Fresh flowers are on it, showing 
 that "Our Baby Hilda" is never forgotten. Fresh flowers are beneath the 
 stately column, proving that the gallant soldier sleeping under it is 
 never forgotten. Fresh flowers are on the young Confederate's grave, 
 commemorating a manly and heroic devotion to a cause that was sacred to 
 him. The cause was lost; and had he lived to green old age he would 
 have thanked God for it. Not least among the reasons for thankfulness 
 is the truth that to men and peoples that which their hearts craved is 
 often denied. 
   
 Not far away is a home as unostentatious as the Northern cottage, but 
 larger, and endowed with every homelike attribute. Sweet Grace Graham 
 is its mistress. Her lovely features are somewhat marked by time and 
 her deep experiences, but they have gained a beauty and serenity that 
 will defy time. Sounds of joyous young life again fill the house, and 
 in a cradle by her side "little Grace" is sleeping. Grandma Mayburn 
 still knits slowly by the hearth, but when the days are dry and warm it 
 is her custom to steal away to the cemetery and remain for hours with 
 "Our Baby." The major has grown very feeble, but his irritable protest 
 against age and infirmity has given place to a serene, quiet waiting 
 till he can rest beside the brave soldiers who have forgotten their 
 laurels. 
   
 Colonel Anderson, now a prosperous planter, has his own happy home 
 life, and his aged father shares the best there is in it. He still 
 preaches in the quaint old church, repaired but not modernized, and his 
 appearance and life give eloquence to his faltering words. The event of 
 the quiet year is the annual visit of Rita and Captain Windom with 
 their little brood. Then truly the homes abound in breezy life; but 
 sturdy, blue-eyed Warren Graham is the natural leader of all the little 
 people's sport. The gallant black horse Mayburn is still Iss's pride, 
 but he lets no one mount him except his master. Aunt Sheba presides at 
 the preparation of state dinners, and sits by the cradle of baby Grace. 
 She is left, however, most of the time, to her own devices, and often 
 finds her way also to the cemetery to "wisit dat dear little lamb, 
 Hilda," murmuring as she creeps slowly with her cane, "We'se all 
 a-followin' her now, bress de Lord." 
   
 Jinny's stories of what she saw and of her experiences abroad have 
 become so marvellous that they might be true of some other planet, but 
 not of ours. Dusky faces gather round her by the kitchen fire, and 
 absolute faith is expressed by their awed looks. Old Jehu has all the 
 chickens and "sass" he wants without working for them, and his son Huey 
 has settled down into a steady "hand," who satisfies his former ruling 
 passion with an occasional coon-hunt. Both of the colonels have the 
 tastes of sportsmen, and do all in their power to preserve the game in 
 their vicinity. They have become closer friends with the lapsing years, 
 and from crossing swords they look forward to the time when they can 
 cross their family escutcheons by the marriage of the sturdy Warren 
 with another little Rita, who now romps with him in a child's happy 
 unconsciousness. 
   
 There are flecks of gray in Graham's hair and beard, and deep lines on 
 his resolute face, but he maintains his erect, soldierly bearing even 
 when superintending the homely details of the plantation. Every one 
 respects him; the majority are a little afraid of him, for where his 
 will has sway there is law and order, but to the poor and sorrowful he 
 gives increasing reason to bless his name. His wife's faith has become 
 his. She has proved it true by the sweet logic of her life. In their 
 belief, the baby Hilda is only at home before them, and the soldier 
 without fear and without reproach has found the immortality that he 
 longed for in his dying moments. He is no longer a cherished, honored 
 memory only; he is the man they loved, grown more manly, more noble in 
 the perfect conditions of a higher plane of life. The dark mysteries of 
 evil are still dark to them--problems that cannot be solved by human 
 reason. But in the Divine Man, toward whose compassionate face the 
 sorrowful and sinful of all the centuries have turned, they have found 
 One who has mastered the evil that threatened their lives. They are 
 content to leave the mystery of evil to Him who has become in their 
 deepest consciousness Friend and Guide. He stands between them and the 
 shadows of the past and the future. 
   
 
 
 Publication Date: January 8th 2015 https://www.bookrix.com/-mk496e398f1e345