\JiJii l^"*- 
 
 
 
 , 
 
 
 r— 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 ' 
 
 
 THE WILMER COLLECTION 
 
 
 
 OF CIVIL WAR NOVELS 
 
 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
 
 
 RICHARD H. WILMER, JR. 
 
 
 
 
 
CJ^ 
 

 AT AISTOHOR 
 
 A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 
 
 BY 
 
 NEW yore: : 
 
 D. APPLETOiT AND COMPANY, 
 
 .443 & 445 BROADWAY. 
 
 1865. 
 
ExTEEED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by 
 
 D. APPLETON & CO., 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Southern District of Xew 
 lurt. 
 
AT ANCHOR: 
 
 A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " Kate, you are nearest the door, do ask Bessie 
 which of us is in hick now." So spoke Emma Lewis, 
 as the door-hell ceased its second rinscino'. 
 
 " Wait until she is graciously pleased to inform 
 us," reiDlied my cousin Kate, who was at that moment 
 engaged in tying her slij^per, a performance she never 
 hurried. She had a small foot, had Kate, but then she 
 was under size herself. 
 
 " Xo need, Emma," added Marv Allen, lau2:hino'. 
 " Of course Kate is the chosen one ; who but Gilbert 
 Stuart would have so little consideration for our luzy 
 toilettes as to call before seven ? " 
 
 " Konsense ! " Kate ejaculated, blushing as in duty 
 bound ; whereupon Emma gave me a wicked side- 
 glance, for everybody, except poor silly Kate, knew 
 
4 AT AXCHOE : 
 
 very well whose eyes lightened Gilbert Stuart's way 
 to my uncle Tom's dear old home. 
 
 Bessie, as foretold by the wise Mary, announced 
 him. 
 
 " There, Kate ! Now, Kate ! " cried Emma, pre- 
 tending to help, but in reality greatly retarding Kate's 
 efforts to dress. " Bless me ! not that eternal silk. 
 Why you'll melt the man ! " 
 
 "Kate has no objection, I suppose," said Mary, 
 with more malice than one would expect from a girl 
 with a "vocation," for Mary was to be a nun, she 
 said. 
 
 " I do not see why you all tease me," Kate mut- 
 tered, pretending to be vexed. " I am sure Mr. Stuart 
 pays just as much attention to Georgie as to me : why 
 don't you tease hej- ? " 
 
 "Georgie!" exclaimed the girls, in arch chorus, 
 " who ever heard of such a thing ! " 
 
 " Do make them stop," pleaded Kate, turning to 
 me ; but I said nothing. I was counting, by the beat- 
 ings of my heart, the few seconds necessary for me to 
 give to them, as proof of indifference to the visitor be- 
 low ; and if Kate wanted to be such a fool as ta fancy 
 every gentleman who came to see " the ladies " was 
 especially her adorer, let her think so ; she would, per-gj^ 
 haps, find out the difference some day. ^^r^ 
 
 " I believe, as I am dressed, I will go down," I 
 said at last. " Kate will need considerable time yet 
 
A STOKY OF OUR CFV^IL WAR. 5 
 
 to make herself satisfactorily bewitching ; " and after 
 leisurely lounging out of the room, I flew down the 
 broad staircase, to meet him whose dear, dark eyes 
 once looking into mine, had so flooded my soul with 
 love and faith that I read, fearless in my own truth, in 
 his ever after quiet gaze, in his calm words, in his low- 
 toned voice, unfathomable depths of tenderness, turn- 
 ing silently to me, as the broad river runs noiselessly 
 to the ocean. 
 
 Years have passed since then ; grief, anguish, blood, 
 and death, stand between that day and this, and 
 still I see myself, in the spring-time of my youth, be- 
 fore there had been a thorn or even a Avithered flower 
 in my pathw^ay, or a cloud in my sky — a blooming 
 girl, whose rosy cheeks and clear, dark eyes might 
 for a moment dim the purer beauty of clear cut feat- 
 ures, and broad, full brow : a creature of light, grace, 
 and happiness, flitting past the frowning pictures, 
 dancing. down the dark polished stairs, with white 
 jewelled hands gleaming along the grim caiwings! 
 Did angels fold their wings and weep, as she glided 
 swiftly through their ranks, down to the little world 
 that was all the world to her — the world of Love ? 
 
 Gilbert awaited me just by the door, leaning, with 
 the unconscious grace of a strong man, against my 
 piano, raising his head slowly, as I came nearer, and 
 letting the light come up, not hastily, to his dark^ col- 
 orless cheek, to greet me. 
 
6 ' AT anchor: 
 
 There was one song of whicli he never seemed to 
 grow tired, a weird kind of thing, with a mystic bur- 
 den of love triumphant only in death ; a song little in 
 accordance with his cool temperament, yet Ms favor- 
 ite. I rarely waited for him to ask me to sing it, but 
 gave it unasked ; now, when after some conversation 
 in the twilight, he requested it, some indefinable im- 
 pulse made me answer : 
 
 " Not until I know wherein lies its charm." 
 
 " Beware ! Curiosity lost Eve her paradise." 
 
 " Thus, too, may I. So be it," I returned, smiling, 
 secure in my paradise, which could not banish me 
 while he lived. " Tell me, have your two mysteries 
 any connection ? Has my song any connection with 
 the mysterious miniature you guard so faithfully ? " 
 
 For once I had seen him, in looking for a note, 
 take from his pocket an oval velvet case, inside of 
 which I had vainly asked to look. Making the re- 
 mark, I looked fearlessly up to his quiet eyes, wonder- 
 ing why the smiles should grow deeper, losing them- 
 selves in sadness, as he continued to gaze upon me. 
 
 " Must it be so ? " he murmured, more of himself 
 than of me, it seemed. And then, without removing 
 from mine his eyes, growing deeper and more tender 
 still, taking one of my hands in his, he placed in the 
 other the velvet case — open. 
 
 It contained a girl's portrait. A fair, young face, 
 fairer, fainter colored, lighter lined than mine ; a char- 
 
A STOKY OF OFE CIYIL WAE. 7 
 
 acterless face, with delicate features, and soft, emotion- 
 less blue eyes ; my cousin Kate's face, with only a 
 shade of resemblance, a misty, shadowy, flitting resem- 
 blance. My cousin Kate's face, but her face subdued, 
 refined, poetized, idealized. 
 
 She must love him, or no painter could ever so 
 have painted her. 
 
 " Who is it ? " I asked. 
 
 " It is my^awcee," he answered. 
 
 Into my veins, even to the tips of the fingers rest- 
 ing in his, ran the hot iron that was to harden in my 
 soul. I smiled, said " How you surprise me ! " thought 
 the face " lovely," and, by and by, went up stairs again. 
 
 " Why do you not go down ? " I asked of Kate. 
 " Mr. Stuart will not think this very kind treatment." 
 
 Emma looked at me in surprise. " I should not 
 wonder if they were engaged," I said to her, as soon 
 as Kate had rustled her heavy silk out of hearing. 
 " Suppose you and Mary entertain uncle Tom in the 
 library until I change my hair ; it is so tight, it hurts 
 me." 
 
 Afterward, rising from my knees to cool my head 
 in the night air, before joining uncle Tom, I saw Gil- 
 bert standing in the garden with Kate, tearing the 
 sweet June roses from my bushes, and, when tired of 
 playing with them, tossing them, leaf by leaf, into the 
 fountain. 
 
 It was " a way he had." 
 
CHAPTER n. 
 
 My uncle Tom was an old bachelor, who had lov- 
 ed the ladies so well in his youth that he could never 
 decide on one to bless his age, to the exclusion of so 
 many others. Not but that my uncle was young yet, 
 and, thanks to his whiskers, which were astonishing, 
 and to his income, which was equally flourishing, he 
 was still in good demand. 
 
 He was a glorious fellow ; his hand, his heart, his 
 house, and his purse were as open as the generous sun- 
 shine, and I, his nearest relative, a sisterless, brother- 
 less orphan, seemed to be the one point on which he 
 centred all the afiections of his ever warm heart. 
 
 Love, from my earliest recollection, had been my 
 breath of life, but a long line of rock-moulded ances- 
 tors, fighting, generation after generation, with all 
 forms and shapes of care and wrong, had transmitted 
 to me, the last of their line, the strength of soul wrung 
 from the accumulated trials and triumphs of their 
 struggling lives. 
 
 Like them, I was formed of the rugged New Eng- 
 
A STOKY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 9 
 
 land granite, though my uncle's delicate chiselling, 
 and the graceful draping of steady happiness, made 
 me seem as if moulded from less enduring, but 
 more polished material. I do not know that uncle 
 Tom ever suspected the real under the seeming. He 
 caressed me like a baby, he dressed me, he feted me, 
 as if I had been born only to be borne through the 
 world in a jewelled car, over a pathway of roses. He 
 had but one object in life, as far as I was concerned, 
 and that was that I might equal my " glorious moth- 
 er." 
 
 My "glorious mother," who, as Mrs. Glynn had 
 so imprudently told me, died in the dark and cold, 
 on the open field, not half a mile from her husband's 
 door ! 
 
 Our house in summer had always some visitors ; 
 on the summer of which I have spoken it was full to 
 its utmost limits, our party having been augmented on 
 the day before the opening of my story, by the arrival 
 of my only fashionable relative, my aunt Graham, her 
 daughter Florence, lady's maid, and countless trunks ; 
 my cousin Hal, " Lady Louise," his fast mare, his sad- 
 dle, buggy, gun, and fishing-tackle; and my uncle 
 Graham, who, however, had only taken a run down to 
 see his wife and train safely landed at her brother's. 
 
 My aunt Graham was the only woman whom I was 
 forced to regard as so immensely my superior that 
 during her visits I always looked upon myself as the 
 1* 
 
10 AT anchor: 
 
 plainest, dowdiest, stupidest mortal in existence. She 
 denounced my grandest dresses as " frights," and my 
 way of wearing my hair she regarded as " too shock- 
 ing for any thing." 
 
 Her whole soul was bent on marrying off Florence, 
 who was now in her eighteenth year, and, despite her 
 really good face and slender figure, was w;zengaged. 
 My duties as a well-behaved relative and polite host- 
 ess required, in my aunt Graham's eyes, that I should 
 introduce all the eligible young men of our acquaint- 
 ance to Florence, retiring immediately afterward to 
 the background. 
 
 Before my aunt Graham came, she had written 
 to Kate — she would not have dared do so to either 
 my uncle Tom or me — to know who were at "the 
 house," and before she had been two hours in the par- 
 lor I saw that she had selected the victim whose sac- 
 rifice was to be the result of the summer's campaign. 
 
 And in her selection I must say my aunt Graham 
 showed the taste and high ambition which, she often 
 assured me, were indispensable to a really fashionable 
 lady's " making-up." Carlton Aberthnay, on whom fell 
 her choice, Avas one of our most admired friends. He 
 was a South Carolinian by birth, and more, a real Caroli- 
 nian, one of the almost mythical First Families of the 
 South, Avith just enough of Kew England training to 
 steady the Southern impetuosity with which he was 
 lavishly endowed. Generous and impulsive, brave and 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVEL WAR. ' 11 
 
 courteous, high-toned and chivalric, there Avas no door 
 or heart that could be long closed to him. 
 
 Had Kate said nothing of his well-stocked planta- 
 tions, of his almost unlimited expectations, my aunt 
 Graham would have read the consciousness of wealth 
 and position in the unassuming ease and graceful mod- 
 esty which, to less experienced eyes than those of the 
 sharp woman of the world with a daughter to settle, 
 would have been the last sign looked for. 
 
 I cannot say that the light I saw in Gilbert Stu- 
 art's eyes had blinded me to all the good in other men, 
 so that they passed dimly before me, darkly as in a 
 glass, but I do know that as we all met in the parlor, 
 a day or two after that scene with Gilbert, and one 
 woman-glance of mine shut out that light, other men 
 came out from the background and shone in more dis- 
 tinct colors. And it was then, I think, that as Carlton 
 Aberthnay stood by Florence's chair, guiding her 
 through the intricacies of a Chinese puzzle, that I saw 
 in his countenance something I had never seen in any 
 other's, not even in Gilbert's ; — certainly not, in Gil- 
 bert's. 
 
 I can scarcely tell you what it was, it was so spir- 
 itual, so aspiring, so pure, so real, yet so fervid. Some- 
 thing that made me blush for the material, earthly 
 kind of existence that I led — I, a woman, who ought 
 to walk in heaven's ways, leading men with me, not 
 to stand afar off wondering at it in another's. The 
 
12 AT AisCHOR: 
 
 same look, T\'ith less of determination, more of tender 
 humility, equally pure, but more spii'itual still, was al- 
 ways shining out of oMary Allen's sweet hazel eyes. 
 While I watched fhat light in Carlton Aberthnay's 
 face, my cousin Hal had evidently seen the same in 
 Mary's, for I saw him sitting by her, with more of in- 
 terest and refinement in his appearance than had ever 
 been won from him by the brightest "belle of the 
 ball." 
 
 " I can never do it," at last sighed Florence, look- 
 ing pitifully up to Mr. Aberthnay. 
 
 " Really ? why, ]Miss Georgie did it at once. She 
 can explain it better than I ; " and he turned to me, 
 much to Florence's disgust ; she, however, maintained 
 a show of interest while I coldly and rapidly explain- 
 ed. 
 
 To get her away fi'om me, ]\Irs. Graham called her 
 to the piano, but Mr. Aberthnay did not follow ; he 
 sat with me by the low French window, looking out 
 on the river. 
 
 He talked well, better than usual, for Florence had 
 rested his intellect, and it was ready for a fresh start. 
 
 His manner had always suited me as a relief irom. 
 the cold, unenthusiastic, undemonstrative ways of the 
 North ; and, now that I was becoming hardened from 
 the joyous-hearted, imjDulsive girl, to the stately, sar- 
 castic woman, it did me good to mark the flow of his 
 impetuous nature. It amused me, leaning back in my 
 
A STOEY OF Om CIVIL WAK. 13 
 
 chair, refusing to lose myself in poetry or romance, to 
 hear him, excited to the utmost, paint for me his 
 dreams of the future. His especial ambition was mili- 
 tary renown ; the pomp of battle was to him earth's 
 grandest romance. " I shall wait," he would often tell 
 me, " until some oppressed nation, with whose princi- 
 ples I can fully sympathize, rises against the oppress- 
 or, and join them, as Lafayette did the Colonists, as — " 
 " Byron the Greeks," I once interrupted him. " ^o, 
 no. Earth has many ways to fame, and honor should 
 be every man's aim ; but war is butchery, slaughter, 
 adorn it as you will." 
 
 But I never moved him; and was nearer being 
 converted myself, for, after all, what man or woman 
 is great and good enough to be deaf to the fife and 
 drum, or blmd when "Horses prance and lances 
 gleam " ? I found refuge in the magnetism of his 
 cheerful nature from my own thoughts. So I bore, 
 listening to him, without a word of complaint, the 
 dull, hard pain that was gnawing all the sweetness 
 and blessedness out of my life. I meant to be true 
 and just to Carlton Aberthnay, that he might never 
 suffer, if indeed men ever do suffer, as I was suffering 
 then. I knew that his ever comleous manner had a 
 shade of reverence in it for me that it had for no 
 other ; mine to him was ever frank and cordial. Be- 
 yond that I meant that neither should go. I was tired 
 of love, tired of hearing of it, tired of readmg of it, 
 
14 AT ANCHOR : 
 
 tired of living for it, and I meant there should be none 
 of it between Carlton Aberthnay and me. 
 
 Indeed Florence was determined on the same point, 
 and so contrived it that Carlton would have been 
 more or less than man, could he have had a whole 
 heart to offer any other than herself. 
 
 My cousin Hal, who, weak as he was, was beyond 
 his excellent mother's control, had "paii-ed off" with 
 Mary since the first evening of theii* meeting. Kate 
 and Gilbert were almost equally exclusive, or I fan- 
 cied so ; Emma, Uncle Tom, Aunt Graham, Mr. Ab- 
 erthnay, and myself were left to be as entertaining to 
 each other as possible under the circumstances. Gil- 
 bert Stuart came and went very much as of old, and 
 among so many affaires du cceur^ my little trouble 
 passed unnoticed. How weak I must seem when I con- 
 fess that my heart still ached for Gilbert. If by so 
 doing I could have preserved his present esteem, and 
 the hope that even yet was not dead, I would have 
 considered it happiness to follow him around the world 
 as the meekest of servants, living years on a smile, 
 braving death for a loving look. Only that I knew 
 he would despise me for it, how I would have knelt 
 and begged for his love ! 
 
 But well for me the delicate face, Kate's idealized 
 face, was always before me, standmg, like the Angel 
 with the drawn sword, between me and paradise. And 
 Kate herself— ! Sometimes I almost pitied her in her 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 15 
 
 falDt prettiness, as my uncle's rich-set mirrors flashed 
 back my royally-cut features and my deep autumnal 
 coloring. I asked Kate nothing. I asked myself noth- 
 ing. I never analyzed my feelings, only, when sev- 
 ered from the being in which my own had been so 
 long absorbed, and the responsibility of my own life 
 and happiness came back to me, only then I longed to 
 throw myself into his arms, hide my head on his heart, 
 and pray him to take me back to the love which I still 
 believed had been, still was mine. 
 
 "Was that my greatest folly ? 
 
 "Well, at least I kept it to myself I went through 
 the almost daily agony of meeting and parting, with 
 a self-possession that astonishes me now, and must 
 have completely blinded him. 
 
 During the earlier summer months Gilbert had oft- 
 en been my escort, on Sundays, to church at the con- 
 vent where Mary Allen was then at school. Her va- 
 cation had commenced during the week, but on the 
 first Sunday after the strange conversation with Gil- 
 bert, I proposed going to church there, as usual for af- 
 ternoon service. 
 
 " Who are for the convent ? " I asked, with less in- 
 difference to the answer than became a polite and im- 
 partial hostess. " Now, don't all speak at once ! " 
 
 " I am at your service as usual," answered Mr. 
 Stuart, looking steadily at me. 
 
 "As I did not want to speak all at once," Mr, 
 
16 AT anchor: 
 
 Aberthnay said, before I had replied to Gilbert, " I 
 have lost the opportunity of putting myself in the 
 Tvay of getting an inside view of that mysterious build- 
 ing. Do pity me, kind Miss Vane." 
 
 "I do," I said; "but there is no reason why you 
 should not go to-day, the larger the party the bet- 
 ter." 
 
 "I am restored to happiness," Mr. Aberthnay 
 said, smilingly, and began an argument with Kate on 
 religious life, which was conducted with great spirit 
 on both sides, for Carl's religion was a quiet part of 
 him, and Kate was the most rigid of Presbyterians. 
 
 " Stop arguing," I had to say, at last, " and let us 
 decide how we shall go." 
 
 " Miss Mary is going with me in my buggy," Hal 
 answered, promptly; "I will show her a horse as is a 
 horse." 
 
 " You will very likely see too much of that horse, 
 Mary," I said. "If you have any regard for your 
 friends, go vdih me in sober style." 
 
 " Mr. Graham says Lady Louise is as gentle as a 
 lamb under his guidance," Mary answered. "I am 
 not afraid, and I like to drive fast." 
 
 " Yery good beginning for a novice," I thought, 
 but decided not to interfere. When this important 
 matter was settled, it was j^roposed that the two gen- 
 tlemen and I should walk, and then began some little 
 ceremonious politeness between Messrs. Aberthnay 
 
A STOET OF OUR CIVIL WAE. lY 
 
 and Stuart, which showed each wished the other a 
 thousand miles away. 
 
 Finally, Mr. Aberthenay came privately to me and 
 gave me to understand that some other day we could 
 go, but that as I had generally gone with Mr. Stuart, 
 and so on. He should not enjoy a pleasure at the risk 
 of interferinor with Mr. Stuart's rio^hts. 
 
 " Rights ! " I echoed ; " this is the first I have heard 
 of Mr. Stuart's rights ! " 
 
 " How shall I express my meaning, then ? " 
 
 " I do not know your meaning, nor care. I have 
 known Mr. Stuart ever since I can remember, but if I 
 had known him a thousand years I should not consid- 
 er he had any right to my society." 
 
 " On that account, no." 
 
 "Not on any account. He visits here as uncle 
 Tom's friend, and, some people think, it is just possible 
 my cousin — " 
 
 I felt ashamed of having said so much. Mr. Ab- 
 erthnay saw that I did, and very quietly said : 
 
 " I had no idea of annoying you ; I beg you will 
 forgive me." 
 
 " There is nothing to forgive. Come, now, it is 
 time for us to make ourselves ready for church. After 
 vespers very likely they will show you around that 
 mysterious building." 
 
 Our arrangements ended without including Mr. 
 Stuart, who chose to find excuse for withdrawing for 
 
18 AT anchor: 
 
 reasons of his own, perhaps because Kate, who could 
 not be persuaded to put her foot inside a convent, 
 came down, looking quite as j^retty as usual, just as 
 we were talking. 
 
 I have always thought if I should wake up after 
 days of sleejD or unconsciousness on a Sunday, that I 
 should know the day by the very freshness and still- 
 ness of the ail*. A sweeter Sunday there could not 
 be than that one on which Mr. Aberthnay and I took 
 our first walk together ; and took that walk over the 
 very ground where Gilbert Stuart and I had wander- 
 ed a hundred times, in the easy joyousness of the 
 bright years of my life. [ISTothing, not even that reve- 
 lation of his, had seemed to show so clearly our 
 broken trust, as that I walked there with another 
 man at my side. 
 
 How different it was ! Yet my present companion 
 was one any woman could be proud to be with, and 
 against whose cheerful society and gentle deference few 
 hearts could find it in them to rebel. No more refer- 
 ence was made to 3Ii\ Stuart ; and Mr. Aberthnay had 
 never been more interesting. 
 
 " This is really a charming town," he said to me 
 in the interval of graver conversation. " I keep liking- 
 it more the more I see of it. I remember your 
 speaking of it to me the summer I met you at West 
 Point, and my thinking to myself that I had seen all 
 New England when I saw M and G , for it is 
 
A STOEY OF OUR CIVIL WAE. 19 
 
 the usual remark that every New England village is 
 a fac-simile of every other. I did not think then that 
 my fate would ever station me so near to it, any more 
 than I imao-ined that I should ever have couraore to 
 speak a dozen consecutive sentences to the *Miss 
 Yane,' who was so fair and stately, that we cadets 
 trembled at our own audacity in asking her to dance." 
 
 " And Miss Vane, I assure you, looked upon each 
 particular cadet as a mountain of wisdom, wit, and 
 majesty. So our illusions leave us at every step." 
 
 " Some we say good-bye to with all our hearts," 
 he answered ; " some we would rather die than lose. 
 I have lost one to-day ; I trust it will not come back." 
 
 " Oh ? " I said, but I did not ask him what it was. 
 
 " Yes ; but it is terribly selfish in me to be glad." 
 
 It struck me just then that he meant something in 
 regard to Mr. Stuart and me. We had been quite 
 often spoken of as engaged, and, no doubt, Mr. Aberth- 
 nay had had information to that effect. I thought I 
 had undeceived him, however, for the future. 
 
 " Do you really mean that sweet little gu-l serious- 
 ly intends becoming a nun ? " Mr. Aberthnay asked 
 me, when, a few minutes later, Hal and Mary dashed 
 by us at a rate not at all in vogue among 'New Eng- 
 landers on Sunday, and no more in accordance with 
 my own views of proper respect to the day. Mary, I 
 knew, would never venture to express any objection to 
 Hal, up to whom she looked with great respect and 
 
20 . AT anchoe: 
 
 perfect ignorance of any fault possible in him. Her 
 little mind had never been exercised in separating the 
 true from the false, the real from the seeming; certain 
 things were articles of faith with her ; certain other 
 things she regarded and shunned with holy horror, 
 just as she had been taught. 
 
 " Yes," I said, " she does intend to become a nun." 
 
 "Miss Mary seems just made for a nun," Mr. 
 Aberthnay remarked. "She is just our ideal nun; 
 tender and sweet, simple and meek; she might have 
 sat for Tennyson's St. Agnes." 
 
 " Surely if there is any truth in a vocation, Mary 
 has it," I said ; " she knows of no world outside the 
 convent, and I do not think she will outgrow her pres- 
 ent ignorance ; it is to be hoped for her own peace 
 of mind that she will not. But here we 'are at the 
 convent." 
 
 We found Mary kissing nuns and gii-ls indiscrimi- 
 nately. I myself could not deny that there was a 
 certain pleasant charm around the pale-faced sisterhood 
 who had dragged me through the " elements " of Eng- 
 lish, French, German, It'alian, music, and drawing, 
 not to mention embroidery. The parlors were crowd- 
 ed with girls and their visitors, my heart ached for 
 the poor lonely ones who had none, and leaving the 
 parlor I found my way to the long class-room, and for 
 the sake of old times tried to endure the confusion 
 that was the natural consequence of a hundred and 
 
A STORY OF OUK CIVIL WAE. . 21 
 
 fifty girls all talkiog at once. " I did not go crazy 
 then^'' I thought, remembering my school days. " Noth- 
 ing will drive me crazy now." 
 
 A few words here and there, a glance at my old 
 desk, and a glance through the window by which I 
 had lived so many feverish lives, and my mission there 
 was ended. Just as I left, the bell rang for afternoon 
 service, and the tumult Avas in a measure hushed; 
 white veils fluttered from all parts of the room, while 
 I hastened to join my cousin and Mr. Aberthnay in 
 the parlor. Mary was taking her old place among 
 the girls. 
 
 The beautiful chapel was still as death as we en- 
 tered, nor did the long procession of white- veiled girls 
 much disturb its silence^ Here every thing was saint- 
 ly, calm, and sweet. My lost girlhood, my proud, am- 
 bitious girlhood, with its wild aspirations, its grand 
 imaginings, its royal hopes, rose up before me, until I 
 cowered before the memory. And while the nuns' 
 sweet voices blended with those of the girls, had all 
 the world been there I could not have repressed the 
 tears that seemed wrung out of my very heart. I had 
 been wishing for them ever since that night. I felt 
 better when they came. 
 
 " Only a few weeks more," Mary whispered, as she 
 bade the nuns farewell. " Only a few weeks more 
 and I shall be always with you; but it is a long time 
 to wait." 
 
22 AT anchor: 
 
 " Patience, my child," one answered. '' Our Lord 
 will rej^ay you tenfold for waiting. It is better you 
 should see the world, and know it, so that if you 
 should be ever tempted to wish for its vanities, you 
 may remember what they are worth. Go, dear ; God 
 in heaven bless you, and his holy Mother protect you 
 from all the snares of the wicked." 
 
 I fancied, as the nun said this, that she had had at 
 least a glimpse of Hal's well-trimmed whiskers. 
 
 " I suppose they are sincere," Mr. Aberthnay said, 
 as we left the convent. " They live on another plane 
 .than ours, speaking after the manner of the * sphitual- 
 ists.' I believe they mean all they say." 
 
 " Indeed they do," I exclaimed. " 'Ko one could 
 live so except sustained by the faith that God wills it. 
 Who can tell — do they become mere machines, mere 
 creatures of habit, after a time, or is their self abnega- 
 tion a perpetually offered sacrifice ? As we have seen 
 them, how near to heaven they seem ! And oh ! who 
 would not throw down life's burdens to possess the re- 
 pose we saw there ? " 
 
 " ]^ot I, for one ! " cried 'Mr. Aberthnay ; " I thank 
 God that life has burdens. Repose is not for me ; no, 
 nor for you either. Miss Yane. I thank heaven for 
 the energy and the activity that scorns rest." 
 
 " You are wrong there, the greater the activity 
 the sweeter the repose. Who sleeps best, the hard- 
 worked laborer, or the listless, languid * child of fash- 
 
A STOEY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 23 
 
 ion ' ? If any graybeards were here they would laugh 
 at us for thinking, at our age, of rest, either to scorn 
 or to woo it. Yet what right have they ? The heart 
 hnoweth its oion Mtterness.^^ 
 
 " I want a regular pow-wow with you to night," 
 said Hal to me on the way to tea. 
 
 " What is a pow-wow," I said to Hal. 
 
 " A pow-wow," he answered, " is a thundering big 
 talk. A consultation like." 
 
 " Oh ! " I said, and promised. As soon as I had 
 opportunity I led the way to my own special sanctum, 
 in which foot of man had never entered. 
 
 "Well, Hal," I said, as he sat down. 
 
 " But, Georgie, do go somewhere else ; I want to 
 smoke. I never can get it out if I don't smoke." 
 
 I looked at my snowy curtains, my spotless carpet, 
 my neat books, my delicate flowers, my pictures, and 
 my hundred little " femininities," and wondered how 
 it would seem. 
 
 " Harry," I said, " you may smoke." 
 
 " Georgie, you're bully," Hal said, looking for a 
 match, " a regular P. B. ; " and having lighted his 
 cigar, he put his boots a little above his head, break- 
 ing only a vase and an ornamental tea cup in the op- 
 eration. I have noticed that when men open their 
 mouths to smoke, their feet, as a seemingly natural 
 consequence, seem to go up to the highest resting-place 
 at hand. I have never been able to explain the phe- 
 
24 AT anchor: 
 
 nomenon. "I tell you why," Hany went on, "there 
 isn't any humbug about you. I tell you there ain't 
 any thing like a woman with a heart, who's got enough 
 natural fire not to be put out by a little smoke. You 
 know very Avell if you weren't my .cousin — I would, 
 I'll be dashed if I wouldn't. Nice little girl this Mary 
 Allen— eh ? " 
 
 "Very." 
 
 "Dashed pretty eyes — have you noticed?" 
 '"Yes— rather." 
 
 " Georgie " — this very solemnly — " I always was a 
 good-hearted fellow — wasn't I, Georgie ? " 
 
 " Yes, Hal ; I'll answer to that." 
 
 " That's you ! Coz you're a team. You always 
 know what to say to a fellow, and get him off when 
 he's stumped. That's the sort of woman for me. Now, 
 just as sure as my name's Hal Graham, I will do it ; 
 I will, I tell you ; and when Hal Graham says he will, 
 he will. I will do it. I'll do it if it kills me. If the 
 landlady kicks up a muss, or the governor refuses to 
 come down like a P. B., I'll do it in spite of them ! 
 I'll sell my gun, I'll give up Lady Louise, I'll give up 
 the club, I'll stop smoking — I mean I won't smoke so 
 much — and I'll do it, wouldn't you ? " 
 
 " Decidedly ! " 
 
 " She's just perfect, just as pious as any angel ; will 
 get me to heaven, sure. I'll do it — but how ? There's 
 the rub." 
 
A STORY OF OUK CIVIL TTAE. 25 
 
 " Oh, that's easy. 
 
 " The dickens it is ! Did you ever try it ? " 
 
 " JS'o, Hal, I confess I never did." 
 
 " That's the plague of it ; hoio to do it ? I have 
 asked her out to drive to-morrow, and I'll ask her 
 then. What shall I say?" 
 
 " Let that depend upon the way things come around. 
 Just as if an old flirt like you would have any trouble ! " 
 
 "But this is difterent. I positively believe I'm 
 regularly in this time. I should feel confoundedly 
 bad if she shouldn't see it as I do." 
 
 " Perhaps you had better give her more time." 
 
 " Nary. I must knov/ at once. Bless my soul I 
 should be dead in love with her in a week. You 
 wouldn't have me in love with a girl until I was sure 
 she liked me, would you ? " 
 
 " How can she help liking you, Hal ? " 
 
 Hal stroked his whiskers. " I'll tell you to-mor- 
 row," he said. " I know you want to get rid of me, 
 so good night— but I vow I'll do it. I'll sacrifice 
 myself I say, won't she look first-rate wh^ she is 
 
 Mrs. G , with a nice morning costume on, and a 
 
 white table cloth between us ? A fellow could afltbrd 
 to reform for such a pair of eyes, I tell you. Good 
 night. I don't — suppose — she will stick to the convent 
 idea, will she ? " 
 
 " Xot if you can contrive to get her in love with 
 matrimony." 
 2 
 
26 AT anchok: 
 
 " Somehow it does not come natural to talk that 
 sort of thing to her. But to-morrow must decide. 
 Adieu. I'll do it, you may swear to that. Bon soir." 
 
 Hal was as good as his word, and plumply pro- 
 posed to her at the end of their drive, and was, of 
 course, decidedly refused. But Mary was a perfect 
 novice in the affairs of the heart ; and when Hal told 
 her that he had an income large enough for two to 
 live on, with a little economy and some help from the 
 Governor, and that rather than see her immured in a 
 convent he would sacrifice himself on the altar of 
 matrimony, Mary thought pretty much as her hopeful 
 lover did himself, that he was the most generous of 
 men, and assured him, without the least embarrassment 
 or flutter, that she never meant to marry, that she was 
 going to be a nun, that her " vocation " was decidedly 
 to a religious life, in which she would always pray for 
 him for being so good as to be willing to sell his house 
 and stop smoking for her, when she had never done 
 any thing for him ; and then she talked so beautifully 
 about the sanctity of single-blessedness and convent 
 shades, and dwelt so tenderly on the sinless life of 
 . prayer and meditation before her, that Hal was, at the 
 end, almost ready to emulate the knight of old, who 
 built a hermit's cell under the windows of the convent 
 in which his lady love had, in a moment of despair, 
 vowed to live her earthly life. 
 
 *' It doesn't seem to me to-day," Hal confidentially 
 
A STOfiY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 27 
 
 informed me, " it doesn't seem to me to-day near so 
 much like a sacrifice as it did yesterday. I believe 
 now I could stand seeing her face at the other end of 
 the table, day after day, year in and year out, and I'd 
 almost like, 'pon honor I would, to see her fooling 
 with a big-headed baby in long dresses. Hang it I I 
 am not the first man that's said I'd never marry, and 
 then went and did it, am I Georgie ? And I've held 
 out longer than a great many others. I couldn't tell 
 you half of the right down pretty girls that I have 
 disappointed. I wish you'd tell Mary about that 
 smashing French widow ; you saw all that yourself at 
 the Springs, and you know I never encouraged her at 
 all. Then there was Lottie Jane, with a big fortune 
 in her own right, and expectations ditto, I might have 
 had either of them as easy as winking ; supposing you 
 tell Mary so. I don't think she appreciates what she's 
 throwing away." 
 
 " Leave it to me to teach her ; don't say any thing 
 yourself about other ladies to her. I'll do what I can 
 for you, Hal ; but, after all, how can I be sure that 
 you will be in the same mind a year from now ? I 
 should not be overmuch pleased after winning her for 
 you, to find you were running off on some other track." 
 
 " I vow, cousin, I'm in earnest this time, and I'll 
 stick to what I say, if I die for it. Oh, dear ! " 
 
 " Will you help me, Hal ? will you work with all 
 your might and main for her ? " 
 
28 AT ANCHOR I 
 
 " You may bet your money on that." 
 
 " Then Hal begin ; when Mary comes down stairs 
 she must find you in a state of melancholy, from which 
 you must make spasmodic efforts to arouse yourself; 
 you must be rather distant to her — " 
 
 " And flii-t with Emma Lewis ? " 
 
 "Xo — no — that would never do; Mary's kind 
 heart -^ ould suffer nothing if she saw you seemingly 
 contented with anybody else." 
 
 " How can I ever do the melancholy ? " 
 
 " You do feel badly, don't you, Hal ? You do think 
 it a thousand pities that a pretty girl, with the sweet- 
 est eyes in the world, should go and bury herself in a 
 convent just when a handsome fellow like my cousin 
 Hal is all ready to throw himself at her feet ? " 
 
 " Yes, of course I do, and I told her so ; or some- 
 thing like it." 
 
 " Didn't she melt at that ? " 
 
 " Oh, no, not in the least ; she threw the Bible at 
 my head ; that is, she quoted Mary and Martha ; that 
 dished me at once. She said marriage was good for 
 some — " 
 
 " Oh, she did ? Very condescending on her part 
 I must confess." 
 
 " I don't think you'll be a nun— eh Coz ? " 
 
 "I don't thinklshaU." 
 
 "I wish you'd coax Mary to think like you. 
 Now, you know, I don't claim to be a saint my- 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 29 
 
 self, and I must say it don't seem just the thing. 
 I a'nt sentimental, but 'pon my honor I do think a 
 nice little wife is about as good a passport to paradise 
 as a man can have. Jack and I used to say that, if it 
 wasn't for the expense, matrimony was the best school 
 of reform ; and sometimes, when we've been to see 
 some of the fellows that have gone into that blessed 
 state, I'll be hanged if we haven't felt like dashing the 
 expense. I can't talk much, but you know what I 
 mean, and that's more than I can say for most women. 
 If I'd had a sister like you, I believe I'd been some- 
 thing, I do positively. Xow, if I could tall^ like you, 
 cousin Georgie, I know I could bring Mary to my 
 way of thinking ; but I can't, and there it is." 
 
 "'Faint heart never won fair lady,' Hal. I'd 
 rather Mary would marry the greatest goose in the 
 world than go into a convent, so you may be sure I 
 will help you." 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 "TVhat a bore this world is," half yawned, half 
 growled Hal, as the end of the week satisfied him that 
 his ' sacrifice ' was not to be accepted. " What a bore 
 this world is, especially the part they call the country." 
 
 " Which seems to be the unanimous opinion of the 
 company," Kate said, after a pause which brought no 
 contradiction to Hal's assertion. " What is the matter 
 with everybody ? Mr. Stuart, you look as blue as a 
 church mouse, what ails you ? " 
 
 "Xothing, I assure you; I was never in better 
 spirits in my life." 
 
 " And Georgie never in worse ; what dose it all 
 mean ? Is it because Mr. Aberthnay is going away 
 to-morrow ? " 
 
 I don't know which said "no," with the least 
 truth, Gilbert or I. 
 
 "'A penny for your thoughts,' ]Mr. Aberthnay," 
 Kate continued ; " speak your mind and receive your 
 reward," and she displayed a shining "one cent" 
 piece. 
 
A STOEY OF OUK CIVIL WAK. 31 
 
 " My thoughts, Miss Kate ? Not worth a penny, 
 far less your kind interest." 
 
 " Oh, then I am sure you were thinking of some- 
 thing you would not like me to know ; you Southei'n- 
 ers do not rate your thoughts so cheaply." 
 
 "Poor as my thoughts are, Miss Kate, I'll take 
 your penny ; never yet did a Northerner fail to get 
 the best of a bargain with one of us, rate we ourselves 
 over so highly. I was thinking, then, that to-morrow 
 I must up and away — to see you all again, who can 
 say when? I was wondering, too, where all this 
 pleasant company would be this time twelve months ! 
 There was more sadness in the wonder than you think. 
 Miss Kate. Have I earned my penny ? " 
 
 "Twice over," she answered readily. ""Well, I 
 for one expect to be immured in solemn Salem walls, 
 unless Uncle Tom sends for me, in which happy 
 event I shall* probably be here — giving away pen- 
 nies to make moody young gentlemen agreeable; 
 who knows ? " 
 
 "And I, ditto, or something not much better," 
 said Hal, "unless I emigrate to China, Australia, 
 Jersey, or the Fejee Islands, as I am sorely tempted 
 sometimes. This is such a dull world. Say, Carl, 
 can't you get up a nigger row down South to give us 
 some excitement ? " 
 
 "Keep your energies. Friend Hal, for something 
 more than a ' nigger row.' Hermetically sealed they 
 
32 AT anchor; 
 
 won't spoil, and, 23erhaps, will pay for the keeping," 
 Mr. Aberthnay replied. 
 
 Kate made a comical face. " I question that," she 
 said. "What can he ever do with them, unless in 
 domestic spars ; and Hal is always going to be an old 
 bachelor, ain't you Hal ? " 
 
 Hal looked dolefully at Mary, but answered not. 
 
 " Even so," said Mr. Aberthnay. " Ours is a glori- 
 ous Union. You at the Xorth are the hard-fisted, 
 strong-minded, close-handed husband ; we of the 
 South, the impulsive warm-hearted wife; — here's 
 chance for domestic spars, even for old bachelors 
 like Hal." 
 
 " "We have heard of these things before," remarked 
 a visitor, " and have learned to appreciate them." 
 
 "You do not appreciate them," Mr. Aberthnay 
 answered hotly, " or you would know better than to 
 sneer at them. Some day you will appi^ciate thera." 
 
 "Pray keej) your politics for your after dinner 
 cigars," I said, rising. " Let us have a walk in the 
 garden." 
 
 Mr. Aberthnay was the first to accept the invita- 
 tion, and we together led the way. Fiudiug even the 
 porch cooler than I expected, I returned alone for a 
 shawl. I found quite a group around Kate. 
 
 " Hang these officers," one said with more emj^ha- 
 sis than politeness, "they give themselves so many 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL Vv'AE. 33 
 
 " I hate Southerners," said Kate, to humor the 
 spirit of the company ; " they are too conceited for any 
 thing." 
 
 I lingered to hear Gilbert answer : " You should 
 except Mr. Aberthnay, . he is perfectly unassuming 
 and unselfish ; how could he have said less ? " 
 
 Years after Gilbert Stuart owed his life to those 
 simple words. I only thought, hearing them, that he 
 did not care enough to be even jealous, for there was 
 no superhuman virtue shielding a rival in that calm 
 voice, I thought. 
 
 " Mr. Aberthnay must feel almost a stranger 
 among us," I said, as I returned with my shawl, " and 
 since he has been ordered to our part of 'the country 
 has done all in his power to please us all. We ought 
 not to visit the sins of his country upon one who has 
 so few of his own." 
 
 I did not* look at Gilbert, but passed on to the 
 porch where Mr. Aberthnay awaited me. I had 
 spoken incautiously loud, and I saw at once that he 
 had heard me. He drew my hand over his arm. 
 
 " It is such words as those, it is such women as you, 
 
 that piece the broken links," he said, rapidly ; " that 
 
 bind us firmer together than all the parchment scrolls 
 
 on earth ! Something more than political cords, 
 
 somethino: more than even social bands must be broken 
 
 first, our very heart strings must be torn apart, before 
 
 it can be done ! " 
 2* 
 
34 AT ANCHOR : 
 
 I looked at him in surprise. 
 
 "You do not believe it," he continued, "no one 
 does. You laugh at me for an enthusiast, a dreamer, 
 a mad prophet. There's a cloud above us, a cloud no 
 larger than your hand ; it will cover the sweet blue 
 sky above us, and flood this fair land with blood as 
 with rain ; I tell you it will ! " 
 
 " How dare you," I cried, turning to him ; " how 
 dare you, Carlton Aberthnay, in the face of this 
 glorious night, through whose gleaming you can see 
 the j^roud strength of Bunker Hill and Fanueil Hall, 
 tell me they will ever be less yours than mine ? In the 
 face of these brave forests, no stronger, no firmer than 
 the hearts that guard them ; in the face of these fields 
 of plenty tilled by the brawny arms that will never 
 shame their toil, how dare you tell me they will ever 
 be needed for less peaceM labor ? You stand in the 
 veiy home of Freedom, and talk of danger to its loved 
 and cherished land ! " 
 
 " Yes, I talk of danger to that very land, for fair 
 as it seems it is black with crime. Think of it, Miss 
 Vane, I do not say as I see it, a soulless despotism, 
 but as you see it every day — a land of extravagance, 
 of social luxury, of utter political rottenness and cor- 
 ruption, and tell me what but a miracle can save its 
 pillars from crumbling to dust, and its proud temple 
 from falling to the earth a mass of blackened ruins." 
 
 " Then the miracle will come, for God holds us in 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 35 
 
 His hand, preparing us for humanity's greatest mission. 
 It is ours ; it has been decreed ours from all eternity ; 
 it is ours, we claim it, we will have it, and fulfil it. 
 God never built us up so nobly, to cut us down so 
 soon." 
 
 " Xot as we are now. From our ruins shall arise 
 tlie nation of which all mankind have dreamt. The 
 veritable land of promise." 
 
 "Not from our country's ruins; but from the ashes 
 of the brand of evil in our midst. Burn out that vile 
 outrage on humanity, and we are purified. Now we 
 are not worthy to think of our mission." 
 
 " You are an abolitionist, I see." 
 
 " I am a human being, and must needs share the 
 degradation of my kind. Their tears cry to heaven 
 for vengeance, and justice demands tears for tears, 
 blood for blood." 
 
 There was a long silence. 
 
 " Always met with that," he said, at last. " Be- 
 cause that is beyond our power to change. Is it 
 always to be so ? Is life always to be a helpless 
 struggle ? Are we always to be seeking a glorious 
 haven, and forever dash our heads against the 
 rocks?" 
 
 " God knows," I answered, thinking just then of 
 my own life, of the years passed in security floating 
 with the current, and now, the sudden breakers. 
 
 " Always met with that," he went on. " Oh, why 
 
36 AT AXCHOE : 
 
 was that curse ever fastened upon our land, our bright, 
 glorious Southei*n land ; our land of plenty, of romance, 
 art, and loveliness ! There is no otlier land that can 
 compare with it. God speed the day when it shall 
 take its rightful place among the nations of the earth. 
 It will come, but its way will be strewn with broken 
 hearts instead of roses. You will think of that some- 
 times, Avill you not, Georgie, while I think of your 
 kind words in there ? You will, will you not ? " 
 
 " I do not more than half know what you are talk- 
 ing about," I said. "I know it sounds somewhat 
 harsh, after all that you have been saying so j)oetically, 
 to confess my ignorance, but tell me what it all 
 means." 
 
 " It means nothing or it means every thing," he 
 answered, excitedly ; " and it means besides, that — " 
 
 It is useless to rejDcat the rest. To save him, per- 
 haps myself, I turned away as if in anger. 
 
 They had nearly all returned to the parlor; as I 
 passed by the open windows I saw Kate and Mr. Stuart 
 standing by themselves away from the others; she 
 arranging some flowers in her hair, and he bend- 
 ing down to assist her. I looked back, I could just 
 see the dark outline of a figure leaning against the 
 fountain in the garden. I went back, and gave him 
 my forgiveness — nothing more ; had I looked twice at 
 the tableau in the parlor it might have been more, 
 but I did not look. 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 31 
 
 Mr. Aberthnay sprang from his place, and pressed 
 my hands to his lips. " I thank you a thousand times 
 even for this," he said, with his Southern impetuosity. 
 " I shall never forget it." 
 
 I did not see him after that. 
 
 I was glad to reach my room after the tedious re- 
 mainder of the evening was over. I had to be alone 
 by myself, or, at least, away from Mr. Stuart and Kate, 
 to fortify myself, to assure myself that I had done 
 right. 
 
 How he loved me ! Of course I had known it all 
 this time. I had felt it every day; revelled in it as a 
 slight revenge for Gilbert's wound; had sought it, 
 when Gilbert's coldness had been more than I could 
 bear ; and now I had thrown it away. Was it right ? 
 Was it right ? How he loved me ! How his face had 
 grown radiant in my presence ! I had seen it day after 
 day, and contrasted it with Gilbert's cold, calm de- 
 meanor. How eagerly he had sprung to meet me ! I 
 had listened for his quick step, day after day, and 
 each time thought of Gilbert's slow, steady walk. 
 How he loved me ! I might kneel in vain to Gilbert. 
 One word would bring him to me, to be forever 
 mine. 
 
 I tried to write that word, but proud, vain girl 
 though I was, I was still woman enough to try in vain. 
 
 " I will go and talk to some of the girls to put this 
 thing out of my head," I said to myself, and turned 
 
38 AT ANCHOR : 
 
 toward Kate's room ; but how could I hope to conquer 
 myself with her against me ? I was not good enough 
 to hear Mary's eager hopes, so I went to Emma's 
 room. It was very seldom I ever did so, for until 
 lately — perhaps the change was my fault — Emma had 
 always come to me. 
 
 " It is I, Emma," I said, not waiting for my knock 
 to be answered. " May I come in ? " 
 
 There was no reply, the room was quite dark ; for 
 a moment I was almost frightened, the next I thought 
 that the silly girl was probably in some cozy corner 
 dreaming of her lover over the seas, as we always 
 called him. 
 
 I lighted the gas with careless freedom, and, as I 
 anticipated, quickly discovered Emma sitting by the 
 window with her head on her arms. 
 
 " Dreaming, awake or asleep," I asked, raising her 
 head. 
 
 A tearful face tried to hide itself from me. 
 " Tears ! " I exclaimed, preparing myself for the 
 story of some lover's quarrel. How small, how child- 
 ish seemed all other griefs compared to mine ! " What 
 has gone wrong now ? What right has anybody in 
 this house to cry away from me. What is it ? " 
 
 "I cannot tell you, I can never tell any one. 
 Please put out the light ; I don't want it." 
 
 I put it out, and drew Emma nearer to me, and, by 
 and by, she told me her " little tale." 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 39 
 
 " I have been deceiving you all the time," she said. 
 "I have let you believe all about that man you 
 thought I cared for, but it was not true ; I do not care 
 for him." 
 
 " But you care for somebody ; everybody cares for 
 
 somebody ? " 
 
 " Everybody ? Then you do ; tell me is it — " 
 
 " After you, my love." 
 
