Transcriber’s Note:

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

HOW HE WON HER.
A
SEQUEL TO “FAIR PLAY.”

BY

MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.

AUTHOR OF “FAIR PLAY,” “THE WIDOW’S SON,” “THE BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN,” “HAUNTED HOMESTEAD,” “RETRIBUTION,” “THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER,” “THE LOST HEIRESS,” “THE FORTUNE SEEKER,” “ALLWORTH ABBEY,” “THE FATAL MARRIAGE,” “THE MISSING BRIDE,” “THE TWO SISTERS,” “THE BRIDAL EVE,” “LADY OF THE ISLE,” “GIPSY’S PROPHECY,” “VIVIA,” “WIFE’S VICTORY,” “MOTHER-IN-LAW,” “INDIA,” “THE THREE BEAUTIES,” “THE CURSE OF CLIFTON,” “THE DESERTED WIFE,” “LOVE’S LABOR WON,” “FALLEN PRIDE,” “THE CHANGED BRIDES,” “THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS,” ETC., ETC.

“She loved him for the dangers he had passed.”—Shakspeare.

“None but the brave deserve the fair.”—Collins.

PHILADELPHIA:

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;

306 CHESTNUT STREET.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1869, by

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,

In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.

MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S WORKS.

Each Work is complete in one large duodecimo volume.

FAIR PLAY; OR, THE TEST OF THE LONE ISLE.

HOW HE WON HER. A SEQUEL TO FAIR PLAY.

THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS.

THE CHANGED BRIDES.

THE THREE BEAUTIES.

THE WIFE’S VICTORY.

THE MOTHER-IN-LAW.

FALLEN PRIDE; OR, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE.

THE BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN.

THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY.

THE FORTUNE SEEKER.

THE DESERTED WIFE.

THE LOST HEIRESS.

RETRIBUTION.

INDIA; OR, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER.

THE FATAL MARRIAGE.

THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD.

LOVE’S LABOR WON.

THE MISSING BRIDE.

LADY OF THE ISLE.

THE TWO SISTERS.

VIVIA; OR, THE SECRET OF POWER.

THE CURSE OF CLIFTON.

THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER.

THE WIDOW’S SON.

ALLWORTH ABBEY.

THE BRIDAL EVE.

Price of each, $1.75 in Cloth; or $1.50 in Paper Cover.

Above books are for sale by all Booksellers. Copies of any or all of the above books will be sent to any one, to any place, postage pre-paid, on receipt of their price by the Publishers,

T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,

306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa.

TO

MRS. FRANCES HENSHAW BADEN,

OF WASHINGTON CITY;

IN COMMEMORATION OF HER ENTIRE DEVOTION,

FOR THE PERIOD OF FOUR YEARS,

TO THE SICK AND WOUNDED SOLDIERS,

IN THE HOSPITALS,

THIS STORY OF THE WAR

IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED,

BY HER SISTER.

Prospect Cottage,

Georgetown, D. C.

February, 1869.

CONTENTS.

HOW HE WON HER.

CHAPTER I.
ERMINIE’S STORY.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,

By all their country’s wishes blest!

When spring with dewy fingers cold

Returns to deck their hallowed mould,

She there shall dress a sweeter sod

Than fancy’s feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung,

By forms unseen their dirge is sung.

There honor comes, a pilgrim gray,

To bless the turf that wraps their clay

And freedom shall awhile repair

To dwell, a weeping hermit, there.—Collins.

It was not until the morning succeeding his arrival, after breakfast, when they found themselves alone together in the drawing-room, that Justin told Erminie the story of his voyage and shipwreck, his preservation and residence on the Desert Island, and his rescue and return home.

She listened with breathless interest to his narrative, and when it was finished she earnestly thanked Heaven for his restoration to his home and friends.

And then, in return, she gave him the history of all that had occurred to her since he had first sailed.