 " It is so silly ; so like every thing else ; just like a 
 hundred stories ; how I went around and saw so many 
 people, and fancied one here, and one there ; and said 
 things that I did not mean, and had them misunder- 
 stood ; and said things in fun, and had them taken in 
 earnest ; until one day, oh ! such a lovely, beautiful 
 day, when -my mind was all full of other things, I was 
 taken into a room full of company, and as many as a 
 dozen gentlemen were all introduced to me at once, 
 and I just bowed to them all, and was tired and wished 
 them all gone, when one said something that made 
 me look up to his face, and — now I know you are 
 going to laugh — but it is true, just as we read in 
 books, and never believe, I felt some one say, that is, 
 as plainly as if some one whispered it to me, ' It is all 
 over now — you must love him always.' But I can't 
 put it into words. I did not think much about it then ; 
 I accepted the conviction. He seemed to understand 
 it ; so did everybody else, and no one interfered with 
 us. Oh ! how I should love to tell you all about those 
 
40 AT anchor: 
 
 blessed days, I remember every hour of them. But it 
 would tire you." 
 
 I protested against this, but she was firm. " I did 
 not want to tell anybody while every thing went on 
 well, but it seems to me that I should believe it all if I 
 talked too much about it. I never coquetted with 
 him ; perhaps it would be better now if I had. I was 
 too truthful, too trustful ; men never love you half so 
 well as when you are indifferent to them." 
 
 I almost thought so too. 
 
 "I was too happy,* too secure; I did not suppose 
 any thing could happen, but something did. He 
 would not listen to me, or when he did, in so cold 
 and incredulous a way that I could not justify myself, 
 and, after all, I had done nothing wrong." 
 
 " How long ago was this ? " 
 
 " Oh, long ago — about two years." 
 
 " ^^ell, and then ? " 
 
 " I -ought to marry somebody else, oughtn't I, 
 Georgie? You know whom I mean. Of course he, 
 does not love me now." 
 
 " Of course not. Do you suppose if a man loved 
 you he could leave you two months, not to say two 
 years, in doubt ? " 
 
 " I don't suppose he could. But I know if I should 
 ever meet him again, it would all be as it was. I 
 keep turning this over and over in my mind until I 
 am half wild. I have argued it from every point of 
 view, and what to do I cannot say." 
 
A STOKY OF OUK CIVIL WAE. 41 
 
 " You have no right to marry any man feeling so," 
 I answered decidedly. It is so easy to decide for 
 another. 
 
 " But I might love him afterwards ? " 
 
 " It is too great a risk." 
 
 "But I am afraid that, in my foolish despair, I 
 have made it too late." 
 
 " You are not married ; it is never too late until 
 then." 
 
 " And then, Georgie, what do you suppose women 
 do?" 
 
 " Die ; or pray to," I answered, in my old way. 
 
 " It is not too late yet ? " 
 
 " No ; but you have no time for hesitation." 
 
 It is so easy to be strong for others. 
 
 She relit the gas, and wrote a short note, which she 
 handed me to read. It was a decided refusal. 
 
 "After all, I feel relieved," she said, sealing it 
 slowly, " and shall be more so when it is out of iny 
 power to recall this answer. But it is hard ; am I 
 right to stand by that v/hich may be only a delusion, 
 and sacrifice half my life for it ? Who knows ? " 
 
 After a silence she said : 
 
 "I never doubted your fate, Georgie, until that 
 night you told me you thought Mr. Stuart was en- 
 gaged to Kate. Xow, I do not know what to think, 
 only that it does not seem so to me. I know Mr. 
 Stuart is not quite so fascinating, and rich, and pol- 
 
42 AT anchor; 
 
 islied as a certain somebody not a thousand miles 
 away, but I never imagined wealth, station, or mere 
 ac(}omplishments, would weigh a feather in the bal- 
 ance with you ! " 
 
 " Of themselves, never," I replied. " I do not care 
 one iota for wealth or station, but I do care for the 
 mind that commands position. I do care for the spirit 
 and the enterprise that walks boldly up and claims its 
 own from the world. I do not believe these things 
 are mere accidents, or the reward of impudence. Fate' 
 and Fortune are not so blind as they are represented. 
 Now, I do not thmk any combination of circumstances 
 could make a great man of Gilbert Stuart ; it is not 
 in him to be more than he is : calm, generous, and re- 
 liable, always trusted, always respected ; never a 
 leader." 
 
 " TTho would be a leader if such qualities did not 
 make him such ? Who would be a crazy enthusiast, 
 mad on one idea, whirled along to-day in a triumj)hal 
 car by an excited populace, and thro\^Ti in the street 
 to-morrow to make way for some equally mad succes- 
 sor ? Not I, indeed. No, give me the man of even 
 mind, of practical thought, quiet, calm, reliable ; for, 
 after all, he is the real leader. What a man to trust 
 to, to live for, to die for ! Why, Georgie, if such a 
 one loved me, I should worship) the very earth that 
 held him, and you do not ? " 
 
 " I do ! " almost burst from my lips, but I answer- 
 
A STORY OF OUK CITIL WAR. 43 
 
 ed indifferently. " I am not given the choice. Well 
 for me that I am not, perhaps, for all women are fools, 
 when it comes to that. I should be false to all that is 
 strongest and best in myself if I did not seize, at all 
 hazards, the place where my work would be the hard- 
 est and greatest — " 
 
 " You talk all sides, Georgie," interrupted Emma. 
 " You would have me sacrifice life for love, and throw 
 love to the winds yourself. How often have you said 
 *the marriage rite is woman's best right?' " 
 
 " For other people." 
 
 " For you, and me, and everybody. There isn't any 
 one to hear us ; I will even put out the light if you wish, 
 so that we may not see each the other's foolish face as 
 we confess that the world, with all its pomp and show, 
 its wild and thrilling romance, its power and luxury, 
 its grandeur ^and beauty, has no life to rival the life 
 of a loved and lovuag wife ; say it, Georgie." 
 
 "The power and the luxury, the grandeur and 
 beauty, the romance, the pomp and show, we all of us 
 know more or less about — ^have all seen something 
 which was real and tangible in them ; but who ever 
 saw a loved and loving wife ? " 
 
 " Don't be ridiculous, Georgie." 
 
 " Grant that such a thing can be, is it not, after all, 
 a refinement of selfishness, the life she leads ?- Is it 
 any merit if she secures her husband's comfort and 
 happiness at every cost, since securing his is securing 
 
44 AT anchor: 
 
 her own ? She makes no sacrifices, she has no sorrows ; 
 what seem such are merely small prices that she pays 
 for immense joys. But for her who denies self, who 
 throws every gratification beneath her feet, how infi- 
 nitely holier the destiny ! " 
 
 " Then you justify Mary ? " 
 
 " Xo, it must be done for some work," I answered, 
 confiisedly; for, truth to tell, I was arguing down 
 myself, not Emma, and was venturing on unknown 
 ground, " some work that puts her talent out to inter- 
 est." 
 
 " And all this to j^rove that you are right in sacri- 
 ficing one of the best and most generous of men to 
 your ambition ! It just amounts to that." 
 
 " If by one of the best and most generous of men 
 you mean Mr. Gilbert Stuart, permit me to inform 
 you that it is not, and never has been in my power to 
 have the slightest influence on his destiny, one way 
 or the other." 
 
 "I never thought you so unreasonable," Emma 
 said. "You know the man loves you; everybody 
 knows that. Only yesterday your jewel of a house- 
 keeper, Mrs. Glynn, gave me a glowing account of the 
 way in which she and your uncle would marry you 
 ofiT, and could not tell me enough of the charming gen- 
 erosity Avith which you recognized true worth — that 
 is, Gilbert Stuart — and was undazzled by outside glit- 
 ter — that is, Carlton Aberthnay." 
 
A STOEY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 45 
 
 "Mrs. Glynn was very impertinent," I replied, 
 quickly, " and I would thank you, Emma, not to dis- 
 cuss my affairs with my uncle's housekeeper." 
 
 "Now, wherein have I offended your ladyship ? " 
 Emma cried, quite undaunted by my remark, the hard- 
 est that had ever passed my lips. " It can't be Carl- 
 ton— " 
 
 " Why not ? " I asked, haughtily, and asked with- 
 out knowing why. " Why not Mr. Aberthnay ? " 
 
 " There ! Now, I see it all ! Oh, Georgie, I 
 thought you the truest, bravest, and sincerest woman 
 in the world ! So fall our idols at every step ! You 
 a flirt, a coquette, like all the rest ! just as ready to 
 throw aside a brave, true heart, for a heavier purse, as 
 any of the rest ! Where is your cousin Florence ? I 
 will make her my next idol ; she fights under no false 
 colors, at least. Just like all the rest, Georgie; so 
 strong and brave for me, so weak and ambitious for 
 yourself ! " 
 
 . So she drew away from me, and judged me with 
 her half knowledge. 
 
 Who drew away from him, who blamed him when 
 he wrung my heart with his deception ? Who blamed 
 him when he came in his manly strength and vigor to 
 poison my fresh, young life ? Who blamed him when 
 he sought, in deliberate cruelty, the wild, devoted love 
 for which he could not return even the semblance ? 
 Who blamed him when. I writhed in my anguish in 
 
46 AT anchor: 
 
 the solitude of the night, while he played with the 
 roses in my garden ? 
 
 Who blamed him? Who dared? Close in my 
 heart I held his secret ; those who would not let the 
 winds of heaven blow too roughly against my cheek 
 loaded hiui with honor. So it should be. Till I died 
 no one should know of his wrong to me, say what 
 they would of me. 
 
 " Come," I said, " come and see if Mary is better 
 contented than the rest of us." 
 
 We entered her room softly. She was sleeping 
 sweetly ; the rosary she held in her hand under her 
 head had gently indented her rosy cheek, fair and soft 
 as that of an infant's. 
 
 " She must be dreaming of angels," Emma whis- 
 pered. 
 
 " While we have spent our thoughts on we?z," I 
 added, ashamed of myself " Who knows, Emma — it 
 seems almost wicked to question it — who knows but, 
 after all, Mary has chosen the better part ? " 
 
 " Who knows ? " Emma echoed ; and her eyes, as 
 they turned from Mary to me, had a look in them that 
 haunts me still. 
 
CHAPTER ly. 
 
 " Why did you ever let that handsome young sol- 
 dier off without warning me ? " my aunt Graham said 
 to me the next morning, when it became fairly under- 
 stood that half of the officers, among them Mr. Ab- 
 erthnay, who had enlivened our little town for the past 
 two years, had been ordered away. " Why did you 
 not let me know ? " 
 
 " I was not aware such an item would esspecially 
 interest you," I answered. 
 
 " Really ? You are very short-sighted, I must say. 
 But I won't scold you ; I have had enough of that 
 with Florence." 
 
 " What has Florence been doing ? " asked my un- 
 cle. "Xot flirting with our * handsome young sol- 
 dier,' I hope, because I shall, then, have to scold too." 
 
 " My daughter never flirts," Mrs. Graham answer- 
 ed. " In truth, I almost wish she would, occasionally. 
 She is too indifferent to please my fancy. I was just 
 saying to her that she has treated Mr. Abeithnay 
 very unkindly." 
 
48 AT aistchor: 
 
 I felt my eyes were dangerous, and looked out of 
 the window. What strange fate was it that made me 
 always Mr. Aberthnay's champion? Was it merely 
 contempt for Florence and pride in myself that made 
 me angry that her name should be mentioned in con- 
 nection with one who was so much my friend ? 
 
 "Very unkindly," Mrs. Graham rattled on. "Al- 
 though Florence is the gentlest creature, and the most 
 artless in the world. At least, I think so ; for JMr. 
 Aberthnay seems to me a very superior young gen- 
 tleman, and it has pained me very much that Flor- 
 ence — " 
 
 " That Florence, what ? " I asked, turning suddenly, 
 as she made a pause — a pause which said more than 
 words. 
 
 My aunt played with the tassel of her morning 
 dress and smiled. 
 
 " You are in a very bad humor this morning, Cou- 
 sin Georgie." 
 
 " What were you going to say about Florence and 
 Mr. Aberthnay ? " I asked, not noticing her opinion of 
 my humor. 
 
 "About Florence and Mr. Aberthnay?" she re- 
 peated. " What have I to say about them ? I have 
 always made it a point never to influence my children 
 in any way, not even by a look ; and whatever I might 
 have wished, I give it up cheerfully, believing it to be 
 all for the best." 
 
A STOKY OF OUR CIVIL WAE. 49 
 
 Of course I did not believe one word of her insinu- 
 ations ; but Florence was one of my aversions, and 
 every thing her mother said angered me. 
 
 " So, Florence would not see Mr. Aberthnay with 
 your eyes," I said, at last. " A thousand pities ! Sup- 
 posing Mr. Aberthnay should shoot himself, or do 
 some horrible thing, how dreadful it would be ! " 
 
 "Are you two women going to light ? " Uncle Tom 
 said, looking from one to the other with comical be- 
 wilderment. "Because, 'pon honor, I oan't allow 
 it." 
 
 " Georgie is only a little out of humor this morn- 
 ing," my aunt answered. " She cannot help her na- 
 ture, you know, I do not know but I rather like her 
 little tempers ; they are amusing. Florence, you 
 know, never changes : she is always the same sweet- 
 tempered child. I often wish she was not so much so. 
 But I'll leave you, Georgie, to find your smiles again. 
 Bye-bye." 
 
 As she went out she dropped a letter from her lap 
 on the floor, but passed on without noticing it. Uncle 
 Tom picked it up and threw it carelessly into my 
 work-basket. I would no more have touched it than 
 if it had been burning coal, but I could not help see- 
 ing that it was addressed to Florence, and was in Mr, 
 Aberthnay's writing. 
 
 " What ! another ! " I thought j and remembering 
 her last words, her comparison between Florence and 
 3 
 
60 AT axchoe: 
 
 me, I knew she was not satisfied yet, would not be 
 satisfied until she had taken my all, 
 
 " What did she mean, Georgie ? " Uncle Tom ask- 
 ed, after nearly fifteen minutes' silence, and throwing 
 down his paper with a tired gesture. 
 
 " She wants to take every thing from me ; she 
 wants to turn everybody against me. Against me, 
 because I am fiatherless, motherless, and — " 
 
 My uncle was not given to sentiment. He laid his 
 hand on my mouth to stop me, then took me tenderly 
 in his anns. 
 
 "Your father neglected your mother," he said; 
 " left her, night after night, and day after day, with- 
 out a friend or a comforter ; and when I interpreted 
 her silence as pride, and begged her to accept my sym- 
 pathy as that of a brother, he piled insult on insult 
 upon her glorious young head, until she fled from him 
 in terror, and the morning found her dead. Your fa- 
 ther has never asked for you from that day to this. 
 To whom do you belong most, eh? Whom would 
 your mother trust you with if not with me ? And do 
 you think you can ever get away from me ? Try it ! 
 that is all." 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 Slowly the long summer came to an end. Our 
 boats rocked idly on the river, which the falling leaves 
 were already choking ; our horses neighed unheeded 
 in the stables, our voices echoed dully in the parlors, 
 for our guests had departed ; not all the splendor of a 
 "New England autumn could enliven our lonely house, 
 and I knew not how to face the sadness of the cold 
 but gorgeous sunsets, so mournful even when our 
 souls are at rest. 
 
 " Uncle," I said, " let us follow the birds." 
 
 " Aha ! " he exclaimed, " set my Georgie's thoughts 
 in that quarter? Verily, a few days more in this 
 deserted house and I shall learn all her secrets." 
 
 "Let us have no secrets, uncle, no thoughts, no 
 cares, no feelings ; let us leave them as the birds have 
 left their nests, once loved now forgotten. Let us 
 lead a gay, sans souci life, until the sentimental summer 
 brings us new thoughts and feelings." 
 
 " New cares and new secrets too, eh ? Why, child, 
 I thought no life was gay to you, except that of your 
 books, your music, and your rides." 
 
62 AT anchoe: 
 
 " When I was a child you know, uncle. I want to 
 be a young lady for the little time that is left me 
 before I settle down to spinsterhood. I want you to 
 buy me a new Saratoga trunk and fill it with hand- 
 some things, and — " 
 
 " For a season." 
 
 " Let us be meiTy before we go." 
 
 " Want to empty this, do you ? " holding before my 
 eyes his well-filled pocket-book. " Want to empty 
 this, do you, you young extravaganza ? That's the 
 way with you women ! " 
 
 " That is our mission. Uncle Tom. If I have 
 hitherto neglected fulfilling it I hereby promise amend- 
 ment, certain that you need never complain of me in 
 the future." 
 
 " Beauty unadorned — " began my uncle. 
 
 " Belongs to a past era," I interrupted. " Am I 
 good looking, uncle ? " 
 
 " 'Pon honor, really, you embarrass me. Well — 
 now — 'pon honor, can't say I was ever in such a fix 
 before. All women are handsome." 
 
 *' But in difierent degrees ; what is mine ?" 
 
 " Well, really you are hard upon me, not but what 
 I've done such a thing as tell a lady she was pretty. 
 In my younger days I might have staved ofi" your 
 question with a compliment, now I leave it to younger 
 heads ; what do the young men tell you ? " 
 
 " No man living ever dared speak to me of my looks 1 " 
 
A STOEY OF OUE CIVIL AVAE. 63 
 
 " No one ever told you you were handsome ? " 
 
 " Of course not." 
 
 " Then you may be certain that you are." 
 
 " I don't As-ant that kind of certainty, I want your 
 candid, unbiassed opinion ; I suppose you are a judge? " 
 
 " Thank you, dear, I believe I am ; Jack used to 
 say I could tell a pretty girl as far off as I could see a 
 church spire." 
 
 " I am not prettj/, I know that." 
 
 " And as for the other — let me see," and he put on 
 the eye-glasses he never wore before any one except 
 me, who^e discretion he knew. " 'Pon honor. Cousin 
 Georgie, I never knew before what a dashed fine look- 
 ing woman you are ! But how is this — the last time I 
 looked at you you were a red-cheeked, round-faced 
 lassie ; where have the roses gone ? " 
 
 " The summer has passed," I said, so mournfully 
 that my own voice startled me. " So your judgment 
 may be considered favorable ? " 
 
 " In the highest degree." 
 
 " May I ask you one question more ? "What is the 
 first duty of a handsome woman ? " 
 
 " Ahem ! Upon my honor, I am again embar- 
 rassed. The first duty of a handsome woman is — to 
 make the most of her beauty." 
 
 "By—?" 
 
 " By dressing, dancing, flirting, and making fools 
 of her natural" enemy, mankind." 
 
54 AT ats^chob: 
 
 " Put that down in your note book. You say I am 
 a handsome woman whose duty is to flii't, dress, dance, 
 and fool mankind; it is your duty, as you stood 
 sponsor for me, to see that I perform my duty." 
 
 " Bless me ! What a logical mind it has ! " 
 
 " Now, once more, uncle, do you know how old I 
 am?" 
 
 " 'Pon honor, no ! I^ever knew a lady's age in all 
 my life ; never knew she had one." 
 
 " In society of course not, but just privately, be- 
 tween ourselves, I have an age ; do you know it ? " 
 
 " Impossible ! " 
 
 " Guess." 
 
 " More impossible." 
 
 " Calculate." 
 
 " Most impossible." 
 
 " THnk." 
 
 "I can't!" 
 
 " Then I must tell you, — I am twenty-one." 
 
 " Bless me ! How shocking ! Have you no respect 
 for my nerves ? Twenty-eight — " 
 
 " Twenty-o;z6." 
 
 " Which means five years more." 
 
 " Not in my case." 
 
 " Well, as you say ; never contradict a lady. Is it 
 a fair question to ask how long you have been twenty- 
 one ? " 
 
 " Long enough to learn I can be twenty-one only a 
 
A STORY OE OUR CIVIL AVAR. 55 
 
 month or two more ; long enough to know I ought to 
 be fulfilling my mission." 
 
 " Oh, indisputably." 
 
 " Then when do we begin ? " 
 
 " Does that apply to me, or to my pocket-book ? " 
 
 " To both." 
 
 " Then, at once, what can the former do ? " 
 
 " Escort me after the birds, as I said." 
 
 " The birds are sorely scattered, and the Eagle 
 
 * Clasps the crag with hooked hands, 
 Close to the sun m soutJiern lands.' 
 
 In a Louisiana fort, I believe." 
 
 I did not especially fancy this, my uncle's distant 
 allusion to Mr. Aberthnay, who was my uncle's 
 favorite of all young gentlemen who visited us ; so I 
 answered quickly : 
 
 " Who cares for eagles, uncle, save the respectable 
 bii'd that upholds our national honor ? " 
 
 " Well, then, whither shall we wing our flight ? " 
 
 "Wherever the harvest of heartlessness is the 
 plentiest." 
 
 " I don't like this," he said, changing his tone ; " we 
 have carried the jest far enough. I believe there is 
 something wrong under it." 
 
 I left my seat, and going to him, said : " Look at 
 me. Uncle Yane, is there a line in my face, a shade, 
 even, that speaks of folly, wrong, or deceit beneath ? " 
 
56 AT a^'CHOr: 
 
 '' Bless you, child, no ! no ! Don't I know it ? 
 Can I not read it as plainly as if in a book ? Earnest, 
 truthful, high-toned, and conscientious. Do not ask 
 me, did I not know your mother ? " 
 
 " Then for her sake trust me. Take me with you 
 to some of our large cities, anywhere where the world 
 is in motion. Let me make the most of my few gifts, 
 and gladden your old heart by my success." 
 
 " My ' old heart ! ' faith. Miss Vane, you are peculiar 
 in your choice of adjectives. The heart may be older 
 in the breast of a girl young as you, than in that of a 
 man of twice my years." 
 
 " And it is, uncle," I murmured ; and then dis- 
 tinctly, " I judged by the good it has done, not the 
 years it has lived." 
 
 " There ! there ! Very well put ! very well put ! 
 But what was that you said first ? " 
 
 " One word, Uncle Tom ; no answer, no comment : 
 mine is like Niobe, turned to stone." 
 
 " By overmuch weeping ? I admire your good 
 sense, Georgie, in keeping yom- tears there ; they 
 would have ruined your eyes." 
 
 " Thank you. Where are we to spend the winter ? " 
 
 "Where ever you will. Washington is dull, al- 
 ways dull to me, but I think you would like it. I 
 wish we had an intriguing, diplomatic, courtly capital ; 
 there would be your element. Let us try a little of 
 New York first." 
 
A STOKY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 57 
 
 " So be it, and I will commence my shopping at 
 once. Give me lots of money, uncle, it may be my 
 last effort ; let me go gorgeously through it." 
 
 " Insatiable girl ! You will ruin some poor fellow 
 yet, by your extraA^agance." 
 
 " Woman's mission," I answered, as he gave me a 
 roll of bills. " I should not wonder if I had found the 
 real solution of that grand problem Woman's Mights, 
 Thank you. Uncle Tom." 
 
 " Will it soften — " he began. 
 
 " Hush ! " I said, and left him. 
 3* 
 
CHAPTER VL 
 
 Who glories not in the activity of real city life ! 
 The never-resting crowd, pushing, jostling, pressing, 
 hurrying each for liis own particular goal ; what life 
 can be called life beside it ? How the sluggish blood 
 starts up and tingles through our veins ! How the 
 languid nerves spring into action, as we mingle with 
 our kind, straining like them, for power, wealth, 
 fame, and happiness, each man for his own idol ! I 
 love the sweet, green fields, the far, blue sky, the 
 dark, forest crowned hills, the murmuring brooks, the 
 gushing rivers; but I revel in the noisy, rattling, 
 stirring town, where God's last, best works are living 
 out their lives together. 
 
 I felt my life renewed, even as the pent-up city 
 denizen renews his in the summer vacation. I 
 returned home, from those few days' shopping, strong- 
 er, braver than I had been for months before; I 
 could even think of meeting Florence, and my old 
 enemy, my aunt Graham, with equanimity. A trial 
 which I was, however, spared, for they had flown off 
 to the South for the winter and spring. 
 
A STOKY OF OUK CIVIL AVAE. 59 
 
 I remember very well the night previous to our 
 departure. I came down to our cozy little sitting- 
 room, Avhich was the favorite of all our lower rooms, 
 in my travelling dress, alone, and with that peculiar 
 feeling one has after locking drawers and packing 
 trunks. My uncle Tom was in his library, deep in his 
 papers, and giving directions to everybody for the 
 care of the house in his absence ; a thorough old maid 
 in this was my dear uncle Tom. A long dreary No- 
 vember storm had desolated the streets of our never 
 very lively little village, and fearing no intrusion I 
 wandered around the room in a listless way, a little 
 softened by the loneliness of the once gay household. 
 
 Old memories came creeping to me, as I sat down, 
 at last, in the firelight ; little speeches, isolated sen- 
 tences, pleasant meetings, tearful partings, quiet 
 evenings, and dashing parties ; little things, but full 
 of meaning to me. Round school-girl faces, even now, 
 some of them elongated to suit the dignity of married 
 life ; some dead, all scattered ! What hopeful projects 
 we had planned, what blushing tales confessed, sit- 
 ting around that now lonely fireplace ! They soften- 
 ed me, hardened as I had made myself since then, and 
 finally, yielding to their influence, I knelt down in 
 the red light, sighing my requiem over my lost 
 girlhood. 
 
 A step at the door startled me. I arose quickly, 
 and advanced to meet my visitor. It was Gilbert, 
 
60 AT anchor: 
 
 just out of the rain and dark ; I could not help a little 
 start of surprise. 
 
 " I felt as if I should do something desperate if I 
 stayed at home another day," he said, half answering 
 that start. " These rains are stupid. I find I cannot 
 see Mr. Yane quite yet ? " 
 
 " ]N'o," I said, " he has laid us under orders not to 
 venture near him for two hours to come." 
 
 He took the chair I offered him, and leaned cheer- 
 fully toward the fire. He had made us but few calls 
 since the summer and Kate had left us, but it had 
 made no difference in his manner, which was still that 
 of an old friend and favored guest, only that now he 
 seemed to avoid the large chair always placed near 
 my little work table, which had formerly been his 
 usual seat. 
 
 He would not let me light the gas, preferring the 
 softened light from the hall, he said, and said with the 
 same apparent confidence in my consent with which 
 he would have made the request a year before. I 
 would have resisted, but he turned his eyes undaunt- 
 edly toward me, with manlike consciousness of 
 power, scattering my frail defences like chaff before 
 the wind, and I yielded with what grace I could, and 
 essaying a half indifferent, careless glance, I took my 
 usual seat by the table ; but under his fearless eyes, 
 though I brought all my strength to aid me in the 
 contest, mine wavered and fell. 
 
A STOEY OF OUK CIVIL WAE. Ql 
 
 1 could not help it, I struggled hard, but his eyes 
 could have led me through fire and death, with but 
 half the mingled emotions that were in them then. 
 What if the past six months could be blotted out, and 
 the old times back again ! Could I be deceived ; in 
 spite of all did he not love me, had he not always 
 loved me ? TThat right then had any other to come 
 between us ? 
 
 I heard his voice, some every-day words, but it 
 was a reason to meet his eyes again, and for the burn- 
 ing blush and quick-dropping eyes to own him con- 
 queror. He knew enough not to proclaim his victory 
 too soon, not until he had played the vanquished. I 
 could not help it. What, if years or oceans had 
 separated us, could I refuse, meeting, to those dear 
 eyes ? By and by he came to his old place, and soon 
 my work basket came under contribution^ for his 
 amusement, as of old ; it did my heart good, though 
 I made a great show of opposition, to see him clipping 
 my thread, entangling my silks, twisting my ribbons, 
 and notching my spools, as he had done so often in 
 the olden time. I lost not a word he said, not a 
 sound of his voice ; there was no power within me to 
 remember that miniature, which he, too, seemed to 
 have forgotten. 
 
 It seems to me I never sang as I did that night, 
 with that one listener, who never praised, but only 
 dreamily heard. 
 
62 AT anchor: 
 
 " Tour next audience will be a fashionable Xew 
 York crowd, I suppose," he said, as I turned around 
 on the piano stool. "How can you care for any thing 
 better than this ? " glancing around the cozy room. 
 
 "Because I want life, action, work. I should 
 petrify here." 
 
 "Do you call dancing, shopping, and having a 
 ' gay winter,' work ? " 
 
 "There is more than dancing, shopping, and 
 having a gay time in the city," I answered. " There 
 is downright work for every man, woman, and child 
 there." 
 
 " "What an amount of energy you have ! I could 
 never dream of going after work, it would be bad 
 enough to have work come to me." 
 
 " Are you not ashamed ? You are only half a man 
 while you talk so." 
 
 " It's true, Georgie, I am only half a man, and ray 
 laziness is the key to my whole life. I can't get out 
 of old ways, I can't break through old customs. I 
 am not half what I ought to be. I feel all the time 
 that if I would make one great effort, one firm wrench, 
 and stand to it, I could do an immense deal ; but the 
 least show of resistance proves too much for me, and I 
 give up rather than fight the battle." 
 
 " Perhaps it would not be so if you had any thing 
 worth fighting for," I suggested. 
 
 " I have something worth fighting for," he replied, 
 
A STOEY OF OUR CIVIL WAE. 63 
 
 less lightly than before, " which would make me in- 
 deed a true and happy soldier to win. I see others 
 pressing in, I do not wait to be jostled aside, I move 
 away, and watch others win the prize that should be 
 mine." 
 
 " You^-e a good for nothing, lazy fellow," I cried, 
 " and you will have to suffer for being so, depend 
 upon it. And with so much power as you really have 
 if you ODly knew, and would use it ! " 
 
 " Have I power ? " he asked with a meaning there 
 was no mistaking. 
 
 "Are you not ashamed to ask that question,. 
 Gilbert Stuart? Are you indeed devoid of manli- 
 ness ? " I exclaimed indignantly. 
 
 " I think I am, Georgie, but I am going to get 
 righted one of these days. Will you not sing for me 
 again ? " 
 
 " No," I answered coldly, and left my seat. 
 
 " Then I shall have to sing for you," he said, gaily. 
 
 " You are very kind," I returned with increased 
 coldness, and leaned back in my chair. I had never 
 heard him sing, and did not suppose he could. 
 
 " I am afraid I cannot manage an accompaniment," 
 he said, after striking several chords. " Will you not 
 help me?" 
 
 " I beg that you will excuse me," was all the an- 
 swer I felt it in my power to give, for I was deeply 
 hurt. 
 
64 AT axchob: 
 
 "Then I must help myself. Please listen to the 
 words. It took me a week, nearly, to get them to 
 jingle." 
 
 I did not hear any more for some time, and was 
 half lost in reverie when a rich, deep voice, broke in, 
 or rather mingled with it, singing : 
 
 " Your brow is set with woman's pride, 
 
 Your eyes refuse a melting smile, 
 But oh ! how check the heart's strong tide, 
 
 That rushes wildly 311 the while ? 
 How cold are all the words I win ! 
 
 And colder still the tones I loved, 
 How calmly pale that once bright cheek 
 
 Whose color each new feeling moved ! 
 
 " I may not even speak of days 
 
 O'er which I brood with strange delight, 
 Nor may I ask the simplest grace, 
 
 That then seemed mine by true love's right 
 But vain is all the world would say, 
 
 To rouse perchance my jealous fears, 
 I bowed not to that gentle heart. 
 
 Till I had known its truth for years. 
 
 " Ah I do not think I could beUeve 
 
 My darling's heart less true than then ! 
 Ah ! do not think that I could fear. 
 
 Her eyes can droop for other men ! 
 Though never in this world again. 
 
 One of the dear old looks I win ; 
 The fault be mine, but to distrust 
 
 That constant heart, were gravest sin. 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 65 
 
 * I know I've wronged that faithful heart, 
 
 Half failed its tender worth to prize, 
 And I to whom they trusted all 
 
 Have dimmed with tears those peerless eyes. 
 Too many are the ways that lead 
 
 Our rougher manhood's steps aside, 
 'Tis thine, sweet eyes, 'tis thine, dear hands, 
 
 To virtues paths our steps to guide. 
 
 *' I cannot speak of all I've seen, 
 
 Xor how each gloomy road I've past, 
 But made thee seem the brighter still, 
 
 And led me to thy feet at last. 
 I cannot speak of all I've erred, 
 
 Nor yet of all I fain would be. 
 But if I gain a place above 
 
 I gain it love, dear love, through thee." 
 
 " And now," rising, and coming behind me, " hav- 
 ing completed the measure of my enormities, I suppose 
 I must go ? " 
 
 " Yes, go," I said rising in my turn ; " I thought 
 that measure was completed long ago, but your inven- 
 tion is wonderful, and I know not how many new 
 insults you may have in store for me." 
 
 " Are you serious, Georgie ? Make me so, then ; 
 make me forget that we are not boy and girl together 
 still, and you will be fully avenged." 
 
 " I have forgotten that we were ever boy and girl 
 together. For the future, at least, I am not to be other 
 than Miss Vane to you." 
 
66 AT axchoe: 
 
 I was getting him in earnest, I could see. 
 
 " It is useless for me to beg pardon in detail," he 
 said. " If I ever become wholly a man I will entreat 
 it all at once." 
 
 " With the full expectation of being forgiven ! " 
 
 " I expect nothing ; I hope but little ; I deserve 
 your taunt, nevertheless." 
 
 He turned slowly from me, irresolute, it seemed to 
 me. 
 
 I was angry enough for any thing then, and I call- 
 ed him back. 
 
 " You have more to say, ^ay it." 
 
 " I have more to say, but I cannot. Some time,- 
 perhaps, I shall be serious, earnest, and what I ought 
 to be, now it makes no difference. I do not suppose 
 you will believe me if I say I would not have offended 
 you for the world." 
 
 I hesitated a moment. 
 
 " You remember what you told me one night, last 
 summer. Did I understand you rightly ? " 
 
 He bowed. 
 
 " It is the same now ? " 
 
 He bowed again. 
 
 " And yet you would have me believe you have a 
 grain of truth in you ! " 
 
 That was enough ; if he had forgotten it for that 
 hour, it was only to make him remember it ever after- 
 wards. 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 67 
 
 The bright light in the hall shone full on a face 
 that was pale and full of sadness, as he lingeringly 
 prepared to leave. 
 
 " Good night, Miss Vane," he said looking into the 
 room, but not at me. 
 
 " Good night, Mr. Stuart." 
 
 I could not realize even when the door closed be- 
 hind him that he would not come back, and explain 
 all this mystery, and win the forgiveness that was 
 only for a moment out of his reach. It was harder 
 still to think, after so many years of trust and faith, 
 trust and faith that had not died in all the past 
 months, that faith and trust had been met, not only 
 with indifference but with insults. Even yet, such is 
 woman's folly, with all my pride I could find excuse 
 even for that, could believe he meant more than he 
 could say. 
 
 The next day I was to leave ; I had seen the last 
 of him, and hope was over. 
 
 And then — Kate ! 
 
 Did I, therefore, tear him out of my heart ? Did I 
 blush that I had ever yielded him a moment's thought ? 
 Did I place hatred and contempt in the place where 
 he once had reigned ? 
 
 I was no strong-minded heroine. I was a strong 
 woman, perhaps, but strong only for others ; the merest 
 schoolgirl, crying over her first love, could shame me, 
 weeping, de profundis, over mine. I was no strong- 
 
68 AT anchoe: 
 
 mjnded heroine : I opened the great door softly, and 
 listened for the echo of his footsteps splashing down the 
 wet pavement ; I found myself gradually leaning farther 
 out, until the rain fell around me, and on me, listening 
 still — holding my breath to hear that step once more. 
 I went in, when I could no longer catch even its faint, 
 far away sound, I went in to the now dull room, late- 
 ly so brilliant with his presence. I stood by the chair 
 in which he had sat, by the piano at which he had 
 sung, with such earnestness and pathos, those strange 
 words ; longing to caress each object which had been 
 blessed by his touch. I took my basket, just as he 
 had left it, with its notched spools and twisted rib- 
 bons, and locked it in the little black cabinet where I 
 kept my letters and journal. I sank down on the floor, 
 with my head in his chair, and there shrined my life's 
 young dream in my heart, as a blessed memory, a 
 glimpse of heaven before the celestial gates closed 
 upon me ; I buried him deep down in my heart, never 
 to see him, with lovelit eyes, until the appointed day 
 of Love's resurrection. 
 
 I might well go to my room that night as from a 
 great and solemn funeral. 
 
CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 Society opened its arms to us, affectionately to 
 my uncle, cordially to both. Affectionately to my 
 uncle, for there was not a silver hair among his curly 
 locks, not a glimmer of frost in his abundant whiskers, 
 to whisper of the coming winter of his life ; for the 
 which be praised my uncle's own immaculate hair-dye. 
 And, too, my uncle was trim and lithely made, pre- 
 serving the happy medium between superabundant" 
 flesh and gout on one side, and leanness and dyspepsia 
 on the other ; for the which be praised my uncle's en- 
 ergy, and his great, warm heart. 
 
 Joined to these rare advantages of figure and whis- 
 kers, my uncle had a still handsome pair of clear, dark, 
 youthful eyes : a massive nose, of the Xew England 
 type, which just intimated there was a rough road 
 somewhere that my easy uncle Tom might have trod ; 
 a good voice, excellent taste, and his own teeth ; so 
 that it was not wonderful that in long parlors, and in 
 crowded halls, Mr. Yane's person, or Mr. Yane's in- 
 come — which, by the way, was in an equally flourish- 
 
70 AT ANCHOR : 
 
 ing condition — was the object of admiring eyes innu' 
 merable. 
 
 As for me, though I had none of these latter claims 
 upon society, there was still a prospect of something 
 from my uncle, the good world thought. There was, 
 too, a lingering remembrance of a brilliant heiress 
 who had flitted across the sky of society, meteor-like, 
 about whom there had been a story, deejoened into 
 mystery as years glided onward and saw no more of 
 her, until a daughter came to revive her image, and, 
 thanks to a wealthy uncle, to raise it above the slan- 
 derous tongue of envious society. A little mystery is 
 piquante sometimes. 
 
 I am not writing my uncle's biography, or I should 
 dwell, half with amusement, half in disgust, on the 
 many incipient courtships of my tender-hearted uncle, 
 during that gay winter. Incipient courtships, for it 
 was not in the power of my generous uncle to confine 
 himsdf for more than a few evenings to any one pret- 
 ty face ; it never had been, hence his bachelorship. 
 
 " I own it," he would say ; " what then ? Must a 
 man make himself a boor for the sake of consistency, 
 when his fickleness makes him only the more interest- 
 ing to others, and agreeable to himself?" 
 
 Just here, in speaking of my uncle, I am remind- 
 ed — I can hardly say why — of a dear and honored 
 friend, who once said to me, speaking of a mutual ac- 
 quaintance, *'Do you know the secret of G.'s worldly 
 
A STOET OF OUE CrS'IL WAR. Vl 
 
 prosperity? I will tell you: When lie was about 
 starting on his worldly career he came to me for ad- 
 vice. ' My dear young friend,' I said to him, ' life and 
 your profession are not all made of roses, as you will 
 too soon find. When adversity presses hard upon 
 you ; when every thing is dark as midnight, without a 
 glimmer of hope or comfort ; when your friends look 
 coldly upon you, and every thing, in fine, seems driv- 
 ing you to despair ; go then, expend, if need be, your 
 last dollar, and buy a new pair of light-colored kid 
 gloves, and put them on.'" Therein is a world of 
 meaning associated always in my mind, spite of the 
 New England nose, with' my uncle Tom. 
 
 And we two lived in the same house, eat at the same 
 table, walked arm-in-arm, sat side by side, read the same 
 books, and lived our separate lives ! So goesthe world ! 
 
 I cannot understand those who say that sorrow or 
 disappointment, such as mine, embitters the mind, and 
 sours it to the world. The power I had for loving, 
 sent back upon my heart, ran no longer in its deep 
 but narrow channel ; it diffused itself over my whole 
 nature, becoming weaker, perhaps, by the diffusion, 
 mingling, as it did, with my lighter, less noble, every- 
 day character ; but it made it kinder, more charitable, 
 more generous to all I met. I did not hope that those 
 loving tides could ever be gathered together and" se- 
 cured in their old sweet, unseen bounds. So I lived 
 for society as best I could. 
 
72 AT anchor: 
 
 Feel kindly, friendly to humanity, and humanity 
 rewards you by its efforts to appreciate and become 
 worthy of your regard. It is only the selfish, the use- 
 less, or the wicked that declaim against the injustice 
 of mankind. Just it seldom is, for humanity is human ; 
 but it does its best, and the true man tries in other ways 
 than angry remonstrance to make that best better. 
 
 So I gathered to myself many a heart-offering from 
 those who surrounded me, and strove here and there 
 to say a word or two that might fall in the right place. 
 I, a woman, honor women. I know they are vain, 
 frivolous, extravagant, and capricious, with a thousand 
 faults beside ; but I honor them still. I say nothing 
 of the false state of society, the folly and blindness of 
 parents, the flattery of friends, that make them what 
 they are. Would you have me dash my head against 
 a wall ? From now until the day of judgment, I veri- 
 ly believe young girls, fresh and sweet, and pui-e and 
 lovely, with the dew of heaven on their lips, and the 
 music of angels in their voices ; with holy inspirations, 
 saintly virtues, heavenly dreams, and martyr endur- 
 ance sleeping in their breasts, waiting the time for 
 woman's work to need them, will be led like lambs to 
 the slaughter, after systemized boarding-schools and 
 contentious homes have labored day and night, by 
 open blows and concealed undermining, by every 
 power known to man or woman, by appeals to every 
 woman-fault and woman-enemy, to deaden and destroy 
 
A STORY OF OUE CIVIL AVAE. IS 
 
 that heaven-born nature before its first sweet slumbers 
 are broken. We may write books, we may preach 
 sermons, we may deliver lectures, we may call con- 
 ventions and establish associations, we may found 
 nunneries, and our reward will be only ridicule, and 
 fruitless labor, for the world will go on just as before, 
 and woman will dance, and sing, and make merry, for 
 a brief season, before she resigns her throne for the 
 nursery; because, maimed and crippled, spiritually 
 and physically, she has not found that both can be 
 held at once. From the patient endurance, the tender- 
 ness, the unselfishness, and the strength for which 
 women fight, and which they so rarely lose, through 
 all the power and skill of the world, what may we not 
 hope? 
 
 I honor them still, these very girls — light, vain, 
 and capricious — who rattle nonsense till youi- head 
 aches, and imagine they are clever ; these very girls 
 who would measure Tennyson by the cut of his coat, 
 and Browning by the style of his whiskers, who count 
 men and women by their dollars, rather than by their 
 virtues, these very girls, aimless, missionless as they 
 seem, are panting every one of them, like tired chil- 
 dren, for the lost path. One of these, delicate, pam- 
 pered, idle, luxurious as they are, will stand by your 
 bedside day after day, night after night, and dream 
 not that she is doing any thing. Your stout, hearty 
 brother will do as much, perhaps, and you can never 
 4 
 
74 AT anchor: 
 
 be enough grateful to him ; a few sweet words, a 
 loving smile, a caress more tender than usual, is her 
 utmost reward. One of these,- weak, silly, thought- 
 less as they are, will hnd you a way through the 
 labyrinth of cares and fears, in which your last friend 
 has left you, hopelessly ensnared. One of these — what 
 use is there to talk — neglected, misled, misunderstood — 
 there is something pure and good, and strong in the 
 worst of them all. I honor them still, I long to take 
 them in my arms and say : " Oh, you fi-ail little 
 creatures, wandering, like lost children, on false paths, 
 what mighty ways you might tread ! How beautiful, 
 how great, how lovable you might be, if you would 
 strive not alone for the path of beauty, but of strength 
 and goodness; if you would only follow the divine 
 light not yet, never extinguished in your souls, and 
 make it a halo for home and for the world, a fireside 
 glow, and a beacon light ! " 
 
 False, but so unconsciously false to themselves. I 
 love and honor my sex .; and when I see one bright, and 
 sweet, and good, with a warm heart, and cordial hand, 
 cherished at home, honored abroad, bringing sweet 
 homeways into society, and grateful social charms 
 into the home circle, then indeed have my eyes beheld 
 a lovely sight, 
 
 And in this spiiit I took my place among them, 
 and together we danced through one gay winter in 
 New York, while my uncle grew younger and gayer 
 
A STORY OP OUR CIVIL WAR. 75 
 
 every day, and was, perhaps, less glad than I when 
 fashion decreed that we should leave the dusty city 
 for summer's sweetest home. 
 
 Yet I did not like the prospect of another summer 
 in L . I scarcely knew why, and my uncle read- 
 ing my half-formed thought proposed a tour through 
 the East, finishing, as in duty bound, at Saratoga, 
 where every thing was as it always is ; crowded hotels, 
 brimming over with flirts and fortune hunters, and for 
 the rest neither interesting nor picturesque in any 
 degree. 
 
CHAPTER Vm. 
 
 There comes a time in nearly every woman's life, 
 I believe, when she is like one waiting. She is not 
 married, perhaps she does not care to be ; she has no 
 especial work, perhaps she does not desire to have ; 
 she has no particular ambition or object in life, perhaps 
 does not know where to seek one. It is a trying 
 time ; society is all in all to her no longer. She is too 
 unsettled to study, not knowing the need, and any 
 straw in the balance may turn her fate. Great mis- 
 fortune, some unexpected change, may rouse her and 
 decide her for immense good, or monotony may con- 
 quer, and she turns to a listless routine, from which 
 the chances are few that she will ever move. 
 
 Such a time had come to me, and I faced it, for I 
 knew its meaning. Now, or never, a work, a mission, a 
 destiny, or a placid existence made up of books, music, 
 dancing, and embroidery. I tried many things. I 
 tried to write, I failed totally; I hardly know why, I 
 had education enough, and my imagination had enter- 
 tained me many an hour. I tried charity, but I mere- 
 
A STOET OF OUR CIYIL WAR. 77 
 
 ly made myself notorious, and was terribly imposed 
 upon. I tried a " Young Ladies' Mutual Improvement 
 Society," but the third meeting ended in exchange of 
 embroidery patterns and fashion plates, and as I 
 would not lose my esteem for the minds of my friends, 
 I withdrew, and the whole thing fell to the ground. 
 I tried teaching, and adored it, but I had never known 
 confinement and my health gave way — I was not 
 sorry. What right had I, with a happy home, to take 
 the place of those who count it a blessing from heaven 
 to find a place, however irksome, in which they could 
 toil and earn their daily bread ? 
 
 *' I wish we had an intriguing court," my uncle 
 said, " and troublesome times. You would be in your 
 element then." 
 
 We were walking down Pennsylvania Avenue as 
 he spoke, and I smiled for answer, for feet on desks, 
 pocketed hands, and tobacco-stained mouths had not 
 much increased my admiration of the rulers of this 
 glorious RepubKc. 
 
 I was walking in my Yankee trust and simplicity, 
 in an honest road ; how strange it seems to me now 
 that the very men I voted past redemption dull, were 
 plotting and planning over their wine, with a skiU and 
 a daring for which history furnishes me no simile ! 
 
 We turned, my uncle and I, into a public hall to 
 see an exhibition. The rooms were almost empty, but 
 a small group of gentlemen were gathered in one, 
 
78 AT anchoe: 
 
 around whom the few passing visiters lingered, ap- 
 parently listening. Uncle Tom was in some manner 
 drawn aside, and as I stood waiting for his return, 
 some words of seemingly eager discussion caught my 
 ear. Presently one voice, deep and impassioned, fixed 
 my attention. 
 
 " A little more of this indecision," were the first 
 words I heard, " and the work is lost ! A little more 
 ease, a little more pleasure, and every thing will be 
 gone ! Is there no strength, no energy left us ? Is it 
 a few words here, a vote or two there, that is to work 
 out our salvation ? Is it now and then a man, earnest 
 and willing to labor, that is to do the work ? " 
 
 There was a mingling of voices, and I heard no 
 more ; but something in the voice I had heard haunted 
 me. I really hungered for it as I wandered aroimd 
 the building. I have heard stray notes of music, 
 passing tones that have lingered with me in the 
 same way, but this was intensified, and so real that I 
 gladly saw my uncle depart, leaving me, with many 
 remonstrances, behind. I cared not for the words, I 
 would not even look at the speaker, but I would go 
 back and hear its music again. I was standing near 
 a large window, the crowd was whirling by beneath, 
 rattling, thundering by, but it did not prevent my 
 hearino- and distinofuishinor the voice that had beguiled 
 my fancy from all the rest. They were passing me on 
 theii- way out of the house ; I turned slightly toward 
 
A STOKY OP OUR CIVIL WAE. 79 
 
 them, the speaker was leaving them. I turned back 
 to the window just as you do when a sweet song is 
 ended. Some one stood beside me. I turned, and a 
 pair of eyes, so blue, so bright, so glad, so tender, 
 looked into mine, that I received their gaze as if all 
 were a dream. So blue, so bright, so glad, so tender, 
 that I can never forget that moment's meeting. 
 
 " Am I forofotten ? Am I to be introduced, and be- 
 gin all over again ? " It was the voice I had heard, and 
 though the tone was apparently light, there was a deep- 
 er earnestness in it than when speaking before. The 
 same voice, and the speaker was Carlton Aberthnay. 
 
 " Forgotten ? " I repeated dreamily. " No, I have a 
 vague, indefinite idea of having met you somewhere 
 "before — in some other world, perhaps. It seems a life- 
 time since, but it will serve for an introduction." 
 
 "Take my arm," he answered, or rather asked, 
 " and let us bring up the books for that lifetime ; for a 
 new lifetime begins now ! " This last half spoken, 
 half murmured, wholly exultant. 
 
 So arm in arm we paced up and down the long 
 rooms, and in his rich voice, his radiant beauty, in his 
 joyous words I found such pleasure as I had not 
 known for many a day. 
 
 "Ah, I have been roving around everywhere," he 
 said, answering my inquiries. " It seems rather ab- 
 surd to talk of a soldier's life in such times as these, 
 when our easrle looks so dovelike, but mine has been 
 
80 AT axchob: 
 
 almost a live existence these two years past. It is 
 quite promising, I assure you ! But do tell me by 
 what strange chance Mr. Vane was ever induced to 
 put his foot into this city of abominations ; has he 
 gone into politics ? " 
 
 I laughed for answer. 
 
 " O, he scorns them," he said, interpreting my 
 laugh. " Don't let him grumble, then, if things don't 
 go to suit him. It's a burning shame, the indifference 
 with which Northern men let the ' vulgar crowd ' set- 
 tle all affairs of state. Why, after a little it will be 
 highly disrejHitable for a respectable man to hold a 
 government office, which will be bad for us." 
 
 " Government rolls along comfortably enough," I 
 answered. " I can't blame men like imcle Tom for be- 
 ing unwilling to worry about its incomings and out- 
 goings so long as it comes and goes as prosaically as 
 at present. But don't let us waste our precious time 
 upon subjects so unworthy. I am more than disgusted 
 with Washington already." 
 
 "And how is every body in L ? " and so on, 
 
 gossip, small talk about works, paintings, music, men, 
 and women, now and then something a little graver; 
 so our talk ran, until my uncle Tom returned for me, 
 and as Mr. Aberthnay was of old an exceeding great 
 favorite with my uncle, he lacked not the most cordial 
 invitations to become almost domesticated with us, 
 invitations which were most quickly accepted. 
 
A STOKY OF OUK CIVIL WAR. 81 
 
 As I thought now, sometimes, of the days when I 
 had looked upon Mr. Aberthnay as a lover, it seemed 
 as if they were days in a dream. No word, no look 
 that could bring back that time ever fell from him to 
 startle me ; and enlivened by his ever-animated spirits, 
 interested in his plans, as no one who heard him talk 
 could help being, I soon found myself yielding to the 
 magnetism of his cheerful influence, and counted every 
 party dull of which he did not make a part. No avo- 
 man will believe me if I say I saw with pleasure that 
 he had overcome his boyish fancy for me ; no one will 
 believe me if I say I saw, with unmixed satisfaction, 
 that however much we were together the old feeling 
 gave no sign of reviving. We tell these men to for- 
 get as a matter of duty, but we are not expected to 
 see, without a little surprise or mortified vanity, how 
 readily they obey us. 
 
 He was called my lover everywhere : there are 
 few greater annoyances than this of having one's name 
 always coupled with that of one who is more than 
 friend, and less than lover; to whom the world will 
 positively engage you, or absolutely demand that you 
 shall count him not even an acquaintance. 
 
 He was not my lover, yet I knew he had a rever- 
 ence for me that I had never seen him yield to any 
 other. I knew he recognized me at my best, with a 
 tender, protecting, manly forgiveness for all my 
 
 weaknesses. I knew if he did love me, he would love 
 4* 
 
82 AT anchoe: 
 
 me as I had fancied I loved Gilbert — as far as a man 
 conscious of his manhood can so love — as if mine not his 
 were the greater soul ; an unhappy love for both man and 
 woman, for it is her sweet right to lose herbeing in his. 
 
 One day, it was the last be/ore I was to leave for 
 our summer home, there had been a meeting of influ- 
 ential men, apparently for social enjoyment, but really 
 for graver purposes. My uncle and Mr. Aberthnay 
 had gone, and I was alone nearly all day. It was a 
 restless day, warm before one is ready for warmth, a 
 day with summer's languor without summer's beauty, 
 a day in which one's life hardly seems worth fighting 
 for. That day, at twilight, after the meeting, Carl- 
 ton Aberthnay, vnth a rush of words which I could not 
 stay, told me that he still loved me — not timidly, al- 
 most hopelessly, as of old, but powerfully, determined- 
 ly, with a love that would never cease. Gently he told 
 me, but terribly. 
 
 I could but beg him to hush, to spare me. 
 
 " Spare you, Georgie ? Is it so dreadful to love 
 and to know it ? One word — " 
 
 " IN'o, no, I cannot say it." I moaned, thinking of 
 his pain, and the wrong I had done him in letting this 
 thing go on. 
 
 He saw, at last, my heart was not for him ; and 
 when he saw there was pain beyond any maiden coy- 
 ness, he stayed his words of entreaty, asking me only 
 to tell him why it pained me so. 
 
A STORY OP OUR CIYIL WAR. 83 
 
 " Because," I answered, " because I should have 
 known this ; I should have been strong enough to de- 
 prive myself, for your sake, of the society that has 
 been so pleasant to me." 
 
 " Do you imagine you could have done any thing 
 to change me ? You could, indeed, have taken away 
 the joy of being with you, but you could have taken 
 away none of the love wherewith I have loved you 
 from the first, and will love you as long as I live in 
 this world, and, if God so permits, in the next." 
 
 " I must not listen to you," I said. " I am inca- 
 pable of loving any one, and it is not right that I 
 should hear such noble words. I have done you 
 wicked, bitter wrong; you should do nothing but 
 hate me." 
 
 " I can do nothing but love you, Georgie," he said, 
 " but love you and reverence you all the days of my 
 life. Not incapable of loving ! do not say that, but not 
 loving because there is no one worthy of your great 
 heart. I, least of all ; I have never for one moment 
 dreamed myself worthy, but I did dare to think my 
 love for you might make me less unworthy. I have 
 tried to think if I knew one better than I who loved 
 you, could I stand by and let him take what I dared 
 not hope to win, and I knew I could not do it ; I must 
 seek you, you only. But do not look so frightened. 
 I love you, I seek you, I wait for you, but I shall not 
 persecute you, in word or thought ; do not think of 
 
84 AT axchoe: 
 
 me as of one sorrowing, but as one glad to have loved 
 you, even though loving in vain. This is all. I would 
 not 25ain you for the world." 
 
 Had he said more I could have resisted better; but 
 my own reproaches, his resolutely-suppressed words, 
 his gentle forbearance to probe my wound, were al- 
 most more than I could bear. 
 
 Soon I spoke more plainly, telling him, not that I 
 had loved any other, for I had persuaded myself that 
 I had not ; but that deepest, firmest friendship, was all 
 I could ever give him, or indeed any one. Then he 
 plead for that in exchange for the love he offered me, 
 and I strove with him for himself against himself, im- 
 plored him not to let me weakly consent to do him 
 this terrible wrong. But my words no longer availed ; 
 and so, at last, wearied with the day's languor, and 
 listening to the voice that pleaded so sweetly, be- 
 lieving I could make him a true and trusty, if not a 
 fond and loving wife, I choked down the expostula- 
 tions of my conscience, and the forebodings of my 
 heart, and became Carlton Aberthnay's promised 
 wife." 
 
 " Not promised," he said ; " nothing more shall you 
 promise me than that I may love you, may be near 
 you, may live in the light of your presence. I will not 
 do you the wrong to take a promise so urgently en- 
 treated, so almost forced from you. But I will love 
 you, I will follow you, I will live for you until such 
 
A STOKY OF OUR CIYIL WAE. 85 
 
 day as your heart turns against me; and then, dearest 
 Georgie, do not hesitate to send me away." 
 
 " I shall never send you away," I answered ; " so long 
 as you are satisfied with that which I told you is yours, 
 has long been yours, so long shall I, too, be yours." 
 
 The duty was less wearisome than I had feared ; 
 I ground down my conscience, and at last it ceased to 
 reproach me ; I began to forget that I did not love 
 Carl, and to live willingly, eagerly even, in his love, 
 his ardent, unselfish love. 
 
 Time went by lightly enough, when, sitting under 
 our brave Massachusetts' elms, I poured out all my 
 thoughts to him as I had ncA^er done to any other. 
 Often and often had I longed for this ; a manly mind 
 in communion with my own, not for love, but cultiva- 
 tion. His letters were treasures of literary taste, and 
 full of thoughtful interest, apart even from the unva- 
 rying devotion which was the undercurrent of every 
 thought and expression. I lived in the varied scenes 
 through which he passed; I felt that I knew those 
 whom he met and cared for, and scarcely considered 
 if the myriad fancies which clustered around our cor- 
 respondence were mine or were his. But here it end- 
 ed ; mine was only an intellectual pleasure in writing ; 
 he, poor fellow ! opened his heart and showered its 
 wealth of love on me, and received never a word of 
 love in return, for I was scrupulously exact in all I 
 gave, or seemed to give. With his native delicacy he 
 
86 AT ANCHOR I 
 
 made no complaint, although it must have pained him 
 deeply. Once he wrote me, however : " Your letters 
 are beautiful ; were they not even from you, I think I 
 could never tire of reading them. They are really 
 works of art, but works no more for me than they 
 might be for any other." 
 
 And again : " Among all these fresh, fragrant flow- 
 ers of your fancy, what unutterable joy if there should 
 be found one little heart blossom that had bloomed for 
 me only ; one leaf or bud from your great wealth of 
 such to be worn ever in his heart whose life is in 
 yours." 
 
 Still I did not realize the yearning which thus 
 murmured to me. I lived in a cold, selfish mood, 
 rather proud of the fervid, romantic Avay in which he 
 loved me, never thinking love could be forced, how- 
 ever gently; never questioning to which my heart 
 were best given, never straining to the higher soul, 
 the knightly soulr that loved me, "not Lancelot nor 
 another." I was startled into momentary warmth 
 only when I was obliged to feel that no man's love 
 can be long preserved without some slight hope of re- 
 turn ; clinging to Carlton as my all in the world, this 
 thought always frightened me. But I kept even that 
 passing glow out of my letters. I meant to be just to 
 him, and never to deceive him, never to feign what I 
 did not feel. It did not occur to me to feel what I 
 would not feign. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 There were gay times when "^liss Georgie's" 
 engagement came to the knowledge of the household. 
 Kate in a silk so stiff that her every motion made my 
 headache, came down especially to congratulate me. 
 Of course, she had known all about it all along ; she 
 always knew I liked him ; she had said to Mrs. Glynn, 
 " Just you take my word for it, i\Ir. Aberthnay's the 
 man ;" some people had thought that I was going to 
 have Gilbert Stuart, but she had known better, she 
 had : I was never going to be a farmer's humdrum 
 wife, with two new dresses a season, and one silk for 
 Sundays, not I — I was no such fool as that — I had 
 played my cards well, Kate thought, had got a real 
 nice husband, and now she had only to hope my 
 wedding dress would be a beauty. And then to think 
 how many would be jealous, and what Mrs. Graham 
 would say who had tried so hard to get Mr. Aberthnay 
 for Florence, and what IVIr. Stuart would say who had 
 tried so hard to get me. The hypocrite ! If she but 
 knew how well I understood and scorned her for her 
 duplicity ! 
 
88 AT anchor: 
 
 Mr. Aberthnay had resigned his position njDon my 
 uncle's demurring about my marrying an officer; 
 officers, you know, take excellently well with the 
 ladies, but when I was young, guardians, uncles, and 
 papas had a holy horror of the army; but Mr. Ab- 
 erthnay's resignation removed my uncle's only shado'v 
 of objection, and as I could raise none, our marriage 
 cards were ordered. 
 
 I went down to L for a few days before the 
 
 time, while Kate, who was to be my first bridesmaid, 
 kept house for my uncle in New York. Kate might 
 well congratulate me on my marriage, for she was to 
 take my place, a snug one enough, in my uncle's 
 homestead, as she had already taken my place else- 
 where. No, not that ; she could never fill my place in 
 either caj^acity. It rained nearly all the time I was 
 there, dull, dreary November storms ; I was glad 
 enough to leave the old house that would never see 
 Georgie Yane again. Mrs. Glynn, the housekeeper, 
 would not let a thing be taken from my room ; it must 
 always look just so, she said, to welcome me when I 
 came home for my visits. "We went all over the house 
 together, I giving her some little memento for each of 
 the servants, until we came, at last, bonneted and cloak- 
 ed to the hall, when she said : " Please, Miss Georgie, 
 you've been so good, you've remembered all — even poor 
 Christy — there's one who you might remember." 
 
 " Whom ? " 
 
A STORY or OUR CIVIL WAR. 89 
 
 " Mr. Stuart, Miss Georgie." 
 
 Turning toward her angrily, I answered : " I have 
 nothing for him." 
 
 " Oh ! any thing, !Miss Georgie, that I could give 
 him some time ; I needn't say you told me. Miss." 
 
 My eyes fell wistfully on the little black cabinet, I 
 even put the key in to open it, but I remembered. 
 " No, Mrs. Glynn," I said, rising and speaking reso- 
 lutely, " I am going to marry Mr. Aberthnay, I must 
 not think of any one else. But here," I added, taking 
 off a ring that Mr. Stuart had won at a Fair, years and 
 years before, and given to me, " give this to !Miss Kate 
 on her wedding-day. Tell her Mr. Stuart gave it to 
 me." She took it wonderingly. 
 
 " But Mr. Stuart — " she urged. 
 
 " I hate him ! " I answered, stung by her persever- 
 ance. " I hate the very soimd of his name ! " She 
 sprang toward me, holding her hand before my 
 mouth, a freedom which startled me more than words 
 or shrieks could have done. I saw that she turned 
 her eyes toward the parlor door. I had not time to 
 ask her what it meant, before a pale face passed be- 
 tween me and the light. 
 
 " I did not intend to hear — " he began, then paused. 
 " You are quite right,. Miss Vane ; I did not know you 
 were going so soon. I hoped to have made you a call 
 earlier, but was detained. Shall I see you to your 
 carriage ? " 
 
90 AT ANCHOR : 
 
 He did ; for I had no power to move or speak. He 
 pushed in my dress gently, closed the carriage door, 
 raised his hat, and the carriage moved on. 
 
 I looked at Mrs. Glynn. 
 
 " Please don't be angry with me," she said half 
 crying, " I always fancied you had a liking for each 
 other, and I thought may be at the last minute it 
 would come round ; so when he came past the house 
 this morning I made bold to speak to him, and to tell 
 him you was going away ; he said perhaps he would 
 find time to see you, only perhaps, he said, you'd be 
 too busy ; but I said no, and told him to come ; but I 
 didn't mean no harm, only — " 
 
 " Life isn't a novel, Mrs. Glynn, and I hope you are 
 convinced now that Mr. Stuart and I do not care for 
 each other ? " 
 
 " Yes, Miss, now I know, but I didn't used to think 
 it would come out so." 
 
 " You see he does not care for me," was all I could 
 say. 
 
 " Yes, Miss, I seen it now ; but I hadn't then." 
 
 " What did he come up to the house for, then, if he 
 didn't care for me," I exclaimed. 
 
 She looked at me amazed. " I think it was ray 
 fault. Miss Georgie," she answered ; but I had regained 
 my self-control, and said no more, hating myself, 
 hating her, hating him, hating all the world. 
 
 But it was different when Uncle Tom and Mr. 
 
A STOEY OF OUK CIVIL WAR. 91 
 
 Aberthnay met me at the depot, as glad to see me, 
 both, as if I had been gone a year. My trousseau was 
 almost finished ; Mrs. Giddings had sent for more lace 
 for my dress, and Mrs. Yarney said my wreath would 
 be superb — this was Kate's greeting, of course. 
 
 I had a grand wedding ; my uncle looked upon it 
 as the climax of his life, he wouldn't have had any 
 thing wanting that money or labor could get, for the 
 world. He and Kate seemed to feel very much more 
 excited about it than we who were the most concerned; 
 indeed, Kate seemed ever on the point of thanking me 
 for my kindness in getting married, as if I had done it 
 all on purpose for the gratification she found in fixing 
 and fussing for it. 
 
 I do not know of what other peoj)le think when 
 they are about being married, I know I thought 
 more connectedly of the fitting of my dress, the trail- 
 ing of the skirts, the falling of my veil, than any thing 
 else ; and I am sure if Mr. Aberthnay had told me the 
 truth about his, it would have been of the ugliness of 
 a modern man's " wedding garments." 
 
 At last I was dressed, and left alone, haunted by 
 an undefined dread, nervous and restless. 
 
 But when I heard Mr. Aberthnay's eager step on 
 the stairs, knowing that he had come for me, my heart 
 almost failed me. He came in, every feature radiant 
 with happiness. 
 
 I went forward to meet him, holding out my un- 
 
92 AT anchor: 
 
 gloved hands for the bouquet he had brought me, 
 while he gazed upon me with pride and delight. 
 Somehow his trust and happiness shot like arrows to 
 my heart. 
 
 " Oh, Carl," I said, with more warmth than I had 
 ever shown him before, " forgive me for this wrong to 
 you." 
 
 " Wrong ! oh, Georgie ! Can you call that wrong 
 which makes my whole life a song of thanksgiving for 
 my unutterable happiness ? I am not worthy that you 
 should j^ermit me even to love you — you, my peerless 
 Georgie, — how infinitely less worthy that you should 
 give yourself to me, to be mine, all mine, darling 
 Georgie, forever and forever mine ! " 
 
 " Hush, Carl ! Only too soon you will find that I 
 am only common earth, common clay ; and you will 
 blush for shame to remember that you ever thought 
 me otherwise. Only too soon, Carl, you will become 
 tired of me, reproach me for my coldness, — become 
 negligent, indifferent, and then, Carl, what is to be- 
 come of me ? " For, with it all, I Avas fearfully jealous 
 of his love ; knowing my small claim, I was ever in 
 terror of losing that which was all the love the world 
 had for me. 
 
 " Reproach you, my pride, my joy, my love ! How 
 cruelly you judge me ! Say, Georgie, do you think 
 that man lives who could woo you from your happy 
 home, where every love and care were lavished on^ou. 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 93 
 
 even to look upon you with less than unutterable 
 gratitude and adoration ? Trust me, Georgie, my love 
 is warm and great enough to shelter you forever. 
 Every day it must increase, for every day, already, I 
 love you more than before. Come to me, then, fear- 
 lessly, Georgie, as to one who only prays to spend his 
 life in loving you." 
 
 " You Avill tii-e of that, Carl ; and how, then, can I 
 keep you — I, who am so cold, so undemonstrative? 
 Oh, no, Carl, it must not be. I cannot return you any 
 thing worthy of your great, boundless love." 
 
 " It wishes no return, dearest Georgie, save your 
 own free return. Is it not of itself happiness beyond 
 words to be with you always, and to love you al- 
 ways ? " 
 
 " Always ! " I repeated, clinging to him, whose 
 caresses, in a few hours I could no longer refuse. 
 
 " Fear not," he said, fondly ; " when the blessed 
 words are spoken, God will turn your heart to me, and 
 we shall be forever happy." 
 
 My conscience was not satisfied, my fears were not 
 calmed ; the more he told me of his love the more I 
 longed for it, trembled to lose it, and yet felt my own 
 unworthiness. I felt old in the ways of the heart, 
 feeling like one who takes from a child his fresh, trust- 
 ing innocence. 
 
 Looking down on me, he seemed startled. 
 
 " Georgie," he said, " tell me, are you forcing your- 
 
94 AT ajstchoe: 
 
 self to this ? It is not too late. Georgie, fear not to 
 answer. Would I not die here at your feet, and count 
 it bliss so to die, rather than cause you one instant's 
 pain ? Would I accept any haj^piness at the cost of 
 a pang to you ? And perhaps it is better ; who can 
 tell into what sorrow and pain I am leading you? 
 who can tell what shadows, dark and heavy, may 
 gather around the home to which I take you ? Oh, 
 Georgie, I have not dared think before that even 
 blood and death may fall to my lot, for you to share 
 with me. Xow that I feel how dear you are, I trem- 
 ble before the thought. How I have wronged you ! " 
 
 This was enough; I shrink from danger or grief! 
 I fear to breast life's angriest wave by my husband's 
 side ! If there were storms ahead, then well for him 
 to have the one he loved by him. " Danger or sorrow 
 will but bind us the closer," I said, and hid my face 
 against his heart, pressed his hand firmly in mine, and 
 when I looked at him again every shadow had passed 
 away, his eyes were misty with unshed tears of joy, 
 and his lips trembled with gratitude. 
 
 And so we went down through the long line of 
 bridesmaids and attendant grooms ; went on until we 
 stood before the high altar in the crowded cathedral, 
 — in the crowded cathedral, fragrant with the choicest 
 flowers, brilliant- with myriad lights, melodious with 
 the richest music. 
 
 The last echo died away, every breath was hushed 
 
A STOBT OF OUR CIVIL WAE. 95 
 
 as the words were spoken. His deep " I will " rolled 
 on my ears terrible as some loud, prolonged thunder- 
 peal. My own, spoken low and firm, they told me af- 
 terwards, sounded to me as if echoed by a thousand 
 mocking voices. But the words were spoken, there 
 was no recall, and we went down the long aisle man 
 and wife. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 It was hard to see my poor Uncle Tom breaking 
 down at the last, and pushing me into the carriage 
 with something between a blessing and a jest ; harder 
 still to hear Kate's violent professions of sorrow and 
 affection ; but I forbore resistance, letting her have it 
 her own way, w^ondering if she fancied I could be so 
 easily deceived. All the partings came to an end, at 
 last, and Carl and I departed. 
 
 We went down to the plantation, and lived hap- 
 pily as might be. More loving and more tender bride- 
 groom could not be. Every luxury that the most 
 boundless devotion could devise was lavished upon me 
 by him, who, though my husband, was still my lover. 
 
 There were all the novelties of Southern institu- 
 tions to interest me, — the freedom of Southern life to 
 employ my energy, curiosity, and love of scenery; 
 while each particular negro seemed a " character " to 
 my unaccustomed eyes. 
 
 Nothing at first struck me more forcibly than the 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 97 
 
 wonderful capacity of the negroes for enjoyment. 
 Notwithstanding their hard-working, aimless lives, so 
 burdensome as to seem calculated to deaden every 
 spark of spiiit within them, they entered with the zest 
 of children let loose from school into all the festivities 
 desisrued to celebrate their master's marriage. Never 
 shall I forget my first sensations as their dark faces 
 suddenly appeared before me, intent, no doubt, on no 
 thought but a fair look at the new " missus," but 
 seeming to me ominous of shadows and clouds in my 
 new home. 
 
 I could not enjoy their hilarity ; it was to my views 
 so forced, so soulless, and unnatural. All shams were 
 and are alike to me ; no clown ever aroused my laugh- 
 ter, — no circus antics ever gave me any feeling but of 
 pain for the performers ; and so now I breathed freer 
 when there came an end to the " festivities," that is, 
 the well-arranged farce, in which the exj)ert manager 
 exhibits his sable troupe for the especial edification of 
 benighted Northerners visiting the sunny South, who 
 seeing, return and write ponderous volumes about the 
 gay and affectionate negro, as seen in the charming 
 light of the patriarchal system. We know better. 
 
 They are a sensitive race, these jDOor black slaves, 
 quick to see through your actions and your motives, 
 through your mask to your heart; and although I 
 treated them with uniform consideration, never over- 
 working them, never letting them suffer for any care 
 
98 AT anchor: 
 
 in health or sickness, never speaking harshly to them, 
 never even raising my voice in sternness to them, I 
 found they loved me not half as well as they would 
 others, whom I myself have heard talking to them 
 with a vehemence which would shame our sharpest 
 tongued northern virago ; and not only talking^ but I 
 have seen fail' and gentle women, soft-eyed, sweet- 
 hued, angelic-seeming women, like the blue-eyed hero- 
 ines of men's novels, redden their lily hands by re- 
 peated applications to dark, offending faces, in spite of 
 which the affectionate victims are ever ready to sacri- 
 fice theii* lives, their all on earth, to them, to these 
 same relentless persecutors. 
 
 My husband only smiled at the horror these " fair 
 ladies'" conduct excited in me. My husband, who 
 would have forgiven me any crime U230n earth sooner 
 than an unfeminity ; who would have aA^oided as he 
 would a scorpion, the daring woman who stepped 
 enough from* her sphere to be observed, to be criti- 
 cized, to be lauded even ; with his delicate, sensitive, 
 refined, fastidious nature, smiled at the things which 
 would have turned away the roughest northern farm- 
 er ! It was the inevitable consequence of the " insti- 
 tution," he said ; " the women were as kind-hearted 
 gentle creatures as need be ; the thing was necessary ; 
 a negro takes to whipping, he don't know how to get 
 along without it." 
 
 That might be ; but no lash fell on woman's shoul- 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 99 
 
 ders, no hard words, no harsh voice on any ear, while 
 I was their mistress. My conduct was actuated by the 
 pride and self-respect which scorned to insult those 
 who were beneath insult and beyond the power of re- 
 sentment, and in due time they came, meekly as lambs, 
 under my government, fearing my quiet voice as much 
 as they feared the cellar or the lash. My heart never 
 warmed to them. I knew it was our own sin which 
 had brought them there, our own sin which we must 
 expiate in tears of blood ; but I could not forgive 
 them that, innocently, they had caused the sin. They 
 felt this, they knew my heart was sealed to them, poor 
 creatures, watching my every movement with a painful 
 desire to anticipate my every wish. One who had 
 governed them in the same way from kindness instead 
 of pride, would have been almost as a goddess to 
 them, led as they are blindly by their hearts, out of 
 which the warmth never dies. 
 
 But beyond all horrors, and, Yankee-bred, I found 
 plenty, was that inspired by my first sight of the field- 
 hands as they came slowly in, — men and women to- 
 gether, staggering from heat and exhaustion, the lat- 
 ter scorning to moan, though visibly almost sinking to 
 the ground ; a stern, morne set of women, looking as 
 if they had become too hard even to curse their fate. 
 I felt something like sympathy for them, standing up- 
 right, upheld by innate strength, statue-like, awaiting 
 each her turn to have her work weighed and her day's 
 
100 AT axchoe: 
 
 toil ended, to be free to throw themselves, like logs, 
 upon the floor, mnttering now and then a hitter oath 
 or two before they turned sullenly to the wall. I 
 went down to them and spoke to them as one woman 
 to another. I could do it easily to them, easier than 
 to many a fair white lady in her beauty and wealth. 
 
 " Carl," I said, one night, " you must not have 
 women work on the plantation. It is cruel." 
 
 "They only work when we are pressed, and are 
 worth as much as the men." 
 
 " It is not a question of theii' worth, but of your 
 humanity." 
 
 " Nonsense, Georgie ; you must get these Yankee 
 ideas out of your head, or they will make you trouble. 
 Nobody on my plantation has much to complain of. 
 Grimes says the rascals are as fat and lazy as the day 
 is long. I am not a hard master. Will not every 
 slave I have tell you there is no easier master than 
 theirs for miles and miles around ? " 
 
 " But it is not other men's actions that you should 
 take as a standard, but your own sense of right. It is 
 an outrage ujDon Christianity, upon human nature it- 
 self, to allow a woman to work at such labor, under 
 the burning sun, and your barbarian overseer." 
 
 ^' Forever down upon poor Grimes ! Why, Georgie, 
 you ought to have unqualified admiration for him ; he 
 is a countryman of yours, that is, a New Englander. 
 He gets more work out of those lazy fellows than any 
 
A STOEY OF OUJJ CIVIL WAR. 101 
 
 other OYCi-secr in the county, beats us Southerners all 
 hollow." 
 
 " I do not doubt it. A l^orthern man, bred to 
 Northern morality, never sinks to such dirty work 
 until he has thrown away all ideas of civilization and 
 decency." 
 
 " You are hard ; but, come, have one of Jack's 
 cobblers, and let the niggers go ; too hot a subject for 
 such a confounded hot day." 
 
 " But I cannot let it go, Carl ; I cannot sleep while 
 those hard faces are .in my mind ; they perfectly haunt 
 me. I sujoposed it was only the Legres who had such 
 assistants." 
 
 " You are too kind-hearted Georgie." 
 
 "I am not kind-hearted. I come to you in the 
 extremity of dread ; I cannot dare to think of peace 
 here or hereafter, while such things go on. Do, Carl, 
 for my sake, if not for a better motive, send away 
 Mr. Grimes ; let the women leave out-of-door work to 
 the men, and — " 
 
 " You and I take to farming, — eh, wifey mine ? " 
 
 " You shan't laugh at me, Carl." 
 
 " And you sJiarCt^'' mimicking my broad Yankee «, 
 and laughing up to my eyes. " And you shan't worry 
 me about these things. There isn't such a long life 
 before me, that I can afford to lose one sweet minute 
 in any thing but happiness with my queen of wives. 
 Hush ! not a word. I am too good-natured and lazy; 
 
102 AT ANCHOR I 
 
 the first I kDOw, you, with your terrific Yankee energy 
 and vim^ will prove a perfect despot over me." 
 
 " You shall not turn me away," I answered ; " I 
 am not going to be put off with pretty speeches ; I am 
 in earnest, speaking from my heart." 
 
 " "VYell, Georgie, I do not doubt that many things 
 strike you, a stranger to our ways, as rather hard, 
 more especially as just now we are in such a state that 
 we have to work things harder than ever before ; but 
 when you know us better, you will see that we do our 
 best considering the circumstances. Fancy now that 
 I should do as you ask me, and you know, Queen 
 Georgie, there is nothing that you could ask that it is 
 not happiness for me to do, if it is only in my power ; 
 fancy now that I should in this, our busiest season, 
 send away Mr. Grimes and release those few women, 
 what would be the consequence? In place of the 
 women for whom there is no other possible work, I 
 should have to get some more men, which is a thing 
 out of the question, — ^I cannot afford it. Xext I should 
 have to find a successor to Grimes, no easy matter, 
 and all the time spent in searching so much time lost ; 
 the best I could get would, I am certain, be so much 
 inferior to him, that half a dozen extra hands would 
 not more than make up the difference. When times 
 come better and things get easier, you will not have to 
 ask this twice ; but now it will not do. Grimes is a 
 good fellow ; he knows I would discharge him in an 
 
A STOKT OF OUK CIYIL WAR. 103 
 
 hour if lie "was cruel to the hands ; he is a thorough 
 and a superb manager ; he takes a world of care off my 
 shoulders ; so let us leave him to get things through in 
 his own way ; and now, Georgie — 
 
 -' Since in wailing 
 
 There's naught availing, 
 But death unfailing 
 
 Must strike the blow ; 
 Then for this reason, 
 And for a season, 
 
 Let us be merry before we go !' " 
 
 "But, Carl," I urged, "what do we want of so 
 much nioney? Do you suppose I want useless fine 
 things obtained by money coined out of the tears of 
 my own sex." 
 
 " If there's one thing that I hate more than an- 
 other," interrupted my husband, " it is to hear you 
 call those black beings of your sex. Let me implore 
 you to spare me that pain. You, the very perfection 
 of beauty, grace, and intellect ! God's fairest, proud- 
 est, noblest handiwork, and those . There's your 
 
 ]N'orthern cant — ' Am I not a man and a brother ? ' — 
 good enough for your Garrisons and your Phillipses, 
 but thorough cant — what man or woman of those 
 abolitionists ever meant a word of this ? I hate cant ; 
 but I answer your question, ' What do we want of so 
 much money ? ' Georgie, we have a use for all our 
 money, which it would make your blood cold to hear. 
 
104 AT axchoe: 
 
 * Coined out of tears,' you say, — it \vill be coined out 
 of better life-blood than that of black slaves one of 
 these days. But not yet, j^erhaps never ; do not think" 
 of it. Forgive me, darling Georgie, if I seem unkind 
 to you, — you, who are dearer than life itself; but, trust 
 me, I am not hard-hearted, and what I can do for my 
 slaves I am glad to do ; but to make any change, how- 
 ever slight, in their condition, might endanger more 
 than my property." 
 
 "How so, Carl." 
 
 " A certain set of men in the South, Georgie, in 
 order to j^reveut the people from being disgusted with 
 slavery, and to keep the South united in one interest, 
 in order to further their own ends, social and political, 
 have taken advantage of the Xorthern detestation of 
 slavery, and the imprudent expressions of a certain 
 set of fanatics at the Xorth, to make our people jeal- 
 ously, morbidly sensitive on the subject which is our 
 perpetual bone of contention. Lately it has become 
 imperative on us to be as one man, — this, our common 
 interest, is the tie that binds us in sjDite of all opposing 
 thoughts and feelings ; we have been worked up on the 
 subject more assiduously than ever, and now it is not 
 safe for one to do a humane or Christian act toward 
 his slaves, especially if he is known, like me, to have 
 a Northern education and a brave Xorthern wife; 
 my smallest act- would be magnified into an enormous 
 abolition tendency, the crime of crimes do-svn here." 
 
A STORY OF OUE CIVIL WAR. 105 
 
 " I never dreamed of this, Carl. I thought we 
 lived in a free country." 
 
 " Xot yet ; but we shall make it so ; the hour is 
 almost at hand." 
 
 " Carl, I do not wish to penetrate your secrets, but 
 let me entreat you to beware lest your enthusiasm and 
 love for your own section, may be used to make you a 
 tool in the hands of ambitious and designing men." 
 
 " A tool ! Do I look like it ? No, Georgie, w^her- 
 ever your husband goes he goes- as a leader, be sure of 
 that. I do not go into any thing blindly ; this is no 
 new thing, we have been brought up to it, to work for 
 * Southern rights.' You are amazed ; you remember 
 our conversation at your uncle's? I did not know 
 then how m^uch of reality there was in what I said. 
 You laughed at me for a dreamer then — so would all 
 your Northern friends; they have been too busy 
 making money up North, to think what we were 
 doing here ; too much elated with their annual fleecing 
 of the Southerners to see that we were not the easy 
 fools we seemed." 
 
 " Carl, you terrify me." 
 
 " It is that which terrifies me. Oh ! Georgie, if 
 any thing should happen and you an exile from your 
 early home, turned against this, and hating me, hating 
 the fate which brought us together, perhaps ! Oh, 
 Georgie, how easily, how cheerfully, how proudly I 
 could brave the world and death itself if you but felt 
 5* 
 
106 AT Anchor: 
 
 with me, but sent me forth with your smiles and your 
 blessings." 
 
 "Whatever you do, Carl, so it be nothing un- 
 worthy yourself, I, if you care for my poor prayers, 
 shall never cease to give them." 
 
 " Bless you for that ! But how can I ever hope to 
 convince you of the justice of our cause while your 
 Xorthen education and your Xorthern prejudices force 
 you to see only that which is misled or mistaken m 
 our lives ? How can I show you the South as I see 
 her, to-day writhing under the heel of the Xorth, to- 
 morrow baptized, it may be, in blood and tears, rising 
 resplendent to her proper throne, radiant and pure, 
 mistress of herself, queen of the far West ? " 
 
 " Xever, Carl. I see no picture of the kind. I see 
 only that you, my husband, are following a will-o'-the- 
 wisp to worse than death. Of what can you com- 
 plain ? The North for all its superior strength and 
 talent, for all its greater power and position, is ever 
 ready to kneel in the dust for you. Our Government 
 has long been in your hands; we helped you elect the 
 present President on purpose that no Xorthern in- 
 fluence should be used against you ; he is bound by 
 his office to administer his goveniment fairly and 
 unpartially, knowing no Xorth, no South. Has he done 
 so ? Who has a right to complain — you or the ]S"orth ? 
 You give us our Presidents, we say humble thanks ; 
 you dictate our policy, Ave kiss your hands ; you fill 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. .107 
 
 our places in the Cabinet, in the Army, at West Point, 
 we are duly grateful, and now we are in the dust cry- 
 ing to you — ' what more can we do ? ' You your- 
 selves laugh at us for our servility, and dictate to us 
 with all the arrogance of contempt. What moi-e 
 would you have ? " 
 
 " That may be as you say, Georgie, but it does not 
 suit us. The ISToith outnumbers us, any day that it 
 chooses to unite against us we are lost. But let us 
 once become free of her, free to stretch our empire, and 
 then ! " 
 
 " And then ? " 
 
 "Why, then, we shall become a great Southern 
 Republic, and Madame Xorth will have to be on her 
 good behavior." 
 
 "Like the prodigal you want your share of the 
 substance, and freedom to go off on your own hook 
 awhile ? Don't try it, Carl, or you may search in vain 
 even for the husks of the corn which the swine did 
 eat. Reflect, it is not one man who goes, nor ten, nor 
 a thousand, it is the Union that is a Union no longer ; 
 and the sin, a terrible one, will be on your own heads." 
 
 " I deny any wrong about it. If South Carolina, 
 or any other State which of her own choice went into 
 the Union of her own accord goes out of it, my duty 
 to her requires that I go with her." 
 
 " Is not Calhoun dead yet, or is it that the ' evil 
 men do lives after them?' It ryiay do for some to 
 
108 AT ANCHOE. 
 
 deny that our Union is a nation, but it scarcely does 
 for you, Carl, a commissioned officer of the United 
 States, educated by her to whom you have sworn 
 allegiance, to plead any States Rights' sophistry. 
 
 " I have resigned my position in the United States 
 Army ; when I again take up the sword it will be as 
 the — " he paused. 
 
 " As the enemy of the Government to whom you 
 are indebted for that sword ! " I added. 
 
 He did not seem pleased. I did not imagine my 
 words were so little wide of the truth. 
 
 " Let us be happy while we can, Georgie," he said. 
 " Leave arguing to your cousin Kate, and tune your 
 voice to the music of which I can never tire," and he 
 sent me to the piano. 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 Days came and went ; dull days ; little to do, lit- 
 tle to see, little to read. I tried to interest myself in 
 the new scenes around me, but, the summer gone, my 
 heart pined for the white fields of snow the ice-hung 
 trees, and the clear, cold starlight of dear Xew Eng- 
 land — ever dear, but never so dear as when, sitting in 
 my own new home, my hands clasped so as to conceal 
 the wedding-ring, memory brought back the rosy 
 skaters, the merry sleigh-bells, and the shouts of the 
 boys dashing down the hills on their swift sleds, which 
 had so often aroused my mirth at home; at home, — 
 would any place ever seem like home to me again ! 
 Thinking of the old days when a bright, somewhat 
 hoydenish girl, I tramped through the snow to school, 
 made snow men, or glided through labyrinthian snow- 
 caves with a bright, red-cheeked boy, my constant 
 companion, torment, and champion, — thinking of this, 
 how tame and aimless seemed my present life ! 
 
 " Your heart is not with us," my husband would 
 say, if a shadow rested on my face ; " patience, Georgie 
 
110 AT ANCHOE : 
 
 dearest, let the fierce March winds go by, and my 
 prisoned bird shall breathe her native air again." 
 
 And for that I seemed to live. I counted the days 
 until the spring should be at hand, and I could be 
 once more in the arms of the old house. 
 
 No change had come over my husband's tender- 
 ness, but I was far from being his sole engrossing 
 thought. Deeper things than I was permitted to 
 know were being woven in my A^ery house, which I, 
 hands tied, could make no effort to sunder. 
 
 A day or two before we were to leave, it was not 
 long after the Charleston Convention, my husband 
 brought some of its members home to dinner. 
 
 " Do not invite any one," he said to me ; " let it be 
 really en famille, and do try to keep that Grimes 
 away. He has lately adopted a fashion of intruding 
 his vulgar face whenever I have gentlemen here; I 
 don't like it ; and, Georgie " — this very wistfully — 
 "Georgie, darling, it kills me to keep these things 
 from you ; I cannot deceive you, and we so much 
 need your help, your quick observations, your tact, 
 your ready woman's instinct ; I want your brave 
 heart and your noble soul to uphold and steady mine. 
 But I have to shut up every thing in myself, away 
 from you, — should it be so ? " 
 
 " You can trust me, at least. It may be that I 
 cannot agree with you, that I shall even be forced to 
 condemn your work ; but I can respect your motives. 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. Ill 
 
 I do not flatter myself I could aid your cause if I 
 would ; but I can guard your honor." 
 
 " Then I need not fear to speak before you ? " 
 
 " Carl ! " 
 
 " I mean that I did not know but you would con- 
 sider your duty to your country would requii'e you to 
 betray your husband." 
 
 " I have been too often tried, as you know, and 
 been proved too weak for any such Spartan virtues for 
 you to fear me now." 
 
 " It is a great relief to me," he answered ; " I am 
 always afraid of your heroic. Puritanic J^ew England- 
 ers. I do not care how hardly you blame us to our 
 faces, so you keep our secret. You will have to meet 
 all sorts of men, Georgie darling, men that I hate to 
 have to breathe the same air Tvdth you, men that I 
 shrink from meeting myself; but I know you will un- 
 derstand that it is necessity." 
 
 " I never mind that sort of thing, Carl ; if men 
 are vile and base, I feel it if they are ever so smooth 
 and polished; but most men have something endurable 
 in them, so do not worry for me. Are you to have a 
 set of diplomats to dinner to-day ? " 
 
 " They will be somewhat in that line, I must con- 
 fess ; insignificant, common-place men they may seem 
 to you, and they probably are not broad-minded, but 
 each has his allotted work, and through that may one 
 day be famous. I shall tell you no more of them or our 
 
112 AT anchor: 
 
 plans, but let them develop themselves; only this, 
 whatever is said, answer as you choose; I will not 
 have my wife restricted at my own dinner-table. 
 There are things that will seem strange, perhaps re- 
 pulsive to you, but I trust to the largeness of your 
 intellect to know such things must be, and to make 
 allowances for all ; and, remember, we see our own side 
 of the shield as clearly as you yours." 
 
 " You do not seem to have succeeded over well in 
 your conventions," I said, at dinner, to relieve an em- 
 barrassed silence, or a more embarrassing attempt at 
 small talk among the gentlemen. " Are good men 
 and true men so scarce that you could not find a wor- 
 thy candidate among them ? " 
 
 " It was a sad affair," said one, without lifting his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Mrs. Aberthnay," said my husband, significantly, 
 *' although of Northern biith, is very free from North- 
 era prejudices ; and though she will not let me, quite 
 yet, call her an earnest friend to our cause, she is, at 
 least, a noble and trusty foe." 
 
 Every one looked relieved, and a gentleman next 
 me offered me his hand ; " such a foe speedily becomes 
 a friend," he said, " we welcome you." 
 
 " I shall not allow myself to be called your oppo- 
 nent," I said, " until I see something I must oppose." 
 
 " We shall not break our hearts over the fate of the 
 Charleston Convention," one said, who seemed to be 
 
A STORY OP OUR CIVIL WAR. 113 
 
 their leader, and whose name was Layton, I think. 
 " We are going to be good, and let the ISTorth elect 
 her own president for this term." 
 
 " Provided he is of our choosing," said a Lieut. 
 Gwynn, one of my husband's classmates at West Point. 
 
 " I don't think we need trouble ourselves," answer- 
 ed Mr. Layton ; " Abraham will be an excellent patri- 
 arch for us as for the North. He was especially made 
 for this emergency, if I know the man ; we'll let the 
 ISTorth have him to its heart's content." 
 
 " But he is the Republican choice," I said. 
 
 " Most fortunately, we think, some of us— most for- 
 tunately, Mrs. Aberthnay, for us, they have chosen 
 the very man who will help us best," answered Mr. 
 Layton again. " We think him, some of us, an obsti- 
 nate, self-willed, ignorant third-rate attorney. You 
 mustn't mind our saying it, you know, because he may 
 turn out a second Washington, whom, by the way, I 
 never considered any very great shakes of a man. 
 Yes, he is the Republican choice, and if we can only 
 get him elected we are all right." 
 
 " But even granting the man to be a fool," I said, 
 " how can you be willing to have a Republican Presi- 
 dent?" 
 
 " Because, my dear lady, we want only one more 
 wrong to perfect our plans. To speak plainly to our 
 trusty foe^ every thing is ready for the explosion; we 
 only want the match to staii* it." 
 
114 AT axchor: 
 
 " And the insult of a Northern President — " began 
 Lieut. G^vynn. 
 
 " Stimulated, encouraged, and completed by your- 
 selves," I added, " is to furnish that match ? It strikes 
 me, gentlemen, that a work commenced with so much 
 — duplicity " I intended saying, but seeing my hus- 
 band's anxious face, I changed the word to " address," 
 " cannot but succeed. But do you think Mr. Lincoln 
 will be elected ? " 
 
 " Beyond a doubt," answered a small-featured fiery 
 seeming little man on my right, who had not before 
 spoken. " They will elect Abraham Lincoln ; they 
 will dare force on us a Black Republican President ; a 
 rail-splitter, a low-bred, vulgar backwoodsman, for our 
 iiiler ! " 
 
 " Good ! " cried Lieut. Gwynn, " Avork that up into 
 an editorial to-morrow; it will tell; it is very sugges- 
 tive, that is ; one could make a lot out of that." 
 
 " ]S"ot so fast," interposed Mr. Layton, " who knows 
 but the Yankees will take you at your word, and be 
 afraid to put up a vulgarian, like Abe." 
 
 " There is no danger ; Abraham is the New Eng- 
 land Coriolanus ; they like the idea, it is a new one, 
 and they will stick to it. Besides, too, many of my 
 beloved brethren of the press know what they are 
 about." 
 
 "That's your department, friend Risley," Lieut. 
 Gwynn said; " you wield the pen and I the sword." 
 
A STOEY OF OUR CIVIL WAB. 116 
 
 " It will not come to that," remarked Mr. Layton. 
 
 " It may," replied my husband. " At all events 
 we must expect it. We may never need to strike a 
 blow ; but we must be prepared to strike many, and 
 perhaps to lose our heads for it." 
 
 " Very improbable," returned Mr. Layton, who was 
 evidently a man of peace. "I doubt if it will be more 
 than the settling of a few law questions, and the dis- 
 play of a few tricks by that excellent attorney, Abra- 
 ham Lincoln. What think you, Mrs. Aberthnay ? 
 Will the North let us go in peace, do you think ? " 
 
 " How do you mean ' go ? ' " I asked. 
 
 " Orderly, quietly, and according to law, if they 
 will let us ; with flourish of trumpets and roll of drums, 
 if they will not." 
 
 " This is something so unexpected and unsusj^ected 
 at the Xorth," I said, " that in the first surprise she 
 might forbear immediate violence ; but the peaceable 
 separation of one State from the Union can never be." 
 
 " It is rather late in the day to talk of the chances," 
 said my husband. " For my part, I want no peaceable 
 separation. I am for war — war to the knife." 
 
 " And I ! " cried the Lieutenant. 
 
 " Easy, easy, gentlemen," Mr. Layton said ; " bet- 
 ter any thing than war until our new Confederacy is 
 well bound together. What we want is to establish 
 the precedent, make the Union acknowledge the right 
 of a State to secede, and we have the Southern and 
 
116 AT anchor: 
 
 Border States sure ; by and by we will take in the 
 Middle States, and sweep downward to the Gulf. 
 Then we may fight any nation on earth, not now." 
 
 " So you don't mean to take in Xew England?" 
 I asked. 
 
 " Not if we know ourselves. New England has 
 been the skeleton in our closet long enough; if we 
 take her in ever, it will be by conquest," said Mr. 
 Layton. 
 
 " Then you bid her an eternal farewell !" I exclaimed. 
 
 " Xew England, indeed ! " broke out Lieut. Gwynn. 
 " Better than sweeping down to the Gulf, as Mr, Lay- 
 ton says, would it be to see South Carolina and Mas- 
 sachusetts arrayed for a fail* field and fight against 
 each other. I'd bet my all on the issue." 
 
 " The Massachusetts men will make the best fight- 
 ers in the North," my husband remarked. 
 
 " I should judge the Western men would do bet- 
 ter," I said ; " they are so rugged." 
 
 " For some reasons you are very right, Mrs. Ab- 
 erthnay," said Mr. Layton, who, courteously, made me 
 all the exj^lanations. " An army must fight for a prin- 
 ciple, and the better the principle is understood the 
 more it will afiect the fighters. Besides, the morale is 
 half its power, and a New England man, whose will is 
 stronger than any other emotion belonging to him, 
 must fight well if he fights at aU. The Westerners 
 are more hardy, it is true. If I were to lead an army 
 
A STOBY OF OUE CIVIL TVAR. llY 
 
 I would rather have moral courage and physical cow- 
 ardice than the reverse, to command. How is it, Cap- 
 tain, am I right ? " he added, to a gentleman who had 
 spoken but little, and that altogether to my husband. 
 
 " Right, sir ! " was the laconic reply from the Cap- 
 tain. 
 
 " I count very little on help from the Xorth," my 
 husband said, after some minutes of silence. 
 
 " And I every thing ! " cried Mr. Risley ; " we have 
 many zealous friends at the North, initiated and other- 
 wise; but for them our glorious undertaking could 
 never come to its culmination." 
 " How is that ? " I asked. 
 
 "Northern merchants supply us with arms and 
 ammunition — " 
 
 " Has it come to that ? " I exclaimed. 
 " Come to that ? Why, my dear lady, it has been 
 at that this many a day. As I was observing, or about 
 to observe, the Northern press, partly with knowledge 
 and partly in ignorance, form public opinion, and 
 there is often a big swing around our way ; Northern 
 merchants, who would sooner lose all the flags in 
 Christendom than the patronage of one 'Southern firm, 
 are on their knees begging to serve us. We have not 
 been these twenty years building a grand conservative 
 party there for nothing. We have made it, formed it, 
 moulded it, and fashioned it round about, and now 
 hold it in our hands. You will find in a few months a 
 
118 AT akchoe: 
 
 host of Northern writers, speakers, and demagogues 
 generally, fighting lustily for us." 
 