She told him of those gathering clouds of disaffection in the South that no one could be made to believe would ever break in a storm of Civil War. She spoke of that solemn day in the Senate when the Southern senators withdrew. She whispered of the shameful, sorrowful day when Fort Sumter was taken, and, in the language of the man who commanded the assault, “The proud flag that had never been humbled before—the star-spangled banner—was humbled to the dust.” She told how these words had burned in the hearts of all true patriots until they lighted a flame of love of country, hate of traitors, never to be quenched; how, at the President’s call for seventy-five thousand men, four times that number started to arms; how even across the broad Atlantic, in Ireland, the warm-hearted lovers of the Union had banded together and offered their services to the Federal Government through our ministers and consuls abroad; how these had been declined en masse, as unneeded then.

Here the Lutheran minister’s orphan child paused to gather strength; for she had next to speak of the fatal fields of Bethel and Ball’s Bluff; and of Bull Run, where her brave father fell. She told the awful history amidst sobs and tears that she could not restrain.

“He died where he fell, before his men, in front of the enemy. He lies buried near the spot, his grave marked by the care of a brother officer, his honored remains waiting only the return of peace to be removed.”

“They shall not-await the return of peace, they shall be brought home immediately,” answered Justin.

Then Erminie spoke of opening her father’s will, and seeing there that he had left his property to his two children, to be divided between them, share and share alike.

“Then my dear father did not believe me to be lost?” said Justin.

“Then we none of us did; there had not been time enough for us to grow anxious. We had got two letters from you, one mailed from Porto Praya, and one from the Cape of Good Hope. When my dear father died we were looking daily for a letter from you from Calcutta.”

“I am glad that he had suffered no anxiety on my account. Go on, sweet sister.”

“Oh, my brother! after that public and private woes came thick and fast. Defeat after defeat discouraged our army, until at length came the crushing shame and sorrow of the last battle of Manassas. Blow upon blow fell upon my own heart, until I thought that the Lord had forgotten to take care of me. I was still weeping, weeping day and night over the death of my dear father, when there came news of the wreck of the Sultana. It came through the officers of that Dutch merchantman who picked up the life-boat with the missionary party on board; and it came in the form of a narrative written by the Reverend Mr. Ely. It was published in all the papers. It contained a list of the names of those whose lives were lost. And, Justin, your name was among them!”

“Poor sister!”

“I laid down to die. I did so wish for death! But I suppose youth and life were too strong within me and I lived and suffered. Ah, Justin! I was a very self-occupied woman up to that time. I thought ‘no sorrow was like unto my sorrow.’ In the midst of that great bitterness of grief I received a telegram from New York calling me to the death-bed of our dear Uncle Friedrich.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I went on immediately and remained with him until he died. Ah, Justin! The scene of that good man’s peaceful departure went far to heal my spirit. He talked to me when he was able; his words were few, but very precious. He told me, in this great crisis of the country’s history, when for the high and holy cause of union and liberty hundreds were suffering more than I, and thousands quite as much; I must not sit down in selfish sorrow, I must get up and minister to those whose sorrows were as great as mine, and whose necessities were so much greater.”

“He was right, Erminie.”

“I know it and I knew it then. He told me to go among the wounded soldiers in the numerous hospitals, and with hand and purse minister to them and relieve their wants. He told me to seek out the bereaved widows and orphans, and mothers of those who had fallen in the holy war; and to serve all as far as they should have need and I have power; but especially—oh! especially to minister to the mourning mothers. ‘Widows,’ he said, ‘may be consoled by second husbands; orphans grow up and forget their fathers; but the mother whose boy has fallen in battle is inconsolable and unforgetting forever. Therefore especially, motherless girl, comfort the childless mothers.’ And kneeling by his bed I kissed his hands and promised to obey his words. And that same day, as the sun went down, he died. But it was not until some days had passed that I knew he had left me all his wealth. Justin, I came home, and I have religiously obeyed his dying instructions, and—in comforting others I have found comfort.”