 " This thing has gone far," I said. 
 
 " Almost to the end," one answered. 
 
 " And, gentlemen, just among ourselves, what do 
 you expect the world to say of you?" 
 
 "As it does of all schemes: if successful, just; if 
 unsuccessful, infamous. 
 
 " And your consciences ? " 
 
 " Applaud us ! " answered my husband, enthusi- 
 astically. 
 
 The Captain here showed some interest in the con- 
 versation. 
 
 " And history ?" I continued. 
 
 " Will judge us as the world judges," re|plied Mr. 
 Layton, " according to our success." 
 
 " Successful or failing," I asked, " will it forgive 
 you for the infinite misery your movement may cause ? 
 Will it forgive you for the blood of the bravest and 
 the tears of the purest ? Will it forgive you for the 
 loss of the noblest country whose story has even bless- 
 ed its pages? Will it forgive you for rights invaded, 
 for principles disregarded, for honor desecrated, for 
 broken hearts, for lost lives, and vanished souls? 
 If you have wrongs, remember no state or society 
 ever had less ; remember, to right them would infi- 
 nitely multiply others ; if you are ambitious, remember 
 ambition may soar to heaven or lower to hell, choose 
 
A STOET OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 119 
 
 yours. Let the good of humanity decide you, let the 
 tears of countless "widows move you, let the sorrow 
 of unborn generations plead with you, for, successful 
 or failing, truth and justice will pronounce you rebels 
 and traitors." 
 
 My husband looked at me aghast ; the Captain was 
 silently balancing a spoon ; the others looked not over- 
 pleased, and in this manner we left the table. 
 
 "I have given my homily, and eased my con- 
 science," I added; "Mr. Aberthnay will give you 
 cigars, and by and by I will give you coffee and mu- 
 sic, which I hope you will like as well as either." 
 
 The Captain went to the door with me, and even 
 followed me out into the gallery. Here he paused 
 and handed me a lettei*. " I have not quite known 
 whether or not to send it," he said ; " you have de- 
 cided me not, and you deserve to know your victory. 
 After reading, please destroy it." 
 
 I understood the letter moderately well : it was the 
 resignation of his commission. I remember the name 
 very well, James Belton^ written in large round let- 
 ters, perfectly characteristic of the Captain, as one 
 knew at a glance. 
 
 " For God's sake, Georgie," whispered my husband, 
 preceding the others into the parlor, " atone for that 
 cruel speech." 
 
 I saw already its uselessness ; I understood that I 
 was endangering, for no purpose, my own and my hus- 
 
120 AT anchor: 
 
 band's security. Poor fellow! had I not already- 
 wronged him enough ? So I did my best to make up 
 for that which I had said. I promised the Editor let- 
 ters from the Xorth; I played chess with Lieut. 
 Gwynn, let him beat, and complimented him on his 
 skill. " It may make you a General one of these days," 
 I said. I sang Mr. Layton's favorite songs, and when 
 they were all in better humor with me, I went into a 
 heavy political argument Tv^th them, and allowed my- 
 self to be almost vanquished, which is as much as one 
 can expect of a New England woman. 
 
 " We shall have you an enthusiastic Southerner 
 soon," said Mr. Layton. 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 " I am sure of it," he added ; " I never ask more 
 than to find my opponent open to conviction. You 
 would be a good friend now, only I perceive Mr. Ab- 
 erthnay has not set the arguments before you." 
 
 " Ah, you must not convince me," I said. 
 
 " We will let you off after that, Mrs. Aberthnay," 
 the Lieutenant said ; "that one sentence half promises 
 surrender. The Xorth itself will finish the work." 
 
 So, on the whole, they went away pleased, as men 
 always are when they haA^e demonstrated their supe- 
 rior minds. 
 
 I watched my husband long after the others had 
 gone, as he lay back in his arm-chair lost in thought. 
 He seemed to have grown years older in the few 
 
A STOEY OF OUR CIYLL WAK. 121 
 
 months lately passed. How he must have suffered, 
 been suffering, while I, his wife, his only friend, kept 
 her heart closed to him. 
 
 I went around to where he sat," softly, and laid my 
 hand on his forehead ; it was burning. Smiling up to 
 me with that love which never failed, he laid his head 
 over my heart. " Let me take a little of its care," I 
 said ; " I who give it so much." 
 
 " No, no, Georgie ; it was of your care I was think- 
 ing ; if we could only bear every thing together. Re- 
 ligious differences between my wife and myself was 
 the only thing I used to fear ; who would have thought 
 so small a matter as politics, a subject which Ave once, 
 do you remember, pet Georgie, thought unworthy of 
 a few moments' careless thought, should now divide 
 us!" 
 
 " I did not mean to speak so strongly," I said ; 
 " the words surprised me as much as they did you." 
 
 " I was not thinking of that ; you could not help 
 speaking as you did: they honored you, — Southern 
 men always honor frankness ; they respected the feel- 
 ing which dictated your words. All of them, except 
 perhaps Captain Belton." 
 
 "Did he not like it?" --* 
 
 " He was the only one who spoke of it. He said it 
 
 was very doubtful if our fears had foundation ; but that 
 
 if they had, and this came to any thing, it was to be 
 
 hoped Mrs. Aberthnay would be spared any contest 
 6 
 
122 AT anchor: 
 
 between her feelings and her actions ; or some rounded, 
 set speech of that import." 
 
 " Yet he spoke to me, and gave me a letter to de- 
 stroy." 
 
 " He will have time to change his mind around 
 again," my husband answered, after reading the letter. 
 " I am glad he has left us ; we want none with us who 
 are not heart and soul in our cause. I am glad he has 
 found courage to leave us." 
 
 "Oh! Carl, if you— " 
 
 "It is not possible, Georgie; my fate is firmly 
 fixed. Do not worry me with pleadings. I have de- 
 cided. Before we return from the ^NTorth, it will be 
 pretty clear what is to be done. If there is danger of 
 trouble, I want you to remain with your uncle ; to ar- 
 range every thing pleasantly for you will be one of my 
 greatest comforts, one which you must not deny 
 me." 
 
 " I must. Either with you here, or with you there. 
 I shall not leave you under any circumstances." 
 
 " Georgie, do you remember once, in Washington, 
 when we were dining at Mrs. Gaynor's, some one made 
 the remark, that until a woman would lose her soul 
 for one she loved, she did not love? Do you remefh- 
 ber hov/ shocked you were, and how much more 
 shocked when I said you were just that manner of 
 woman ? " 
 
 " As I had a ricrht to be. Tou know me better 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 123 
 
 now than to think me any such mad, passionate wo- 
 man." 
 
 " Still, Georgie, can nothing make you love 
 me?" 
 
 " Can nothing less than such wicked folly content 
 you ? " 
 
 " I do not want you to make sacrifices, more than 
 I can help, for me." ' 
 
 " K you loved me, Carl, you would know there are 
 no sacrifices in love." 
 
 " Then you will not leave me to battle this out by 
 myself?" 
 
 " Am I not your wife ? " 
 
 " Always that ! I hate your heroism ! I do, in- 
 deed. I wish you were a great big baby of a woman, 
 who would fret at me, and cry, and scold, and go 
 into hysterics ; any thing but this passive endurance 
 of every thing ; this complete submission to my will 
 and my wishes ! Isn't there any rebelKon in you, 
 Georgie ? " 
 
 " ]^ot a particle." 
 
 " Then I'm to have your bodily presence, without 
 your sympathy ? Well, I ought to be grateful ! " 
 
 " You're a barbarian ! " 
 
 " There, that's something like ! If I were to fret 
 very much, perhaps in time you would caU me a hrute, 
 and then my happiness would be complete ! What 
 are the chances, Georgie, pet ? " 
 
124 AT ANCHOE. 
 
 "That it will be well deserved, whether said or 
 not." 
 
 " Better and better ; have I driven you off? Well, 
 to-morrow for the !N"orth. I have work enough to do 
 there." 
 
CHAPTER Xn, 
 
 "We were not destined to get away without one 
 more meeting with political men ; for all day, nearly, 
 my husband had visitors, and three joined us at our 
 early dinner. 
 
 They had already discovered my existence, as I 
 learned by the indiscreet loudness of a coarse voice, 
 that, on the way to dinner, pronounced my name and 
 and spoke of my natural qualifications as sufficient to 
 do something which, I surmised, their arguments had 
 failed to do. I did not hear my husband's answer, but 
 I was convinced it was only a reply in words, and not 
 at all prepossessed in favor of my guests by this little 
 interchange of thought, I received my husband and 
 them. 
 
 All three were strangers to me; an open-faced, 
 soldierly man. Major Montreuil, sat on my right ; a 
 rather shabby but aristocratic-featured man, intro- 
 duced as Mr. Beames, supported me on the other side ; 
 while a Mr. Miles, to whom the rough voice belonged, 
 completed the number. I saw my husband was tired 
 
126 AT anchor: 
 
 and >Yomecl, and I felt, myself, impatient to have the 
 coming hour go by. 
 
 I was cross, which always, among those I dislike, 
 makes me suspicious ; and it was not long before I dis- 
 covered that somebody was wanted to be added to 
 their fiiends, who had, so far, resisted all allurements ; 
 and it was thought, as this somebody was socially in- 
 clined, a few womanly persuasions, properly disguised, 
 might attain the desired result, and it would be, I fan- 
 cied, a result of great importance to my husband's 
 side. My well-known [N'orthern birth and generally 
 supposed Northern jjrejudices, and perhaps some nat- 
 ural tact, made me, I suppose, chosen to apply these 
 " womanly persuasions." 
 
 Having quite satisfied myself of their desire, I 
 amused myself watching their plans of attack. The 
 Major, wlio was clearly an ambitious, dashing man, 
 recognized something of similar qualities in me, and 
 only doubted " if I had the grit to do this thing." I 
 think Mr. Beames was a man of a higher order of mind, 
 and must have known that I could not work except in 
 conformity with my own convictions. Mr. Miles had 
 implied his motive-key in his half-heard speech to my 
 husband ; for, after all, peo2:)le judge us very much af- 
 ter the fashion of their own order. 
 
 "Well," said the Major, "things look much as if 
 there was a prospect of a lively time before a year has 
 passed. The days are approaching ; they have already 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 127 
 
 commenced, I may say, that make history, Mrs. Ab- 
 erthnay. We arc coming to the days that will make 
 heroes of our countrymen, and days that raise up 
 Rienzis," — a half glance at my Roman-like husband — 
 " and Ninas beyond the skill of any Bulwer to paint. 
 "What Scott, ^yhat Shakespeare, will ever exhaust the 
 theme ? " 
 
 " If not Scott or Shakespeare," I said, " a Sylvanus 
 and a Southworth. If you do no more. Major Mon- 
 treuil, you ^vill give the foundation for a new American 
 literature. What is the old line : ' Blanche^ Siceet- 
 heart^ little dogs^ and all^ will have their bark at you, 
 or the other side. There was a vroman whom nobody 
 knew, in Nev,^ York, who saw fit to marry her father's 
 coachman, who, likely enough, had as fair a start in 
 life as many a worthy friend of the lady's father. One 
 could not undertake to tell the books that were written 
 on the subject ; the veritable history of half a thousand, 
 more or less, heroines, black-eyed and blue, tall and 
 short, learned and simple, who devotedly loved and 
 frantically married into the interesting social class 
 designated as grooms. Think what a relief to our 
 authors to have a Grand Southern Rebellion to 
 chronicle, instead of the now well-worn theme of do- 
 mestic revolution." 
 
 "There is a world of meaning under Mrs. Aberth- 
 nay's jest," said my husband. " Our movement, be 
 its end what it may, will give us a national literature. 
 
128 AT a:n-chor: 
 
 We have very few late American boots, — living, 
 breathing American works ; no hash of English and 
 French romance, or ridiculous imitations of European 
 society, but outright American books, with just such 
 tastes, thoughts, and doings as we see surrounding us. 
 I believe half of the success of Mrs. Stowe's Uncle 
 ToJii's Cabin lay in the fact that it was a genuine 
 American book, which, even though it was hard upon 
 us^ we read because it belonged to us. TVe shall have 
 a history, a national history, not a humdrum, worn-out 
 story of Pilgrims and Plymouth Rocks. We shall 
 have heroes now that will not only suffer and be pa- 
 tient, but toil and be strong. Altogether, I think we 
 shall put some new elements into the minds of men 
 living now, and leave something more than a name for 
 ages yet to be." 
 
 " Who knows," said ]Mr. Beames, " the legends yet 
 to cluster around our names, — the names of us who sit 
 here, under Mrs. Aberthnay's eyes, that are half ridi- 
 culing and half inspiring our enthusiasm ? If I can do 
 no more, I will, at least, write a song, some of these 
 days, for the populace to sing ; for there's more power 
 in the jingle of some popular rhymes than in half a 
 hundred speeches. Witness the revolutionary * Yan- 
 kee Doodle!'" 
 
 " We are laying a glorious foundation," the Major 
 now told us, having been too long kept from the 
 charge by our skii*misliing, " as Mrs. Aberthnay, under 
 
A STOKY OP OUR CIVIL WAE. 129 
 
 all her fine sarcasm does not fail to admit. I would 
 like to get through all our coming battles with my 
 life and my eyes, for the comfort of one day reading 
 the attempts to do justice to the history that, as I said 
 before, we are making. But who can ever do justice 
 to the boldness, skill, and courage of our men, — to the 
 wit, the beauty, and the heroism of our women ? " 
 
 " You let in the woman element ? " I asked. 
 
 " I should give up our cause as hopeless," he an- 
 swered, " were there not in every rank and degree 
 brave and beautiful women, with the address and the 
 courage to aid us. Never was there a wider sphere 
 for womanly work ; and I know our Southern women 
 will be behind none, Spartans though they may be, in 
 showing this to be so. What a scope for their tact 
 and their talent, their courage and their tenderness, 
 while the weak are to be nerved, the vacillating to be 
 steadied, and the opposed to be converted ! " 
 
 The Major had opened his battery, but paused for 
 ammunition, and in the pause Mr. Beames commenced 
 his attack. 
 
 "]N''ot common pride and ambition merely," he 
 said, " should nerve and lead us in these days, but the 
 thought that, through all ages, our names will be wa- 
 tered with the loving tears of a grateful people : the 
 thought that our hands are sowing the seed that will 
 ripen into eternal fruit." 
 
 " I fear, a poisonous fruit," I answered ; " what bet- 
 6* 
 
130 AT ANCHOR : 
 
 ter can spring from such seditious seed ? " Mr. Beames 
 had shot ^sride of the mark, and I saw my reply had 
 staggered the Major. Mr. Miles dashed into the con- 
 versation perfectly unconcerned by any thing I could 
 say. 
 
 " It ain't every one as can understand them high- 
 flown sentiments," he informed us. " Some do, per- 
 haps, but we all has our motives. Some goes in, like 
 the Major, for the ' grit of the thing,' and for promotion, 
 like enough. Some goes in, like Mr. Beames, because 
 they hate the ISTorth, and do kind of believe the old 
 Union ain't exactly the thing." 
 
 " You make shrewd guesses," said my husband. 
 " How about the rest of us ? " 
 
 " I should say you, Mr. Abeilhnay, take to the 
 thing because it's grand and romantic, and sounds like 
 Bruce and William Tell. I hope you'll get the glory, 
 sir. Some goes in, like Mrs. Aberthnay — " 
 
 " But I don't ' go in.' " I interrupted. 
 
 " But you will," he answered. " You've got the 
 nerve, and when your husband gets in a tight place 
 you ain't the woman to leave him there. You ain't a 
 going to crowd down all your fine ideas of things, and 
 leave Mr. Aberthnay down here among a parcel of 
 traitors^ as you called us the other day." 
 
 "So you heard of that?" 
 
 " Yes'm ; and we knows very well it's what we'll 
 be called for a while yet. So you'll go in, Mrs. Ab- 
 
A STOKY OF OUR CIVIL "\VAE. 131 
 
 erthnay, and you'll be worth a dozen men ; and when 
 you see what you can do you'll stay in." 
 
 " yrhat takes you in, may I ask, Mr. Miles ? " 
 
 " I go in, ma'am, for a beef contract the Major has 
 promised me. That is in my own line, ma'am. We 
 all has our motives." 
 
 "You are an observer of things, I see, Mr. 
 Miles." 
 
 " Yes, ma'am ; it ain't my way to go through the 
 world with my eyes shut. I looks around and I sees 
 heaps of things that maybe other people don't think 
 big enough to count : I counts them." ' 
 
 " As you have seen so much of the world," said the 
 Major, " suppose you tell us how we can take Fort 
 Blank, in case we need it ?" 
 
 " A dashing assault by a smart woman, and noth- 
 ing else," he answered, clapping his hand uj)on the 
 table. "The Captain is as afraid as death of avo- 
 men." 
 
 Tliere was an awkward silence. 
 
 " I suppose you have travelled a great deal, IMr. 
 Miles," I said, to break it. 
 
 "Xever outside of Yirginny until now, ma'am. 
 Yirginny's a likely old State." 
 
 " There will be lively times there one of these 
 days, if we ever come to blows," my husband re- 
 marked ; " Yii-ginia and Kentucky will be our battle- 
 grounds." 
 
132 AT axchoe: 
 
 " I ho2:>e not," Mr. Beames remarked. " Virginia's 
 more than a likely State, as our excellent friend ob- 
 serves ; it is a noble old State, Avhich even the Yankees 
 admire. I cannot imao'ine such a thing- as soldier-tents 
 in view of those grand old mansions, unless placed 
 there for a holiday parade. I never could sec why any 
 fault w^as found with Thackeray's ' Virginians.'' I think 
 he gave the spirit of the State truthfully, and in a w^ay 
 to do her sous honor." 
 
 "I wonder if Kentucky will come over?" the 
 Major asked. 
 
 "Has not our excellent going-to-be President an 
 interest in Kentucky ? " Mr. Beames interrogated. 
 
 " If so," my husband answered to both questions, 
 "the worst will be that it w^ill be neutral, Avhich will 
 do very well as a means of communication with the 
 North, should harsh measures be used." 
 
 " You talk," I said, " as if your Mr. Lincoln were 
 already elected, and had declared war against you." 
 
 "Elected he is pretty sure to be," responded the 
 Major, " only you must not allow your Northern friends 
 to crow over you in advance ; declare war he never 
 will, I am afraid." 
 
 " Afraid ? You officers are so bloodthirsty ! " I 
 commented. 
 
 " It will be almighty tough work to carry Yirgin- 
 ny," said Mr. Miles ; " she's too near Ohio to have 
 much pluck." 
 
A STORY OF OUK CIVIL AVAR. 133 
 
 " Ohio is near enough to keep her straight, that's 
 true," said the Major ; " but we can count on one of 
 her sons," smiling upon Mr. Miles. 
 
 " If Yirginny goes, I goes," answered that gentle- 
 man ; "I goes with my State." 
 
 "May every State that hesitates pay dearly for 
 her cowardice ! " the Major observed with emphasis. 
 " Let them choose at once, and be open about it." 
 
 " No doubt we shall all pay dearly for our course," 
 returned Mr. Beames. " No one ever attempted a re- 
 form of the most moderate dimensions without paying 
 for it ; but we have the glorious consolation of know- 
 ing that we buy our liberty cheap at any price, and 
 we must be prepared for whatever may come." 
 
 " We shrink from nothing," my husband said, with 
 a fire that made me proud of him ; " Ave are prepared 
 to sacrifice every thing except the principles which 
 are dearer to us than life, even than those we hold 
 dearest. I bid you farewell now, my friends, in doubt 
 and indecision in regard to the future ; but about one 
 thing there can be no hesitation among patriots — 
 we will be freef'' 
 
 So we said good-bye, checked our trunks, and 
 started for Boston. 
 
 At this point I am requested by an interested and 
 evidently appreciative listener, to state Avhat dress I 
 wore upon this occasion. I am very sorry to disap- 
 point any who have counted upon a blaze of diamonds, 
 
134 AT AXCHOE. 
 
 but truth compels me to state that my dress was a 
 gray trayelling-dress, very slightly trimmed with blue, 
 and that I had my hair plain, ready for my bonnet, 
 which had not then, you remember given place to 
 the i^resent jaunty style of head-dress. 
 
CHAPTER Xm. 
 
 I WENT home to the North, but home to the iSTorth 
 did not bring me childhood and its buoyancy, and I 
 was still a weary woman, fighting something I called 
 fate, but which others, if they knew, would call my 
 perverse will. 
 
 I had a trial I had not anticipated; the world, 
 my world, saw proper to go into raptures over my 
 husband, so good, so brave, so accomplished! One 
 would have supposed they wondered how he ever 
 chose me. Then I was told, at every step, of his in- 
 dulgence, his generosity, and his kindness to me ; no 
 one seemed to recognize that I was his equal as well 
 as his wife, and that I took liberty and care as my 
 due. Are our men savages that one should comment 
 with surprise and admiration upon their every ap- 
 proach to civilization ? 
 
 Oh! what aggravating people there are in this 
 world ! People with their little minds and theii' rest- 
 less tongues, who make more misery than wars and 
 famines and pestilences; people whom you cannot 
 
136 AT anchor: 
 
 challenge to fair fight, nor satisfy with less then half 
 your happiness, nor dose, nor doctor, nor diet ! These 
 were the people that widened the little brook between 
 Carl and me, until it became, I feared, an impassable 
 river. I feared, for, strange to say, I had not yet 
 learned to hate my husband ; I was not even careless 
 of his love ; whether it was my pride or my vanity, or 
 some unknown emotion, I clung to his love ; I was 
 more tenacious of it, more fearful of losing it, than I 
 could have been had I loved him. To have Carl's 
 heart shut to me as mine was to him, was the one 
 most agonizing thought of my - married existence ; 
 and these people, with their homilies and their excla- 
 mations, their raillery at Carl's devotion, and their 
 congratulations to both of us, bade fau' to realize that 
 burning fear of mine. I knew that the time must 
 come, — all the world knows it finds a foothold often 
 even where love has been, and never fails to reign in 
 the unprotected places where Love has never set up 
 defences, — ^the time when I should weary of Carl, 
 should hate him really, long to have him out of my 
 sight, and pray, if I dared, for the day to come that 
 would remove every vestige of his influence, every 
 sign of remembrance out of my life. I used to think, 
 as by some strange fascination, of that day, and to pic- 
 ture myself bound to this man whom I no longer sim- 
 ply endured, but actively detested. You may think it 
 drove me to an attempt at loving him, who was in 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIYIL WAR. 137 
 
 every way so worthy of love, but I bad long before 
 resolved I could not love bim ; I bad married bim 
 witb bis eyes and mine wide open to tbe fact; of 
 course I could not cbange. 
 
 Few people will fail to start wben I call tbat sum- 
 mer of 1860 a Aveary summer, for it was generally a 
 gay season ; more people went traA^elling tban usual, 
 and as tbey were warm but bealtby montbs, tbe cbange 
 of air and cbange of scene benefited all wbo bad tbem, 
 and looks and spirits prospered accordingly. Wide- 
 Awake processions made tbe nigbts brilliant outside, 
 and tbeatres and parties kept brilliancy witbin. People 
 were lively, confident, and seemed to bold money 
 ligbtly in tbeir bands. How many, it burts my beart 
 to tbink bow many, took tbeir leave of joy, and ease, 
 and sunsbine tbat summer, to tbem so beautiful, and 
 forbearing to propbecy augbt tbat could dim its bright- 
 ness. I toiled through it as best I might ; I listened to 
 tbe hollow talk of those around me, and I fiincied I 
 felt what prophets feel, wben tbey stand within the 
 gates of a city unconscious that destruction and wrath 
 is coming speedily. 
 
 Carl and I were growing more and more distant to 
 each other ; the constant presence of visitors at my 
 uncle's bouse kept us apart during a greater portion 
 of the day, and when we found ourselves, without 
 our will, in each other's presence, it was only to real- 
 ize bow far we were from tbat happy trust which the 
 
138 AT anchoe: 
 
 ■world imputed to us ; and we sat constrained and often 
 long silent, trying to tMnk of things to say, which, if 
 thought and said, sounded so forced and hollow, that 
 we, as by a mutual agreement, came at last to give up 
 the attemj^t at conversation. I think Carl had greatly 
 counted on my visit 'N'orth to bring us closer together, 
 by throwing me more upon his care ; but it had had 
 the oi^posite effect, and we were both wearied nigh 
 unto death. And now Carl no longer sought my 
 love ; more and more I saw he no longer let his eyes 
 rest on me with wistful tenderness, and that more and 
 more he grew abstracted and self-absorbed. It was 
 easy to see how it would end, — indifference on his 
 part, hatred on mine. I was not yet twenty-five years 
 old, and the prospect was not a pleasant one. My 
 husband, — through all he would be my husband still, — 
 might replace me with enthusiasm for his country, but 
 I had nothing to put where his love had been ; and 
 while every hour that love was slipping like sand 
 through my fingers, the world ciied out, " Oh, incom- 
 parable pair ! Oh, noble husband and devoted wife ! " 
 
 Just about so much does this world know ! 
 
 Of my old friends nearly all were as I left them. 
 Kate was not married, and was travelling somewhere 
 •among the mountains ; Mr. Stuart was in business in 
 New York ; Mary Allen and Emma Lewis were both 
 in convents ; Emma, among the Sisters of Charity. I 
 went to see her ; I love these dear, Martha-like sisters. 
 
A STOET OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 139 
 
 There is magic in the very tones of their voice, mag- 
 netism in the touch of their hands, — those patient, 
 never idle hands ; and comfort comes with every step 
 of those willing feet vowed to walk in ways of sin and 
 sorrow and pain, untouched, unhurt, as the children in 
 the fiery furnace. 
 
 " How did it come into your mind ? " I asked 
 Emma. 
 
 " I thought of it first," she answered, " that night 
 at your uncle's, when we went in to see Mary Allen, 
 do you remember? and for a while I thought of it as a 
 pleasant dream, until it grew a longing, then a hope. 
 I am a woman too much after the manner of Martha, 
 and it was natural I should choose to join the Sisters 
 of Charity, who have the love and the faith of Mary 
 and the activity and solicitude of Martha. There is 
 nothing, — I mean when I was in the world, — nothing 
 touched me more than the simple unafiTectedness of 
 these dear Sisters ; there is no bitterness, no contempt 
 real or assumed, of the world they have left ; it was a 
 good world, they say, and they liked it, but they liked 
 this life better ; they are still a part of the world, still 
 toiling in it, still breathing its air, though purified by 
 prayer and good works. Another thing which is 
 characteristic of our Sisters, they never affect to have 
 been any thing while in that world ; there are no half- 
 dropped sentences, no conscious glances, no affected 
 interest or indifference which intimates, — I once was a 
 
140 AT AlfCHOK: 
 
 lady with all these things that delight you, and more 
 than these at my command. Our Sisters have forgot- 
 ten they ever lived a life of gaiety and of fashion ; 
 simply and quietly they have put on the dress of the 
 Sisterhood, and if worn with old-time elegance, or with 
 unaccustomed awkwardness, it is the same." 
 
 " You are right, Emma ; I have seen these things, 
 too. God bless dear Mother Seton, who brought these 
 dear black caps to show us what women may be ! 
 These little things are mighty indexes, and they are so 
 winning that one thinks no more than the lady her- 
 self of her position passed, but sees in her only a min- 
 isteiing angel, sweeter and lovelier in her charity than 
 all the gold and gems of earth could make her with- 
 out. If any thing should ever happen to Carl, I shall 
 come here for rest, rest, the blessed, blessed word ! " 
 
 " And you will not come in vain, Georgie ; a nun's 
 life would kill you I am sure, but our sisterhood will 
 use all your talents and fulfil all your ambitions; there 
 is no stagnation here. I am teaching now ; by and by, 
 after I have taken the black veil, I may be sent to 
 some hospital. I long for that ; my work is too easy 
 here ; this sentiment, however, lays me open to self- 
 commendation ; the first lesson we learn here is sub- 
 mission. And now, Georgie, of yourself; do you like 
 the South ? What a question to ask, as if you would 
 not like a desert now.^"* 
 
 " Not in the least should I like a desert, married 
 
A STORY OP OTTR CIVIL WAR. 141 
 
 or unmarried. I like the South as well as I expected ; 
 my life is very quiet and monotonous ; nothing ever 
 happens ; my husband is never sick, and I am always 
 well, so we are spared even the small excitement of an 
 occasional visit from the coxmtry doctor." 
 
 "Is there not more than usual excitement about 
 the elections ? I hear the school girls talking about 
 them occasionally." 
 
 " Yes, there is a great deal ; the South threatens to 
 secede if an abolition President is elected. Do not 
 imagine, Emma, if you were fifty times a nun, that you 
 have no duty left to your race and your country; the 
 smallest duty you have is that of intere.st ; you are to 
 teach not merely a b ab, and 2 and 2 are 4, but to 
 teach that fidelity to God absolutely requires loyalty 
 to our country, a loyalty that binds women as well as 
 men. Sisters of Charity as well as members of the 
 Cabinet, girls at school and men in business, all ages 
 and classes. A Catholic priest has no more right to 
 give absolution for disloyalty unrepentant, than for 
 robbery or perjury. You do not forget these things ? " 
 
 " I may be a Sister of Charity," Emma said, " but 
 I have not lost my country or my sex. More than 
 ever am I taught to do my duty scrupulously, and 
 next to my God is my duty to my country." 
 
 " You are a true, good woman, Emma, and 1 see 
 that you will be elevated, not repressed, by this 
 change in your life. I am going to say good-bye to 
 
142 AT anchor: 
 
 you now, God only knows when I shall see you again, 
 for no one knows what may happen within a year, nor 
 where I may be, nor what wounded men, Northern or 
 Southern, you may be nursing. Pray for me, Emma ; 
 I have some trials, I am hard and sadly in need of 
 softening grace." 
 
 So I left Emma, one out of my old circle of friends, 
 joyous and contented. Mary Allen I did not see ; she 
 belonged to a community of nuns who lived entirely 
 within their convent walls, and lacked the genial light- 
 heartedness of the Sisters, and I had no desire to see 
 Mary growing "old and formal, fitted to her petty 
 part." 
 
 My Cousin Florence, to my Aunt Graham's un- 
 bounded satisfaction, was married to a wealthy Xew 
 York merchant. Hal was pursuing some other idol 
 with the same ardor with which he had at one time 
 followed Mary Allen. I saw Hal; he was fast ap- 
 proaching that period in the life of a gay young 
 bachelor when the portion of parties that comes before 
 supper, proves very tedious, when sweet eyes and 
 graceful forms no more delight, when the last novel 
 becomes stupid, the new singer a flat, and things alto- 
 gether a bore, or as Mantalini elegantly observes, a 
 derrCd horrid grind. 
 
 Uncle Tom, dear Uncle Tom, how much he loved 
 me ! was the same hospitable old bachelor as before, 
 but he complained bitterly that Kate never gave him 
 
A STORY OF OUK CIVIL WAR. 143 
 
 a decent cup of tea. He joined my husband in his 
 solicitations to me to remain at the North during the 
 winter; not that he believed there would be any- 
 trouble — for he pooh ! poohed ! the idea — but to ease 
 Carl's mind, he said. 
 
 I was not so fierce against staying as I had been, 
 for Carl was now so distantly, politely kind to me, that 
 I sometimes half fancied he wished me out of his way, 
 for his sake as well as for my own. Sometimes I 
 thought if he were separated from me the old love, the 
 old yearning, would spring up in the absence, and make 
 him again my lover ; but there was a possibility that 
 he might like his freedom better and better, and that 
 the separation begun in affection might end in life-long 
 estrangement. You know I had not yet reached the 
 point in our lives when I was to hate Carl, and so this 
 possibility frightened me, — I could be frightened, — and 
 made me shrink from the dreadful picture of myself, a 
 mark for every one's wonder and astonishment : a 
 woman neither maid, wife, nor widow. Considerable 
 of the old spirit had died out ; I could think in quite a 
 listless way of Carl's going alone into danger and 
 death, and of myself resting in peace and security ; 
 for after all, I was not sure I could make the danger 
 and death less real and sorrowful by my presence. 
 
 You must not think Carl was unkind to me, for he 
 was only too kind ; every arrangement was made with 
 special reference to my will and pleasure. He him- 
 
144 AT anchoe: 
 
 self was ahvays at my disposal to go or come as I 
 chose, and he intended to prove himself kinder still, 
 by never asking me of my heart any more than he 
 would had I been another man's wife, a deference tliat 
 was gall and wormwood to me. How could I break it ? 
 I certainly could not say, " Carl, make love to me." 
 I could but wait, patiently as long as I could, then in 
 ano'cr and indig^nation. 
 
 Partly because I thought it might move him, and 
 partly because I cared, or thought I cared very little 
 what became of me, I yielded, coldly enough, to their 
 wishes, and said, that as my duty was to obey my 
 husband, I would of course remain at the North if he 
 wished it. 
 
 " I do wish it," he said. 
 
 " I submit, of course," I answered, and turned back 
 to my book. 
 
 " I do not wish to offend you," my husband said, 
 when we were alone, " but I must insist upon your 
 remaining here ; I am confident there will be war be- 
 tween the two sections, and the safer place will be the 
 North, and the happiest place, certainly, for you whose 
 sympathies are with the North." 
 
 " I thought we had settled the question before we 
 left Charleston. I was not aware, nor did I in the 
 least suspect the trip North which was to give me so 
 much pleasure, was intended merely as a trap to lure 
 me here and leave me." 
 
A STOKY OF OUE CIVIL WAE. 146 
 
 " It was not intended to leave you ; but since I 
 have been here I have learned the insecurity of a home 
 at the South, and it has made me most anxious to have 
 you left here." 
 
 " You are very solicitous about my happiness." 
 
 " I wish to do for you the little that I can. I 
 know I once thought it in my power to minister more 
 fully to it, but I know now that I must be grateful if 
 I can secure you against bodily discomforts." 
 
 " Then you do not love me any more," I forced 
 myself to say. 
 
 "What is my love to you? A constant annoy- 
 ance, a source of vexation to us both. Perhaps 
 when we see each other again we may understand 
 each other better ; I shall pray God that it may be so, 
 as I never prayed for any thing before." 
 
 " I have tried to do my duty to you, Carl." 
 
 " Only too well ; but it is no pleasure to me, — rather 
 a pain, — to be the cause of so much constraint to you. 
 I must go back early to-morrow ; you know, of course, 
 that if at any hour your present home wearies you I 
 will come for you, be it through what it may." 
 
 " You are an excellent husband, Mr. Aberthnay ; a 
 lady told me the other day that for dressing in style, 
 and attending to my wishes, you were unrivalled. I 
 shall not write for you to come ; you can choose your 
 own time ; this home has always been a pleasant one 
 to me," 
 
 1 
 
146 AT AJS^CHOE : 
 
 " I do not doubt it. I have arranged the money- 
 affairs with your uncle." 
 
 A pang went through my heart. " It sounds as if 
 you meant to leave me forever," I said. 
 
 " !N^ot at all, only until such time as you say. It is 
 not safe for you at the South." 
 
 " Then I am decidedly to remain ? " 
 
 " You are your own mistress, of course, but it is 
 my wish that you should do so." And he took up a 
 book. I sat some time in silence, then I went into the 
 next room, our sitting-room, dimly lighted from the 
 light in the room I had left. 
 
 My thoughts were intensely bitter ; I could only 
 believe he wished to get rid of me, and the two kinds 
 of pride, the pride that would not force myself on him, 
 and the pride that would not be flung aside like a 
 broken plaything, chased each other through my mind, 
 while I lay on a lounge in the darkest corner of the 
 room, and watched my husband in the clearer light, 
 reading just as I had left liim. Very handsome, even to 
 a degree that might be called beautiful, was my hus- 
 band ; fair, very fair, mth eyes as blue as a summer 
 sky, — ^bluer still, more like that sky in its deep starry 
 splendor, — eyes that could glow with love, scorch with 
 contempt, freeze with coldness, kill with indifference ; 
 eyes that, unstin-ed by any thought of the morrow's 
 parting, read quietly wbile I lay and inwardly writhed. 
 Over and over again with a persistency that angered 
 me ran through my mind those lines in the Princess : 
 
A STORY OP OUE CIVIL WAK. 147 
 
 " Oh, tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, 
 That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, 
 And dark and true and tender is the Xorth." 
 
 Bright fierce and fickle though he might be, I resolved 
 he should not escape me ; stay I might until he had 
 gone, and then I would go too ; I would track him 
 night, noontide, and morn, in some disguise always 
 near him, not from love, but pride, the pride that 
 hated him who oppressed it so. 
 
 I knew an evil spirit possessed me, and I tried the 
 charms of music to exorcise it ; but it moved neither 
 the evil spirit nor my calm husband reading in the 
 library, for I could hear the slightest rustle of his 
 book, although the change of my position hid from 
 my view his Roman-like face. By and by out of my 
 irresolute chords there was moulded an air, and out of 
 my restless thoughts some words that sung as I sung 
 them had both point and force, though weak enough, 
 perhaps, as I give them now, unpolished, or in any 
 way bettered from that rough dash : 
 
 " Oh, jour sternness becomes you well, mon br^ve, 
 
 And goes to my poor heart. 
 And cuts with agony too deep to tell 
 
 So well you act your part. 
 I'm grieving in a sad, sad maze, mon br^ve, 
 
 I'm but a woman weak. 
 One on whom it is but only right and just 
 
 You should your vengeance wreak. 
 
148 AT ANCHOR. 
 
 " I hold my heart 'neath aching lids, mon br^ve, 
 
 Once mine you called sweet eyes, 
 Now must they weep if coldly he but bids, 
 
 To whom their duty lies. 
 I've prayed to God that I might die, mon br^ve. 
 
 No more to mar thy life ; 
 I've prayed in my white shroud to lie, mon br^ve, 
 
 No more to move thy strife." 
 
 Before I had finished I heard my husband lay- 
 down his book, then he came across the room and 
 stood by me. 
 
 " Georgie," he said, standing there, " I cannot bear 
 it, not even for your good. Will you go back with 
 me?" 
 
 " Yes," I answered, "I wiU." 
 
CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 We were back South just before the elections ; the 
 excitement was terrible, but I liked it better than the 
 old calm. Men like my husband who looked deeply 
 and were prepared for the worst, were the only calm 
 men one met ; the women were fierce for war, for war, 
 as we read of it, is romantic enough, and in our long, 
 luxurious peace how could we realize its horrors? 
 My husband had had me do enough shopping, while 
 at the Xorth, to last us for a ten years' siege, it seem- 
 ed ; and now he was busy superintending every thing 
 on the plantation himself. Courteously and tenderly 
 he cared for me ; but it was with the chivalry of an 
 old-time knight for the lady under his protection, more 
 than the ardent love for her whose colors he wore. 
 He built every manner of defence around me, but 
 never wai-ned me, cautioned, or denied me in any 
 thing. When he went up to Charleston in the winter 
 he attempted no remonstrances against my accom- 
 panying him, although I was sure he knew there were 
 dangers at every step for me there. Mostly all of 
 
150 AT axchoe: 
 
 those of Northern principles Avho could, had already 
 left the South ; in the country towns a few had been 
 forced away ; and as yiolent demonstrations were not 
 modified for the sake either of rank or sex, it was 
 wonderful that I walked as safely as I did. 
 
 A- great many sad scenes passed under my eyes, in 
 which I could not interfere. I saw one, one day as I 
 was passing by one of the hotels, shutting my ears as 
 best I could to the swearing; crowd which had coUect- 
 ed on its steps. A " Yankee " was being examined 
 by the self-constituted court of inquiry, pretty cer- 
 tain of the sentence usually given to all " spies," or 
 those suspected of being opposed to the South. Just 
 as I came near the little knot of men, the victim, 
 whom I could not see, appeared to have succeeded in 
 imposing a kind of silence upon them, and to be 
 addressing them in his own defence. Something in 
 the matter or manner of his language made me pass 
 very slowly by. 
 
 " I tell you I am not a spy," he was saying ; " I 
 have nothing to do with 23ublic affairs ; I came here on 
 my own private account ; I have seen nor heard noth- 
 ing that I care to remember. My ears and eyes have 
 been only for one whom I came here to find, and whom 
 I must find." 
 
 This was as much as they allowed him to say ; but 
 even the Xorthem accent would have won me, so obey- 
 ing an impulse I stopped and looked at the crowd, who 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 151 
 
 were laughing and swearing heartily; fortunately I 
 recognized among them a man who had done spme 
 work for my husband. 
 
 " What is the matter, Taylor ? " I asked of him. 
 
 " Only another spy; we're going to give him a lit- 
 tle airing, ma'am." 
 
 "It's very foolish," I said. "What is one man, 
 especially one man who does not care for either side ? 
 Yes," I continued, seeing I had attracted the atten- 
 tion of one or two others, " it is very foolish ; such 
 things won't frighten the Yankees ; it will only make 
 them mad for nothing. Wait until old Sumter comes 
 down if you want to scare them. This man can't 
 hurt us. Let him find her ; " I said Tier designedly ; 
 "there's a kind of romance in every man's heart. We 
 shall have work enough by and by ; who minds one 
 man?" 
 
 " Is he a friend of yours ? " one asked. 
 
 " I have never even seen him," I answered,; " but I 
 want you to keep your fight for better use." 
 
 Two or three grumbled, one or tvro laughed, and 
 they all stared; one spit out his tobacco juice and 
 
 swore I was right : " The d d Yank might go to 
 
 hell and be d d for all he cared." 
 
 I gave this one some money to drink confusion to 
 the Yankees, and with one or two jests and threats the 
 group separated, to straggle into the bar-room. As 
 soon as they were gone I went back to the man, and 
 
152 AT axchoe: 
 
 spoke to hira, " Do not trust to a second chance of this 
 or any kind. These men will soon be back, mad with 
 liquor ; there will be no rescue then. I do not know 
 who you are, but I will do for you what I can. Go to 
 the next street. I will drive and meet you there; and 
 if you take my advice, you will let me send you at 
 once to leave the city. You have not an instant to 
 lose ; do not lose time talking thanks ; for the sake of 
 the little a Southern woman has been able to do for 
 you, go back and speak with as little bitterness as 
 possible of the South." 
 
 As soon as I had rapidly spoken these words, we 
 separated to meet again as I had arranged. The car- 
 riage had been left at a store where I found it ; at my 
 hasty gesture the stranger entered it, and I — I had no 
 choice — followed. I expected to save him, having 
 commenced, and I knew a private carriage, especially 
 with a lady in it, was protection. 
 
 When we were face to face, and the carriage had 
 started, I for the first time really looked at my com- 
 panion's face. 
 
 It was Gilbert. 
 
 I thought I had forgotten having first hated him ; 
 for a moment I remembered him intensely ; the next 
 I remembered all that stood between. 
 
 " You haA'e done a strangely rash thing, oh man 
 of exceeding great calmness ! " I said. 
 
 " Yes," he replied ; " but it has repaid me well, 
 
A 6T0KY OF OUR CIVIL WAK. 153 
 
 and I owe you my life. I owe you more than my life; 
 I owe you joy that you did this thing, and for — me." 
 
 " I did not know you, did not dream who you 
 were until five minutes ago." 
 
 " And had you known, would you have left me to 
 their mercy ? " 
 
 I felt his dark eyes bent upon me, burning into 
 mine, as of old ; heroes have faced death with less 
 courage than I fa-ced him there. 
 
 " I could not do less for an old friend than for a 
 stranger," I answered quietly ; " but I should scarcely 
 have succeeded so well had I known you. We are go- 
 ing now to my home ; supposing you a stranger, I in- 
 tended leaving you here, where there is moderate 
 safety ; but as it is, I prefer to go home, and then let 
 Jack take care of you. You see I look upon it as a 
 matter of course that you will leave the city at once. 
 If there is any thing toward the accomplishment of 
 your work here that either Mr. Aberthnay or I can do, 
 do not hesitate to command us." 
 
 "I have found the one I sought in finding you," he 
 returned, " and am now willing enough to go. It is 
 true the last words I heard from you were of well de- 
 served hatred; but feeling confident you have been 
 too happy in your new relations to cherish any but 
 kind and forgiving feelings toward your old acquaint- 
 ances, I ventured to come to you in place of your un- 
 cle, who is rendered very infirm by his late accident, 
 1* 
 
154 AT anchor: 
 
 yet who, nevertheless, Tvas resolved some appeal 
 should be made to you, some assistance given you to 
 leave this accursed city, for it is terrible to think of 
 the trials of body and mind that must beset you here. 
 You of the South are deceiving yourselves with the 
 belief that the Xorth will not fight. I tell you the 
 North will fight, and fight with a force and persistency 
 such as the world has not lately seen. You at the 
 South are rushing headlong to your destruction ; we 
 at the !N'orth are quiet in the consciousness of power. 
 For what has the South, with the curse of treason 
 upon its head, to oppose to the legions of the North, 
 strong in the knowledge of right and loyalty ? There 
 is no safety anywhere in the South for'Xorthern men 
 or Northern principles ; even Mr. Aberthnay's influ- 
 ence cannot make you secure, after the storm bursts, 
 if you remain ti'ue to your country, and it is not m 
 your nature to be false to it. Your mind is too clear 
 a mind to be deceived by any secession sophistry ; you 
 know very well your duty to the nation before the 
 State ; you cannot blind yourself by any States Rights' 
 arguments, — the cursed heresy that threatens the life 
 of our Constitution, that has been fed and fostered, 
 cherished and petted, until it has grown strong enough 
 to poison, adder-like, the hands that forbore to kill it 
 in its infancy. If ever you desert your country and 
 league with her enemies, you must do it with your 
 eyes open to the crime. Surely you will not do it. 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 165 
 
 Too well I remember you as a brave girl praying 
 for a martyr's trials. I have heard you too eloquently 
 and too powerfully upholding adherence to principle 
 through all things, to believe you will do the thing 
 you have so often scorned, yield right to expediency." 
 
 "I do not need to be told my duty," was all the 
 reply I could force myself to make. 
 
 "I know it, dear Miss Yane ; I beg your pardon 
 for addressing you by the old name. And knowing 
 your duty, how can you stay here ? It is madness to 
 attempt it ; folly to refase safety. We are just learn- 
 ing, the best of us, what it means to love our country, 
 to love its flag. We find it inspires a love as passion- 
 ate and intense as any possible emotion ; by and by 
 you will hunger and thirst to stand under the folds of 
 our stars and stripes, when, perhaps, it will be too 
 late. For the sake of that old flag, for the sake of the 
 family ties it suggests, if not the principles it repre- 
 sents, come back to it. I cannot tell how small you 
 were when I first held you up to see it floating from 
 Bunker Hill and Fanuiel Hall on national holidays ; 
 nor how many years before you could add two and 
 two together we tried, you and I, to count how many 
 flags we could see from steeple and spire, and how 
 many stars each one held. Can you bear to feel you 
 can never look upon that flag again excej^t as an enemy 
 and an outcast ? Come back to it, Georgie, while you 
 can ; do not stand apart from it in its hour of trial. 
 
156 AT Ai^^CHOK: 
 
 We never had a sorrow or a wrong that it did not at- 
 tempt to redress; we had never a thought but 
 of all rightful freedom under it, and it made us pros- 
 perous, free, and happy at home, and honored abroad; 
 shall we desert it now ? Can you, — you born in the 
 very dearest home of Liberty, in the proud mansion 
 of our country's favorite sons, — can you, with your 
 dauntless will and heart, fear to act according to your 
 convictions ? 
 
 " This is the terror that almost paralyzes your 
 uncle ; the terror that exists whichever way you de- 
 cide. If you retain your principles, we dare not think 
 of the consequences to you here ; if you are false to 
 them, what will be the consequences in the great here- 
 after ? At home in the Xorth, duty and convenience 
 will walk hand in hand ; you will hear only the brave 
 words of loyalty, — see only the glorious deeds of 
 rightful government. I held your uncle's hand in 
 mine, and promised I would never return alive to him 
 until I had seen you, and with all my power and will 
 had begged you to leave this city of traitors. Your 
 uncle again and again made me return to him to add 
 some argument or entreaty to those already given me in 
 trust for you. He told me how every spot of ground, 
 every room in the house, bears marks of your late pre- 
 sence, speaks to him of you ; and how can he ever bear 
 to see them with the knowledge that you have turned 
 traitor to all that he taught you to love and reverence? 
 
I A STORT OF OFR CIVIL WAH. 157 
 
 How can he, proud as he has ever been of you, 
 bear the sneers of envious souls, the scorn of noble 
 minds, and his own bitter knowledge that you have 
 deserted your country and leagued with its enemies ? 
 It will amount to that if you stay now; you know it 
 will." 
 