“As all mourners may, if they will, my sweet sister,” replied her brother. He fell into deep thought for a few minutes, and then, looking earnestly at his sister, he said:

“But, Erminie, in all this long story you have never once mentioned the name of Colonel Eastworth. Where is he? What is he doing? Why are you not married?”

Erminie grew even paler than she had before been; she compressed her lips until they too faded, and then slowly and steadily answered:

“‘Where is he?’ In South Carolina. ‘What is he doing?’ Warring upon his native land. ‘Why are we not married?’ Because the child of Ernest Rosenthal can never be the wife of a man in arms against his country. Never mention his name to me again, Justin. For he was the very caitiff who so gloried in his shame as to boast that he had humbled the proud flag that had never been humbled before!”

And the beautiful eyes of this “falcon-hearted dove” flashed as she spoke.

Justin put out his arms and drew her to his breast; for he saw that those flashing eyes were about to be drowned in tears.

“My dear sister! my dear, dear sister, blow upon blow has indeed fallen fast upon your heart. How much you have suffered!” he said, as he tenderly soothed her.

She wept upon his bosom for a little while, and then lifting her head and wiping her eyes, she smiled and said:

“But I have been comforted, Justin. In comforting others I have been comforted. And now I am more than comforted—I am rejoiced. How all is changed, in public and in private, from grief to joy. And oh! how suddenly changed, brother! In a day! Almost in an hour! Yesterday morning came the glorious news of the victory of Gettysburg, and I knew that the tide of war had turned. Soon after—very soon after—came a messenger of joy to me. The minister that brought me the news of your safe return from—the grave! It was like a miraculous resurrection. Coming directly upon the news of the great victory, it was almost overwhelming. There seemed too much joy for one day!”

“I entreated Dr. Sales to break the matter to you very cautiously,” said Justin.

“Ah! do you think that could be broken to me cautiously?” inquired Erminie, with a smile. “Why, Justin, as soon as he came into the room and I saw his face, I knew that he brought me ‘glad tidings.’ I naturally thought it was of the victory of Gettysburg, so I told him I had heard of it that very morning. But when he drew your name into the conversation, I knew in an instant that you were saved. Oh, Justin, it was such a shock of joy! But it did not kill me, as it might have done.”

“Yes, it might, my sweet sister, for you look very pale, and thin, and fragile—not well able to bear a shock of any sort,” said Justin tenderly.

“Ah, but all is well now. I am happy, so happy, although I weep. You must not mind my weeping, dear. We women often weep most when we are happiest, and—ah, yes! Heaven knows, smile most when we are most wretched!”

“‘Smile most when you are most wretched!’ Where have you learned that bitter lesson, my sister?” Justin gravely questioned.

“In the hospital, where I have seen the heart-broken mother smiling on her mutilated or dying boy to keep his spirits up, as long as he should live.”

“You seem to be very familiar with the wards of the hospitals, my sister.”

“It is the business, the blessing of my life to be so. But, Justin, dear, I wish to ask you about Britomarte. You took care of her on the Desert Island. She saved your life in the sea fight. Ah, how my heart thrilled to the touch of that story. Now you are betrothed, I hope, and soon to marry? Oh, Justin, how cordially I would welcome her here as my sister, and how willingly resign my position as mistress of the house, in her favor. For the house is yours, you know, Justin, and as your wife it would be her right.”

Justin slowly shook his head, compressed his lips, and frowned.

“What do you mean by that, my brother?”

“There is no possibility of a marriage between Miss Conyers and myself,” he said.

“Justin!”

“You know what were Britomarte’s sentiments on the subject of marriage, or rather of the position of a woman in marriage. And now I have only to add that all which has happened to us has not been able to work a change in them.”

“Oh, Justin! I am so sorry!”

“So you see, my dear, there is no chance of your being superseded on the household throne, for since Britomarte will not be my wife, no other woman shall.”

“Oh Justin, what a pity. But if she will not be your wife, she shall be your sister and mine. She shall come here, and share my home and means.”

“She would never do that; she is much too proud to be dependent, even on those who love and honor her most.”

“Then what will become of her? for oh, Justin, it is whispered that—that——”

“What?” inquired the young man, seeing his sister grow pale and large-eyed as she paused.

“That—oh, it is too horrible to breathe—that——”

“For Heaven’s sake, speak, Erminie!”

“—The house is the resort of conspirators, who plan—plan—no less a crime than—than—.” Her voice gradually sank to a whisper, and then stopped altogether.

“Than what? Speak, my sister; take courage and speak!”

“Oh, I cannot! I cannot! Spare me! it is too horrible!”

“But what house is it to which you allude?”

“Witch Elms.”

“And it is said to be the resort of conspirators, who plan—what?” persisted Justin.

“I cannot say it. I hope it is all a mere canard. Certainly the civil and the military authorities have both visited and ransacked the house, but they have discovered nothing there but what they call ‘the fossil remains of an old lady and two negroes,’ meaning Miss Pole, the centenarian aunt of Britomarte, and the two servants.”

“Then the horrible story, whatever it may be, is probably a mere canard, not worth our attention.”

“But Britomarte! She cannot go there, even if her old relative would receive her. What will become of her? What can we do for her?”

“We can do many things in this world, but we can do nothing with the will of a woman like Miss Conyers. We must leave her to the Lord and herself. And have you lived here quite alone all this time, my poor Erminie?” said Justin, pityingly.

“Oh, no. I should have told you before, only there was so much to tell and to hear. Elfrida Fielding is with me. She is a refugee from Virginia. Her father is with General Meade at Gettysburg. We had a telegram from him yesterday. He is wounded but not dangerously, and is coming home on leave.”

“Then they are on the right side.”

“Thank Heaven, yes! But they have suffered very much for their devotion to the Union; they have had their house burned over their heads by the Secessionists, and they escaped the flames only through the fidelity of an old family servant. They have been here ever since. At least this is Elfie’s home always, and her father’s whenever he comes to see her.”

“That is right, my sister. Let the home of our heroic father be the refuge of all whom the war has made homeless, and who seek its threshold. But where is my little friend now? I should be glad to see her.”

“Immediately on receiving the telegram yesterday, she prepared to go to Gettysburg to bring her father home. I also was ready to go with her, when the visit of Mr. Sales with the joyful news of your return stopped my journey. And so Elfie, after kissing and congratulating, and laughing and weeping over me, and sending what she called ‘lots of love’ to you, left in the three o’clock train alone.”

While the sister and brother conversed, the time, unheeded, passed away, and now it was nearly noon, when the door bell rang.

“Oh, I hope that is Britomarte. Did she say she would come early?” inquired Erminie.

“She said she would come this morning—she did not specify the hour,” answered Justin, rising to open the drawing-room door.

Britomarte it was, for Justin met her on the threshold, in the act of being ushered in by Uncle Bob, the old servant of Elfie, who also found a home at the parsonage.

Justin warmly welcomed Miss Conyers, but was cut short in his demonstrations by Erminie, who flew to meet her friend, and fell weeping for joy on Britomarte’s bosom.

“How pale you are, my darling. You have suffered much since I saw you last,” said Miss Conyers, tenderly caressing Erminie.

“Oh, much! much! How much you do not know or guess. But it is all over now, dear Britomarte, quite over, now that I see you and Justin safe, and all is well, now, very well, since the tide of war has turned, and the invaders are flying before our victorious army,” she answered, smiling through her tears.

“And do you know what they are saying outside, my darling?” inquired Miss Conyers, brightly glancing back her smile.

“No! what?” eagerly demanded Erminie.

“Haven’t you been out this morning, Justin?” inquired Miss Conyers, turning to Mr. Rosenthal.

“No—why?”