 " I have listened to you without interruption," I 
 said, " not because I have heard or expected to hear 
 an argument or a plea my own heart has not already 
 made, but because you shall not say I feared to listen. 
 I will not say how I may be tried, nor if I shall pass 
 through the trial without denying my faith ; but this I 
 I can and will say, that I shall never violate my own 
 sense of right so far as to leave the man I took at 
 God's altar for my husband, until he hiinself forces 
 me to leave him ; and he shall never force me until he 
 has first learned to hate me. He is mine, and I am 
 his ; if he were a robber or a murderer I should not 
 desert him, no more shall I now. My home is with 
 him, and here I stay, making my two duties harmonize 
 if I can, if not — " 
 
 " You cannot, and your first duty is to your coun- 
 try. Mr. Aberthnay himself always wished you to 
 remain with your uncle imtil there was quiet again. 
 Say only that if he wishes it you will leave, and I will 
 take you safely to your old home ; or, as that does not 
 please you, I will carry back your promise, and gain- 
 ing it leave you at once, and forever if you say so. 
 
158 • AT anchor: 
 
 Say that you will, Georgie, for the sake of your friends, 
 your name, your character, your principles, your coun- 
 try, your religion, and your God, for they all ask it ; 
 say you will return." 
 
 " I have given my answer," I said, as we left the 
 carriage, and stood under the shadow of the trees in 
 the dusk of the evening, at my own door. " My car- 
 riage is now at your service ; do not think of returning 
 for any thing to the hotel, but get out of the city to- 
 night, if possible ; you must make it possible. Tell 
 them at home that the South is firm, and a hundred 
 times stronger than they think, — tell them that what- 
 ever I do, they need not blush for me. I thank them 
 all that they remember me still ; I tbank you, too, 
 Mr. Stuart, for the efibrt you have made. Whatever 
 happens, whatever they hear of me at home, let them 
 not dare judge me ; and you, Gilbert, you must not 
 reproach me, even now." 
 
 He bent down under the shadows of the trees, and 
 quietly said : " You shall not be judged nor reproach- 
 ed ; but I had rather you had left me to the mercy of 
 those men, than that from your own words I should 
 learn the mission which I risked my life to fulfil should 
 have failed." 
 
 I turned to the house, and he Avalked deliberately 
 to the carriage, whose hurrying wheels sounded like 
 the angry threatenings of fate as they rumbled along 
 the seemingly deserted street. 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 159 
 
 I had been victor in the contest, it is true, but it 
 was a victory clearly won. It was an hour or two before 
 I felt myself able to meet my husband, who had come 
 home some few minutes after I had left Gilbert. 
 
 I found him in the library, with his head resting 
 on his folded arms, and his arms on the table. He 
 scarcely looked at me as I entered, which was strange, 
 for he always received me as politely, and with almost 
 as much ceremony, as if I had been a visitor. I felt 
 tenderer toward him for the struggles I had been 
 through that afternoon ; but I said only a few com- 
 monplace words, as I made some little changes in the 
 arrangement of the curtains and the furniture. 
 
 " So," he said to me at last, " so you have come 
 out as a public speaker, have you ? And for the benefit 
 of Gilbert Stuart ; it is very interesting, indeed it has 
 quite a touch of romance in it. And what, I wonder, 
 is Mr. Gilbert Stuart doing here ; he'd a great deal 
 better be at home ploughing his old Massachusetts 
 farm. Very likely he would like to take you home 
 with him, — why not go ? " 
 
 Poor fellow ! how he must have suffered before 
 he could insult me ! 
 
 " Why ? Because my husband is here." 
 
 " Yes, it is my fault ; I who brought you to this ; 
 I who keep you here. Why did I ever enter your 
 uncle's house and partake of his hospitality to return 
 it in this way ? A fine story that man has to carry 
 
160 AT axchoe: 
 
 back of my brutality, of me who keep yon here ! 
 "Wliy not go ; the North is at rest, it is only we who 
 suffer ; leave us to our fate. Go, Georgie." 
 
 " I thought we had settled that question times 
 enough," I said. " Are you tii-ed of me, Carl ? " 
 
 " Tired ? I am tired of every thmg ; myself and life, 
 and with it all I am killing you with the contest 
 between your divided duties." 
 
 "My duties are not divided," I answered, meeting 
 his vehemence as I would a child's, and lifting the 
 bright rings of hair from his forehead with the same 
 kind of tenderness ; " when will you cease to fear for 
 me?" 
 
 " Xever, Georgie, while I live ; I took cruel ad- 
 vantage of your kind heart once, though God knows I 
 thought no wrong, and the memory of that day stands 
 as a constant reproach to me. Oh ! could I but have 
 seen clearer the happiest way for you ! had only had 
 strength to sacrifice myself for you ! And you, 
 Georgie, why did you ever marry me ? " 
 
 " Because you asked me," I answered ; " you did 
 not expect me to ask you, did you ? " 
 
 " Don't laugh ; it sounds so horiible. In a few 
 hours we may see things that will prevent us from 
 ever laughing again." 
 
 " What has happened now ? " I asked, seating my- 
 self by him. 
 
 " There is no doubt that ships are outside the 
 
A STORY OF OFR CIVIL WAR. 161 
 
 bar trying to reenforce Sumter ; they must not 
 enter." 
 
 " But this is an old story, Carl, it may vanish like 
 the rest." 
 
 " God grant it may not," he answered ; " would to 
 God the first blow were struck, and we were fairly in 
 action ; this suspense is killing us and our cause. Our 
 Governor is iinsatisfactory, and we only half know 
 who are with us." 
 
 " Is eveiy thing ready in case of an attack ? " 
 
 " Ready ! we have been ready too long ; we want a 
 decisive act, something that will show the men of the 
 South, yes, and the men of the ISTorth too, that we are 
 in earnest ; we want our men to feel they are * in for 
 it,' past choice, past change ; this they will not feel 
 until the Federal Government has declared war 
 against us. God speed the day ! I cannot face these 
 dangers for you, Georgie. If I were in the North 
 now, with my sympathies as they are, I should be Avild 
 as a caged lion." 
 
 " I am going to bear it easier than that," I said. 
 " So long as there was chance for choice I spared neither 
 logic nor persuasion to urge you to make it with your 
 countiy; you have made it against your country; 
 you think you have done right, I think you have 
 done wrong ; but it makes no difference in my regard 
 for you. I cannot change my sentiments; we owe 
 aUegiance to the United States, not to North or South. 
 
162 AT AXCHOE. 
 
 Because you are my husband I shall stay here ; because 
 the nation against which you rebel is my nation, I 
 shall love it and honor it as I always have. I shall 
 never by word, look, or deed, do any thing that I 
 think will aid your cause or hurt my own. I shall aid 
 mine when I can. I do not say I shall hurt yours, for 
 my honor to you requires me to keep to myself what 
 I know through you. I shall try to act according to 
 my conscience, and yet to injure neither you nor 
 myself. Does this satisfy you ? " 
 
 " It is most generous of you ; but oh ! Georgie, 
 what a man I might be if I could only feel as others 
 do, that the eyes I loved watched me with pride and 
 encouragement." 
 
 " Dear Carl, if a man ever sinned in the belief he 
 was doing right you are that man ; and I look to you 
 to prove as true to the cause in which you believe as 
 if it were my cause too. May I ask you one thing : 
 if ever you see this thing as I do, as a treason, a crime, 
 and a curse, will you give it up ? " 
 
 " As sure as there is a sun in the heavens ! To 
 draw my sword from its sheath but once, for a cause 
 which I no longer believed just and right, I would 
 count murder." 
 
 " You are a true man, Carl, God bless you. If 
 ever angels wept over invincible ignorance they are 
 weeping now, but it is ignorance so invincible that it 
 will save you." 
 
CHAPTER Xy. 
 
 Only a few liours more and war was inaugurated ; 
 a few days further and my husband came to me in his 
 major's uniform, proud and exultant, though he had 
 come to say his last good-bye. It was our very first 
 separation since our marriage. I had been less than 
 woman had not my heart ached for him, as he stood 
 before me in his noble manhood, his ever bright face 
 radiant with enthusiasm, and every noblest emotion 
 of human life glowing in his eyes. I did not wish to 
 deceive him as I might if I showed him half my feel- 
 ing; for in his eager longing how could I hope he 
 would analyze my emotion, and say : " This she says 
 from pity, this from pride, this from native tender- 
 ness." I had, at least, this honor left, that I would 
 not give him hope I could not realize; so I bound 
 down my rising pity, and admiration, and intense 
 terror,- and quietly as might be received his last 
 convulsive embrace. He cried like a child then, 
 while I played with the bright rings of hair that 
 clustered lovingly around his forehead, cried and 
 
164 AT anchor: 
 
 kissed my hands, my eyes, and hair, and reaching the 
 door turned back and stramed me to his heart ; then 
 the band played, and he mounted his horse, and with- 
 out another word or glance, without lifting his eyes, 
 he took his place, and rode from my sight ; a purer 
 face, a nobler form, never went to battle yet since 
 time began. 
 
 Do not ask me of the days that followed ; there 
 was an agony in their strained calmness that has left 
 scars upon my soul that will last until I die. The 
 North I heard, had flown to arms as one man, but the 
 force sent against us was far, far too small ; I shudder- 
 ed when I heard the number. Seyenty-five thousand 
 citizen soldiers to stand agjainst the lono^-trained men 
 of the South, fighting, every man of them, as if the 
 quarrel were his own, and on his own strength and 
 skill depended its issue. I shut myself in my own 
 house as much as I could to avoid hearing the insult- 
 ing remarks of the Union's foes. My husband's letters 
 were my only society ; they were rich in interest, in 
 thought, and incident. I could not shut out the 
 rejoicing over the battle of Bull Run, which was a 
 grand Southern victory, and which was as fuel and 
 flame to the " Rebels." My husband's letters did not 
 speak of it as enthusiastically as I expected them to : 
 " It is, in some resj^ects, a victory that will hurt us 
 much," he wrote ; " it is the first intimation to the 
 North that they are not out on a holiday parade ; it 
 
A STORY OF OUE CIVIL WAR. 165 
 
 has too many resources, her enthusiasm is yet too un- 
 cooled, to make this defeat an extinguisher, as our 
 good friend Montreuil, who is wild with joy, and very 
 tipsy with whiskey, calls it. Our victory has come 
 too soon for us, we shall be more easily discouraged 
 later, for it ; their defeat has come too soon for the 
 JTorth ; it is raw meat to a hungry bull-dog, enough 
 to whet his appetite, not enough to satisfy his 
 hunger." 
 
 Again there were wild rejoicings over the massacre 
 at Ball's Bluff. " I cannot rejoice," wrote my husband ; 
 " I can glory in whipping my enemy in fail' and open 
 fight, but there is little joy in a victory thrown into 
 your hands by the stupidity of a blundering general. 
 The greater part of the killed at Ball's Bluff were Massa- 
 chusetts young men. Harvard students, who had learn- 
 ed their law and their loyalty in the same buildings 
 where I spent my early college days, dreaming of some- 
 body — you know whom ! Poor fellows ! One man, 
 
 Dr. W , I think you knew him, he was an old chum 
 
 of mine, I saw after the battle ; he was shot in the 
 river trying to save a friend, to whom his sister was 
 engaged, and who was so wounded as to be unable to 
 swim. There will be wailing in old Massachusetts 
 when she hears of these things. There were some 
 splendid things done on our side ; not alone brave 
 deeds, but things that showed the quickness and 
 the vigilance of our officers ; they are never caught 
 
166 AT AXCHOE : 
 
 napping, which, as you may divine, is worth more 
 than much skill and strategy." 
 
 I can hardly tell hovv- I lived through the months 
 that followed ; after every skirmish even, I waited in 
 trembling fear for news of my liushand, in more than 
 mortal fear, for I sometimes questioned if God should 
 be less merciful than we, how could He who had said, 
 "Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's," 
 receiA^e my poor husband if he should die in rebellion 
 against his Government, which had given him no 
 cause for complaint. 
 
 Until June my fears were without foundation ; and 
 then one day a letter came to me by private hand, 
 from the son of one of my earliest Southern friends : 
 
 " It becomes my painful duty," he wrote, " to 
 inform you, my dear madame, that Major Aberthuay 
 was quite severely wounded in a late skirmish with the 
 enemy, and has very much retarded his own cure by 
 his restlessness and impatience to join his command, 
 or, since that has become impracticable, to go home. 
 Believing it to be entirely in accordance with your 
 wishes, I have taken advantage of a favorable oppor- 
 tmiity to write you, although the Major earnestly 
 opposes any thing that can bring to you the knowl- 
 edge of his very painful condition, which is much 
 more serious than he imagines. We have been so 
 fortunate as to have the Major at our own house, 
 where my sisters vie with each other in their efforts to 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 167 
 
 assist him. Feeling confident you Avould scarcely 
 forgive me should I obey your husband's injunctions, 
 and leave you ignorant of these facts, I have taken 
 the liberty of stating them. My leave of absence, 
 which has enabled me to take medical care of Major 
 Aberthnay, is about expiring, and I shall be obliged to 
 leave him to such care as very inexj)erienced nurses 
 can render ; convinced, however, that the medicine 
 he least needs is that which a surgeon can bestow. 
 Although within the Federal lines, Major Aberthnay 
 is in perfect security. It will, I am sure, be the first 
 impulse of your heart to endeavor to meet your hus- 
 band ; and should you be able to leave home, I am 
 requested by my mother and sisters to assure you of a 
 hearty welcome ; there will be very little difficulty in 
 eluding the Federal vigilance." Some directions, 
 simple enough, were then given, and with one or two 
 apologies for the intrusion, the letter concluded. 
 
 It would have been grief enough to know my hus- 
 band were wounded: to be told of it against his 
 wishes, to realize how great must have been the dan- 
 ger when an almost entire stranger thought it neces- 
 sary to call me to his side, were emotions impossible 
 to describe. As quickly after reading the letter as a 
 dress could be changed and a carriage ready I was 
 on my way to the depot, and fortunate enough, by 
 one hasty spring, to find place upon the train just 
 moving from the depot. 
 
168 AT an^choe: 
 
 I wrapped myself in my travelling cloak and sank 
 back in my seat, motionless as a statue without from 
 the very surging of my soul within. My whole life in 
 this world and the next seemed to hang upon the 
 chance of arriving in time, at least to hear the words 
 I deserved so little, " I forgive." " 
 
 And if life were given to him longer still, how I 
 would pray until I had saved him from all fmther 
 dangers ! 
 
 I never counted that journey by hours or by days. 
 I know nothing how I found my way. I remember 
 only a dark night, a lonely street, a quiet house, and 
 myself wildly begging admittance. It was very late ; 
 a white-headed old gentleman cautiously opened the 
 door. 
 
 " Let me in, I beseech you," I said ; " I am Mrs. 
 Aberthnay." 
 
 He opened the door wider, and I sprang into the 
 hall ; the gentleman opened the door of a room at one 
 side of the hall, and spoke my name ; a group of fright- 
 ened, wondering faces, instantly gathered around me. 
 
 " I am Mrs. Aberthnay," I repeated ; " is my hus- 
 band here?" 
 
 "Mrs. Aberthnay, is it possible? Come in, my 
 dear," one said, drawing me into the open room. 
 
 " You are very kind," I said ; " I would like to see 
 
 my husband, at once, if you please. Dr. M wi'ote 
 
 me he was here."" 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 169 
 
 " Let me give you a cu]) of tea," she said. 
 
 " Is not my husband here ? " I asked. 
 
 "He was wounded, you know," she answered; 
 " and have you come all this way alone, dear Mrs. Ab- 
 erthnay ? I cannot tell you half how glad I am to 
 see you." 
 
 " I know, I am sure of it, my dear Mrs. M ; but 
 
 do tell me of Major Aberthnay. Is he here ? " 
 
 They looked from one to the other; and with that 
 mistaken kindness so many people use, they said a 
 few commonplace sentences, and tried to remove my 
 things. At last, howcA^er, I forced the truth from 
 them. 
 
 Some one had told of my husband's concealment 
 at their house. He discovered his danger, and being 
 determined to die sooner than be taken prisoner, 
 against their prayers and tears, and all their argu- 
 ments, he had insisted upon leaving them. David, his 
 trusty servant, was with him, and he had gone no one 
 knew where. There were only women in the house ; 
 the gentleman who had opened the door was a neigh- 
 bor, who had come to them the day before from the 
 ruins of his once splendid home, burnt by the " Yan- 
 kees." There had been no one to accompany my hus- 
 band, only David. 
 
 Then they told me of his wound, and of the rest- 
 lessness and impatience which had put him back very 
 much ; and then that he grew sad and melancholv, and 
 
170 AT ANCHOR : 
 
 made no eftbrt to rally, seeming to take no interest in 
 any thing except the letters from me, which had been 
 sent him from headquarters whenever there was an 
 
 opportunity, and then it was that Dr. M became 
 
 frightened and sent for me, and I was too late. 
 
 Xo one tried to sleep that night ; good, affectionate 
 women, they gathered around me, and told me every 
 incident of his stay at their house ; how the doctor 
 had brought him there first, what they had thought, 
 how courteously he had thanked them, how gently he 
 ever spoke to them, Avhile they could see he was inward- 
 ly fretting ; how one of the girls had been his favorite, 
 because she was like his wife. These and a thousand 
 trifles besides, such as love and tenderness are made 
 of, they told me with as much minuteness as if I had 
 been Carl's own fond and loving wife ; and I heard 
 them, and thought in my heart how they would hate 
 me could they know the coldness, the cruelty I had 
 shown the man they honored so much. 
 
 At the first dawn of light I started under the 
 guidance of their one remaining servant, whose assist- 
 ance they forced me to accept, to find my husband ; 
 and then it was that, for the first time since the war, 
 as I neared the city, I saw the old flag again. 
 
 I saw it again. Not the prodigal, with the weight 
 of his physical cares and moral guilt, leaving the husks 
 which the swine did eat for tlie old home luxuries, ran 
 faster to meet his father on the way, wept with greater 
 
A STOEY OP OUK CIVIL AVAK. 171 
 
 joy uiider that father's blessing hands, than I, Avhen, 
 weary and almost heart-broken, a rebel and a traitor if 
 you choose, I saw once more the flag I had deserted ; 
 saw it again, the dear familiar stripes, the bright, un- 
 fallen stars floating joyously, grandly, in the soft sum- 
 mer breezes, — " the loyal winds that loved it well." I 
 did not know I had so much of impulse and fond emo- 
 tion left within me, as I, who had shed not a tear dur- 
 ing all these days of terror and suspense, who had ut- 
 tered not a single groan when I learned the bitter 
 knowledge of their uselessness, sprang forward, while 
 tears rained from my eyes, to stand once more beneath 
 its folds. 
 
 Another lay on the ground beside me ; a soldier's 
 flag, stained with rain and mud, and oh ! its olden 
 whiteness dark with blood ; torn and tattered, thrown 
 aside as useless, perhaps, how eagerly I pressed it to 
 my lips, and caressed it and bathed it with my tears ! 
 
 Just then the morning sun burst through the mists 
 that had hung over us, birds sang merrily on every 
 tree, and for a few moments I forgot I was searching 
 for a suffering, perhaps a dying husband. 
 
 " When I Y/rite Carl," I thought, " I will tell him 
 just how the morning looks." 
 
 Then I trembled and my strength left me. I might 
 never write to Carl again. 
 
 He was not at his old command; I had found 
 friends everywhere to help me on, but none to tell me 
 
172 AT AXCHOE. 
 
 of him. " He was on sick leave, and we supposed him 
 home," was my most satisfactory answer. Then I 
 hurried back, picturing Carl already there ; actually 
 looked for him to meet me when I reached the city ; 
 so thoughtful, so courteous had he ever been to me 
 that I could scarcely realize myself standing in the 
 hurrying crowd ^vithout Carl's eager face to welcome 
 me, Carl's protecting arm to lean upon. I rushed to 
 the house ; it was dark and close ; no one had entered 
 it, but the servants coming and going, since I left. 
 Then I sat down and cried. 
 
 " Massa berry likely stop somewhere, he be berry 
 tired and sick," suggested one of the servants, and the 
 thought was a good one ; and acting upon it I found 
 comfort and consolation. I arranged the rooms; I 
 worked over Mrs. Glynn's receijDt-book, preparing all 
 manner of delicacies to tempt his taste ; I sprang to the 
 door, if ever an officer passed the window ; a hundred 
 times I cried, " This is he ! " but Carl did not come. 
 "Why should he ? Had I been such a wife to him that 
 he should care to come ? and if he did come, would he 
 be satisfied with tender nursing and dainty food ? 
 
 But David came, and told me his story. 
 
 "Massa berry weak, me trable and no house, no 
 nothing ; I do my best. One day massa called me and 
 Bay : ' I am dying this time, David, and no mistake.' 
 ' Ah, no, Massa Carl,' I say, ' I go foraging and you 
 get better ; ' but he just shake his head, and I went on 
 
A STORY OF OUK CIVIL AVAR. 173 
 
 a little way to find a house or some place for Massa 
 Carl. I find some berry nice people, and we all go 
 after massa, but de Yanks were dere first ; when dey 
 was gone, der was no Massa Carl, only just him coat 
 he'd bin laying on 'fore I went 'way." 
 
 Two or three days after letters reached me which 
 gave me fuller accounts ; a prisoner had seen my hus- 
 band brought into the Federal camp on a stretcher ; 
 several ol the officers had tried to assist him, but 
 he was too far gone. They had all felt much interest- 
 ed in him from his fine appearance ; but the prisoner 
 could only say he . had been kindly cared for, for in a 
 few hours there was a surprise by the Confederates in 
 which the in^prmant was taken prisoner. Further 
 information came later. He had lived only a few 
 days, but had been cared for to the last, and was 
 buried in a portion of the battle-ground in which 
 Confederates and Unionist had been buried together. 
 
 Every kindness, every praise of him, every sympa- 
 thy possible the ofiicers gave me ; he had been widely 
 loved and honored for his soldierly skill and daring, 
 and his noble and knightly character. 
 
 If one ray of light could have come in upon the 
 darkness of my heart, it would have come in the 
 thought that he had died for a cause he had loved and 
 honored ; but seeing vrith the clearer light of immor- 
 tality his spirit would recognize the right, while his 
 body rested under the folds of tlie true flag. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 With my husband's death died all that bound me 
 to the South. I utterly loathed the war and every 
 thing concerned with it. Free to feel, free to think, 
 at last, according to my own convictions, I made no 
 attempt to disguise its deformity, its wretchedness, 
 the wickedness of its motives, and the etiormity of its 
 sin. I went, as I had done before, to the hospitals, for 
 I knew how many, like my husband, had gone into 
 the war as conscientiously and as heroically as your 
 bravest !N"orthern general ; but oh ! I longed with all 
 my heart, it was a dream beyond any hope, to stand 
 among brave Union men, and toil for them ! 
 
 I did not dare look so far as my old home ; I dared 
 not hope ever to live under the dear flag again ; but I 
 did dream of an escape somewhere, anywhere out of 
 that accursed city, every stone in the streets of which 
 seemed to mock at me. My friendliness was com- 
 plete ; many who honored my husband had shown me 
 many kind attentions, but I felt as if I had no 
 right to them. I had felt always, especially since 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. l75 
 
 my visit North, as if I were wearing honors I did not 
 deserve. 
 
 How many of the pale faces that hurried past mc 
 covered the same weariness of heart, I did not ask ; but 
 as I saw their tenderness to the soldiers, their devo- 
 tion to their cause, my heart cried out more than ever 
 to be at the Korth, aiding in like manner the land I 
 loved. 
 
 "David," I asked one morning of him who was 
 now a hero among his fellow servants, "what has be- 
 come of Lizzie, I have not seen her for several days?" 
 
 " Dunno, missus." 
 
 " Yes you do, David ; answer me." 
 
 " Oh, lor, missus, if yer looks in that way 'specks 
 I'll have ter answer. 'Specks Lizzie's whar George 
 is." George was her husband, living in another pai-t 
 of the city. 
 
 " And wh^re is George ? " 
 
 " Dunno, missus, 'less de Yanks got hold of him ; 
 dey's awful tiefs, dey is." 
 
 " I wonder if they would steal me," I said ; but 
 forming the thought into words became too much for 
 me, and I could not keep back the tears. When he saw 
 that, David cried too, but so ludicrously that I changed 
 to laughing. 
 
 " Dar now, see dat now," he exclaimed ; " missus 
 laif just de way she larf when Massa Carl and me go 
 courtin. Massa Carl ! Massa Carl ! oh ! oh ! Nebber 
 
176 AT axchoe: 
 
 go courtin no more ! Him told me dis yere'd happen. 
 Nebber see you no more, Massa Carl ! Massa Carl 
 him berry badly hurt last winter, nebber tell you, 
 missus ? Him jDoor foot's all frozed, and when David 
 take stocking off de skin all come too, but ]\Iassa 
 Carl he only larf. Him say : David, any thing happen 
 to me you go back to missus ; tell her I lub her just 
 ebery day more ; tell her forgive me that thing — she 
 knows. And David, him say low voice, get her up 
 JSTorf, you know how." 
 
 " You know how ! Oh, David, why did you not 
 tell me this before ? " 
 
 " I 'fraid, missus, you berry big for de war." 
 
 "Can I go, David?" 
 
 "Massa Carl tell me, I know." 
 
 " That won't do now," I said, when he had told me 
 his plan ; " things have changed since then, and when- 
 ever I do go I shall go openly and above board, — 
 honorably." 
 
 " Missus know best," he said, only dimly conscious 
 that I was beyond him. " 'Taint nuffin for nigger to 
 run away ; 'taint for poor nigger ter have dem high 
 semments. If Missus goes Xorf she'll take David 
 'long too ? " 
 
 " Would you like to go, David ? " 
 
 " It berry cold der, missus ? " 
 
 " Not all the time." 
 
 " 'Specks I'd like ter go, missus." 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 177 
 
 " Then I'll take you, David." 
 
 " Missus promise ? " 
 
 " Yes, David, if you don't run away first." 
 
 " I not run away, missus, I go hon'rable." 
 
 "Oh! "I exclaimed. 
 
 " It berry cold up Xorf, but a man own he self 
 dere. How much I worth, missus?" 
 
 " How do you mean ? " 
 
 "How much I bring if I sold." 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 " Tink I'se worth good deal ; two tousand dollars, 
 may be." 
 
 " Perhaps so." 
 
 " Two tousand dollars great deal money for Xorf. 
 I go Xorf, I own myself, I be worth two tousand 
 dollars ; I be berry rich man. Bimeby I make more 
 money and buy old Chloe, den I own two niggers. 
 Bimeby — " but David's mathematical calculations had 
 reached their climax. 
 
 The next day I left my husband's property in the 
 hands of his old lawyer to take care of for me, and I 
 started for Richmond, which seemed a little nearer 
 home. 
 
 8* 
 
CHAPTER XVn. 
 
 It was intensely hot in Richmond and in its neigh- 
 borhood, but the heat was the least of onr trouble ; 
 the " Yankees " were at our very gates, and the city 
 seemed moulding itself into one vast hospital on 
 account of the wounded soldiers daily arriving, and 
 the constant departure of all well j^ersons, soldiers, and 
 civilians, who could get away. As for those who 
 remained, — it may have been the reflection of my own 
 loneliness, — they seemed borne down by anxiety and 
 care ; there were some who loudly spurned all fear of 
 a nearer approach of the Federal army to Richmond ; 
 there were others who trembled lest at any moment 
 the dreaded Yankees might burst in uj^on us. Con- 
 fusion dwelt everywhere ; our army, broken and ex- 
 hausted, could offer but a feeble resistance, and what 
 was there to prevent the Union army from daslnng 
 into our very midst ? 
 
 Many urged me to join them in leaving the city, 
 but I only shook my head. " What use ? " I said, " as 
 well now as later ; it makes no difference." " Her 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 179 
 
 husband's death has broken her completely," they 
 said. 
 
 I went from place to place in a fever of restless- 
 ness. Whenever I was in the city I visited the hospi- 
 tals, and gave largely of help and money, so that my 
 loyalty was held as a model to others. But I could 
 not rest anywhere, nor stay in any one place. Once 
 I walked up and down a depot ; some one had said a 
 train of wounded soldiers was to pass there, and I 
 tried to solace ray feverishness by j^lanning some as- 
 sistance for them. 
 
 A young girl who seemed to be even more impa- 
 tient than myself, finally addressed me : " Do you 
 know any thing about the train ? Will it come, do 
 you think ? " 
 
 " I knoAV nothing for certain," I answered, " but it 
 seems to be expected by very many; we can only 
 wait." 
 
 " Only wait ! I am tired to death of waiting ; I 
 have been here ages." 
 
 " You are expecting some one ? " 
 
 " Partly. Papa has been wounded, and I go to 
 every depot and every train to meet him. My poor 
 papa ! I loish they'd come ! Probably, after all, papa 
 won't be there; I have been disappointed so many 
 times ! Are you expecting any body ? " 
 
 " Xo," I said, " I have not even the comfort of 
 dread or fear." 
 
180 AT axchoe: 
 
 " Oh ! how hard ! " she exclaimed ; 
 
 " ' Not to dread because all is taken, 
 Is the loneliest depth of human pain.' 
 
 But it is a proud thing to have lost any one in this 
 Avar." 
 
 I did not answer. 
 
 " I shall do something desperate if this thing goes 
 on much longer," she said. 
 
 " Dear child," I could but say, " rather thank God 
 that he has left you even suspense." 
 
 She turned perfectly pale. " If God took papa," slie 
 said, " I would—" 
 
 She could not finish the sentence. I wondered, if I 
 had loved Carl, would I have felt the revenge and 
 fury her broken sentence showed ? 
 
 "I wonder how you all bear it so calmly," she 
 began again: " you must be very patient." 
 
 " We never know," I answered, " until we are tried, 
 how much we can bear. Your father for whom you 
 are waiting, has he been long in the army ? " I added, 
 to change the subject. 
 
 " Oh, from the first ; I was in New York, and papa 
 ordered me to stay there, but I ordered myself to 
 come here. Well that I did, or there would be no one 
 to take care of papa." 
 
 " I have lived a great deal in Xew York," I said ; 
 " that oug^ht to make us friends almost." 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL ^WAR. 181 
 
 " I did love Kew York, but now I hate it. I would 
 joy to hear it burnt to the ground." 
 
 She had a fair complexion, soft brown hair and 
 emotionless blue eyes ; but she spoke with a fierce 
 vindictiveness. 
 
 " Were you ever there much ? " I asked. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I was educated there. I wish we could 
 take Xew York." 
 
 " If we keep half of what we have we shall do 
 well." 
 
 " Oh, you don't know ! Papa writes me all about 
 the war and the ^orth. He says the Northern Gen- 
 erals don't fight like ours, and theii' army cannot stand 
 privations as ours does. They are not heart and soul 
 in the war like we are. Papa sends me Kew York 
 papers ; they never agree ; they are all grumbling and 
 growling, some wanting one thing, some another; 
 some want the army to do this, and others want 
 it to do something else ; and Abe Lincoln tries to suit 
 them all, and so cuts up the army, and fights a little 
 to suit the war people, and then compromises and 
 don't fight, to suit the peace people. Papa says they 
 will have another revolution up there." 
 
 "I very seldom see a Northern paper," I said; 
 " what do they find to quarrel about ? " 
 
 " I don't understand exactly ; but papa says tlie 
 Yankee rage for money-making gets ahead of patriot 
 zeal for the country, and so there's a muss. They talk 
 
182 AT axchoe: 
 
 a deal about our slaves, and our sleeping over volca- 
 noes ; but papa says our slaves are not a circumstance 
 to their foreign citizens, who don't understand about 
 country and government ; how can they, never having 
 had any of their own? and they make as much fuss 
 and talk as loud as if the whole Xorth belonged to 
 them, and won't leave the Yankees a chance to squeeze 
 in a word on their own affairs. Papa made me learn 
 some lines of a French poet in Xew Orleans once, that 
 he says have proved almost a proi3hecy. I do not 
 know if I can quote them : 
 
 * Ycillons ! car parmi nous I'esprit des etrangers 
 Menace le pays du plus grand des dangers, 
 Ah ! malheur a tous ceux qui, plein de moquerie 
 Par la force^ou I'astuce, attaquent la patrie : 
 Malheur aux etrangers, s'ils ne cessent de I'dtre ; 
 S'ils veuleut conserver I'amour d'un ancien maitre, 
 S'ils n'ont pas un seul ccsur avec ceux du pays, 
 S'ils ne pai-tagent pas les amours de ses fils ; 
 Si centre notre esprit leur fol esprit conspire ; 
 S'ils veulent un empire au milieu d'un empire ! 
 Yeillons ! car le grand fiot de I'emigration 
 Menace ravenir de notre Nation ! 
 Car I'esprit etranger, cruel perturbateur, 
 De la guerre intestine est le premier fauteur ; 
 Du desordre toujours il s'est montre I'apotre; 
 Et traitre a sa patrie, 11 trahira la notre ! ' " 
 
 AdPvIEN Eouqcette. 
 
 " You pronounce French beautifully," I said, 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 183 
 
 making no comment on the matter of her quota- 
 tion. 
 
 " I ought," she answered ; " I learned it at Madame 
 Chegary's, where I learned many other things not so 
 commendable, such as flirting." 
 
 " I don't think the art of flirting is ever taught," 
 I answered ; " it is like Dogberry's reading and writing, 
 that come by nature." 
 
 " I don't do much of that noAv," she said. " This 
 war has made me very solemn. How did I come to 
 make you that quotation ? Not to show ofi" my French, 
 you must not think." 
 
 " I do not, indeed. You were speaking of the dis- 
 turbances at the Xorth, of which I have heard only a 
 little now and then, and never before directly." 
 
 " I remember now. They do not know what coun- 
 try means at the Xorth, where they are mixed up with 
 every manner of nation. It is not like it is here ; vre 
 are all for one side ; there they are divided, and. half 
 of their generals, who are politicians, try to keep right 
 with both sides, so that they can keep their f)laces 
 either way. It isn't like it is here. If a general here 
 gets beaten, doAvn he goes ; only our generals never do 
 get beaten. There, papa says, no matter how much 
 we beat them, they cry * Yictory ! Yictory ! ' all the 
 same. There comes the train ! " 
 
 Slowly it crept along with its burden of wounded 
 men; my companion sprang forward as soon as it 
 
184 AT axchok: 
 
 neared us. An officer in a colonel's uniform, assisted 
 hj a servant and an orderly, was among the first to 
 alight from the cars ; a distinct soldierly voice called 
 " Gertrude," and in an instant my companion was at 
 his side. 
 
 A winning girl she was, with all her freedom and 
 her careless dignity, and pretty, too ; pretty, like some 
 one I had seen ; indeed, from the first, I had watched 
 her, confident I had somewhere seen her face, or one 
 like it, before. 
 
 The wounded soldiers were obliged to be taken out 
 at this point, and the confusion became almost fright 
 ful, as Confederates and Federals, our own and our 
 prisoners, were laid upon the platform together, to 
 await removal as patiently as might be. A young 
 man in a doctor's uniform, whom I had noticed very 
 busily watching " Gertrude,'''' while she was with me, 
 secured me as his assistant, and won my admiration, 
 by his quickness and kindly manner to the soldiers. 
 
 The prisoners were imder guard, but no one pre- 
 vented my passing among them, and doing for them the 
 little I could, as I had been doing for the others ; but I 
 was rather shy of using a privilege which no one else 
 would have thought of taking, and occupied myself 
 with my new friend the doctor. In passing through 
 the crowd a man rose staggering to his feet, but, un- 
 able to sustain himself, fell almost immediately. I 
 rushed to break his fall, in which I was kindlv assisted 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIN'TL WAR. 185 
 
 by the surgeon. I saw the face of the man, and I 
 made a desperate effort. 
 
 " I cannot stay longer," I said to the young sur- 
 geon, " but I can still work ; if there is not found room 
 for all your wounded, I shall be really honored if you 
 will turn my house," giving him its number, " into a 
 hospital. To inaugurate that event I will take this 
 man, who seems to have appealed to me, with me, if 
 you will help me ; I have a carriage here." 
 
 " He's a prisoner," answered the doctor, pointing 
 to his uniform. 
 
 " So he is," I said ; " but having made up my mind 
 to take him. Federal or Confederate, it is about the 
 same ; I presume they will be very glad to have one 
 less in the prison hospital." 
 
 " I have noticed a very interesting soldier, scarcely 
 more than a boy, one of our own; he looks delicate, too 
 delicate for hospital fare ; I would like to take advan- 
 tage of your kind offer for him," answered the doctor. 
 
 " I will receive him with much pleasure," I said ; 
 " I will send back for him." 
 
 " I do not think you can take this man," he said, 
 pointing to the j^risoner. 
 
 " I shall and must," I answered, with the decision 
 of desperation. And I did take him, thanks to the ad- 
 dress of my friend the surgeon, and thanks to the. 
 lucky chance of having seen " Gertrude^"^ to whom it 
 was clear I was indebted for the doctor's good-will. 
 
186 AT anchor: 
 
 The prisoner, wlio was now almost unconscious, 
 was lifted and carried to my carriage. 
 
 The doctor, whom this hour of mutual work had 
 made better acquainted with me than months of society 
 meetings, offered me his couj^e, but I declined, and 
 showed my intention of going with the soldier. 
 
 "My dear lady, that is impossible," urged the 
 doctor. 
 
 " Quite possible," I answered. 
 
 " God bless you ladies ! " exclaimed the doctor, 
 closing the door for me. 
 
 " Don't," I said, " there was never less patriotism 
 or charity — " 
 
 I could not finish my sentence. Xot patriotism or 
 charity, what then ? 
 
 My patient was Gilbert Stuart. 
 
 Jack, the driver, had muttered very considerably 
 as Gilbert was being helped into the carriage, which 
 showed me the Federal uniform was quickly recog- 
 nized even by that not over-intelligent African. 
 
 Well might the doctor have wondered ; every 
 motion of the carriage swayed my charge, too weak 
 to support himself, from side to side. My anxiety to 
 escape observation almost gave way before my vexa- 
 tion at my position ; but I supported Gilbert as well 
 as I could, and hurried Jack as much as he was willing 
 to be hurried. Gilbert's uniform was well-worn, 
 besides being thick with mud and blood ; one of his 
 
A STOEY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 187 
 
 shoulder-straps had been carried away, evidently by 
 the ball that had wounded him ; the other, a second 
 lieutenant's strap, remained ; as he lay apparently un- 
 conscious, I succeeded in removing it, for I intended, 
 or thought I intended seeing no more of him after I 
 had once placed him in such comfort as could be 
 given him. 
 
 After awhile he spoke, and I started to find he 
 knew me, and called me by my old name, " Georgie." 
 
 " I am here," I answered. 
 
 " Why don't we push on for Richmond ! I shall 
 see her. Why don't we push on ? Take care, there, 
 now ! " 
 
 He spoke in a sleepy kind of tone, but at the last 
 word his voice rose almost to a shout, and I knew that 
 he was raving. 
 
 " Drive fast," I said, letting down the window. 
 
 " Yes, Missus," ansAvered Jack, dutifully, and drove 
 slower than before. 
 
 Gilbert continued his talk, which was made up of 
 drilling directions, battle cries, army orders, meaning- 
 less words, confused scraps of poetry, and shouts of 
 "Richmond to-night," — once or twice he spoke my 
 name, — a talk so wild and confused that I was terrified. 
 
 " Drive faster," I ordered. 
 
 " Yes, JMissus, Xelly is berry lame." 
 
 "Come back, Georgie," said Gilbert. "On to 
 Richmond. McClellan won't let us. Kearney is 
 
188 AT AXCHOR : 
 
 going. I am going. When Marmiou. On ! charge ! " 
 — his voice rising and sinking, and these the only- 
 intelligible words. I was more than terrified, and I 
 must have shown it, for Jack, at my next repetition ol 
 the order, — it was the first I had ever needed to repeat 
 to him, — turned upon the box, and looked down at me: 
 
 " Nelly hardly walk," he said. 
 
 " This man is suffering terribly," I said ; " get on in 
 some way." 
 
 " Is yer 'fraid, Missus ? " Jack asked, with a look 
 that frightened me more yet. For some reason Jack 
 was angry, and beyond bounds ; all the lashes in the 
 South could not have subdued him then. I felt he 
 had stepped over the boundary of mistress and slave, 
 and for a moment I hesitated what course to pursue ; 
 there was a time when I would have mastered a 
 VvUder animal than he, by the very power of my look 
 and voice. I did not feel sure of myself and dared not 
 venture it : 
 
 "Yes," I answered, plaintively, " I am afraid." 
 
 " Missus would have de Yank in de carriage," he 
 grumbled. " Xebber no Yankee lady take care Massa 
 Carl." And more to the same effect. 
 
 " No," I said, restored a little to myself, " but I 
 know this man, and once when Master Carl was 
 among strangers, and they were against him, this man 
 took Master Carl's part." 
 
 " Missus know dat ? " Jack said, and I noticed the 
 
A STOEY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 189 
 
 horses went faster, as he turned to them and then 
 back again lor my answer. 
 
 " Yes," I said, " and I cannot let hun die as if he 
 had never known Master Carl." 
 
 Jack wheeled around, and Xelly forgot her lame- 
 ness. The humiliation of that conversation ought to 
 balance many an hour of stubborn pride. 
 
 As the carriage went faster Gilbert's excitement 
 arose. " They are coming ! they are coining ! " he 
 shouted. " Who says retreat ! Oh ! they've hit 
 me!" 
 
 . " Here, you good-for-nothing niggers," Jack cried, 
 as at this moment we reached home, " what for you 
 Stan' grinning dere ? Help." 
 
 Then there was a rushing to and fro ; every room 
 in the house was made ready for use, but in the airiest 
 and prettiest Gilbert was placed. 
 
 Before I had time to think of what I had done, the 
 doctor had made good his word, and the rooms were 
 filled. Two ladies and a Sister of Charity came with 
 them. One of these ladies I had long known well ; the 
 other, an elderly, quiet woman, was a stranger. 
 
 " You are to command here," I said to the doctor, 
 who had hardly waited for that permission. 
 
 '' What have you done with your tyrant f " he asked 
 me, in a low voice. 
 
 I did not understand him, and said so. 
 
 " I mean the ' fierce invader.' " 
 
190 AT Anchor: 
 
 " Oh," I said, " Jack has taken the ojjjyressor under 
 his protection. It is hut in the usual order of things 
 that the opiwessed should turn the other cheek. Will 
 you go in ? " 
 
 " I will see him next." 
 
 I did not go with him ; I asked the Sister of Charity 
 to assist the doctor, which she did with that gentle- 
 ness and readiness of perception that seem to be put 
 on with the black caj). 
 
 " He is going to do very well," the doctor said, 
 returning to me ; " I hope you will be able to keep him 
 here." We talked a while about the probabilities ; he 
 gave me directions about the others, then he grew red 
 and said : 
 
 "I see your sister is not with you, I think you are 
 right ; it would not do at all, decidedly would not do 
 at all for her to be here." 
 
 " My sister ? " I repeated ; " I have no sister." 
 
 " The young lady whom you sent off when the 
 train* arrived, is she not your sister ? " 
 
 " Xo, indeed ; how came you to imagine so ? " I 
 did not say I knew of her scarcely more than he did 
 himself; I needed the doctor's continued favor. 
 
 " She looked like you," he answered. 
 
 " Like me ! That fragile, blue-eyed thing like 
 me ! " I did not at first see that it was a supposition 
 made to find out something of her. 
 
 "Kot in physique," he answered to my look of 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 191 
 
 surprise, "but a resemblance somewhere there cer- 
 tainly is ; a shadowy, misty, fleeting resemblance, yet 
 a resemblance, like a full bugle blast and its faint, far- 
 off echo." 
 
 " It seems impossible ; she is directly my oppo- 
 site." 
 
 "No, only your echo," he answered, smiling. 
 " She has a lovely face." 
 
 " God in heaven send her grace," I added. 
 
 He went to one of the rooms, dressed a wound, 
 came back, washed his hands, and accepted my offer 
 of a cracker and a glass of wine, which he took hastily, 
 standing. 
 
 "Tour friend is very lovely," he said, reassured 
 perhaps by the wine ; " 'I do beseech you, chiefly that 
 I may set it in my prayers, her name,' or words to that 
 effect." 
 
 '-''Gertrude!''' I answered; "there's satisfaction 
 enough for one day." 
 
 " That implies more some other day ? I appreciate 
 the kindness, and shall live on the anticipation." 
 
 ^Ve three nurses, for now that the hardest work 
 was over the Sisters had gone to the hospital, then ap- 
 plied ourselves to our separate charges. I sat some 
 time by Gilbert, who was lying in such evident ex- 
 haustion that I feared he would never revive. While 
 I sat I thought less of him than one would suppose ; 
 much, very much of the young doctor, and the strong 
 
192 AT anchor: 
 
 impression a pretty emotionless face had made upon 
 him; and while I thought I wondered where I had 
 seen that face before : I knew I had seen it before. 
 Suddenly it flashed upon me, and ashamed, yet yield- 
 ing to the temptation, I went and looked in Gilbert's 
 pocket for the miniature he had once shown to me. 
 It was not there; but I knew now, I could not reason 
 myself out of the conviction that it was not Kate's 
 idealized face, but " Gertrude's ; " younger, more child- 
 ish, fainter-colored, than as I had seen it that day, but 
 her face surelv. 
 
CHAPTER XYIIL 
 
 It had become a settled fact in the household, that 
 " Missus " was taking care of a great friend of " Massa 
 Carl's," which vexed me greatly ; it seemed hard that 
 not even death could screen that noble name from be- 
 ing mixed in deceit. 
 
 I had told the truth when I said Mr. Stuart had 
 spoken for Carl, for he had done so, slightly enough, 
 as I recorded in the early pages of my life ; but not 
 because my love for my husband's memory endeared 
 even an enemy of my country who had been once his 
 friend, as the servants supposed, nor on account of the 
 intensity of my charity and patriotism, as others 
 thought, had I brought Gilbert there ; nor yet because 
 the old love lingered still. If Gilbert Stuart stood 
 before me in health and freedom, and offered me his 
 love, the love I had striven so hard to gain, the love 
 that longing for had imbittered my life, hardened my 
 nature, and almost broken my husband's heart, do you 
 think I would have accepted it ? 
 
 When, in the wounded prisoner, I first recognized 
 
194 AT anchoe: 
 
 Gilbert Stuart, a thrill of joy ran through my very 
 soul, for I saw the chance that I might pay him back 
 a debt I owed him. I owed him two debts : one was 
 a debt of hatred for the blight he had put upon my 
 youth ; the other was a debt of thanks that he had 
 risked his life to bring me back to honor and safety ; 
 I leave it to you to guess which debt was the most 
 oppressive to me. 
 
 Very ill and restless he was, and perfectly uncon- 
 scious that I was any other than a stranger to him, if 
 indeed he was not unconscious of everything around 
 him. Handsome, in a strong intense way, he had al- 
 ways been ; but, refined by sickness, his eyes bright 
 with fever, and the bronze not yet worn off his cheeks, 
 his was a royal face to gaze upon ; and when those 
 great, grand eyes that in old times had sj)elled me, 
 glad to be spelled, and bound me, and commanded and 
 moved and stirred my veiy soul, — eyes that had been 
 for years and years the light of my life, when they 
 turned upon me, the old habit came with their gaze. 
 
 Again and again I resolved to go to him no more ; 
 but every day I cared for him more anxiously, more 
 tenderly, more vainly against my will than before. 
 
 In a room opening into the one I had given Gil- 
 bert, the Confederate soldier of whom the doctor had 
 •Spoken to me during the discussion about taking Gil- 
 bert, had been- placed ; the quiet elderly lady who 
 came with the wounded men took the almost exclu- 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 195 
 
 sive charge of him, and we often had long talks to- 
 gether as we sat by the open doors. 
 
 " How hot it is ! " she said one day ; " if we only 
 had ice for theu* wounds ! I am often grateful that I 
 am caring for a stranger, just alone for the agony it 
 would be to see one of my own loved ones burning 
 with pain, and so little relief as we can give them. 
 All the comforts go with the ISTorth ! " 
 
 " They have their own share," I answered, " of 
 sacrifices and privations, and we have our comforts, 
 too ; our soldiers are always with us. I doubt not 
 there is many a heart aching in the IN'orth that would 
 count it beyond all comfort to sit as we do by the 
 side of soldiers fresh from the battle-field. If love, or 
 if distance will not let us do for those who are dear to 
 us, we feel as if, in doing it for some brave comrade, 
 we were doing for them. The N'orthern women have 
 not these opportunities as we have." 
 
 " Little do they care," she returned ; " cold, sensi- 
 ble, model women as .they are ! There is too much 
 knowledge of mathematics, of metaphysics, and of 
 housekeeping crammed into them, to leave much room 
 for teuderness or patriotism." 
 