“Nor received a visitor?”

“No visitor except yourself.”

“Then I have the happiness to be the first to announce the news to you. Vicksburg has capitulated!”

“Vicksburg capitulated!” echoed both Justin and Erminie, in a breath.

“The words are in everybody’s mouth. The stars and stripes are waving from half the windows on the avenue.”

“Oh, Justin, go! go out and learn the particulars, but don’t stay long. I cannot bear you out of my sight long, lest I should wake up and find your return all a dream,” urged Erminie.

And Justin, snatching up his hat and gloves, departed.

And Britomarte and Erminie were left together for a long tête-à-tête. Erminie took Britomarte up into her own bedchamber, and they sat down to talk. What need to relate their conversation? To do it would be to repeat all that is already known to the reader of what happened to each during their long separation. To Britomarte Erminie told the same story that she had told to Justin, and by her was comforted with the same tender sympathy she had received from him. And Britomarte answered all Erminie’s questions concerning the voyage, the wreck, the rescue, the life on the Desert Island, the deliverance from the place, the cruise of the Xyphias, the sea fight, the capture of the privateer, and the voyage home.

CHAPTER II.
THE VETERAN’S RETURN.

Siward—Had he his hurts before?

Rosse—Aye, in the front.

Siward—Why, then, God’s soldier be he!—Shakspeare.

While Erminie and Britomarte talked together, there came a rush of feet upon the stairs, followed by the flinging open of the chamber door, and the sudden appearance of Elfie. She sprang at once towards Britomarte, threw herself upon her bosom, and hugged and kissed her, and laughed and cried over her.

“But, dear Elfie, how soon you have returned. In twenty-four hours. Why, you could scarcely have reached your journey’s end. And how did you find your father? Doing well, I hope, from your joyous looks,” said Erminie, as soon as she could put in a word.

“Oh! yes, the old boy’s all right! He’s got his right arm in a sling, and a plaster on both cheeks, and a patch over his left eye—that’s all. He’s not fit for duty, but he needn’t go to bed before a healthy Christian’s usual hour of retiring,” answered Elfie, as she recovered her breath, and threw herself into a chair.

“But how soon you have got back; I don’t understand it,” said Erminie, returning to the ‘previous question.’

“Don’t you? Well neither do I. All I know is that I came very near passing my awful old responsibility on the road. When the train stopped at the Relay House—which you know used to be a comfortable hotel, but is now turned into something between military headquarters and a beer garden—I looked out of the window, and there, as sure as you live, stood my pap, with a lot of dilapidated heroes of the rank and file, on the platform. I had just time to jump off the car before the train started again.”

“Oh! Elfie, dear, how rash to jump off the cars just as the train was about to start!” exclaimed Erminie.

“‘Rash!’ Well, I like that. How could it have been rash?”

“You might have been killed.”

“But I wasn’t, so it couldn’t have been rash. If I had been hurt, then you might have called it rash; but as I wasn’t, you can only call it fearless. But I don’t want to talk of myself, but of my ferocious old governor, who stood there on the platform, bloody, dusty, smoky, bound, bandaged and plastered, and looking, for all the world, like a disreputable old prize-fighter that had been considerably damaged in the ring.”

“But you met him—oh, you met him as the daughter of a hero should meet her wounded father!” exclaimed Erminie with enthusiasm.

“Which means that I wept over the old boy, and set him to weeping, and made a melting scene among all those soldiers. Not much I didn’t. I took him by his whole arm, and turned him round and round until I had inspected him well, and then I said:

“Oh, you miserable looking old pap. I don’t believe you came from Gettysburg or any other gallant battle-field. I believe you are fresh from a fireman’s free fight, or an election riot, where the pretensions of rival candidates are canvassed with cudgels. Where have you been, and what doing, to get yourself so dirty, and knocked into such an old cocked hat?”

“And my old governor laughed, and said that he had been in a dusty place; that it was very dusty at Gettysburg; and that shot and shell were flying thick and fast.

“I begged him to have the largest bath-tub in the house filled with hot water, and to rub himself down from head to foot with soft soap and hard towels, and put himself in soak for three hours; and I gave him the suit of clean under-clothes that I had brought along in my carpet bag.

“And though in general paps are very disobedient persons, yet he promised to obey me, and he kept his word so far as to take a good bath, while I got up a good dinner for him; and I must confess that he didn’t look half so badly when he joined me at the dinner table, freshly washed and newly clothed, with all the smuts and stains I had taken for bruises and gashes cleansed away. But if all heroes have such heroic appetites as my heroic pap, I don’t wonder famine so often follows war.”

Britomarte laughed, but Erminie said:

“Men who are fighting cannot stop to feed. He must have fasted long.”

“Long! I should think he had fasted forty days and nights. I told him so; and he answered that he felt ‘hollow.’ And I couldn’t help saying as I carved the second fowl for him:

“Pap, I know next to nothing about anatomy and physiology, but from certain indications I should judge you to be hollow all the way down to the soles of your boots.”

“Oh, Elfie! how could you?” exclaimed Erminie. “Have you no veneration at all?”

“Not much. I’m afraid there’s a hole where that bump ought to be. But, as I said before, I don’t want to talk of myself, but of my glorious old governor. Well, at that dinner we had a sort of explanation; for you may be sure, not knowing that I was going on to fetch him, he was as much astonished at seeing me there as I was at seeing him. So in answer to his questions, I told him that, knowing very well he wasn’t able to take care of himself even in the best of times, I had started out with the intention of bringing him home. And then I demanded to know how it happened that he should be loafing about the Relay House in such a disrespectable way; and he told me that, feeling stiff and sore, and hungry and tired, he had got off at the Relay House with the intention of resting for the night before going on to Washington. And then the old fellow got sentimental, and called me his darling child and his brave girl; but I stopped all that by firing off at him the news of Britomarte’s and Justin’s resurrection from a ‘watery grave.’ Girls, it did him more good than all the surgeon’s plasters, and even the bath and dinner. He felt better immediately, and proposed that we should start for Washington by the evening train to welcome you back. But of course I wouldn’t allow that. Instead of letting him go to Washington, I made him go to bed, and carried him a cup of tea, and read to him all the evening. It was the full account of the battle of Gettysburg in the morning paper.”

“But he must have know all about that,” put in Erminie.

“Must he, then? I tell you he was in the thick of the fighting, and yet he knew nothing or next to nothing of it; at least not one-tenth part as much as we know, who were not there, yet who read the papers. ‘It was a dusty place. It was a noisy place. Shot and shell were a flying thick and fast. I was struck several times, but we whipped the rebels!’ That was the sum and substance of all the information I could gain from my warlike pap about the battle; but he listened to the Republican’s long account of it with the deepest interest, and fell asleep in the midst of it. I let him sleep, seeing that he was tired out, and knowing that we would have to continue our journey in the morning.”

“But, Elfie, dear, what have you done with your father now? Let me go to him; he must feel neglected.”

“Oh, no, he don’t. I took him at once to his bed-room and made him lie down and rest; and I asked Catherine to take him up a glass of wine and some biscuits. He’s all right, and will join us at dinner. And now, with your good leave, I will go to my room and get a little of this dust and smoke out of my eyes and nose before presenting myself to the Reverend Justin Rosenthal,” said Elfie, rising.

“Then come to us in the drawing-room, for we are going down there,” said Erminie.

Elfie nodded assent, and then flew out of the room, singing:

“We are coming, Father Abraham,

Three hundred thousand more.”

And Erminie and Britomarte went down stairs to the drawing-room, where, in the course of an hour, they were joined by Elfie, who had renovated herself with a fresh toilet.

When the three friends were seated together, Britomarte said:

“Here are three of our school quartette; but where is the fourth? Where is Alberta Goldsborough?”