 " I think," I replied, " the knowledge widens, not 
 encumbers, the heart and mind. I know from that lit- 
 tle sentence that you have learned disgust for has hleiis^ 
 but is it quite fair to blame knowledg.e and education 
 because they are badly used ? For my part I have 
 
196 AT anchor: 
 
 always scorned to enter into discussions upon the ca- 
 pacity of women for coping with men, and all the 
 thousand times repeated arguments and denunciations 
 which go with the subject. Simple enough it seems 
 to me. God has given us but one pair of hands, and 
 given us all an equal number of hours in which to 
 labor and to take our rest. If to one woman he has 
 given a ^splendid talent that others have not, have we 
 any right to abuse the talent because the woman who 
 has that which we have not should fail to possess that 
 wliich we have ? If a woman wills her household du- 
 ties shall wait upon her talent, she is to be blamed for 
 a choice which would not be ours, not for the power 
 of making a choice. If I were an artist or a writer, 
 or anything more than women usually are, I should 
 make my choice between my talent and household 
 life. If I loved the talent best, I should never marry. 
 If I did marry, I should use my talent only to enlarge 
 my heart and fortify my common sense. It is true all 
 women do not see this thing as I do, and they decide 
 to make household duties second ; then thev are 
 blamed, are pronounced cold, as if mind and heart 
 were always at odds. I have lived a great deal among 
 Northern women, of course, as I am from the Xorth 
 myself, and I cannot call them cold, or allow that their 
 hearts are not large and loving. I wonder if they are 
 just to us, or if they blame our impulsiveness, our un- 
 disciplined minds, as we blame them?" 
 
A STOEY OF OUll CIVIL WAK. 197 
 
 " I cannot bear the thought," she said ; " those cold, 
 methodical, intolerant women ; do you think they care 
 for their soldiers ; do you think they open their houses 
 to them as we do ? Oh, if I only knew ! I had an 
 only son, but — " 
 
 She paused and sighed. 
 
 " You, too," I said ; " is there any one whose heart 
 is not in mourning ? " 
 
 "My son is not dead," she answered. "It were 
 better if he were. He is a traitor ! — no, not a traitor; 
 no man is a traitor so long as he is true to his con- 
 science. He would not listen to me ; I had brought 
 him up in steady faith, but it was of no use when 
 he was tested. If anything happened to him, those 
 ISTorthern women would treat him like a beggar, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 "Do not for a moment so wrong the Xorth ; let us 
 be just to our enemies; if our cause is right, it is 
 light, although the women of the Xorth were angels 
 or were barbarians. We gain nothing by intolerance ; 
 indeed, it is that bitterness, that unwillingness to be- 
 lieve in anything good from those that are opposed to 
 us, which most injures the cause of our country, as it 
 has long terribly hurt the cause of our religion. We 
 claim for our schools, for our institutions, for our very 
 merchants even, as much as if their perfection were an 
 article of faith ; we will not own that a Catholic can 
 do wrong, or that a Protestant can do right, and we 
 
198 AT anchoe: 
 
 are making tlie same mistake in regard to the two 
 sections. It is true we hear that prosperity and ease 
 and luxury are with the Xorth ; but women, South or 
 Xorth, must have changed their nature if any luxury 
 can steel their hearts against pain and suffering, and 
 and oh ! the pain and suffering incurred for them ! " 
 
 " You are a Xorthem woman, — would you be just 
 as kind if you believed in the Northern side ? " 
 
 " Certainly, I should ! " 
 
 " You know the Xorth. Perhaps you think I ought 
 not to care what becomes of my boy, now that he has 
 deserted us ; but I cannot. He is my son, 3-ou know. 
 I thought, when pleading failed, that I might frighten 
 him ; and I said, if he put on the Yankee uniform, I 
 never wanted to see his face again ; and oh, perhaps 
 I never shall ! Do yon suppose he thought I meant 
 it?" 
 
 " Surely not," I answered, for maternal love and 
 tenderness must have been ever imprinted unmistak- 
 ably upon her sweet face. " It is from you he must 
 have learned to follow his own convictions, at whatever 
 cost, for you have shown him the example at a price 
 which no man can ever wholly apjDreciate ; he surely 
 honors you for your steadfastness, though, doubtless, it 
 seems to him blindness, and cuts him to the heart to 
 remember ; so you should honor him that he followed 
 his convictions. You could not ^vish him to have yield- 
 ed his principles either to your lo^e or to your anger." 
 
A STORY OF OUK CIVIL WAE. 199 
 
 '^Principles! Do you suppose they really think 
 they are fighting for principles ! " she exclaimed ; and 
 I was angrier then than when I tried to shut out the 
 sounds of rejoicing over the Bull Run battle. 
 
 " Madam," I said, " it is not difiicult to im&gine 
 that a nation honorable, liberal, and prosperous, should 
 fancy itself upholding a principle when it stands in 
 arms for its government against its rebellious sub- 
 jects." 
 
 " That is their way of putting it," she returned ; 
 "I suppose you understand the Xorth better than I." 
 
 " Oh ! do not speak always as if it were the North 
 we are warring against ; we have made war upon the 
 United States, and the United States, not North, 
 South, East, or West, has declared war against us." 
 
 " North, South, East, or West," she replied ; " I 
 hate them for taking my boy from me. I have never 
 heard one word from him since Bull Run. I would 
 give my life to hear of his safety." 
 
 " May I ask his name ?" I said. " I may some time 
 chance to hear from or of him." 
 
 " My son's name ? — James Belton ; he was a cap- 
 tain in the old army when the war commenced." 
 
 After that we were a long time quiet. As I heard 
 that name I seemed to see again the little group 
 around the dinner-table, and my husband, flushed 
 with enthusiasm, at its head; and again, pale and 
 tired, as he was, when he lay back in his arm-chair 
 
200 AT axchok: 
 
 that night while I told him of Captain Belton's letter. 
 And once more I thought, if I had argued and reasoned 
 with him as I ought, he might have been, perhaps, safe 
 to-day, or, at least, his name might have been enrolled 
 among the defenders of that flag against which he had 
 fought, but under the starry folds of which he now 
 slept. I wondered, too, which had done right ; the 
 mother who, with breaking heart, had torn herself 
 from her son to be true to her convictions, or the wife 
 who had been false to her convictions, lackino^ courasre 
 to leave her husband. I walked, indeed, along a tan- 
 gled path, hardly knowing if it were my own will to 
 go forward, backward, or stand still; but somehow 
 hoping to see that which seemed all a tangle, all con- 
 fusion, woven into a straight and meaning road. 
 
 The Confederate soldier whom Mrs. Belton had left 
 for a few moments, an hour after, called me to him. 
 
 " I know about her son," he said ; " his name was 
 Belton, she said, didn't she ? Tou are sure she said 
 Belton^ — James Belton ? But I know it was the one ; 
 he was a colonel, and commanded a brigade. And this 
 is his mother taking care of me like as if she was my 
 own Another ! " 
 
 " What do you know about her son ? " I asked. 
 
 " I daren't tell you," he answered ; " you will tell 
 her, and she will never come near me after." 
 
 " I will not tell her anything you do not wish me 
 to." 
 
A STOEY OF OUE CIVIL WAE. 201 
 
 " I only clone my duty," he told me ; " when we 
 goes to fight, fight we must, and done with it. I was 
 in a company of sharpshooters, ma'am, and -we set out 
 to hit a man that went everywhere on a white horse 
 like as if the devil himself couldn't touch him. We 
 used to call him ' the one-armed deml^ ma'am. No- 
 body thought I could do much ; and says I to myself, 
 ' Just you hit the one-armed devil, Billy Sayres, and 
 you'll be a big gun ever after.' I was sure I had him, 
 when there was a crowd consulting together ; but up 
 rides another man and dashes by, all bright with tog- 
 gery ; nothing less than a General that time ; I fired, 
 and down he went ; and when I fired again, the white 
 horse was out of sight. But I just marked the place ; 
 for, says I to myself, ' I'll get a heap of things from 
 him, and he deserves to lose them for spoiling my aim.' 
 We made such a pile there, ma'am ; 'twasn't much use 
 to try to carry him off, though he were Georg^y B. 
 himself, which he wasn't, for nobody ever knew that 
 sharpshooter that ever had a sight of Mm. So, when 
 nio-ht came, me and some others went around, and I 
 found my man. Soon as ever I see him, I knew liim 
 for a General that once let my mother off down in the 
 valley, and gave our folks a guard just as often as they 
 asked. Mother was a regular Northerner, and this 
 General or Colonel he knew it. I wanted some clothes 
 bad, but I hadn't the heart to take his. I was very 
 proud to take down a General, for he acted like a Gen- 
 9* 
 
202 AT A^'CHOR. 
 
 eral, and there was heaps about him in the papers 
 afterwards, but I kind of wish'd it hadn't been him. 
 I thought maybe mother'd like something that was 
 his ; she was so fond of him, she'd cook him pies, and 
 loved him like as if he were a ' Rebel.' So I takes 
 this note-book, ma'am ; I haven't ever opened it, I've 
 just held on to it all the time." 
 
 Mrs. Belton had put away his old clothes very 
 nicely, as he now wore the hospital dress, and obeying 
 his directions I had little difBculty in finding a pack- 
 age which I gave to him. It was rolled in a very dirty 
 newspaper, which the soldier unwound, although he 
 was too weak to easily accomplish the unrolling. As 
 he attempted handing it me he dropped it, and the 
 papers scattered around the floor and bed ; I gathered 
 them up hastily and replaced them. A carte de visite 
 attracted my attention, for it laid face uppermost, and 
 was one of a set I had had taken while at the North, 
 the summer before the war. On the back of it was 
 wiitten, ''Fi^om Sr. M Z., Xor. 1861." 
 
 It seemed natural to conclude it had been given 
 him by some one of the Sisters at the convent where I 
 had seen Emma Lewis, for I had left several there, 
 and with real joy I felt I had lived in the grateful 
 remembrance of one man; one person had not met 
 trouble and pain through me. 
 
 "TTill you take care of it, ma'am," asked the 
 soldier, " and give it to her after I am gone ? Dori't 
 tell her who done it." 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 203 
 
 Poor bright, little fellow, cheerful, grateful as he 
 had been, interesting and winning us all, he lost his 
 spirits after this; erysipelas came and could not be 
 conquered; they took him to the Sisters' hospital, 
 where there were more experienced nurses; Mrs. 
 Belton still seeing him every day ; but before either 
 she or I knew he was really in danger he died. I had 
 forgotten his name, which he had repeated in his 
 story of Captain Belton's death, and could not recall 
 it for a long time. I should have been glad to have 
 seen or written to his mother, and regretted my own 
 selfish preoccupation which had. not anticipated this 
 event. As all connected with him now comes back, I 
 am reminded of some verses, I do not know by whom 
 written, I have since seen, which are so suggestive of 
 the many scenes we saw and thoughts we felt in 
 those bitter days, that I trust no apology is needed for 
 copying them here : 
 
 "SOMEBODY'S DAKLIXG. 
 
 " Into a ward of the white-washed halls, 
 
 Where the dead and dying lay, 
 Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls, 
 
 Somebody's darling was borne one day — 
 Somebody's darUng, so young and so brave, 
 
 Wearmg yet on his pale, sweet face, 
 Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave, 
 
 The Imgering hght of his boyhood's grace. 
 
204 AT ANcnoPw : 
 
 "Matted and damp are the curls of gold, 
 
 Kissing the snow of the fair young brow ; 
 Pale are the lips of delicate mould — 
 
 Somebody's darling is dying now. 
 Back from his beautiful, blue-veined brow, 
 
 Brush all the wandering waves of gold ; 
 Cross his hands on his bosom now — 
 
 Somebody's darling is still and cold. 
 
 " Kiss him once for somebody's sake; 
 
 Murmur a prayer, soft and low ; 
 One bright curl from its fair mates take — 
 
 They were somebody's pride, you know. 
 Somebody's hand has rested there — 
 
 "Was it a mother's, soft and white ? 
 And have the lips of a sister fair 
 
 Been baptized in the waves of Ught ? 
 
 *' God knows best ! He has somebody's love ; 
 
 Somebody's heart enshifoed him there ; 
 Somebody wafted his name above. 
 
 Night and morn, on the wings of prayer. 
 Somebody wept when he marched away, 
 
 Looking so handsome, brave, and grand; 
 Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay. 
 
 Somebody clung to his parting hand. 
 
 " Somebody's waiting and watching for him — 
 
 Yearning to hold him again to her heart ; 
 And there he lies, with his blue eyes dim, 
 
 And the smiling, child-like lips apart. 
 Tenderly bury the fair young dead. 
 
 Pausing to drop on his grave a tear ; 
 Carve on the wooden slab at his head, 
 
 ' Somebody's darhng slumbers here.' " 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 Theee came a day when Gilbert slept quietly, and 
 the doctor, my young friend, said that when he awoke 
 the fever would be gone. 
 
 He slept on until it grew so dusky that he could 
 not recognize me. I knew very well that I ought not 
 to let him recognize me, nor let him knoAv that I had 
 been near him ; yet it seemed very hard — you do not 
 need that I should tell you how hard ; but he was not 
 free, and every voice of duty, j^ride, and self-respect 
 sternly demanded that I should do so. I hoped, as I 
 sat in the dim light, he would wake and speak in his 
 natural voice again. It would seem like a dream of 
 home, — and moie. But it grew along late into the 
 night, so late I could not longer delay having lights, 
 and he still slept ; so 1 forced myself from the seat at 
 his side, and for the last time put the bottles in order, 
 lowered the curtains, stood by him a moment, and then 
 gave him into Mrs. Belton's charge. 
 
 " I knew him once," I said to her, " and I do not 
 care to have him know that I have seen him. Please. 
 
206 AT anchoe: 
 
 avoid mentioning my name, or saying any thing that 
 will arouse his suspicions. I will do as much as I can 
 to avoid extra trouble to you ; the only thing is, I do 
 not wish to be seen by him." 
 
 Day after day I prepared every delicacy I possibly 
 could to send him, and every day I heard that he was 
 slowly gaining strength. ^Miat wild, foolish things I 
 did, it would be as foolish to name here ; how I sent him 
 soups and jellies in my finest silver and china dishes, 
 accompanied by flowers, and every fancy I could 
 devise to please his taste or tempt his appetite. I 
 searched my library for the books I thought he would 
 like best, and when they were returned, I cherished 
 them for that they had been with him ; but I kept my 
 resolution well, and did not once see him. 
 
 The young surgeon and myself were now excellent 
 friends ; he had known my husband and many of my 
 Southern friends well, and besides being genial, lively, 
 and warm-hearted by nature, was agreeable, accom- 
 plished, and pleasing by cultivation. 
 
 " Have you seen Mademoiselle ' Gertrude ' lately ? " 
 he asked me, one day. " Her sweet face quite haunts 
 me, and is evidently intended to exercise an extensive 
 influence over my destiny. How eagerly, three years 
 ao"0, 1 would have followed it ; but now I almost count 
 it sin to think of any thing but those there," pointing 
 to the hospital ; " but — she had a lovely face ! " 
 
 " And a face however lovely, I ask as a matter of 
 
A STOET OF OUR CITIL WAR. 207 
 
 curiosity, Ccan it inspire and sustain, for nearly six 
 weeks, an interest in the fickle heart of man?" I 
 asked. 
 
 " For six times six weeks," he answered, " when 
 the face is as fair as hers ! " 
 
 " How very absurd ! How very small the worth 
 of a heart given to a face; to no sweetness of dis- 
 position, to no brilliancy of thought, or dejDth of char- 
 acter, but simply to red cheeks and blue eyes ! I 
 should be humbled so to make a conquest." 
 
 " Then your pride has surely had many a fall. 
 But ' Gertrude ' — a romantic name, is it not ? — but 
 Gertrude, if I read her face rightly, would have no 
 such nice scruples, I fancy." 
 
 " Well, fate seems to have decreed that you shall 
 be interested in her, and will most likely bring you 
 yet to her feet, and then we shall see." 
 
 " Then we shall see ! Haven't I won grrace enough 
 from you yet to secure an introduction ? " 
 
 " Ah ! so I am to lay all this benevolent assistance 
 to the account of Mademoiselle Gerti-ude ! Permit me 
 to moralize : Here am T, a woman not remarkably ugly, 
 and, as women go, sensible ; for six weeks I have work- 
 ed with you in the best cause possible — that of suffer- 
 ing humajiity; have obeyed your every instruction 
 most implicitly ; have made your patients take your 
 bitter medicines, to please you ; have watched your 
 incomings and outgoings ; have in all things conducted 
 
208 AT anchor: 
 
 myself in tlie most humble and polite manner possible, 
 humbly enough, one would think, to melt the heart of 
 a tyrant ; and when, at the end, I think I have won a 
 little consideration, lo and behold ! I am esteemed 
 only for the fact that for fifteen minutes I once was 
 seen talking with a ' lovely and accomplished female.' 
 Verily, it is hard to say to which of us the fact is most 
 humiliating ! " 
 
 " You speak in jest, but your words have a world 
 of meaning. It is one of the mysteries of life. That 
 I honor and esteem you, that I bow down to you as 
 to a noble and beautiful woman, and that it will be 
 my pride all my life to feel that I have been a co- 
 laborer with one so earnest, and yet that all this 
 talent and virtue gains additional light from a pair of 
 blue eyes once seen, perhaps never to be seen again, 
 is a mystery which is so common one hardly notes it, 
 and which cannot be explained. Is it humbling ? I 
 cannot feel it so. It is to me a proof of the wonderful 
 power of the soul, that sees beyond our mortal vision, 
 and recognizes — what ? " 
 
 " Sure enough, ichat ? Neither you nor I can tell. 
 It may be a Joan of Arc, or a Lucrezia Borgia, though 
 I hardly think it ; it may be a St. Teresa or a Flora 
 MacFlimsey for all either of us know." 
 
 " It rouses my curiosity, and I mean to know." 
 
 " That depends not upon yourself, but on her will 
 and pleasure. We only know as much of each other 
 
A STORY OF OIIE CIVIL WAE. 209 
 
 in the closest relations of life, as others choose that we 
 shall know." 
 
 " You frighten me ! But Mademoiselle is apparent- 
 ly an amiable young lady, and, if you will give me an 
 introduction, the stupid formula that bridges over the 
 dreadful gulf that no heroism, no devotion, no good- 
 ness can pass over, I hope to know considerable of 
 her. How very powerful it is, that little formula ! I 
 may have met you every day for twenty years, have 
 known half the incidents of your life, yet not venture 
 on so much as a bow in the street ; while some stran- 
 ger, never heard of before, is made intimate at once by 
 half a dozen rapid words. Pray you, speak them for 
 me." 
 
 " I do not know her myself. She chose to bridge 
 over the gulf you find so impassable in her own way. 
 I never saw her but that once ; do not even now know 
 more of her name or address than that her father called 
 her ' Gertrude: " 
 
 " That is very bad. Is she a myth, think you, or 
 an angel rather, assuming mortal guise, just to fill my 
 head with dreams ? " 
 
 " Xonsense ! " 
 
 "]N'o, dreams." 
 
 " If I meet her again, I will cultivate her friendship 
 for your sake, if not for my own, for I perceive you 
 are growing desperate." 
 
 " Not growing, but grown. Now I have exhausted 
 
210 AT ai^chor: 
 
 my daily allowance of folly, and bid you good 
 day." 
 
 " That is consistent with your compliments ! Good 
 day." 
 
 A slisfht, li2:ht-haii'ed man in a colonel's uniform 
 now became known to me in my walks. Once I met 
 him face to face, and he started and stared, and, I had 
 the feeling, looked after me when I passed. He 
 repeated this performance every time he met me, 
 which was nearly every day. One morning, when I 
 was a little later than usual, I found myself walking 
 behind him. This time he Avas not alone ; a slender 
 young girl, dressed in a very pretty summer suit, and 
 a stylish "jockey hat," had his arm. I knew her at the 
 first turn of her head. It was " Gertrude." Without 
 intending it, I followed them some distance, until I 
 suddenly found we were at the depot. I turned back 
 at once. 
 
 I was delayed a little by an old woman with a 
 piteous story to tell.. "While listening to her, " Ger- 
 trude " came toward me, alone, and visibly crying. 
 I bowed, and took a step or two toward her. She 
 se'emed embarrassed, but advanced a little. 
 
 "Did you mind my rushing off so rudely that 
 day ? " she said, as if in order to say something. " It 
 was not right, when you had been so kind as to tell 
 me about the trains." 
 
 " I should have been very sorry to have had you 
 
A STOEY OF OFE CrV'IL WAE. 211 
 
 more polite," I answered. " I was glad to see your 
 father came." 
 
 " Yes, poor papa ! " she said, her tears bursting 
 out afresh. " Now he is gone. He took his last walk 
 with me this morning, just to show me how well he could 
 bear it ; but, indeed, he is not able to go yet. May I 
 walk with you ? " she added. " I do not know any one 
 here that can understand how I feel to-day. I left 
 mamma in hysterics. It makes me cross to have her 
 feel so badly. When will it be over ! Papa, poor 
 papa ! he went away so gloomy, although things look 
 brighter than ever now." 
 
 " I am going up to the hospital," I answered. " I 
 would like yery much to have you go with me." 
 
 " I would love to, dearly ; but perhaps papa would 
 not like it." 
 
 " If you will trust to that instinctive knowledge 
 which women generally have of each other, you may 
 rely upon me to take care of you. I will not let you 
 see any of the badly wounded men; we will pass 
 through only one ward. I have some things to give 
 one of the nurses." 
 
 " I will go," she answered. " I am not afraid of 
 anything that you are not." 
 
 " Do you wish to see your mother first — will she be 
 anxious ? " 
 
 " Mamma ? — she would not mind if I stayed away 
 a month. She knows you by sight ; a friend of ours 
 
212 AT AlN'CHOIl : 
 
 spoke to lis about you one day — some one who had 
 known Major Aberthnay. I am so sorry for you ! " 
 
 As we walked and talked, her depression wore 
 away ; her nature was not one to retain any emotion 
 for any length of time. I exerted myself to amuse her, 
 trying the while to think whether I would do well to 
 meet my friend. Dr. Carr, at the same time that a 
 thought was darting back and forth in my mind, what 
 effect would it have if I were to lure her to my house, 
 and let her see Gilbert ? 
 
 At the hospital door we met the doctor, and I 
 observed with much amusement that lie retained his 
 color and his composure under the imexpected gaze of 
 my companion's eyes. With the same politeness as 
 usual, with perhaps a shade more of ceremony, he 
 accompanied us into the hospital, and, when my visit 
 to the vrard was over, offered to show us other parts 
 of the building. Gertrude had told the simple truth, 
 when she said she had learned the art of flirting ; her 
 eyes did the Avork of a dozen ordinary paii's that day. 
 She despised the ordinary glances of surj^rise, dismay, 
 and affected interest ; she gave cool politeness to all 
 the doctor's explanations, and attentive earnestness to 
 my slightest remarks ; her blue eyes alternately fanned 
 and kindled the doctors already well-fired heart, while 
 I watched the comedy with as much interest as one 
 can who sees behind the acting. 
 
 I did not leave my new friend until she had ex- 
 
A STORY OF OUK CIVIL WAR. 213 
 
 pressed her pleasure at meeting me, and eagerly 
 accepted my invitation to visit me. 
 
 Oiie thing and another detained me that morning, 
 and Avhcn I reached home, Mrs. Belton met me with a 
 serious face, and said : 
 
 "Tlie soldier in your front room that we have 
 taken care of so much, is a Yankee ; they came for 
 him this morning, told me of it, and have taken him 
 away." 
 
 " Where ? " I asked. 
 
 " To the prison hospital, I suppose," she answered. 
 " If I had known he was a Yankee, I could have asked 
 him about my son. Who would ever have thought it, — 
 so gentlemanly, so polite, so intelligent, and a Yankee ? " 
 
 " And he is gone ! " 
 
 " Yes, ma'am, he is gone. To think of his audacity, 
 palming himself off for one of our men, and getting 
 taken care of by us ! " 
 
 " He had not such a thought ; he was quite uncon- 
 scious when he came here." 
 
 Gone ! How my life sank down again ! how wretch- 
 ed the city seemed ! how long the days, varied by no 
 labors for him ! 
 
 I had left of him only that one faded strap, — not a 
 word, not a glance of recognition even ; and now he 
 was gone. Twice I had singularly and unexpectedly 
 had him brought before me, but how could I ever 
 hope for such a chance again ? 
 
214 AT AXCHOK. 
 
 I dragged myself from street to street of that 
 pestilent city, thinking it my duty to toil there ; to do 
 there the only good my hands had ever found to do, 
 and to expiate, by hourly self-sacrifice, the sins of my 
 Hfe. 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 
 I SAW a great deal of Gertrude, and tried to lead 
 her to speak of her life at the N'orth ; but my efforts 
 were successful only in so far as they drew forth count- 
 less confessions of extravagance, flirting, and the usual 
 sins and pastimes of young ladyhood. I had quite 
 abandoned the fancy that her face was like the face in 
 the miniature Gilbert Stuart had shown me, and I was 
 already quite weary of her pretty vanities and small 
 ambitions; but she clung all the more to me. Her 
 father's letters she often read to me ; they were full of 
 affection, but such letters as one would write to a 
 child, not to a girl of twenty. Her mother I had 
 never seen, but I judged her, from Gertrude's descrip- 
 tion, to be an inefficient, hysterical, uncomfortable 
 woman, with little brains and less intelligence. Ger- 
 tie, whose other name, by the way, was the same as 
 my own had been — Vane — needed little urging to 
 escape as often as possible from the confusion of an 
 immense family under the capricious rule of Mrs. Yane, 
 and domesticate herself vrith me. 
 
216 AT anchor: 
 
 A thoroughbred coquette I knew her to be from 
 the first ; but I was surprised to find that, young as 
 she was, she had been several times engaged, and now 
 wore upon her forefinger a brilliant diamond, whose 
 giver she declared to be odious to her, but whose ring 
 she wore because it was pretty. 
 
 " Every thing he ever gave me," she said, " was on 
 a magnificent scale. I believe I came nearer loving 
 him than I ever did anybody." 
 
 "Whowas'Ae'?" 
 
 " My first love ; I never told any one about him ; 
 it is quite a romance; I have a great mind to tell you, 
 if you promise beforehand never to tell any one, not 
 to laugh at me, nor to blame me." 
 
 "A woman will promise anything to have her curi- 
 osity gratified. Let us hear the story." 
 
 " I must see you comfortably at your work first, for 
 it is a long story ; but it is quite a romance, I assure 
 you ; I mean to tell it to some authoress some day ; it 
 would sound so nicely, all worked up into a novel, 
 with the fixings and framing they jDut in. Xow I've 
 said so much, you will expect it to be more than it is, 
 and perhaps, after all, you won't think it interest- 
 ing." 
 
 " Certainly I shall, and you can make it as long as 
 you please, only don't interrupt yourself vdih aj^olo- 
 gies, as you so often do, but tell the story straight on." 
 For I had a way of thinking my own thoughts while 
 
A STOEY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 217 
 
 Gertie told her stories, and she never suspected that I 
 was not an attentive listener. 
 
 " Well, you know, I went to school at Madame 
 Chegary's, and, as I have told you, in spite of all her 
 vigilance, remonstrances, and lectures, I did contrive 
 to have a pretty good time, and one or two flirtations. 
 I never did like to study, and was wild to go into 
 society, so that one year I got papa to promise that 
 I might leave school just as soon as I was sixteen, and 
 papa never breaks a promise. When the day came, 
 for I knew papa would do as he said, I packed up my 
 book, kissed the girls all around the school, and posi- 
 tively refused to say any lessons. Every moment I 
 expected papa to come for me, but half the day was 
 spent in waiting before I heard a word, and then it 
 was a note from mamma ; she was at the St. Nicholas, 
 — sick, of course ; mamma's always sick, — where I was 
 to join her, and wait for papa to meet us, as soon as 
 ever he could get on. I did not like this much, I can 
 tell you, for mamma always sticks close to her room, 
 and to sing, or move, almost to breathe, sends her 
 into hysterics; so, of course, I did not look forward to 
 much pleasure. 
 
 " Every day we expected papa to come, and so I 
 tried to be patient, and bear with the best grace I 
 could the imprisonment in mamma's room, which was 
 worse than any thing at Madame's ; but of course I 
 was dreadfully bored, shut up, like a nun, in the great 
 10 
 
218 AT anchoe: 
 
 hotel, with lots of ftin going on everywhere, and not 
 the glimmering of a chance to join in it, beyond a lit- 
 tle flirting now and then, in the passages, Avhenlcould 
 escape from mamma. You look shocked ; of course I 
 would not do such things now, but that was ever so 
 many years ago, and I was very young and very wild ; 
 and, you know, girls of sixteen very often do things 
 they blush to remember at twenty, — we won't say 
 twenty how much. 
 
 "After a day or two I went around to see the 
 girls; you may be sure I did not tell them what a 
 stupid time I was having. I made a great deal of talk, 
 as if I had been having a royal time. When they 
 coaxed and teased me to go -^dth them to a concert 
 that night, I pretended to consider, and finally said, 
 if mamma had made no engagement for me I would. 
 Mamma had bought me some lovely new dresses, and 
 just the dearest opera-hat in the world ; there's one thing 
 I will say for mamma, she has perfect taste in dress. 
 
 " When I got home mamma told me I had had a 
 call from some one who had not asked to see her ; the 
 card was around the room somewhere, she said. I 
 went around hunting for it, mighty curious, you may 
 well believe, to know who had called on me. It was a 
 gentleman's name, mamma condescended to remember. 
 I could only imagine some of the day-scholars had put 
 their brothers up to it, or that possibly some of the 
 fellows we used to flirt with had found me out, and 
 
A story' of Om CIVIL WAR. 219 
 
 had the impudence to call. This last supposition gave 
 me a good fright. At last I found the card. It was 
 a written card. I remember just how I felt when I 
 read the name. Heigho ! I have read that name 
 many times since ! Well, on the back of the cai'd was 
 a note. I think I can remember it : 
 
 ." 'My dear Miss Vane, 
 
 ' I saw your name in the list of arrivals in last 
 evening's paper. Is not Mr. Vane coming on soon ? 
 I afn very much disappointed^ not to meet you, hut 
 will call again to-morrow. If I ca7i he made useful, 
 in Mr. Vaiie's absence, do not hesitate to command me. 
 I am at the Everett Souse. Gilbert Stuart.' 
 
 " Isn't it a romantic name ? I thought so then 
 and I think so now. I did not know the man from 
 Adam. There was a horrible old fogy whom I used 
 to know in Virginia, by the name of Stuart, but he 
 couldn't have written such a note to save his life. It 
 was such a round, fiill hand, yet so graceful and 
 formed, — I will show you some time,^that I knew the 
 man who wrote it must be nice ; and I was mighty 
 sorry I was not his ^liss Yane, for, of course, you 
 know, the note had been taken to the wrong room. I 
 knew the little note all by heart before I could make 
 up my mind to send it to the right Miss Yane, for you 
 can imagine, in a life such as mine had been, the least 
 little excitement was very welcome. At last, how- 
 
220 AT ai?^chor: 
 
 ever, I got my courage up, and sent the waiter with 
 the little card to the other Miss Yane, while I sat 
 wishing. I don't suppose women, like you, ever do 
 such foolish things ; but silly girls, such as I expect 
 always to be, do give way to such wishes sometimes. 
 I sat wishing my time had come for gentlemen to send 
 me dear little notes, and put themselves at my service, 
 when back came the waiter. There wasn't any other 
 Miss Yane, nor hadn't been any other Miss Yane, at 
 the hotel. I took back the card, and had a great ^lind 
 to let him call and see me before finding out his mis- 
 take ; but I knew it would not do, so I wrote him a 
 line, just as nicely as I could write, arid told him the 
 mistake he had made ; before I had time to seal it the 
 girls came, and I went to the concert. 
 
 " Now if I hadn't been hurried ofi" without sealing 
 that letter what a difference there would have been in 
 the lives of, at least, two persons; for Lottie Ellis, 
 who sat next me at the concert, — for which concei*t, be 
 it known, we neither of us cared a rush, — Lottie Ellis 
 somehow got out of me about the card, and as she is 
 always ready for mischief, she said, ' Oh, I wouldn't do 
 such a silly thing as to send it back. He may be some 
 one who has been in love with you this eyer so long, 
 who has taken this way for meeting you, and it is flying 
 riglit in the face of destiny to do such a ridiculous 
 thinor ; ^ait and see what comes of it. I would act the 
 real Miss Yane, if it so be that it is not you he means.' 
 
A STOET OF OUR CIYLL WAK. 221 
 
 "'How can I? he will know the difference the 
 minute he sees me,' I said, ' and that will be to- 
 morrow.' 
 
 " ' Oh, you goose ! ' said she, ' what need to let him 
 see you ? There are fifty places where you can be 
 when he calls ; it isn't to be expected that you can 
 stay in all day to wait for him, and afterwards you 
 can write a lovely little note of regret. You know 
 you write the sweetest notes.' 
 
 " ' Oh ! I would not dare,' I said, ' he would know 
 it was not her writing.' 
 
 " ' Ten chances to one he has never seen her writ- 
 ing,' Lottie urged, ' and besides, ladies all write alike ; 
 you can write as if in a great hurry, and if it is very 
 unlike her hand, and he knows it, he will lay it to that. 
 But I believe you are the Miss Yane ; he is some one 
 who is in love with you, I knoAV. I'll tell you ; don't 
 send the letter yet, and we can go to the parlor to- 
 morrow and see him, — I can, not you, for the waiter 
 would be sure to say there is Miss Vane, — and I will 
 report what he looks like. You can give the waiter 
 orders to say you are not at home.' 
 
 " I consented to that, of course, for there was noth- 
 ing in doing that much, and the next day Lottie came 
 bright and early, as glad of the fun, almost, as if she 
 were the principal in it. 
 
 "With the most exemplary patience she sat in 
 the first parlor and waited ; with far less patience I sat 
 
222 AT axchor: 
 
 up stairs and waited. At last Lottie rushed up stairs 
 almost out of breath, and, as by good luck, mamma 
 was all day too sick to rise, we had a grand talk. 
 Lottie was perfectly enchanted ; she said he was hand- 
 some as a prince, tall and splendid^ a school-girl's beau 
 ideal, tall and splendid and dark. Xo school- 
 girl's hero ever had any but dark eyes and black hair, 
 nor did he ever fail to be tall and splendid. 'Oh, 
 he looked so disappointed ! ' Lottie told me ; ' it was 
 the richest fan ever was ! I won't let you give it up 
 now ; I am just in love with him myself, and if I were 
 in your place I would have him dead in love with me 
 in a week. Xow, I've got to go home soon, and 
 before I go I want to see your note written, for it 
 wouldn't do not to write something. Evidently the 
 man is in love with Miss Vane, whether 3Iiss Vane 
 means you or somebody else ; just .as evidently he is 
 not engaged to her, or he would not call her Miss ; it 
 is also very clear that he is on good terms with her ; 
 and if with so much knowledge to start with, you and 
 I do not succeed in making a j^retty big romance, we 
 are not of much account.' We got pen, ink, and 
 paper, and after much plotting and planning succeed- 
 ed in getting up a very non-committal note ; we ' did 
 not know how soon Mr. Yane would be on,' were 
 ' sorry to have put him to the trouble of calling twice 
 in vain,' would ' ask him to call that evening, but were 
 going to Wallack's ' — Lottie and her brother had 
 
A STOEY OF OUR CIVIL WAE. 223 
 
 already engaged me to go there. That was all, 
 signed with my initials. 
 
 "In the middle of the play that night at Wallack's, 
 Lottie pressed my arm ; directly opposite us, standing, 
 was a man, the same, Lottie said, as he who had 
 asked for me. Oh ! but he was handsome ! I would 
 have risked a great deal more than I had risked to 
 have 'such a man in love with me. Such fire, reserved 
 fire, such quiet spirit, such force, such character in 
 every look and gesture! I can't help liking him a 
 little bit now, as I think of it. He was that kind of a 
 man that if you once got in the way of caring for him, 
 you could not get out of it ; he would always sort of 
 hold you, even after you had stopped loving him. I 
 forgot to tell you he sent a most beautifiil bouquet to 
 me before it was time to go to the theatre, with a note 
 thanking me for mine, telling me he had to start un- 
 expectedly for Philadelphia, and if it ' would interest 
 me he would like to give me the latest news from that 
 quiet city. I deserve some compensation for my repeat- 
 ed disappointments,' he wrote. This was just what 
 Lottie and I most wanted, and after I came from the 
 theatre I answered his note, and gave him the desired 
 permission. I told him I was very much bored in Xew 
 York, that I had read all the books I could lay hands 
 on, and written up ail my letters, and was very will- 
 ing and glad to be amused. The first answer to my 
 letter was a couple volumes of poems sent from Apple- 
 
224 AT AXCHOK : 
 
 tons', beautifully bound ; one was * Idyls of the 
 King'' which had just come out, and the other the 
 most complete volume of Whittier I had ever seen. 
 When he wrote me he spoke of them : ' He hoped,' he 
 wrote, * I had not already read the Idyls of the King^ 
 for they would furnish me with dreaming for months 
 to come ; and as for TThittier — ^he knew I would find 
 Ms poems always fresh.' Eyidently he knew her taste 
 well" 
 
 " E^ddently," I said, seeing I was exj)ected to say 
 something. 
 
 " It isn't to be supposed," she went on, " that I 
 was very enthusiastic about that Quaker fanatic's 
 poems, but his sending it proved to me conclusively 
 that he thought I was not I." 
 
 " How could you doubt it ? " I asked. 
 
 "I don't know; men do all sorts of things if a 
 pretty face strikes their fancy. Well, to continue, or 
 my story will never be finished. He wrote me often ; 
 I wish I had his letters here ; I am sure they would 
 interest you ; they nearly broke my heart to read and 
 think they were not for me ! Such witty letters, so 
 entertaining, so sensible, with a sort of tender tone 
 running all through them ! What a woman she must 
 have been to have inspii'ed such a man with such a 
 devotion I " 
 
 " How much easier than one less a man," I said, 
 *' it was because the man was himself so grand that he 
 
A STORY OF OtJK CIVIL WAR. 225 
 
 loved SO grandly ; ten times a better woman could not 
 have inspired a lesser man with half such love. But 
 go on." 
 
 "In one of his letters he said: ' Hoping it will not 
 be long before I shall see you in your summer home, 
 I cannot wholly regret my disappointment in New 
 York, since it was the cause of your melting in so far 
 as to write me. That little card you sent me at the 
 Everett House was the very first scrap of your writ- 
 ing I had ever seen.' This encouraged me very 
 extensively, you may believe, and after that I wrote 
 more carefully. I was always proud of my writing. 
 I was very careful of the matter of my letters as well, 
 writing nothing of mamma, papa, nor any people I 
 met, but of books, music, amusements, lectures that I 
 read or heard, and considerably of my own feelings 
 and thoughts. He opened his very soul to me." 
 
 " Oh, how could you ! " I interrupted ; " it was a 
 thousand times meaner than stealino^ or listeninoj be- 
 hind doors, this appropriating thoughts intended for 
 another, this reading his heart ! " 
 
 " You were not to blame me, Mrs. Aberthnay ; that 
 was in the bond. If you begin to blame me there ^vill 
 be no end to your indignation." 
 
 " Then I will not," I said ; " but tell me, what did 
 you expect the man to think of you when your — mis- 
 take was to come to light, as come, of course, it must ? " 
 
 " Oh, my dear Mrs. Aberthnay, you must be very 
 10* 
 
226 AT anchoe: 
 
 innocent ! As if there were not fifty ways of getting 
 out of a worse scrape than that ! I had no fear but I 
 should come out of it all right as far as his opinion 
 went. My only fear was, what effect I should have 
 upon his affections, for I loved him with all the ro- 
 mance of a first love, and as I could never love any 
 man whom I met in the regular proper manner. 
 Stolen fruit is always the sweetest, and there was 
 never sweeter fruit than that I stole that winter. You 
 must know, during the time I was writing, papa came 
 on and had business in Washington, where he Jtvanted 
 to take a house, but mamma would not listen to such 
 a thing ; so it was decided we should remain at the 
 hotel, and papa come on when he could. As mamma 
 generally keeps him in hot water when they are to- 
 gether, I have no doubt he was very much relieved 
 by the decision, except for me ; but I was doing very 
 well. Several ladies had taken a fancy to me, and 
 took me around; and as I was young, wore pretty 
 dresses, and reported, — as all Southern girls in the 
 North are reported to be, — an heiress, I had beaux 
 enough ; and with jDretty dresses and plenty of beaux 
 a girl must be hard to please who cannot contrive 
 to enjoy herself. Yery often Mr. Stuart used to write 
 about Mr. Yane^ and as it was just possible Mr. Vane 
 might not be Miss Yane's papa, I always spoke of him 
 as ]Mr. Yane ; but fearing he might be a near relative, 
 I put the Mr. Yane in quotation marks, and all went 
 
A STOKY OF OFR CIVIL AVAE. 227 
 
 on unsuspiciously, and we Avere desperately in love 
 with each other, when I received a hurried note : Mr. 
 Stuart would be at the hotel the next morning. What 
 the warrior feels when he hears the trumpet blast, and 
 so on, felt little I, as the terrible crash was coming. 
 By this time my impatience had grown so great that 
 I had become almost unable to wait, for I felt 1 7nust 
 have him securely mine beyond a doubt or fear, and 
 the announcement that I was to see him came at the 
 right moment. 
 
 " I never before or since studied my toilet more 
 than I did that morning, mamma helping me." 
 
 " That reminds me, what did your mamma think of 
 all this proceeding ? " I asked. 
 
 " Mamma ! As if I should tell mamma ! Mamma 
 would have a fit at the mere suggestion of my writing to 
 a man. I never even told Lottie Ellis half about it." 
 
 " But how contrive to have your mother's assist- 
 ance ? " 
 
 " Get mamma on dress and every faculty is absorb- 
 ed;, she would walk quite unconsciously over burning 
 plough-shares, if interested in that matter. I told her 
 I had a fancy for looking pretty that day, and she 
 made me j)retty. As Cherubina would say, J never 
 looked so lovely^ yet my dress was apparently simple 
 enough : a gray cashmere morning dress, quilted with 
 blue, slippers, ribbons, embroidery, all perfectly ex- 
 quisite. I was hardly dressed mamma, of course, re- 
 
228 AT axchoe: 
 
 tiring with a sick headache to her room, after the ex- 
 ertion, than his card was brought me. I had deter- 
 mined on nothing ; I only trusted to myself, and felt 
 sure of myself that whatever I did it would be the 
 best. I wonder if my heart will ever beat again as it 
 did that morning on the way to the parlor; again 
 quoting Cherubina : my excitement only enhanced my 
 loveliness. Shall I tell the rest in detail ? " 
 
 " Do not lose a word ; I am intensely interested." 
 
 " Thank you ; you are real good. "Well, I went to 
 the parlor, in which the servant told me he was ; he 
 stood at the door, more royal, more handsome, than 
 the time I saw him before. He started as he saw me, — 
 I know I looked well that day, — and stood back for me 
 to pass. I gave him one clear, full glance, half search- 
 ing, — for you know I w§ls looking for my visitor, — as 
 I went by him, and it did affect him." 
 
 " I do not wonder," I said ; " I have seen the effect 
 of smaller glances on Dr. Carr. Go on." 
 
 " Then I went into the parlor and looked around, 
 and saw in the glass that his impatience for Mademoi- 
 selle's appearance did not prevent his turning around 
 to look at me. Ah ! how many pillars of salt there 
 would be, if all the world were punished like Lot's 
 wife!" 
 
 " They turn inwardly to sticks and stones, which 
 is worse," I said. " Don't morahze ; go on." 
 
 " I went into the other parlors and came back and 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL AVAR. 229 
 
 looked at him, and half advanced ; he looked at me, 
 and there Avas some show of mtelligence in his face. 
 At last I spoke timidly : ' I beg your pardon ; is this, 
 — I am sure it is not, — Mr. Stuart ? ' 
 
 " ' That is my name,' he said. 
 
 " ' Mr. Gilbert Stuart ?' I asked ; ' and you have just 
 asked for Miss Yane ? ' 
 
 '"Yes ! ' he said, starting into animation ; ' yes ! Is 
 she not here ? ' 
 
 " ' This is a funny meeting,' I said, very cordially, 
 laughing and holding out my hand, ' for two people 
 who have been spoiling reams of paper for each other's 
 benefit ! I hardly suppose I ought to be surprised 
 that you should not recognize me, for four years make 
 a great difierence at my age ; but what have you done 
 to yourself? You do not look the least in the world 
 like yourself. Come to mamma's parlor.' Without 
 giving him time to answer, I turned into the hall, and 
 rattled all the way. ' I cannot tell you, — of course a 
 lady is not expected to, — the pleasure I have had from 
 your letters. I did not know you would take so much 
 trouble for poor little me, whom you used to tease so 
 dreadfully. Mamma will be so surprised to see you ! 
 she has a sick headache, however, as usual, and will 
 not be able to see you ; but I shall tell her all about 
 it.' Other things I said more tenderer^ as the children 
 say, and used my eyes with all my might. It was not 
 hard to look delighted afiection and childish happiness 
 up to such a face as his. 
 
230 AT ANCHOR : 
 
 " I did not give him opportunity for a word until 
 we were fairly in mamma's parlor, and then his turn 
 came. 
 
 " ' I do not know what to say,' he began confu- 
 sedly, ' I must shock and pain you. I am perfectly 
 bewildered myself, for I am fairly in your parlor with- 
 out having found voice to say you have made a mis- 
 take. I am Mr. Stuart, it is true, and you are ]Miss 
 Vane, I suppose.' 
 
 " ' Undoubtedly,' I said, Avith wondering eyes. 
 
 "'The Miss Yane I asked for is another IMiss 
 Yane.' 
 
 " ' What do you mean ? ' I said, ' are you not Gil- 
 bert Stuart, who has been writing me from Philadel- 
 phia, and sent me word he would be here to-day ?' 
 
 " ' I am that Gilbert Stuart, but you — ' 
 
 " ' Do you really think I am so altered ? ' I said, 
 laughing heartily. ' Shall I have to wake up mamma 
 to prove my identity ? Mamma hasn't changed ; she 
 looks as she has done for ten years j^ast, and as she 
 ^^ill for ten years to come ; and I, little Gertie, about 
 up to your knees the last time you saw me, am her 
 perfect image, people say ! ' 
 
 " ' My name is Gilbert Stuart. I have written to 
 a Miss Yane all winter, and sent her word that I 
 should meet her here ; she may be in the parlor this 
 very moment : it is a singular coincidence that you, 
 too, should have had a Philadelphia correspondent of 
 the same name.' 
 
A STOEY OF OUR CIVIL WAE. 231 
 
 " For answer, I took from my writing-desk a pack- 
 age of letters. 
 
 " 'It is a funny mistake,' I said, ' and a curious 
 coincidence. My Mr. Stuart wrote me,' — I took out 
 his last note, — * to expect him this morning ; yoi^r Miss 
 Yane may, as you say, be waiting in the parlor for 
 you. My Mr. Stuart will, without doubt, soon be 
 there. I am sorry to have detained you. It is quite 
 a Comedy of Errors. I must say, to explain it as far 
 as I can, that the other Mr. Stuart is a very intimate 
 family friend, whom I have not seen for so many years 
 that I should not be certain of recognizing him ; and 
 although my remembrances of him are indistinct, they 
 do not point out a man like you, but I allowed for 
 time and the addition of whiskers ! ' 
 
 " ' ]S"aturally,' he answered, ' but nothing could 
 prevent me from seeing that you and ]Miss Georgie 
 Vane could never be the same.' 
 
 " He bowed and was leaving the room, when, as 
 letters will, my package broke the elastic that bound 
 them, and two or three fell to the ground ! he picked 
 them up, and oh ! but he grew pale ! 
 
 " ' Another coincidence ! ' he exclaimed. ' I could 
 swear to that's being my writing,' and he pointed to 
 the address. I looked frightened, but answered light- 
 ly, ' I wonder if your style is the same also.' I opened 
 a letter and handed it to him. 
 
 " ' I wrote that letter,' he said, ' and this — and this,' 
 as I showed him others. 
 
232 AT axchoe: 
 
 " We were both pretty quiet for a while. At last 
 he said, with the air of a man who gives up — 
 
 "'All these letters were clearly written by the 
 same person, and that person me. It all comes of my 
 supposition that there could be but one Miss Vane in 
 the world. It all comes from that ! I have often 
 thought the style of their answers was not like her 
 character; but I supposed it to be because people 
 often write so differently from the way they talk. 
 They were beautiful letters, it is true. I seem selfish — 
 this is a great disappointment to me.' 
 
 " We had been sitting while examining the letters. 
 He rose now, wearily enough ; I folded and dropped my 
 hands. I did not need to act much for my heart was 
 really almost breaking. He saw the dejection of my 
 attitude, and was moved with pity. 
 
 " ' This annoys you,' he began. 
 
 " ' Annoys me ! ' I repeated, ' it kills me.' 
 
 " He came nearer to me, ' I will myself bring you 
 every line you have ever written me, if you will allow 
 me,' he said ; ' it ought not to be necessary for me to 
 say I win never speak of this mistake, — this cruel 
 mistake, — ^to any one. I can never think of those beauti- 
 ful letters, nor of this morning's meeting, but with the 
 warmest admiration for their writer, and with the 
 bitterest regret that, young as you are, you could not 
 have been spared this mortification.' 
 
 " ' You are kind,' I answered ; ' I do not think of 
 
A STOET OF OUR CIYIL VTAR. 233 
 
 the mortification. I found a ma?i, and have lived 
 months in the belief that — that there was something 
 in life worth living for ; it is hard that, young as I am, 
 that belief should be taken from me.' 
 