“Alberta Corsoni, you mean; for she has changed herself from a planter’s daughter into a bandit’s bride, or a guerrilla’s bride, which amounts to the same thing,” said Elfie.

“She made her escape from the convent, and eloped with Vittorio Corsoni, who married her the same night,” said Erminie.

“Yes; and he was a good fellow enough until he married her. He had embraced the cause of the Union against the rebels. Some people said, however, that he did so only in opposition to old Mr. Goldsborough, who had opposed his union with Alberta. However that may be, he certainly was a Unionist before his marriage. But it seems that Alberta is one of the most determined female rebels that ever lived; and possessing immense influence over her lovesick young husband, she won him to the cause of rebellion; so that now he is one of the most formidable of those brigand leaders who ravage with fire and sword the shores of the Potomac and its tributaries,” said Elfie.

“His Italian nature took readily to guerrilla warfare,” sighed Erminie.

“And now he and my traitor are brother bandits, and the best friends in the world. When either has made a successful raid, he divides the spoils with the other,” laughed Elfie.

“But what a condition to come back and find my native country in! It seems to me as if in dream or trance I had lost my footing in the nineteenth century, and slipped down into the tenth; or as if I had died, and my spirit had passed into another state of existence. This change has come gradually upon you, but upon me it has burst like a thunderbolt. I left the country in smiling peace; I return to find it groaning under all the horrors of civil war,” said Britomarte, bowing her head upon her hand in deep thought.

“Britty, stop that! If people go to musing now, they go mad! It is a time to act, not think!” said Elfie, sharply.

“I know it—I know it—and I shall act!” exclaimed the beautiful amazon.

“Britty, there is one piece of forbearance for which I thank you,” said Elfie, by way of changing the subject.

“What is that?” inquired Miss Conyers.

“Well, although three years ago you warned Erminie and myself that if we should have anything to do with the ‘natural enemy’ we should inevitably come to grief, and although you see that through disregarding your warning we have come to grief, you magnanimously forbear to say—‘I told you so!’”

“I do not think that you have. I call the treason that divided your betrothed lovers from your side a very providential thing, so far as you are concerned. I can mourn over their sins, but not over your escape,” said the man-hater, firmly.

“Yet it hurt some, at the time,” said Elfie, raising her eyebrows; “though I wouldn’t admit that to anybody else but yourself, Britty, it did hurt, didn’t it, Minie?”

Erminie covered her face with her hands, and wept softly.

“It hurts still, you see,” whispered Elfie. “Oh, I hope—I do hope—the next shell that flies into Charleston will cut that fellow in two! As for my traitor, being a guerrilla, I trust that neither shell nor shot will cheat the gallows of its dues.” And Elfie indignantly dashed away the tears that dared to sparkle in her own eyes.

“I am a very weak woman. I must get up and go to the hospital. I should have gone an hour ago. Britomarte, will you come with me?” said Erminie, rising, and wiping her eyes.

“Yes, with pleasure,” said Miss Conyers. “Do you go every day?”

“Twice every day, in order to visit as many as I can. I go in the forenoon, return to dinner, and then go again in the afternoon. And, after all, so many are the hospitals, and so thickly are they crowded, that I can only visit each patient about twice a week, and then how I wish I could be in twenty wards at the same time. You must help me in the hospitals, Britomarte dear. There is so much to do. And when one has devoted all her time and strength and means to the work, and happily eased the sufferings of some scores, there are hundreds of others needing the same help.”

“I hope all our women are doing their duty in this crisis,” said Miss Conyers.

“They are doing what they can; but wives and mothers have very little time, and very little means either, in these war days, to bestow upon the poor soldiers; and young girls are generally inadmissible to the hospitals except at certain stated hours. Me—for some reason or other, perhaps for my respectable black dress and sedate aspect—the surgeons admit at any hour. And heaven has blessed me with ample means and ample leisure to devote to the sick and wounded soldiers.”