 " ' Your friend Mr. Stuart—' 
 
 " ' I never cared for him ; never even liked him, 
 until his letters won my whole heart. I often wonder- 
 ed how it could have been in him to write such letters ; 
 I might have known it was not.' 
 
 " ' May be it is.' 
 
 " ' I know it is not. Good-bye, dear letters ! Ah, 
 Mr. Stuart, if you could have left me in my mistake ! 
 These were so much my own, I. thought, these letters, 
 and all the time they were not mine; I had no share 
 in them — ' 
 
 " ' Do not say so,' he answered. ' Your letters 
 have acted like inspiration to me.' 
 
 " ' You are kind,' I said ; ' but nothing makes any 
 difference now.' 
 
 " ' "VYe have learned too much of each other,' he 
 finally remarked, ' for us ever to feel that we are 
 strangers to each other. Ton have spoken so kindly 
 of my letters that I venture to hope I may come some- 
 times to see you.' 
 
 "'I should be obliged to explain to mamma,' I 
 answered, * and she would be very angry. I do feel 
 that I know you better than those who have free 
 admittance here ; but on mamma's account I would 
 
234 AT axchoe: 
 
 rather you came introduced. Very likely we have 
 mutual acquaintances here, and if you care for it, I 
 shall be glad.' 
 
 "We talked over everybody we knew without 
 any satisfactory result, until the idea struck me of 
 looking over a card-basket. ' Here is an invitation to 
 Mrs. Carter's for Friday,' I said, ' I wish you knew 
 Mrs. Carter.' 
 
 " ' I know Mrs. Carter's son,' he answered, * and I 
 feel pretty certain I see my way clear to a proper 
 introduction. I wish other things were as clear.' 
 
 " I do not remember very much of what followed. 
 I said something about returning the books he had 
 sent me, but he begged me to keep them, and I 
 did. 
 
 " I met him several times before the Friday of 
 JVIrs. Carter's reception came around, but we passed 
 each other without recognition; I was fortunate 
 enough to blush every time, and he was not perfectly 
 self-composed. One day it was in a gallery of paint- 
 ings; there was never a collection of j)aintings without 
 containing at least one of A Young GirVs First JLove- 
 letter. There was one in this gallery, and a pretty 
 picture it was. Mr. Stuart j^assed me while I was look- 
 ing at it. I had the grace to color as I said, in so low 
 a voice that I hardly knew if he understood me : 
 'There ought to be a companion picture called The 
 Mistake.'^ I did not look to see the effect of this 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 235 
 
 speech, but humed away, and waited and hoped for 
 Friday, w4th what patience I might. 
 
 " Friday night came, and again with all my art, and 
 all my mother's skill, I arrayed myself. It was at the 
 time when we wore the most extensive crinoline, and 
 the most abundant trimming, until women looked like 
 dolls with their entire wardrobe on their backs. I 
 had a silvery kind of dress, with tiny bouquets over 
 it, a train, and a profusion of natural flowers. I did 
 not go until very late ; but, late as it was, I was there 
 before Mr. Stuart. I cannot tell you how wide and 
 empty that room looked to me, for my heart was wild 
 with hope and fear, and love and terror, that night. 
 At last he came, and leaning on his arm was a woman, 
 dazzlingly lovely, a novelist would say, mighty pretty, 
 I must own. I raged inwardly, for it was easy 
 enough to guess she was the other j\Iiss Yane. I had 
 hosts of beaux that night ; I had saved several dances 
 for him if he should ask, and I did my best to be 
 admired that night. The time did come, although it 
 had seemed as if it never would, Avhen Mrs. Carter 
 came sailing toward me, and with her Mr. Stuart, 
 whom in due and proper form she presented to me. 
 It would be some little time before I could dance with 
 him, but he waited, and entertained himself in the 
 mean time with the lady he had brought, or who, per- 
 haps, had brought him. It was not Miss Yane, he 
 told me, but a Mrs. Somebody who had taken him 
 
236 AT axchor: 
 
 as escort, and thereby gained him an introduction to 
 Mrs. Carter. 
 
 " I cannot tell you how that evening went, nor the 
 next, which we spent at a private exhibition of paint- 
 ings, to which the Mrs. Somebody insisted upon taking 
 him, and Mrs. Carter me. 
 
 " He made me several morning calls, and was 
 introduced to mamma. 
 
 " One day he came with my letters, which had 
 never got returned, and also with his adieux ; he was 
 going home to Massachusetts that day. 
 
 " I said something about Miss Vane, which called 
 forth this reply : ' You are very much mistaken in re- 
 gard to my relations to !Miss Yane. She is beautiful 
 and winning ; but her life is so joyous, her position so 
 fiill of sunshine, that a man would commit a sacrilege 
 almost who could woo her from such a home, and I 
 have never spoken one word of more than ordinary 
 friendship to her.' 
 
 " ' There was more than ordinary friendship in those 
 letters,' I answered, ' or so it seemed to me when I 
 
 thought that I ' Have you ever thought, Mrs. 
 
 Aberthnay, how much more that means which you 
 leave unsaid than any thing you could say ? 
 
 " I cannot tell you how long we talked, nor at what 
 particular point I covered my face with my hands, and 
 let him guess that I cared for him. Xothing that he 
 could say consoled me, and it was hard for him to 
 
^ 
 
 A STORY OF OUK CIVIL WAR. 237 
 
 leave me, feeling as I did. He talked a long time, 
 kindlv, tenderly, as a brother might have done, only a 
 brother would have growled and called you a goose, 
 — and finally rising, took my hand to say good-bye. 
 It is very shocking ; but I'm obliged to confess he took 
 my hand, but deferred the good-bye ; and before he 
 got to the good-bye, I had dried my tears, and with 
 his arms around me saw his grand eyes looking down 
 lovingly into mine. Even then I knew it was more a 
 pitying tenderness than the devoted love he would 
 have given the other that was mine ; but I took gladly 
 what I could get, and hoped for more. 
 
 " Mamma was quite satisfied, and planned half my 
 trousseau, while he was telling her all that he would 
 try to do for me. He wrote to papa, and papa pro- 
 fessed himself satisfied if mamma and I were, and all 
 went merry as a marriage bell." 
 
 " This other Miss Yane," I said, " did she care 
 much for him, do you think ? " 
 
 " I never thought about it, but I was frantically 
 jealous of her. Well, Ave were engaged, and this is 
 the diamond that sealed the engagement. You may 
 think I was happy, for. I loved him almost to madness, 
 but I was not ; I did not fill his heart, and, that I did 
 not, hurt and irritated me. After a time he went on 
 home, and we corresponded again. Y^hether he flirted 
 with Miss Yane, the historian relateth not ; but it is very 
 certain that I flirted wildly, any thing to feel I could 
 
238 AT ANCHOR. 
 
 inspire some affection. I ran a wild course, and many- 
 is the man for whom I cared not the snap of my fin- 
 gers, who believes to this day that my childish fancy 
 had been beguiled into an engagement irksome to me, 
 and that my heart was his, as my hand would have 
 been, could I have freed myself from my bond. 
 
 " One of these men was Mr. Carter, with whom I 
 one night went to a children's party, and came home 
 about half-past niue. And when I came home there 
 met me Gilbert ; but Gilbert pale, thin, and stern. I 
 suppose he was jealous ; for, after some conversation, 
 rather restrained on both sides, he said : ' Gertnide, 
 do you think we love each other very much?' 
 
 " ' I don't know about you,' I said ; ' I love every- 
 body, — some more than others, though.' 
 
 " 'And this Mr. Carter, — may I ask his degree ? ' 
 
 " ' I love Mr. Carter about as much, we will say, as 
 you love Miss Georgie Vane.' I like a man to get 
 jealous ; you can manage him as easy as breathing, 
 then. 
 
 " ' And if I should love Miss Geororie Vane with all 
 my heart and soul, in life and in death, her and her 
 only, what would you say ? ' he exclaimed. 
 
 "'That you were a coward and a traitor,' I re- 
 plied promptly ; ' a man whom both ought to scorn, 
 for you have not courage to be true to either.' 
 
 " ' It is true,' he said. 
 
 '"It was my misfortune,' I continued, ' to love you 
 
A STOEY OF OUR CIVIL AVAR. 239 
 
 before I knew you ; and when I knew you, you at- 
 tempted to be generous ; you ofiered me your heart 
 and hand, — I gave you mine, freely ; you chose me, at 
 least asJced me, to be your wife ; and you dare come to 
 me, your affianced bride — to me with your ring on my 
 finger, your vows in my ears — and talk of love for some 
 one else ! How proud would she be of such a love ! 
 How strong it must be, since it triumphs over your 
 duty, your honor, your grand self-sacrifice, and oh ! so 
 constant ! ' 
 
 " ' Do not you taunt me ! ' he said. ' She has the 
 right to scorn me, and she is gentleness and kindness 
 itself.' 
 
 " ' Xo doubt ! ' I cried ; ' you are to be treated with 
 much gentleness ; you ought to be tenderly cared for, 
 and greatly pitied, that you should be bound to one so 
 unworthy as me.' 
 
 " ' Oh, Gertie, spare me ! ' he said. * I know you are 
 a thousand times too lovely and too good for me. 
 Pity me to-night, for my heart is breaking. I have 
 had that to bear lately which I could.just bear, and no 
 more.' 
 
 " * What is it you wish of me ? ' I asked. ' To iree 
 you ? To give you liberty to marry the other Miss 
 Vane?' 
 
 " ' It is not possible,' he answered ; ' but it is pos- 
 sible that you and I, who are to hold the dearest rela- 
 tions of earth to each other, should try to see each 
 
240 AT anchor: 
 
 other at the best, and to be kind and forbearing to 
 each other. I know you have too much reason to 
 doubt me ; but I hope to show you yet that I can be 
 strong and firm.' 
 
 " A great deal more he said ; I cried, and he who 
 came, I am convinced, to make one desperate effort for 
 his freedom, Avent away more firmly bound than ever." 
 
 " How could you take love merely as duty, or con- 
 sent to be second where you should be first?" I 
 asked. 
 
 " Because," said Gertrude, " I loved him, as I have 
 told you, almost to madness, and I always thought he 
 Avould end by loving me as I wished. Then, again, I 
 hated Miss Georgie Yane, and was determined to hold 
 Mm until, come what would, she should not have him; 
 again, if there's any jilting to be done, it is the lady's 
 priAolege to make the first move ; and although I should 
 not have married him on his half-love, I liked his at- 
 tentions, and I was resolved some day he should love 
 me, and suffer for me. 
 
 " In due course of time Miss Georgie Yane took unto 
 herself a husband, Gilbert himself told me ; and not 
 long after that event my father and Gilbert had a 
 quarrel on politics, which famished me with another 
 excuse for delaying our marriage, which I meant 
 should be delayed until he fully loved me. Then 
 came the war." 
 
 " Does he love you satisfactorily now ?" I asked. 
 
A STOET OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 241 
 
 "I neither kuow nor care. I would not marry 
 him now for all the world. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " He is a Yankee ; you don't suppose I would 
 marry a Yankee, do you?" 
 
 " You would if you loved him." 
 
 " If I married all the men I have been in love with 
 I should have a pretty string of wedding-rings. I 
 never saw that man yet that I was fully willing to 
 marry, — if I could get any one else. I don't want to 
 be an old maid ; nobody does. I like them all for a 
 while ; but it is a little while. The man that finally 
 gets me must court and marry me in a short space of 
 time." 
 
 " I will tell your next admirer of that little eccen- 
 tricity of yours. What did this Mr. Stuart say when 
 you announced your final intention ? " 
 
 " I have never announced it. He will find it out 
 sooner or later. I scorn any communication with a 
 vile Yankee ! " 
 
 " Even so much as to return a Yankee's diamonds ? " 
 
 " I suppose you ar^ right. If I know any one go- 
 insj iSTorth I will send him back his thino^s. He can 
 give this ring to Miss Yane." 
 
 " Tell him you send it to her." 
 
 " She is married." 
 
 " NHmporte. It will be optional with him.*" 
 
 "Twill," she said; and so ended Gertrude's story. 
 11 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 "Not two weeks after, Gertrude had another story 
 to tell. Dr. Carr's assiduous attentions had not been 
 without their natural effect upon that young lady's 
 impressible heart. She loved him, she said, as woman 
 never loved before ; and more to the same effect. 
 
 "Before there was war," Gertrude informed me, 
 " I always declared I would marry a doctor, for his is 
 the noblest of professions. A man cannot be a good 
 doctor without he loves his profession, and he cannot 
 love his profession without loving and honoring hu- 
 man nature — " 
 
 " Hear ! hear ! " I interrupted ; " ]\Iiss Gertie Yane 
 on doctors." 
 
 "' It is true," she returned ; " I said so before I ever 
 knew Dr. Carr. A good doctor is always a good hus- 
 band; he appreciates us women, and our patience, 
 energy, and resignation. That was before the war ; 
 since the war, it is, of course, every gu-l's ambition to 
 marry a soldier. How mean will look the house, 
 twenty years from now, in which there is neither flag, 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 243 
 
 sword, nor musket ! Few are so happy as I that I can 
 unite my two ambitions, and marry a soldier doctor. 
 But, Mrs. Aberthnay, dear Mrs. Aberthnay, what have 
 I said?" 
 
 For my face was burning, and for the first time 
 since Carl's death tears came to my eyes. Oh ! Ten- 
 nyson knew well the true life of this world when he 
 summed up its miseries in that one sentence : 
 
 " Lost to use, and name, and fame." 
 
 Carl would not yet have been thirty years old 
 and I was nearly five years younger, and what was 
 there left of or for either of us ? His enemies held 
 his sword, and he could never fight it back. On the 
 walls of my house, twenty years from now, there 
 would be neither flag, sword, nor musket. The right- 
 ful doom of a traitor, you say. Oh ! I implore you 
 not; I go on my knees to you, — say not that black 
 word over my noble husband. Were he even that, you 
 could wish him no worse doom than was ah-eady his — 
 " lost to use, and name, and fame." Put the harshest 
 judgment on my actions, and give them their sternest 
 sentence, and it would be a sentence no harder than 
 that I was already bearing. All the labor without the 
 fruit, all the battle without the victory, all the sufier- 
 ing without the crown ! " How mean," said Gertrude, 
 " will look the house twenty years fi-om now, in which 
 there is neither flag, nor sword, nor musket." And 
 
244 AT anchor: 
 
 that was to be the end of our house, his house and 
 mine, — two noble names bound together, — and only- 
 shame their fruit, two weary, sufiering lives, and their 
 misery barren ! 
 
 Would it .have been better had he lived ? I say 
 yes. Yes, I would rather point out to another genera- 
 tion the flag, battle stained and conquered, that 
 borne by a heart that, though erring, thought itself 
 right, had faced death though in a wrong cause, than 
 the rarest frescoed walls free of any battle sign or 
 trophy. For him who can live in the midst of heroic 
 deeds, and not even think a courageous thought ; for 
 him who can live surrounded by brave lives, and have 
 no desire to emulate them ; for him without the patriot- 
 ism, the honor, or the manliness to decide and decid- 
 ing to act, there is a contempt such as no mortal can 
 ever feel for a brave man, though brave for the wrong 
 side. 
 
 I did not tell Gertrude why I bent my head, and, 
 startled by the suddenness of her remark, gave way 
 to my sad thoughts, my life long desolation. . 
 
 When I again saw Dr. Carr I gave him a hint of 
 Gertrude's little eccentricity ; he took it very well, 
 *' Gertrude is a good girl," he said, " but as fickle as a 
 May morning ; but a firm hand and a kind rule will 
 make all things right. I have seen just such girls, 
 after breaking hearts by the score, settle down into 
 the very cosiest and nicest of wives. Besides, Gertie is 
 
A STOEY OF OUR CIVIL WAE. 245 
 
 BO handsome, a man would risk considerable for 
 her." 
 
 " She is very lovely," I answered, " and most 
 affectionate." 
 
 " I have set you an excellent example," Dr. Carr 
 said, " and been most obedient to all your hints and 
 instructions. May I presume to interfere a little in 
 your affairs ? You are reputed a most loyal woman, 
 and considered a model of patriotism; no one knowing 
 your character at all could, for a moment, doubt that 
 you would be both loyal and devoted to any govern- 
 ment were it that of Tippoo Sahib, or any other savage 
 or tyrant known to the world. I do not think you 
 change your convictions easily, I even think the force 
 of habit is stronger with you than with almost any 
 one I have ever met. Once your thoughts get in a 
 groove they will not be easily moved ; that switch is 
 not invented that will run you off the track. With 
 this view of your character it is not strange, is it ? 
 that I should sometimes think your loyalty and your 
 patriotism are just where they were when you lived 
 in the shadow of Bunker Hill, and the Yankee Cradle 
 of Liberty, Somebody's Hall." 
 
 "WeU?"Isaid. 
 
 " If it were not so, it must, for iftany other reasons, 
 be lonely for you here in a country where you are 
 almost a stranger, and entirely without relatives. My 
 little Gertie and I have talked it over often, and since 
 
246 AT ANCHOR : 
 
 Col. Vane's promotion, we think it would be quite 
 easy for you to go back to the Xorth, if you should 
 desire it." 
 
 " Dr. Carr," I answered, " with all my heart and 
 soul and mind and strength, I love, honor, and believe 
 in the United States, and with all the strength of my 
 soul I yearn to be there, but I doubt my right. I can 
 do good here ; I do not know that I can there. I do not 
 deserve that I should be given that dearest wish of 
 my heart. I refused the protection of the IN'orth when 
 it was fi-eely offered to me ; have I a right to take it 
 now?" 
 
 " If you talk of right and duty, and that sort of 
 thing, why, I am vanquished at once. I have here a 
 safe pass to Gen. Yane's headquarters ; you may take 
 it and use it if you will ; if not, I will repeat the words 
 you have just spoken. Gertie will swear to any thing 
 I tell her, and you will be tried, convicted, and pun- 
 ished as a traitor. You may choose." 
 
 " You are peremptory ; a woman scorns to oppose 
 force. I will go." 
 
 I had a call from Mrs. Yane, the first time I had 
 ever met that interesting lady. 
 
 She was in a state of perpetual flutter : " You have 
 taken so much intWest in Gertrude," she said, " and 
 have been so very kind to her, that I quite feel as if 
 you belonged to the family, and as if I could speak 
 freely before you. I am quite opposed to Gertie's 
 
A STOKY OF OUR CIVIL WAK. 247 
 
 marrying the doctor. We have suffered a great deal 
 from the war. All Mr. Yane's property is at the Korth, 
 and would scarcely be available even if there were no 
 war, for there was a disagreement between Mr. Vane 
 and his relatives. Indeed I might as well be frank 
 with you. Mr. Vane was a widower when I married 
 him. His former wife must have been a very peculiar 
 woman ; at any rate, she was the cause of unpleasant 
 feeling between Mr. Vane and his brother, and they 
 have never been on good terms since, and none of his 
 relatives will ever do any thing for Gertie, I feel con- 
 vinced. Before the war Gertie was engaged to a very 
 exemplary young man by the name of Stuart ; he was 
 very fond of her, and I am quite con\dnced will wait 
 for her, and claim her when the war is over. I do 
 entreat you to use your influence with Gertie, — she will 
 do any thing for you, — to induce her to postpone her 
 marriage, if she will not break it off altogether ; the 
 doctor has nothing to live on, nor Gertie either, and 
 every thing is so dear. I don't know how I can ever 
 get her a proper trousseau. It will take nearly a year's 
 pay to marry her as a daughter of mine should be 
 married. It is no use for me to say this to Gertie, she 
 is so headstrong ; she thinks she knows more than any 
 one else. Mr. Stuart was rich, and, I suj^pose, still is 
 wealthy, and is in every respect a better match for her." 
 " But Gertie is so very Southern, I do not think 
 she would be willing to marry a Union man." 
 
248 
 
 AT axchor: 
 
 "Fiddle-de-dee! Gertie talks very large but slie 
 does not care the worth of a pin. Her father means 
 she shall go N^orth very soon ; she will probably meet 
 ISlr. Stuart again, and every thing be settled. He 
 always liked Gertie more than she thought, but she 
 plagued him terribly ; they will both love each other 
 better for the long separation." 
 
 "And Dr. Carr?" 
 
 " It is very easy for a woman of the world to see 
 Dr. Carr is only attracted by Gertie's pretty face, and 
 in six months they will be as indifferent to each other 
 as if they had never met. I am so used to Gertie's 
 ways. The only man who could ever make any thing 
 of her is Mr. Stuart, and I am persuaded that if they 
 could meet again they would become very much 
 attached to each other. Do persuade Gertie to wait 
 a little. Oh ! if she would only go i^orth with you ! " 
 
 Mrs. Yane little knew what she asked of me ! Just 
 as every thing seemed clear between Gilbert and my- 
 self, there came this new complication. 
 
 "I will certainly speak to Gertie," I answered, 
 " and if she can be induced to go to Xew York, or Xorth 
 anyAvhere, I will take every care of her ; my house 
 shall be her home, and I tliink myself that if she again 
 meets Mr. Stuart their engagement will be renewed. 
 I decidedly approve of its being broken first, and if 
 renewed let it be at his urgent solicitations. Let us not 
 interfere, he will like her all the better, thinking he has 
 lost her." 
 
A STOEY OF OUR CIVIL WAE. 249 
 
 One thing, however, I did intend; to make no 
 foolish self-sacrifice for her sake. It should be a fair 
 field, and no quarter between us. 
 
 I found Gertie very willing to postpone her mar- 
 riage. Nothing was said about her going North, but 
 it was considered possible I might be able to send her 
 a few thinofs for her bridal toilette. She would wait a 
 year for the possibility. 
 
 Dr. Carr bore it better than I expected; " There 
 is some thought of her being sent North," I said; 
 " I cannot promise you to keep her constant." 
 
 " Do not try it, my dear Mrs. Aberthnay ; I am 
 already over the first heat of my love, for I am as in- 
 constant as Gertie. If it is to 5e, it will Je, — if not, 
 no fretting will make it better." 
 
 "Will you take his letters back?" Gertie said to 
 ];ne. " I have addressed them ; you can put them in 
 the express at New York." 
 
 " If it were not for Dr. Carr, I suppose you would 
 come with me ? " 
 
 " I don't know ; are they stupid there, do you sup- 
 pose ? I would like a little excitement." 
 
 " I will keep a room ready for you," I answered, 
 " any time you feel inclined to take a run up North 
 I shall be overjoyed to see you." 
 
 And so we separated. 
 11* 
 
CHAPTER XXn. 
 
 I WAS received with great kindness by Gen. Yane, 
 to whom Gertrude had written so much of me, he said, 
 that he quite felt as if lie knew me. 
 
 " I am very much obliged to you for your kindness 
 to my little girl. There is a world of good in that 
 light heart of hers if one only gets at it. Her mother, 
 who has not half her character, is always in a fret 
 about her. One of those unfortunate cases of a com- 
 plete misunderstanding between mother and daughter; 
 another result of the abominable system of education 
 which we admii'e so much in this country. I don't in 
 the least doubt that there is a natural virtue called 
 filial affection. It is equally undeniable that that af- 
 fection, like all other affections, is keen-:sighted and 
 very jealous. It will not have its object less loved, 
 less honored than others ; and if that object fails to 
 win the honor and love of others, or show itself wor- 
 thy to gain that honor, it is very clear it will lose 
 that which came to it naturally. Mrs. Yane was a 
 brilliant woman when I married her. K Gertie had 
 
A STORY OP OUK CIVIL WAR. 251 
 
 known her then, she would have bent to her with per- 
 fect docility, but, like all American women, — no, I 
 will make a few exceptions, — she allowed marriage to 
 be the end of her life, when it is really the beginning 
 of a woman's existence ; all that goes before is but a 
 preparation for this. When Gertie was old enough to 
 find companionship with her mother, — when her mind 
 was fresh, undisciplined, incomplete, but still a mind, 
 what had her mother to offer? She had forgotten her 
 French, she had given up her music, she only read a 
 few novels and the cookery-book, she had given up 
 society and society graces, she had ceased taking in- 
 terest in people ; and what was Gertie to do ? She 
 snubbed her mother in a way at which I had to blush. 
 She made no allowances ; what child ever did ? She 
 went her own way, and found companionship where 
 she could ; and, disappointed in her mother's society, 
 judged her deficient in every thing." 
 
 " It is the story of a thousand others," I said. 
 
 " I ought to make one exception," he added, " since 
 you have seen so much of my family to make candor 
 a necessity. Gertie bows down to her mother in one 
 respect ; in one thing she trusts her judgment im- 
 plicitly, that great and mighty theme o^ dress f'' 
 
 " It proves what could have been done if her re- 
 spect could have been excited by other things. It is 
 an old story, that no two people can meet a dozen 
 times without discussing. I have great hopes that 
 
252 AT ANCHOR : 
 
 this war will make a change in this respect ; there will 
 be made so many sudden fortunes by the 'people,' 
 that rank and position will cease to depend, as it has 
 hitherto, on wealth. Mind, character, and education 
 will define station; men and women are learning now 
 on how very little they can live comfortably, and the 
 cares of luxury will no longer take precedence of 
 every attainment; and women, relieved from the 
 charoje of larsje establishments, wiU have more time 
 and strength to be accomplished, intelligent, and 
 good-tempered." 
 
 " A dream of Utopia, my dear Madam. You have 
 seen yourself that the love of display is as strong 
 in the Southern cities as it ever has been, and the only 
 result of the much-vaunted economy of our women 
 will be to show them how much more they can do 
 than they thought they could ; and when the old order 
 comes back, there will be this new order to double 
 their burden. In the Xorth, we hear, extravagance is 
 running riot." 
 
 " But it vnll soon run its course," I said ; " and I 
 doubt not, women South and Xorth will learn to blush 
 to go feasting in purple and fine linen, while every 
 day new hearts are sitting desolate in their mourning. 
 Mrs. Yane tells me there is some prospect that Gertie 
 will go to Xew York. I shall be most happy to re- 
 ceive her if you will let her come to me, and perhaps 
 we two may do each other good." 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIYIL WAR. 253 
 
 " You go back to your parents, I suppose ? " 
 
 " I have none ; my mother died before I can re- 
 member, and of my father I know only that he seems 
 to have forgotten my existence. My uncle, who took 
 me as his own child when my mother died, has ever 
 been tenderness and generosity itself in my regard." 
 
 " If, instead of that black dress, and wearing your 
 hair tight under that widow's cap, you were dressed 
 in brilliant colors, with your hair an*anged as it was 
 worn twenty-five years ago, you would be a living 
 portrait of some one I once knew." 
 
 "I shall never have the heart to wear brilliant 
 colors again, for the reasons that I have left my girl- 
 hood and my wealth behind me ; still if, after the war 
 is over, you will allow me to thank you in my own 
 home for enabling me to reach it, and if it would be 
 a pleasant picture, I should be glad to array myself to 
 please you." 
 
 " It would not be a pleasant picture," he answered 
 abruptly. " May I ask your maiden name ? " 
 
 " Georgie Yane." 
 
 "I supposed so. If you have not had your sus- 
 picions, you must be slower of perception than I think 
 you; but, taught as you must have been to hate me, I 
 wonder your mother's daughter would stoop to ac- 
 cept any thing from her husband's hands." 
 
 " I have never been taught to hate you," I an- 
 swered ; " and in accepting my safety from your 
 
254 AT anchor: 
 
 hands, I believe I take only what it is your right and 
 pleasure to give. I have never sat in judgment upon 
 you. It is twenty-five years since those things hap- 
 pened ; and I doubt not you are painfully wiser now 
 than you were then. If I am like my mother, or 
 rather, if she were like me, there can be not a wish or 
 thought of revenge in her heart. Yet, as there is 
 a certain poetic justice sometimes occurring in this 
 world, permit me to say that I consider it has been 
 fully meted out to you, insomuch that, having once 
 known and loved, and been loved by a woman such as 
 my mother was, you have bound yourself to life-long 
 com^Danionship to a woman such as her successor is." 
 
 " Those words are bitter enough to cancel half of 
 those I said to your mother ; but I like them better 
 than milder ones, for they show me at least you do 
 not despise the reputed character of your father so 
 much that you will not honor him with your sarcasms. 
 You have grown a daughter to be proud of." 
 
 " And you, sir, were we to meet as simply friends, 
 would soon win my admiration. I make no claims to 
 any especial tenderness for you ; if I judge you ever, 
 I judge you as a man, not as my father, or my mother's 
 unappreciative husband." 
 
 " You are very kind ! Perhaps we may meet some 
 time again, for I do claim especial tenderness for you ; 
 I do claim the warmest feeling of my life for you; and 
 as I never longed for love even from my first love, 
 
A STOKY OF OTJR CIVIL WAK. 255 
 
 your mother, I do yearn for a kinder feeling from 
 you." 
 
 " You must win it, then, sir ; for it is absolutely 
 not in my power to give it otherwise. Filial affection, 
 you said not an hour ago, was a natural virtue ; it is 
 dead in my heart ; but there is room above its grave 
 for the growth of a vigorous affection, I assure you." 
 
 " If there is any thing left of me, body or soul, 
 when this war is over, I shall try to plant something 
 there." 
 
 " Yet coldly as I have spoken, sir, do not think it 
 is nothing to me that I have found a father. I thought 
 my life was dead since it had lived in vain. My hus- 
 band, as you know, died a prisoner ; my uncle is old 
 and not married, and is lately rendered quite infirm by 
 a fall from a horse, from which he can never fully re- 
 cover ; there is no one to lay up honor for my name 
 when this war has passed ; there is no name, a name 
 of use and fame, to which I can point, and say I was 
 something to him." 
 
 " I understand you. But you are yet only a girl ; 
 your beauty is not yet at its height ; you can and I 
 hope will marry again, and this time let it be to some 
 soldier who will hang the Federal flag over the black 
 stain of a rebellious husband and a traitor father." 
 
 I flushed a little ; but I only answered by speak- 
 ing of Gertie. " If she comes North she mil come to 
 
 me 
 
 9" 
 
256 AT ANCHOE. 
 
 "I thank you," he said stiffly; "I prefer she should 
 go to her mother's relatives. It is now time for me to 
 leave you ; I think you understand precisely every 
 thing that you have to do. I do not believe you will 
 have any difficulties of moment ; I will attend to Ma- 
 jor Aberthnay's property, and hope I shall be able to 
 preserve it for you." He paused a moment, then took 
 out his watch, a magnificent one. " It is scarcely fit 
 for a lady's use," he continued ; " but I doubt not your 
 uncle, who seems to have transferred, — I will not 
 make you angry, so no matter, — I am poor in memen- 
 toes now, but I pray you accept this as a pledge of 
 remembrance, or as any thing you choose. I presume 
 it would be asking too much grace to request a line 
 some time to assure me of your safe arrival ? " 
 
 " Should I find an opportunity to send you I will 
 write with pleasure." 
 
 Then David and I turned our backs on the land of 
 the South, and with our faces JSTorthward hui'ried on 
 our way. 
 
CHAPTER XXm. 
 
 I COULD Dot pass further on until I had seen my 
 husband's grave. It delayed me some weeks, but the 
 force of a strong will is invincible. I went at even- 
 ing, during a September storm, for there was such 
 confusion and fear on every hand that I did not dare 
 risk an hour in going. Evening settled into darkness 
 and night, while David and a guide we had with great 
 difficulty procured, searched, and at last found it. By 
 the light of their lanterns I read the rough inscription 
 on the wooden slab : 
 
 AbepwTHKat, C. S. a. 
 
 Died 1862." 
 
 I sent the men back to a house near at hand, while 
 I stayed and kept one night's watch over that lonely, 
 almost nameless and never honored grave, over which 
 had passed and repassed the trampling feet of broken 
 and routed armies. 
 
CHAPTER XXIY. 
 
 At New York I sent the parcel of Gilbert Stuart's 
 letters which Gertrude had confided to my care, her 
 engagement ring, and his presents, back to him ac- 
 cording to her instructions, and in such a manner that 
 he would not be likely to connect the sending of them 
 with my return. 
 
 I say nothing of the feelings with which I took 
 the cars for home, for glorious oldMassachusetts's truly 
 sacred soil. I dared not think what changes had come 
 to that home. Yet there seemed little change around. 
 Broadway was as crowded, its windows as richly 
 filled as when I drove down in the carriage with half- 
 closed curtains with Carl. 
 
 Here and there I had met a soldier, and was re- 
 minded that there was really war in the land. Officers 
 I saw in abundance, in fresh new uniforms, as if out 
 for a holiday, and with them often stylishly dressed 
 ladies looking proud and hapjDy. 
 
 It was a glorious day in early autumn, and a 
 brilliant October sun gilded the old familiar words, 
 
A STOEY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 259 
 
 which I think I shall never see without a heart-bound : 
 " New York and Boston Express Line.^'' October has 
 always been called my month, typical of me in my old 
 days of joy and happiness, and I hailed it as a good 
 omen that its beautifully blue skies guided me 
 home. 
 
 Do we really thinh on days like this I am chron- 
 icling, — days when all our days seem to have culmi- 
 nated in one, and all our lives pass in review before us ? 
 Back came the days when Carl and Uncle Tom would 
 put me in the cars or meet me coming, when Carl's 
 face would flush, and his eager eyes single me from 
 the crowd, and joyously look down their greeting; 
 over again I lived the alternate joy and pain of our 
 intercourse, my own hardness and his wistful pleading, 
 and now love or coldness availed him nothing. 
 
 Nearer, nearer flew the train, and at last the 
 blessed Massachusetts breeze, the loyal Massachusetts 
 breeze that no traitor-breath had ever tainted, blew 
 glad welcome in my face. I forgot the widow's cap, 
 and with all the buoyancy of youth and happiness 
 bent forward to answer its greeting. If the calm, 
 stolid travellers around me were astonished to see the 
 stern-seeming widow flush up into animation and ex- 
 citement, it mattered little to me. Ah ! how truly I 
 felt in the words of one of my favorite poets, Adrien 
 Rouquette : 
 
 " Bair de noire patrie est le seul air vital." 
 
260 AT anchor: 
 
 And now the " iron horse " hurried on, rattling over 
 the well-known bridge, crossing the narrow river 
 where I had so often been boating for pond lilies ; 
 running on with its joyous tidings to the grand old 
 forests with their fullest splendor of purple and gold, 
 and brown and scarlet ; screaming through the little 
 towns, nests of cottages shining now in sunset beauty ; 
 winding around the soft green hills, lighted by flam- 
 ing autumn berries ; dashing through fields thick with 
 heavily-laden trees of fruit ; out again into the sunlit 
 town, and now slower and slower, for the end is near. 
 
 There was no carriage with its jDrancing horses, no 
 Uncle Tom with his bluff " Well, old lady ! " to meet 
 me as I sprang from the train, and burning with im- 
 patience turned into the grassy lane, where silence 
 and solitude walked with me. Silence and solitude 
 followed me into the narrow street, through the old 
 brown gate, under the' arching elms, up to the vine- 
 Avreathed porch, past the half-open door into the 
 diamond-floored hall. 
 
 Like pilgrim at the shrine I could have kissed the 
 cold marble ; but my joy and impatience hurried me 
 on to surprise those who counted me as almost of the 
 dead. A long loose circular of my favorite scarlet 
 hung in the hall ; I wrapped it around me to cover the 
 black dress, and laid my own sombre wrappings, even 
 my widow's cap, aside. 
 
CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 I KNEW it was probably their hour for tea, and I 
 hurried into the library separated by glass doors fi^om 
 the dining-room. At the table, as I could see through 
 these doors, were seated three persons. Facing me sat 
 my Uncle Tom, — my Uncle Tom, with eye-glasses on 
 before folk ! Opposite him was a lady, whom I easily 
 conjectured to be Kate; between them a young man in 
 an officer's uniform. 
 
 Uncle Tom looked up suddenly; "Kate," he said, 
 " there is some one in the library." 
 
 I sprang into a corner. 
 
 " I guess not," answered Kate, turning round. 
 
 " I tell you there is, or was," he persisted ; " I saw 
 something red by the doors." 
 
 "Probably the light through the curtains," 
 Kate answered; "we are having gorgeous sunsets 
 
 now." 
 
 " I move we make a search after tea," the officer 
 
 remarked. 
 
 " Kate," my uncle said, " what do you do to the 
 
262 AT AJS-CHOE. 
 
 tea ; it does not taste like tea. I have not had a de- 
 cent cup of tea since jDoor Georgie went away." 
 
 The glass doors slid back at a touch : " Let me, 
 uncle," I said, as quietly as if I had not been away a 
 week. 
 
 My uncle sat as if paralyzed, his eyes dilating as 
 he stared at me. 
 
 Kate, more practical, rushed to me. " Why, Georgie 
 Yane," she exclaimed, " what a way to surprise people ! 
 I f^el as if I had seen a ghost, and in my cloak, too ! 
 Are you real ? " 
 
 " Georgie ! " my uncle said, faintly, in a tone be- 
 tween an exclamation and an interrogation, "My 
 Georgie?" 
 
 " Yes, uncle," kissing him. 
 
 " My own, own Georgie ? — my pet, my darling, my 
 old lady really ? " 
 
 "Yes, uncle." 
 
 " I can hardly believe it," interposed Kate ; " I am 
 sure I am as white as a sheet. There never was such 
 a surprise ! How did you get here ? If you had sent 
 us word so we could have had the carriage." 
 
 " I could not have kept quiet in a carriage ! " I an- 
 swered. 
 
 " It is really you, Georgie ?" again asked my uncle. 
 
 " As sure as can be," I answered. 
 
 " Well, go there and make me a cup of tea," he 
 ordered. 
 
A STOKY OF OUK CIVIL WAR. 263 
 
 " Before I abdicate," said Kate, " let me introduce 
 Captain Lewis ; my cousin, Mrs. Abertlinay, just from 
 the laud of secesh." 
 
 Captain Lewis arose and bowed, but he could not 
 let down his eyelids. 
 
 I made my uncle's tea under a rattling fire of ques- 
 tions from Kate. 
 
 My uncle tasted his tea. " It is Georgie," he said, 
 and rising, rang the bell violently. 
 
 " Here, all you people ! " he cried, as every one in 
 the house rushed to see what was the matter ; " here, 
 all you jDCople ! rejoice and make merry, and kill the 
 fatted calf, for she that was lost is found." 
 
 Every one who had ever seen or heard of " Miss 
 Georgie," headed by Mrs. Glynn, now gathered around 
 me, for in five minutes' time I had succeeded in setting 
 my uncle's usually quiet mansion into a terrific uproar. 
 Some hurried me up-staii's and pushed me on a lounge ; 
 one unlaced my boots, one pulled down my hair, an- 
 other disencumbered me of my heavy dress, while 
 another stood ready to envelop me in one of my old 
 wrappers that Mrs Glynn kept as sacredly as relics. 
 They washed my face and combed my hair as if I had 
 just been brought in ^rom the dirt, and with a zeal 
 not complimentary to Secessia. 
 
 As soon as I was considered clean enough I Avas 
 permitted to descend to the dining-room, where there 
 was a scene I shall never remember without laughing 
 
264 AT anchor: 
 
 and crying together. While the women were employ- 
 ed -vyith me, Uncle Tom had not been idle. I had told 
 David to wait half an hour at the station, and then 
 find his way to the " big brown house with the cupo- 
 la," which we could see from the railroad depot ; for 
 I wished to make my entrance unattended. His half 
 hour had been a short one, or he had taken a " short 
 cut," for very soon my uncle's quick ears had caught 
 the sound of boots on the gravelled pathway, and 
 David was at once hailed and pressed into my uncle's 
 service, as the young officer had been. In order to en- 
 large the table they had taken off the tea-things, and, 
 manlike, piled them in a corner. "With another leaf in 
 the table the cloth proved too short, but they had 
 concealed, as they supposed, the discrepancy by the 
 tea-tray ; they had piled upon the table every article 
 of food to be found in garret, cellar, kitchen, or or- 
 chard, and, with a consideration natural to him, my 
 uncle had given David to eat of the leg of a chicken, 
 but not the usual facilities for disposing of the luxuri- 
 ous drumstick. 
 
 The picture that presented itself to my view as I 
 reached the door of the dining-room, was a ludicrous 
 one. My uncle, with his face very red, was pulling 
 very hard at a stubborn cork in a bottle of his rarest 
 wine. Captain Lewis, with coat-sleeves daintily rolled 
 back, and looking very much disgusted, was trying to 
 find place for a dish of jelly ; and David, on a broad 
 
A STOET OF OFR CIVIL WAE. 265 
 
 grin, with teeth and one hand kept tight hold of the 
 drum-stick, while with the other hand and one knee he 
 was upholding a dish of meat, apparently waiting for 
 the Captain to find room for it. 
 
 One would have imagined all Secessia was in a 
 starving condition, and I, as their representative, was 
 expected to eat enough for all. 
 
 " But, bless his heart ! " as Mrs. Glynn privately 
 informed me, " he'd die, master would, if he couldn't 
 do something for you," 
 
 And so I sat down, and was waited on. I refused 
 not to "make an effort" at every thing he piled upon 
 my plate. 
 
 Kate and the captain sat side by side, and made 
 low-toned comments ; and when, at last, I was consid- 
 ered to have eaten enough, and we had adjourned to 
 the parlor for a good talk. Captain Lewis opened his 
 mouth and spake : 
 
 " What do you think of our prosperity, Mrs Ab- 
 erthnay ? Does it not greatly surprise you ? I wish 
 you could tell your rebel friends of our abundance. A 
 large number of us are in favor of staiwing them out. 
 I presume you have seen terrible destitution there?" 
 
 And I answered, " You of the Korth and they of 
 the South seem to know about as much of each other 
 as you do of the Kamtschatkans." 
 
 "Do you mean they are not on the verge of starva- 
 tion? "said he. 
 12 
 
266 AT anchor: 
 
 "I do," said I; "and I mean more. You must 
 fight them in earnest, in fail' and open fight, if you 
 wish to conquer them." 
 
 This was all I ever told of my experience in the 
 South. 
 
 When David had been feasted and lionized in the 
 kitchen, I saw him to give him some orders. 
 
 " Dis beiTy grand place," he volunteered ; " dey's 
 "berry proud to hab you, Missus. Wish Massa Carl 
 could see how berry glad dey is ! " 
 
CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 And so I was home again, — home in all tlie dear 
 old places, and scarcely able to realize such tempests 
 of sorrow had swept over me, except, perhaps, by the 
 calm they had left. 
 
 Nearly all our young gentlemen Mends with whom 
 we had been boating, riding, picnicing, and dancing, 
 were off to the war; many had been killed, some were 
 maimed for life ; scarcely a dwelling in the land that 
 had not been under the shadow of death. I^ot a 
 dwelling in the land, thought I, but has hoj^es to have 
 a flag, or sword, or musket to show when this war 
 shall be a page in history. 
 
 Gilbert Stuart, Kate said, had been among the 
 first to leave. He had gone first as a private in the 
 old Sixth, — the immortal Sixth, whose blood stands re- 
 corded against the city of Baltimore, — a record which 
 tears and blood such as no city has yet shed, can ever 
 wholly wipe away. Gilbert was an ofiicer now, Kate 
 thought, though she knew but little of him lately. 
 Others, mere boys when I was married, were distin- 
 
268 AT anchor: 
 
 guished officers now ; and young girls then, like me, 
 were widows now. 
 
 Crowds besieged me, for I was a wonder. I had 
 come from Richmond; I knew all about the rebel 
 army and all about the rebel politics. I was pestered 
 with questions, but I told nothing. What right had 
 I to tell ? The South had trusted me ; and I could 
 not betray the trust. They hinted that I seemed half 
 secessionist, but in time they found that I was stronger 
 Union than many of them. 
 
 Many weeks passed and stretched away into 
 months. I had become quietly domesticated at home 
 again, wondering sometimes what had become of Mr. 
 Stuart. Had he died in the prison hospital, or escaped 
 death that time to meet it on some battle-field ? Who 
 could tell me? I had thought I should hear from 
 him after his reception of his letters, for Gertrude had 
 requested him to give the ring to me, if not from him- 
 self as from her ; and, if alive, he had ample time to 
 have heard of my return from the South, for it had 
 been talked of far and wide. 
 
 Perhaps he did not think me worthy of the ring 
 now. Something of the same spirit which had moved 
 Gertrude, when she said, " I meant he should love me 
 and suffer for me some time," arose in my heart. 
 
 One night a gentleman did call to see me, and in 
 the self-same room where I had so often dressed to 
 meet him I read his card. 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR, 269 
 
 The Captain's unifoiTa to which he had now risen, 
 became him well; manly, and stately, and stern he 
 was now, — a man whose voice might make regiments 
 start and tremble, if raised in command, and, if low- 
 ered to tones of sweet persuasion, might win the 
 hardest heart. 
 
 Haughty, stern, and impatient now, where he had 
 before been easy tempered and too patient, I won- 
 dered had Gertrude or I, or neither of us, the most to 
 do with this change. 
 
 "I learned only a few days ago that you were 
 here," he said, in rich but rather ceremonious tones. 
 " I have been home on sick leave ; home now means 
 New York ; my parents are there, but my sister is 
 married and living here. I am glad to see you safely 
 in your old home. It will be to remain until the war 
 is over, I trust ?" 
 
 " I expect it to be my home for the rest of my life," 
 I answered ; " I have left many pleasant friends be- 
 hind ; but I do believe the time is not far distant when 
 there will be as free communication between us as 
 there was formerly." 
 
 " I, too, found friends in the South, and in the day 
 of my sorest need. I was wounded and taken pris- 
 oner ; but either through a mistake, or the charity of 
 a Southern lady, was taken to her house and cared for 
 as if I had been the favorite son of the house. If I 
 live until this war is over, I shall endeavor to find 
 
270 AT axchor: 
 
 and thank lier for her hospitality, her more than hospi- 
 tality." 
 
 " Was that in Richmond ? " I asked, restrained by 
 his distant manner from saying more. 
 
 " Tes, and at the very time when Richmond was 
 in its greatest jDanic. It was a fortunate thing for me ; 
 for Union prisoners, men of health and vigor, are con- 
 stantly dying under the iron hand of their captors, 
 and I could not have hoped for any care in the prison." 
 
 " Yet they try to give it ? " 
 
 " Officers do, — for gentlemen are gentlemen all the 
 world over, — and a being with a spark of manhood, 
 courtesy, or of courage, would scorn to taunt a cap- 
 tive, and would always he tender to a wounded sol- 
 dier. I cannot say as much for the ladies." 
 
 " These thino^s must be hard to bear ? " 
 
 "They are terrible. To hear their taunts and 
 sneers, and feel your blood boiling, and not be able to 
 strike or answer one word, because they are wo- 
 men ! " 
 
 " Don't speak of it," I said ; " I cannot forgive 
 them, but I would like to forget it." 
 
 " I very seldom speak of it," he returned ; " for 
 the sake of that one noble woman who acted the 
 Good Samaritan to me, I have been, as far as regard 
 for truth would permit, their champion." 
 
 " Gallantry and gratitude must have a hard task 
 to raise you to that point," I answered. 
 
A STORY OF OUE CIVIL AVAE. 271 
 
 Our constrained conversation now gave place to 
 an embarrassed silence, and to relieve it lie asked me 
 if I still sang. 
 
 "More than ever," I said; " music is my only ex- 
 pression; sometimes, if we have not expression, we 
 must die." 
 
 " I have not attempted," he replied ; " I feel how 
 useless the attempt to say to you how much I sym- 
 pathize — " 
 
 "Do not," I answered. "Nothing can be said. 
 What would you wish me to sing for you ? " 
 
 "One of your own songs. You know I always 
 liked them the best." 
 
 " Did you ? I had forgotten." 
 
 And that was the time I told a lie. 
 
 " I have about given up song-making," I added ; 
 " I wish I had a stirring war-song for you, but I have 
 not ; and as I cannot improvise I must give you some- 
 thing else. This is my latest ; written when Yankee 
 indifference one day roused my ire," and I sang : 
 
 " Where, oh where, are the brave knights gone — 
 
 The loyal and the grand — 
 Who drove the cowards. Guilt and Wrong, 
 
 Through all their storied land ? 
 Where, oh where, are the brave knights fled — 
 
 The loyal and the true — 
 Whose shafts, by Mars or Cupid sped, 
 
 Ne'er falsely aimed or flew ? 
 
272 AT anchor: 
 
 " Where, oh where, are the brave knights now, 
 
 With their fond love of right, 
 Who never failed the needed blow 
 
 To punish wicked might ? 
 Where, oh where, do the young knights rest ! 
 
 Who galloped far and wide. 
 With flashing eyes and dauntless breast, 
 
 To fight at Honor's side ? " 
 
 "There's more of it, an interminable string of 
 verses. Do yoii want more ? " 
 
 " Oh, decidedly ! I am curious to know how you 
 get along without your knights, if only echo answers 
 where^ and what you will do with them if found." 
 
 " You shall hear : 
 
 *' Now here we see the open Usts, 
 
 And Treason talks aloud, 
 And strikes with lance and clenched fists 
 
 The shield of Truth so proud. 
 And Liberty, with pale, thin hands 
 
 Chained o'er her aching breast, 
 All helpless at his mercy stands. 
 
 Claimed as his slave and jest ! " 
 
 " I trust," he said very gravely, " your last word 
 is not intended as a disrespectful allusion to the very 
 witty Father of his Country ? " 
 
 "I assure you not," I replied. "It was for the 
 rhyme." 
 
 " I am doubtful yet," he said ; " but perhaps your 
 next verses will redeem the unlucky word." 
 
A STOKT OP OTJR CIVIL "\VAI5. 273 
 
 " But what," I asked, " will redeem the fact ? " 
 
 " That is disrespectful to my commander-in-chief. 
 Is not this a free country, and shall he not have his 
 little jokes ? " 
 
 "I submit,"! answered; " but that is quite enough 
 of my song." 
 
 " Xot by any means," he answered ; " it does not 
 give it a finish." 
 
 " Oh well, one more ; one of many : 
 
 " Oh ! that as m days past and gone, 
 
 Pressing Ml deep the spur, 
 Gallantly would come dashing on 
 
 Some knight to rescue her. 
 But give us blood and grief and tears, 
 
 Through our slumbering land, 
 Till we have roused from other years 
 
 The brave old knightly band." 
 
 " You will join it, won't you, Mr. Stuart ? " 
 " The * brave old knightly band,' I wish I could." 
 " 'No knight ever fought in a better cause," I an- 
 swered ; " for the cause of country, government, and 
 humanity, is the cause of God." 
 
 " God help it ! " he answered ; " it seems a hard 
 fight, sometimes." 
 
 " You go back to it soon ? " 
 
 " In a day or two ; perhaps to-morrow. I can 
 hardly hope to see you again, yet I am loth to say 
 good-bye." 
 
 12* 
 
274 AT anchor: 
 
 " And I, — it is hard to see tlie sturdiest private in 
 the street, trudging off to the war with his knapsack 
 on his back, and somebody's good-bye in his ears." 
 ".I suppose you pray for our soldiers?" 
 "I do, indeed; what woman does not?" 
 " Then you will' pray for me ? Good-bye." 
 He held my hand an iustant, and looked do^yn 
 into my eyes. 
 
 I felt myself coloring, but I drew away my hand 
 instantly. 
 
 He said nothing of Gertrude's ring, but every tone 
 of his voice, constrained though it was, told me he 
 knew he was free. 
 
CHAPTER XXVn. 
 
 My life was a weary one ; but I need not tell you 
 that. Tou see yourself it had been shattered, and 
 had not an interest to bind it again together. I could 
 not settle down to quiet charities, to little patriotic 
 sacrifices ; I could not busy myself reading or study- 
 ing, for to what end should I study ? My life had, in- 
 deed, been " broken at the fountain," broken when it 
 was so young, so hopeful, it seemed to itself hardly to 
 have sprung into being. 
 
 Kate, on the contrary, was full of animation ; she 
 was president of half a dozen benevolent institutions, 
 and yet had always time to spare for amusement. 
 Captain Lewis was now resting under the shadow of 
 her wings ; and his very evident fear of her struck 
 me very comically. It made one little change in my 
 sad life, watching the progress of this little comedy, 
 pretty sure to end, as comedies should, in speedy mar- 
 riage. 
 
 "Do you know that Captain Lewis, the odious 
 man, is positively going off to-morrow ? " Kate said to 
 
276 AT anchor: 
 
 me the evening after Gilbert's visit. " It is just too 
 aggravating for any thing in this world, just as we 
 were getting on so nicely ! I am going to Mrs. Wil- 
 cox's to-night, a sort of God-speed party to the officers 
 here, — that is, if I ever get dressed. INIi'S. Martin has 
 been holding me, after the manner of the Ancient 
 Mariner, until my patience is quite exhausted. Will 
 you help me ? — do dress my hair for me ; I look like a 
 different person after I have been through your hands. 
 Will you ? — that is a darling. Here ! " She threw me 
 a wraj^per. " Hurry now, and do me up pretty." 
 
 " Captain Lewis is not half good enough for you," 
 I said, taking down her hair. 
 
 " I don't suppose he is," she answered ; " we are 
 not exjDected to marry men half good enough for us. 
 I expect to marry because I don't want to be an old 
 maid, and because I want a home of my own. I shall 
 be quite contented if my husband hasn't any very 
 serious faults, and for the rest I mean to educate him 
 up to me." 
 
 " But you know, Kate, this home is as much yours 
 as mine ; more yours, for my lamp of life has gone 
 out, and I want only a dark comer; the rest is all 
 yours." 
 
 " Oh ! I know you and Uncle Yane are kindness it- 
 self, but no woman likes to sit at the side of any man's 
 table. How natural you look in that cashmere. I 
 never saw any woman but you who looked well in 
 
A STOEY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 277 
 
 bright colors. I expect to have a lovely time to-night. 
 I am just as fond of good times as I was ten years 
 ago. What times we used to have ! Do you remem- 
 ber Emma Lewis, Mary Allen, Florence Graham, and 
 the rest ? Do you remember the summer they were 
 here, just before Mr. Aberthnay went away ? I think 
 that was about the most delightful summer we ever 
 had. I did like Mr. Aberthnay so much ! I had a 
 splendid talk with him once. Shall I tell you about 
 it?" 
 
 "Yes, do." 
 
 " It was just before he went away. Florence, you 
 know, was just wild about him, and, it seems, she told 
 him you had told her you were engaged to Mr. Stuart 
 Gilbert, you know, — or what amounted to the same 
 thing. He let it out to me, or, at least, I drew it out 
 of him, for I knew he was loving you beyond all 
 bounds. I did think then that you liked him, and I 
 was, myself, half in love with Gilbert Stuart, — just a 
 girl's fancy, you know; and so I up and down denied 
 it, and just let him see what Florence was up to; then 
 we talked about you. He said he knew you were not 
 happy, and he asked me to be especially kind to you ; 
 and if anything happened to you, to write and let him 
 know, without your knowledge ; he did care so much 
 for you ! " 
 
 " Did you ever write him ?" 
 
 " No, of course not, what need ? " 
 
278 AT AXCHOR. 
 
 " Sure enough, what need ? " 
 
 " I think I was never so happy in my life when I 
 heard you were engaged to him. I don't think any 
 man ever loved a woman as much as he did you, even 
 then. Do you know, he actually made me promise not 
 to tell you ; he was sure you did not care for him, and 
 said it would only be additional pain to you to know 
 about it." 
 
 " Poor Carl ! " 
 
 " There was never a man like him. Xo one can 
 wonder, Georgie, that your life seems broken. But do 
 not let us talk about it. I like to look up in the glass 
 and see you look like old times ; and now that your 
 hair is tumbling down you are my Georgie of ten 
 years ago. Do you know, Uncle Tom has never got 
 over that surprise yet. Every little while he says to 
 me, ' Wasn't it a surprise, Kate ?— just as if she hadn't 
 been a week away ! But I'll be even with her, — I'll 
 be even with her.' " 
 
 " Uncle ought to be home soon." He was in New 
 York. " We two women are not much of a house- 
 hold." 
 
 " Not much. Do you know about David ? " 
 
 "No; what?" 
 
 " He is going down to the army as officer's ser- 
 vant, if you will let him ; he expects to send you his 
 wases ! You can't beat freedom into that that 'child's' 
 head. But you will have to braid faster than that if 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 2*79 
 
 you expect to get through to-night. It looks well, 
 doesn't it ? I wish I had some flowers." 
 
 " My camelia is in bloom ; you are a good girl and 
 you shall have it. What is its motto ? " 
 
 "I don't know; why?" 
 
 " I suppose it Avill end in Captain Lewis's button- 
 hole." 
 
 " Ar'n't you mean ! " 
 
 " I will go down and see what I can find in the 
 conservatory," I said; "I suppose I shall not meet 
 any one." 
 
 I pushed my hair out of the way, and the old habit 
 sent it back from my face as I used to wear it. It startled 
 me to see it rippling so naturally into its old folds, and 
 sparkling all over with smUes at its release. I wound 
 it in a hasty coil, and hurried down stairs to get the 
 flowers in the little conservatory beyond the parlor. 
 Something, — the change of dress, perhaps, or the back- 
 ward rolls of my hair, — remuided me of that other 
 flight down the same long staircase ; something, — the 
 same angels that attended me then, perhaps, — seemed 
 to promise better days to come, peace and that soul- 
 comfort and calm which is the crown sooner or later 
 given of all grief. 
 
 I pushed open the parlor door, and there, leaning 
 against my piano, stood Gilbert Stuart awaiting me. 
 
 " I am losing my senses," I said to myself; " or is 
 all this a dream ? and am I Georgie Yane, just called 
 
280 AT axchoe: 
 
 from the dressing-room? and are the girls still there? 
 for sui'ely he is here." 
 
 I held out my hands ; I hardly know if in welcome 
 or to push away that figure. They were closely 
 grasped, and a voice cried, " Georgie ! Georgie ! " — 
 that voice that could insi^ire or terrify whole regi- 
 ments, and would melt the hardest heart. 
 
 "Georgie! Georgie!" 
 
 " Is this real ? " I asked, like one in a maze ; " is to- 
 night that other night when I met you here ? " 
 
 " It is not that other night," he answered ; " that 
 was a night that I have expiated by long, long years 
 of bitter pain. I fell once from my strength, and 
 faith, and honor." 
 
 " Yes, I know," I said, drawing back a little ; " she 
 told me." 
 
 " She told you, too, that I was free ? " 
 
 " She told me." 
 
 " Oh ! if she could have told you how I fought 
 against her influence, — how bitterly I have repented 
 the folly that bound me to her, and put that gulf be- 
 tween us, between you and me, Georgie. I cannot 
 tell you that I love you ; I have told her that ; and 
 words that any other woman has heard, are not words 
 to say to you. Tou know what I would say to you ; 
 what burned on my lips last night, but which your 
 constrained manner and sombre dress forbade me to 
 say. Georgie, give me the words I lack ; tell me in 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 281 
 
 what manner I may speak to you of the love that has 
 been my life, my joy, and my agony for years, and 
 years, and years." 
 
 "Yes, I know," I said. 
 
 " You know ; it is only a heart like yours that can 
 know." 
 
 " Let me think," I said. 
 
 " N'o, no, do not think ; I have waited for this day, 
 — waited when there was no hope that it would ever 
 come. Once I came here to implore you, on my knees, 
 to forgive me, — to wait, to let me explain, to give me 
 a word that would make me strong enough to burst 
 my bonds, were they ten times as binding. I have 
 waited ; I can wait no longer ; you risked your life for 
 me in Charleston; you risked still more for me in 
 Richmond. Yes, I know ; Kate told me where you 
 lived there : it was easy guessing then ; but I want 
 more. Georgie, I must hear those words, those blessed 
 words : will you not speak ? Oh ! I deserve forgive- 
 ness since I alone have suffered." 
 
 *' You — alone — suffered ? " 
 
 "I alone, — mine the fault, mine the expiation. 
 Have I not expiated it ? Oh ! that for one hour it were 
 given to me to speak as I would speak, — for one hour 
 that I could find words to tell what thoughts have 
 been mine when death was on every side, and cut 
 down men like grass, and shunned my prayers, laugh- 
 ed at my entreaties, and passed me by, when I so 
 
282 AT A25-CHOR: 
 
 longed for him ! — ^but for one hour that I could find 
 expression for that self-reproach, greater than any 
 rage, which has had triple revenge on me for my sin ! 
 Georgie, speak one word to me, and I shall forget all 
 my past misery." 
 
 " I do not know what I ought to say." 
 
 *'Do not mar this blessed day with doubts and 
 fears. Ton have had your sorrows, — mine no words 
 can tell. Let us join hands to-night, and sorrow will 
 be forgotten forevermore. I dare not say what I will 
 strive to be to you. I fear not to promise any thing, 
 for whatever you would wish me to be, that your wish 
 will make me. If you will but say the word, Georgie, 
 you stretch before my feet a life of joy, and good, 
 and glory ; there is no path I could not tread if that 
 path led to you. There is nothing I might not be, if 
 you willed me so to be. Will you throw away my 
 life ? TViU you throw away my future, and trample 
 upon my past ? I hold all that I am, or hope to be, or 
 aspire to do, in my hand ; one word decides it." 
 
 " I implore you, spare me." 
 
 " I will not spare you. This thing shall be. Is 
 my life nothing ? — is my soul nothiug, my will not to 
 be counted ? I will never let you rest. I will follow 
 you night and day. I will love you till love becomes 
 madness ; and while there is breath within me I will 
 breathe for you, and raise my voice in supplications. 
 You are drawing farther away? I frighten you? 
 
A STOEY OF OUK CIYIL WAE. 283 
 
 Darling, darling Georgie, whom I love with such love 
 as man never gave before, speak to me as I would 
 haA'e you speak, and you shall never again hear my 
 voice.but in tenderest tones, — never hear a word from 
 me but of unalterable devotion ; but, Georgie, you 
 must speak that word. What would you say if I 
 gave way at the first fire of the enemy ? Shall I give 
 up now, when I fight for more than life, or land, or 
 crovernment? — when I fis^ht for heaven here and 
 heaven hereafter. Will you speak, Georgie ? " 
 
 " I loved you once, I know, with a love strong as 
 your own. You threw aside that love." 
 
 " I did, I did ; for one hour I was another man. I 
 threw away a pearl beyond price ; but myself again, 
 I will have back that pearl. I will seek it early and 
 late ; nor will I rest until it is mine. ISTo, Georgie, I 
 will yield, — I will go out into pain and utter deso- 
 lation, if you say so. I have pained you enough. 
 K I can control myself I will plead no longer ; just as 
 we stand fronting the battle-line, waiting victory or 
 death, I will try to stand." 
 
 He folded his arms and stood still ; he was pale as 
 death itself, and it seemed as if every nerve was 
 strained to j^reserve the silence and outward calm he 
 had promised. At my feet lay the love I had worn 
 out half my soul longing for ; yet, now that it was 
 mine, I was slow to take it. I knew not what answer 
 to make ; my soul was stirred and surged tumultuously 
 
284 AT anchor: 
 
 within me. " Pray God give me a sign," was my 
 only distinct thought. I looked to him, wondering if 
 I would dare lay my hand on the great waves of his 
 heart, and say " Be still ! " lie watched me ; and see- 
 ing that my lips stammered, he was satisfied. With 
 one long breath of relief, he came slowly toward me. 
 
 "My God ! this is joy ! " he said, and would have 
 put on my hand Gertrude's ring, and bent as if to kiss 
 me. God had given me the sign, — all was clear enough 
 then. " Xo," I said, " I am married. I am Carlton Ab- 
 erthnay's wife in life and in death. Dare not touch me. 
 I see it now. The grave does not break the man-iage 
 vow. I would not dare meet him in heaven if I listened 
 to one word more from you. Do you hear? You 
 speak, if you speak at all, to a married woman, — no 
 more to Georgie Yane." 
 
 He staggered back. 
 
 "Many sins have I committed," I said; "but I 
 shall not add this one. From my heart I pity you. 
 God may perhaps forgive me that I let it come to this. 
 Carl may pardon that I have heard words his wife 
 should not hear. Will you forgive me for the pain to 
 you?" 
 
 " I will not," he repeated ; " I will never forgive 
 you." 
 
 "You shall forgive me, Gilbert Stuart; you shall 
 pray me for forgiveness ! Do you remember for how 
 many years you followed my every step, and wound 
 
A STORY OF OUR CITIL WAR. 285 
 
 yourself into my every thought ? Do you remember 
 how freely, how trustfully, how unaskingly I poured 
 out my love for you, and you took it ? Do you re- 
 member when I flew down those stairs to meet you, 
 with my heart and soul all yours, that you took me 
 by the hand, and in cold blood stabbed me to the 
 heart? Do you remember how you followed me, 
 wounded, bleeding as I was, and widened and deepened 
 my wounds ? Do you remember that you plunged 
 the iron into my soul to grind down my life and his — 
 my noble husband's? Do you think these things 
 weigh with me ? Their bitterness has passed. In one 
 moment I see the folly and wrong of a life that owes 
 you nothing now. That one moment's revelation is 
 worth all that you have made me suffer. 
 
 ' The flash that hghteth up a valley amid the dark midnight of a 
 storm, 
 Coiaeth the mind with that scene sharper than fifty simimers.' 
 
 I thank you for that flash, Gilbert Stuart, for it gives 
 me back my husband's love ; it gives mine to him ; 
 it gives me his memory, and the hope that one day I 
 maybe worthy to meet him in perfect love and perfect 
 understanding." 
 
 " I only bide my time," he said, turning to the door. 
 
 " You will never speak of love to me again," I 
 said. " You dare not. And now, good-night." 
 
 " I believe that you love me," he said ; " and this 
 farewell is not final." 
 
286 AT AlfCHOB. 
 
 " Final or not matters little to me," I answered. 
 '" But tliis does matter, that you should know that I do 
 not love you. It is true that the belief that I loved 
 you grew with my growth, and became almost a part 
 of me. The force of habit is great with all ; it was like 
 iron chains on me ; when I met you at intervals, you 
 pieced and strengthened the links that were wearing 
 away. That I thought I loved you was a bui'den upon 
 me under which another, a better and higher love, I 
 can see now, was living and struggling to the light. 
 I thank God that to-night that burden is thrown aside, 
 and that love is free, and I am free. I thank God that 
 the memory of my husband's virtue, and the hope that 
 he may claim me in heaven, are stronger and dearer 
 than any love, pride, or fame this world can offer. I 
 thank him that my storm-tossed life is at last at anchor. 
 My heart, vrith all its joy, aches for you ; but I believe 
 you will live to smile a painless smile upon to-night 
 and on me." 
 
 " There is no anchor for me," he replied bitterly, 
 turning to go ; " for the rest of my life I drift." 
 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 As Gilbert reached the door my Uncle Tom met 
 and arrested him. 
 
 " ]^o one here ? " exclaimed my uncle. " This is 
 polite treatment. Oh, there is Georgie. Well, young 
 lady, what has happened now ? Looks quite like her- 
 self, doesn't she, Stuart ? Come back, come back, my 
 dear fellow ; no running off hke that. I have just this 
 moment made my appearance after a week's absence. 
 I deserve a warmer welcome. IVIrs. Glynn's eyes 
 promised something better. Come in, Stuart. How 
 well you look. Madam ! Just stay that way, if you 
 please. All the paraphernalia of mourning shuts you 
 up from me, so that I hardly know my Georgie. We 
 shall have her blithe as a lark, now she is home again, 
 shan't we, Stuart ? And then, if Major Aberthnay 
 turns out alive and commander-in-chief, he will still 
 find a beauty for his wife." 
 
 " How can you jest on that, uncle ? " I said. Be- 
 fore he could answer, there wafe a terrific rustle of silk, 
 
288 AT anchor: 
 
 and Kate and Captain Lewis appeared at the door 
 •through which Mr. Stuart was trying to escape. 
 
 "You are a great flower-girl," Kate exclaimed, 
 standing in the doorway. 
 
 " It is too bad," I answered, " but not too late." 
 
 " Thank you," she returned ; " I have plenty now. 
 How do you do. Uncle Vane ? " 
 
 " I am very well I thank you, Au7it Kate. Where 
 are you going without my mighty permission ? You 
 will just please to wait for supper, you and Captain 
 Lewis. I am going to have something good for sup- 
 per." 
 
 " Can you wait ? " Kate asked the captain. 
 
 " Can he wait ! " echoed Uncle Tom. " Will you 
 wait for supper f Oh, what a question to ask an army 
 officer ! " 
 
 Kate made a comical face, which, however, did not 
 suit her as well as the same contortions did when she 
 was a few years younger. Kate had grown very fair and 
 stately in the few years past. The dresses that looked 
 cumbrous upon her at eighteen, now swept gracefully 
 around her, and suited her face that had grown wo- 
 manly, resolute, and self-confident. You may imagine 
 her standing in the doorway, in her favorite russet- 
 brown silk, rich and heavy ; her long, sweeping white 
 cloak; flowers that Captain Lewis had brought^ in 
 her hair and in her dress, and a magnificent bouquet 
 in her hand. I don't know that Gilbert was struck 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 289 
 
 with her beauty, but I think he noticed the amplitude 
 of her skirts that eflfectually cut off his retreat, as she 
 stood there with Captain Lewis, not over-pleased at 
 the detention. 
 
 " I giye you ten minutes to dress," Uncle Tom said 
 to me. " DorCt change that dress." 
 
 I left the parlor by a door that led into our sitting- 
 room. Some one spoke ; there was a figure there; Carl's, 
 or his spirit. 
 
 " I do not think," I said, as soon as I could com- 
 mand my voice, " that any evil thing would be per- 
 mitted to take your form, my husband. It seems a fit 
 ending to the tumult of to-night that your spirit should 
 come, not to reproach me, surely, but to let me say 
 that, at last, I am yours, — all, all yours, — and that I 
 live to meet you in heaven." 
 
 " Do not be afraid, Georgie," the figure said, ap- 
 proaching me. " I am not a spirit ; I am your real, 
 living husband, if you will own me. These are no 
 spirit arms that hold you, darling." 
 
 " My Carl ! I am surely dreaming, or my senses 
 have given way ; but it is a delirium so sweet I would 
 never be sane again! Yes, darling Carl, hold me 
 tighter ! — speak fast, faster, that I may know. Do not 
 speak, for fear it may not be you. This is too much 
 joy for reality. I loved you all that time, but I was 
 not sure I did. I love you now so much that if I 
 awake from this dream I shall die." 
 13 
 
290 AT anchor: 
 
 " You shall not awake, Georgie, darling, pet 
 Georgie. It is reality at last. You know how often 
 these false reports of death in battle come. I did 
 nothing to contradict that of mine, as I shall tell you 
 by and by. Do you question still, my own, own 
 wife ? To think this joy was waiting for me ! This 
 love ready for me ! It is I who seem to dream ! " 
 
 "Keep talking, Carl, for then it seems as if it 
 might be. Worse than any death or desolation it 
 would be if you should slip from my arms now. Oh ! 
 a thousand tunes I have clung to you as now ; a thou- 
 sand times your kisses have rained on me as now ; and 
 in stronger words than I can speak I have told you of 
 the bitter mistake I made, implored your forgiveness, 
 and felt myself forgiven as you forgive me now, dar- 
 ling ; and with your words yet in my ears, I have open- 
 ed my eyes, and you were not there. Can it be so 
 now ? " 
 
 " 'No, pet, — no, no ; this is no dream for either of 
 us ! Joy, joy, life, reality, are with us as they never 
 were before ! Exultation and joy, for I live and you 
 love me ! " 
 
 " And you — I have not lost your — " 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! Xever, darling, waking or di*eam- 
 ing, my Georgie, dare to question the love that is 
 yours ; that the grave cannot take away, that all life 
 lives to prove and to increase ! Are you satisfied yet 
 that I ami?" 
 
A STOKY OF OIJIl CIVIL AVAR. 291 
 
 " I am satisfied that if this is a dream that I shall 
 not live if I awake ; and so I believe." 
 
 " The strangest thing," I said, vrhen, long after- 
 wards, I found more rational thoughts, " is that the 
 first surprise over, it does not seem strange to have 
 you here. How often have I caught myself starting 
 at the sound of a voice, or even the ringing of the 
 door-bell ! How often has my heart bounded at a face 
 or figure in a crowd or in the street, and then sunk 
 back in sickening knowledge that you were counted 
 dead. I would teU myself of that, and yet,— Tenny- 
 son has the same thought in one of the most beautiful 
 parts of his Iii Memoriam. I used to think I should 
 not be surprised to meet you anywhere, and, as Ten- 
 nyson says : 
 
 " ' And if along with these should come 
 The man I held as half divine ; 
 Should strike a sudden hand in mine 
 And ask a thousand things of home ; 
 
 " ♦ And I should tell him all my pain, 
 
 And how my life had drooped of late, 
 And he would sorrow o'er my state. 
 And marvel what possessed my brain ; 
 
 " * And I perceive no touch of change, 
 No hint of death in all his frame. 
 But found him all in all the same, 
 I should not feel it to be strange,' " 
 
292 AT ANCHOR : 
 
 "And yet, my darling Georgie, the struggle be- 
 tween your soul's recognition of the truth and your 
 fears to trust its voice, not an houi' ago, almost fright- 
 ened me, and I trembled lest at the very moment I 
 had found not only my Georgie but my Georgie's 
 heart, I had lost both. I was greatly against the 
 surimse ; but IVIr. Yane had set his heart on doing it 
 just so, and was inxorable. I cannot tell you how I 
 suffered as, absolutely forbidden to seek you, I waited 
 for you to come. I listened, I heard all their voices, 
 I waited, I strained my ears, I ached to hear yours, 
 but you did not — I know you did not — speak, I could 
 not have lost the faintest sound of your voice, until 
 after your uncle spoke of me. Then, w^hen I did hear 
 it, I seemed paralyzed with mingled emotions. Had 
 you been one moment later I should have recovered, 
 and, unable longer to wait, gone to you. You looked 
 like a sj)irit as you came in, Georgie." 
 
 " Well I might, for I had come from the crowning 
 battle of a ten years' war,— a crowning battle that 
 was a victory. It was the battle of mind over matter, 
 and mind won the victory." 
 
 "What was the war?" 
 
 " Kot now ; do not ask me now. Some day I shall 
 have a story to tell you of an old habit that I clung 
 to perversely, that I conquered not two hours ago. 
 There is nothing now, my Carl, to come between us. 
 Oh ! that I could bring back the days in which you 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 293 
 
 plead so hard, that I might give them undying love, as 
 I do these ! " 
 
 " No, we will not call them back ; they were dear, 
 blessed days, because they prepared the way for this. 
 Do you know, Georgie, that for all the years your face 
 was set against me, for all the grief I have had that 
 it was so ; for all my passionate pleadings, and for all 
 my pain, it seems as if I had always seen you and held 
 you as I do now, my own loving wife ? " 
 
 " Yes, Carl ; for I think my heart was yours all 
 that time. It should have been. I know it was. I 
 was like a lost spirit when you were gone ; there was 
 no rest, no peace, no anchor for me. I tried to think 
 other things were the cause of my unrest, but they 
 were not. Oh ! I have a long story to tell you of my 
 life after you left. And you, — when will you tell me 
 of yours, and of your coming here ? " 
 
 " It is a long story, and must be heard and told at 
 our leisure. Who are in there ? " 
 
 " Uncle Tom, Kate, Captain Lewis, and Captain 
 Stuart." 
 
 " Our old friend Gilbert ? I suppose we must go 
 to them." 
 
 "I have to dress. Uncle Tom gave me ten minutes 
 to dress. Kate is going to a party after supper, I 
 suppose she is inwardly fretting at this delay. I ran 
 down to the parlor to get her some flowers and was 
 caught, and have not had time to dress since. My 
 hair is in a great state." 
 
294 AT ANCHOE. 
 
 " You don't go out of my sight for anybody or any 
 thing. Roll up your hair and come. Rebellious al- 
 ready ? I will be youi' hair-dresser. It is a long time 
 since I have seen these bright rolls, Georgie." 
 
 " What Avill you do when they are thin and gray ?" 
 
 " You know. Wicked Georgie for asking sucli a 
 question ! Xow, come ; Uncle Tom has told them all, 
 I suppose ? " 
 
 "What do you call 'all'?" 
 
 " The little fact of my existence, which is about the 
 smallest part of all." 
 
 "Perhaps!" 
 
 It was evident Uncle Tom had contrived to interest 
 them in a long story of the great event, for he was still 
 talking when we entered the room. Kate sprang for- 
 ward to meet us, and Gilbert Stuart took advantage 
 of her movement to make good his escape. 
 
 " This," I heard Captain Lewis say to Kate on the 
 way to supper, " this beats all the houses I ever saw 
 for surprises. It wifl be our turn next." 
 
 " I owed you one, eh Georgie, didn't I, old lady?" 
 said Uncle Tom, rubbing his hands. " I am even with 
 you." 
 
 " Ahead of me, uncle ; I shall never dispute your 
 success." 
 
 " You're welcome home, sir," said Mrs. Glynn, as 
 v/e entered the supper-room. 
 
 At which we all saluted Carl with a laugh. I think 
 my Uncle Tom put her up to it. 
 
CHAPTER xxym. 
 
 " Now," I said, when Kate and the captain had 
 eaten their supper and gone, " I want yonr story from 
 title-page to finis. I suppose we have dragged out 
 the greater part of it by our questions during the last 
 half hour, hut I want it altogether." 
 
 " It isn't possible," cried my Uncle Tom, " that you 
 are going to tell that story again ? It is no less than 
 fifteen and a half times I have heard it already ! He 
 was button-holed, Georgie, at every step in ISTew York, 
 and in the cars coming on it was just fearful. How is 
 it there are always some people everywhere ever 
 ready with information about everybody, who never 
 fail to find you out under fifty disguises? No- 
 body could question for an instant that our young 
 man there was an officer ; that knowledge of itself is 
 about as much as most men need to start examina- 
 tions and cross-examinations." 
 
 " Once it was my own fault," said Carl. 
 
 " How was that," I asked. 
 
 " A young sprig in a new uniform," answered my 
 
296 AT AXCHOE : 
 
 uncle, " who had evidently yet to hear the first sound 
 of an enemy's gun, was giving forth his mighty opinions 
 about the great contest. ' The South couldn't keep it 
 up much longer,' he said; * they were a half-starved 
 set of poor devils at the best ; it wasn't any thing to 
 whip them. As for their leaders, there wasn't an 
 officer fit to command a resriment of our men among: 
 them.' Our young KaxJoUon^ I was going to say, but 
 the name is already appropriated, so I will call our 
 young sprig only a hero, was as hard upon the aboli- 
 tionists as upon the secessionists, didn't think the 
 negroes had any thing to do with the war, — and, you 
 can guess, the usual rigmarole. I saw that Carl was 
 blazing; I was only very much amused, and quite 
 undisturbed by the sledge-hammer of criticism with 
 which our hero came down upon everybody and 
 every thing, — Generals, Congressmen, West Point, 
 and I cannot tell what all. Poor fellow ! six months 
 later how he would blush for his arrogance ! ' You 
 are in the army, I should judge,' a gentleman said, 
 turning around to Carl, ' how do these things please 
 the soldiers ? ' Carl had his text, and he came down 
 with a whole charge." 
 
 " I was very sorry for it afterwards," said Carl, 
 " for the little fellow liked his brief hour of lionizing, 
 and it was too bad to interrupt it ; but I came North 
 expecting to find but one mind, one thought, one view 
 of the rebellion, and my enthusiasm surprises people 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 297 
 
 as much as the rustic's unrestrained laughter at old 
 stage-jokes. I am still on the invalid corps, so excuse 
 my story, Georgie, if it lacks hair-breadth escapes and 
 thrilling scenes. I cannot go through the story of the 
 past six months, although in the simplest words and 
 merely in outline, without feeling intensely the old 
 struggles. I am not much at telling stories." 
 
 " People generally make the jpreface after the tale 
 is told," I suggested. 
 
 " You must know then," Carl continued, " that I 
 went into the secession movement with the best inten- 
 tions in the world, and with a romantic idea of liberty, 
 tyrants, and ' down ^ith the fierce oppressor.' As the 
 movement grew more serious, and men discussed not 
 only its expediency but its right, I found myself 
 several times knocked in the head by arguments that 
 left their mark. I was, however, heart and soul in the 
 cause ; with all my heart and soul believed it right, 
 or, perhaps, as we are all human, I should not have so 
 readily promised Georgie, who, you know, Mr. Yane, 
 was stout for the Union, that if I ever doubted the 
 right of the Southern cause that I would give it 
 up. I am not going to tell you of my battles and 
 heroic achievements at present ; I was asked how 
 I came here, and it is of inward struggles I have 
 now to speak. I went off to the war,* strong and 
 unshaken; I shut my eyes, as every soldier should, 
 to every thing but the right of the cause which 
 13* 
 
298 AT axchok: 
 
 no bad leadership however much it may injure can 
 ever make less ric^ht. But as I was thrown amons* 
 our officers and soldiers, I was forced to see, and to 
 see with disgust, to how many low and base motives 
 appeals were made, and how few, how very few were 
 moved by sterling principle. But there "s^-^re other 
 men, earnest like myself, men whose souls had panted 
 for action through many idle years, and we helped 
 each other's doubting faith. I do not believe because 
 others scorned to own to any lack of faith that they did 
 not also doubt. After awhile it became my place to be 
 much among the prisoners, — prisoners of both sides. 
 I met among the Union prisoners, officers and privates, 
 men of intelligence, culture, understanding, and of 
 thorough worth ; men who fully and clearly saw and 
 knew for what they were fighting. They spoke of us 
 with decision in regard to our political sins, — they 
 never minced matters about these, — but I scarcely 
 ever heard one betray any vindictiveness, bitterness, 
 or any personal animosity. Considering they fought 
 well, believed in the war, and intended to carry it 
 through, and were influenced in their opinions by no 
 desire for our good wUl, nor fear of us, I liked their 
 mildness. One officer, I remember, one day said to 
 me : ' I have been over many battle-fields, and have 
 everywhere ^een stiaick by the truly noble physique 
 of your dead ; it is hard such fine fellows must go 
 down like so much grass, but the cause of the nation 
 
A STOKY OF OUK CIVIL AVAR. 299 
 
 demands it, and you know we fight you just as hard 
 as though we had not a thousand times rather wel- 
 come you to our tables in thorough good fellowship. 
 Are you brothers or barbarians we must fight you 
 just the same, so long as you rebel against our govern- 
 ment and yours. But we fight ourselves, almost, in 
 fighting you ; we have an older brother sort of feeling 
 toward you ; we can't judge you quite as severely as 
 if you were not a wayward younger brother. You 
 will never believe how much of afiection there is in 
 our feelings toward you. Men like you. Major, can 
 understand it, others may call it cowardice, servility, 
 or some other unworthy name ; the fact remains un- 
 altered.' Our own soldiers always came back from 
 the Xorth subdued by their visits to the strongholds 
 of the nation ; no sneers, no contemptuous remarks, no 
 insulting names for them as they went sullen and 
 sulky to their prisons. I have known of very many 
 acts of real kindness and consideration from the Union 
 guards to their prisoners ; sometimes when these lat- 
 ter have been tired, worn, sick or wounded, perhaps, 
 the others have dismounted from their horses and let 
 their prisoners take their j^lace, they trudging by on 
 foot. But mark this — their food, their horses, their 
 blankets, they might share, or give, but never liberty, 
 or an acknowledgment that they were not 'rebels,' 
 and as ' rebels ' fought and conquered. This is the 
 spirit I like ; no appeals to selfish motives or ignoble 
 
300 AT AXCHOE : 
 
 passions to fire your Northern heart, but the pure love 
 of principle ; no weak and mistaken mercy, but Roman- 
 like justice. These things I saw, and each in its own 
 way helped on the work of my conversion. 
 
 " I was slightly wounded during the winter, — I 
 never wrote you of that, Georgie ; it was not worth 
 while to worry you about so small an affair. I fell 
 into the hands of the Sisters of Charity, even under 
 the care of your old friend Emma Lewis; who had 
 also, she told me, taken care of Captain Belton, who 
 regards himself as one of your converts. He proved 
 himself a valuable acquisition to the Union army." 
 " He was killed, poor fellow ! on the Peninsula." 
 "Don't say ^^oor felloio^ his death completed a 
 noble, martyr-like career. Sister Louisa was very 
 reticent and demure ; I teased and tormented her in 
 every way I could devise to make her talk about the 
 war, but she was on her guard — it was not for a Sister 
 of Chanty to speak. One day, at last, I roused her. 
 I talked against the Government; made fun of its 
 ofiicers until grace could stand^no more ; Sister Louisa 
 colored and said : * All the ridicule in the world, all 
 the satire of Jimius, cannot make our Government less 
 a Government nor your rebellion less a rebellion.' It 
 was a great deal to have drawn from a Sister of 
 Charity, but the old Adam was strong in Emma even 
 then. The ice once broken I got her to talk seriously 
 with me ; I risked nothing in opening my heart to a 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 301 
 
 recluse. She is a tough little Union woman, and gave 
 her reasons for her faith with a will, and with never a 
 waver in her voice. She has grown a splendid wo- 
 man, Emma has, and I owe her more than I can say. 
 After a time I left the hospital and tossed about in 
 various ways, and worked hard to keep thoughts out 
 of my head, and to show myself really a soldiel-. I 
 kept from thinking moderately well until I was again 
 wounded in the summer. I did hope I might die then, 
 and be spared the pain of decision, which is the pain 
 always ; to act is nothing. I found it hard to decide ; 
 I could not fight against my convictions and my 
 promise to Georgie, and it was hard to desert the 
 cause I had been one of the first to embrace. But my 
 convictions and my health would not give way, but 
 struggled on to strength. I could not die; I was 
 forced to decide. I could not stay longer in the house 
 of the kind Southern people, who, proud to have a 
 Southern officer in the house with them, exerted them- 
 selves to the utmost to take care of me, and were, 
 indeed, mothers and sisters to me ; and I got away 
 from them as soon as I could, resolved if I had to live 
 to make my way to headquarters, resign, and then who 
 could tell what ? I had hardly clearly made up my 
 mind in this respect, than I was taken prisoner. You 
 can imagine my rage and chagrin. To declare myself 
 an unbeliever in secession, to give up my commission 
 after having been a prisoner, admitted of too many 
 
302 AT anchor: 
 
 suggestions against my honor for me to think of it. 
 In this painful state of mind I was taken into the 
 Union lines, and into the hands of some officers who 
 treated me with every attention, care, and kindness. 
 I was very much exhausted, so much so that they 
 soon expressed their fears that I was past recovery. I 
 did nothing to undeceive them. They forced me to 
 take a little wine. Every thing seemed in confusion, 
 but I lay quietly and without motion, while orderlies 
 came and went, or gathered around the tent door. I 
 gathered scraps of their conversation; fortunately it 
 was a kind that did me good. The tents were near 
 together, and as the evening grew quieter I could 
 hear, was forced to hear the conversation in the next 
 tent to the one to which I had been taken. I wish I 
 could repeat to you kind words, high-toned sentiments, 
 brave energetic thoughts which were thrown in my 
 way that night. 
 
 " For some reason I was carried farther on, or in a 
 different direction, and, I think, they broke up camp, 
 or there was danger of an attack, for two men were 
 left in charge of me, and there was complete silence 
 around me. A thunder-storm came up, a violent one, 
 and at every burst of thunder my guard started, and 
 muttered something meant, perhaps, for a prayer. 
 They did their duty by occasionally pouring down my 
 throat a few drops of some liquor which had been left 
 for me, and pouring down their own large quantities 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 303 
 
 of the same, until, as will sometimes happen, the bottle 
 showed itself to be empty. One of the men expressed 
 his convictions that he could find more if he looked in 
 the right place, and with his bottle under his overcoat 
 started on the quest, leaving his companion alone 
 with me. This man, evidently, did not relish a lonely 
 watch, a dark night, a thunder-storm, a dying rebel, 
 and no whiskey, and soon moved after his partner. 
 ' Are ye alive ? " he said to me before leaving ; ' poor 
 fellow ! I'm loth to lave ye, but I'm afeard somewhat's 
 happened to Mike, and it's our duty to stand by each 
 other ; but I'll not be long gone.' 
 
 " I made no answer, of course, and off he went. 
 The rascal left his overcoat, into which I put myself, 
 and, forcing my strength back, I got out of the tent. 
 I found myself unable to go far, but found a hiding- 
 place so near at hand that, to speak after the manner 
 of the Hibernians, it was beyond suspicion. The men 
 after awhile returned, very angry, very tipsy, and very 
 
 much scared. 'I knew the divil would have the 
 
 rebel,' said one, as they went around looking for me. 
 'But what Avould the divil want of me overcoat?' 
 asked the other. 'Maybe the ould gintleman don't 
 like the climate,' suggested the first. ' Or is afeard 
 of the draft, maybe,' added the second. Talking in 
 this way they passed me, and aided, perhaps, by a 
 quantity of bills I had forgotten purposely, they de- 
 cided to give up the search, and from them came the 
 
304 AT axchor: 
 
 testimony, I suppose, of my death. I am sony to 
 have such things to record of Union patriots ; but hu- 
 man nature is human nature, you know. 
 
 " I got to a small hut in the wood, was taken in, 
 gave the owners some money, laid down on the floor, 
 and had a raging fever. They took such care as they 
 could of me, and as I was not destined to die, I lived. 
 When I was able to stir I got back to the South. IN'o 
 one wondered that I resigned, for I was completely 
 smashed up. I worked along slowly, very slowly in- 
 deed. You were gone to the Xorth I supposed. I 
 made no inquiries lest I should interfere with your 
 2)lans. I made arrangements to follow you ; slow ar- 
 rangements, for I was laid up every few days. I got 
 through the lines of both armies ; it would be impru- 
 dent, as the newspapers say, to give the details. 
 
 " Resting at New York I was recognized in my 
 olden capacity as a Southern officer, a muss was made, 
 and I was arrested. Xo one would listen to me ; time 
 and my money were wearing away; but believing 
 every day must be the last, I forbore any steps for my 
 release or assistance. However, I couldn't expect any 
 thing better, and tried to wait with resignation. 
 Georgie knows why I did not send word to her, and 
 was even half doubtful, sometimes, of how she would 
 receive me. In due time I was released, ^"ithout any 
 questions on either side, and then was I mad ! If I 
 were not a spy they had no right to arrest me ; if I 
 
A STORY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 305 
 
 were a spy they had no right to free me ; and they 
 knew no more of me on the day they opened my 
 prison doors than on the day they first closed them 
 between me and liberty. I went to Washington ; I 
 lost time, strength, money, and temper, but gained 
 no satisfaction nor notice, except that a scamp of an 
 editor got hold of my name, and made a paragraph 
 about me. Said paragraph came to the notice of 
 somebody who knew Mr. Yane ; who, meeting Mr. 
 Yane one day, questioned him of me. Exclamations 
 and explanations followed. Mr. Yane took his cane 
 and started after me. He came in good time; he 
 owed you a sm-prise, he said. I make no attempt to 
 tell you all he did for me ; but we journeyed together, 
 and here I am. These are but the hurried outlines of 
 my history ; if I live I shall give you incidents enough 
 to fill them up to a three-yolumed novel. But this 
 must do for to-night. You know, Goergie, I have a 
 story to hear." 
 
 " Yes, Carl, and you shall hear it, although I have 
 told you nearly all. I told you before that I visited 
 a 'grave supposed to be yours. Oh, what a night it 
 was ! You must have that name changed." 
 
 " No, I mean to leave it. They carried it rather 
 far, but it is true in one sense. Blank AhertJinay^ 
 C. S. A., is dead and buried. There is poetic and 
 proper justice in that inscription. A leader, as he was 
 proud to be in this great contest ; one of those who set 
 
306 AT axchoe: 
 
 this terrible ball of battle rolling, he owed his grave 
 to his enemies, and of him remains only a mutilated 
 name, and three letters that tell the histoiy of his life 
 and his death, his sin and his shame. How like the 
 prophetic wish of your favorite poet : 
 
 ' Amerique, 6 patrk ! Amerique, 6 ma mere ! 
 
 S^il est un de iesjih assez lacJie et wlgaire^ 
 
 Pour fenteridre offeiiser et pour te renier, 
 
 Seul, sa}is pleurs, sans regrets^ qu'il tneure tout entler ! 
 
 Que son nam, efface des pages de Phisioire, 
 
 Efface de tout cceur et de toute memoire, 
 
 Entoure du lincevl d'un iter net ouhli, 
 
 Dans la nuit du tombeau descende eyisevelV " 
 
 Adrien Kouquette, 
 
 " And now," said my Uncle Tom, " what is to be 
 the next move ? " 
 
 " As soon as I am strong enough I am going into 
 your army, and repair as well as I can some of the 
 injury I have done the country." 
 
 " And it shall be my part," added my uncle, " to 
 get your commission. Don't give yourself a moment's 
 thought on the subject. I will attend to it." 
 
 " Commission me no commissions," Carl said ; " I 
 have always had great regard for the good son who 
 stayed quietly at home, and for whom the fatted calf 
 was never killed. I have no right to any of the honors 
 of the land, and yet it is an honor to wear the uniform 
 of the United States in any capacity. I shall be grate- 
 ful if I can be allowed to wear it in its humblest man- 
 
A STORY OF OUK CIVIL WAR. 307 
 
 N 
 
 ner, and shall be glad if I am permitted to take my 
 chances at the eleventh hour with those who have 
 borne the heat and burden of the day. Don't cry, 
 Georgie ; I haven't gone yet." 
 
 " Half my tears are tears of pride. Xo king ever 
 laid down his crown, and took up the cowl of a monk 
 with purer charity, and higher courage than you have 
 changed the livery of secession for that of govern- 
 ment! I am proud of you, dear Carl, for I know, 
 darUng, what it has cost you to do it. God knows, 
 
 too." 
 
 " It costs much, and yet less than you think. It is 
 the only thing that I could do. It is not a matter 
 that admits of question or doubt ; it is, indeed, a 
 luxury to do a work that is so clearly chalked out. I 
 think the pains of doubt and indecision are very nearly 
 the severest pains, and the most difficult to bear of any 
 
 in this world." 
 
 " I think so too, Carl," I said, " and I think as 
 well it is a luxury to do a work that is so clearly 
 marked out as mine." 
 
 " Yours ! " echoed Uncle Tom, " a woman's work ! 
 What might be the labor of your life ? " 
 
 « Woman's work has generally no name, but it is 
 none the less a work, even though it is nameless, or 
 
 well loved." 
 
 " I never knew her to do any thing in her life," 
 my Uncle Tom said to Carl ; " she isn't even president 
 of a sino-le benevolent association." 
 
308 AT AXCHOE. 
 
 "I have something to do, nevertheless," I an- 
 swered. 
 
 " What can it be ? " he asked. 
 
 " To love Carl," I answered, and I have been 
 doing it ever since. 
 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 AYhat more can I tell you, ye patient friends, who 
 have followed me through all my faults and follies 
 safe to my anchorage ? As the painter who repre- 
 sented a father's grief by a face covered with a mantle, 
 signifying it could not be expressed, would I paint 
 my exceedingly great happiness for you ; only the 
 mantle should be of golden texture, and of dazzling 
 loveliness. 
 
 My husband grew stronger and nobler even than 
 of old, and as soon he could he fulfilled his intention 
 of going down as a private. How few who read these 
 lines will need to be told what days of agonizing 
 suspense and racking terror followed his departure. 
 
 Days came and went, and those who loved me 
 kept up the courage that would sometimes fail, by 
 assuring me the days could not be long before the war 
 would be over, and so they have gone on telling me. 
 But the day came when my personal terror and dread 
 were to have their end. 
 
310 AT ANCHOR *. 
 
 One day I read my husband's name in the paper, a 
 few more and I was with him. 
 
 " My fighting days are over, " he said, mournfully, 
 " I shall never be fit for service again. It is too soon ; I 
 did hope you would have had a soldier's sword to 
 show to our children, but a sergeant's uniform and a 
 musket are all there is to cover the stain of rebellion." 
 
 " It is all wiped out," I said ; " there is no stain left. 
 And now I have back your honor, and I have you, my 
 darling, never to lose you again, to be hands for you 
 evermore, my darling Carl. Hush ! not a word, I am 
 your tyrant henceforth, and oh ! what a tyrant I 
 shall be ! " 
 
 A few days ago he called me to him. " In your 
 duty to the country, do not forget youi* duty to 
 society, Georgie pet. Read this," he said. 
 
 And I read, under the head of " Marriages," in the 
 Herald : 
 
 " Stuart — Ya?ie. — On Thursday, at the residence 
 
 of L. C. Carter, Esq., Gilbert Stuart, Captain 
 
 Mass. Vols., to !Miss Gertrude Yane, eldest daughter 
 of G. "W. Yane, Brig.-Gen. C. S. A. Richmond papers 
 please copy." 
 
 " It's Stuart and Yane^ notwithstanding," my hus- 
 band said. 
 
 " Yes," I answered, " but he has taken a different 
 manner of vanity." 
 
 " Well," added my husband, " I am glad friend 
 
A STOEY OF OUR CIVIL WAR. 311 
 
 Stuart is At Anchor at last. There is anchorage for 
 all of us if we are only patient and faithfully follow 
 the light that is within us. Which sentiment, by the 
 way, being very true, suggestive, and exceedingly 
 well expressed, will do for the moral of your book." 
 
 " I wouldn't end up with a moral," I replied, " for 
 any thing in this world. K you and I haven't lived 
 long enough to prove a warning or an assistance we 
 had better give up." 
 
 " I haven't an idea of such a thing as giving up," 
 said Carl, " we are only just beginning to live. I feel 
 that you and I have not battled so long for nothing, 
 but that through all we have been preserved and 
 strengthened for some thoroughly good work even in 
 this world. There is nothing we cannot do if we work 
 together. I have seen, at the seashore, boats rocking 
 idly on the waves, day after day, when suddenly I 
 would see them, sails spread, flags flying, and all 
 hands busy, dashing bravely ofi" to sea. Perhaps they 
 had been hauled up for repaii-s, as we are ; at any 
 rate, they sailed none the less swiftly, and were none 
 the less strong and secure for having lain At Anchor, 
 at the Master's will. There's a moral in spite of you, 
 Georgie." 
 
 THE END. 
 
RARE BOOK 
 COLLECTION 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 AT 
 
 CHAPEL HILL 
 
 Wilmer 
 
 57 
 
 C.2