“Yours is an angel’s mission, my Minie; and you are worthy to be entrusted with it. You have been weighed in the balance, and not found wanting; you have passed through the fiery furnace of affliction, and come forth pure gold; you have been tried and found faithful; and you have been called to a much higher and holier destiny than would have been yours as the wife of——”

“Oh, don’t! don’t, Britomarte!” exclaimed Erminie, shrinking even from this light touch upon her unhealed wound.

Then reverting to the subject which they had first spoken, she said:

“It is a great school for the spirit—this to which I go. Volumes, libraries could not contain its lessons. Let one give all her time, strength and means to the sufferers there, and she will still receive more—infinitely more—than she gives.”

“In——”

“In the examples of almost superhuman patience, cheerfulness and fortitude among those brave men, who, wounded, mutilated, agonized, will never utter a complaint, will give you smile for smile, and receive with thankfulness any little gift the surgeons will allow you to offer them. Oh! how light seem my own troubles when I look upon theirs!”

“We may judge what their courage in the fields must have been by their fortitude in the hospital,” said Miss Conyers.

“Oh, Britomarte, yes! Ah! if you were to go with me on my rounds among these true heroes, from a man-hater you would become a man-worshipper, Britomarte. And then the extremes of youth and age that we find there! The law has limited compulsory military service to the men between the ages of eighteen and forty-five; but true patriotism draws no such line. My dear father was sixty-one years old when he fell in front of his men on the field of Manassas. In one regiment that I know of there was a grandfather of sixty-three, his two sons of forty and forty-two, and four grandsons between the ages of thirteen and seventeen.”

“That was glorious!” exclaimed Miss Conyers, with enthusiasm.

“And Britomarte, as I live, I found in the Water’s Ware-House Hospital of Georgetown, a boy about twelve years old, who had been brought in among the last lot of wounded from the battle-field of Manassas! When I expressed astonishment and pity, I was told that there were boys of twelve who were soldiers of the line! And since then I have learned beyond all question that such is the fact!”

“Oh, Erminie! if what you tell me is true, as I have no doubt that it is, what a race of heroes the women of America have brought forth!” exclaimed Miss Conyers, with all the enthusiasm of her soul shining in her eyes.

“I thought you would grow into a man-worshipper, Britomarte,” said Erminie, smiling.

“And I thought she would contrive to turn over all the glory to the women, where, of course, it justly belongs, as she has done!” exclaimed Elfie, saucily, quoting—“What a race of heroes the women of America have brought forth!”

“Come, let us put on our bonnets and go to the Douglas Hospital,” said Erminie.

But just at that moment the bell rang, and the next instant the door opened and Justin entered the drawing-room, accompanied by Lieutenant Ethel.

Elfie sprang up to greet her old acquaintance, but dropped into her seat again on seeing a stranger.

Justin advanced and warmly shook hands with his little friend, and with Britomarte, and then he brought up Lieutenant Ethel and presented him to the party.

“I am very glad to see you, sir; and I have to thank you very earnestly for your great kindness to my brother and friends in their extremity,” said Erminie.

The young officer bowed lowly before the beautiful, pale girl, who thus addressed him, and he replied:

“It will now be a much greater pleasure to me than ever, to remember that I was able to be of some slight service to your friends, Miss Rosenthal.”

“I trust that you will give us some opportunity of proving our gratitude to you, Mr. Ethel. My brother informs me that your duties will detain you here in Washington for some days or weeks. I hope that you will gratify us by making our quiet house your home during the period of your stay,” said Erminie.

“A thousand thanks, Miss Rosenthal! But my domestication in this lovely home would be much too great a tax upon your kindness, and very much too great a happiness for my merits,” said the young officer.

“I assure you it would give us sincere pleasure to have you,” urged Erminie.

“Ethel shall stay just where he is, Erminie. Give yourself no further trouble to press him. I was his guest for many weeks, and he shall be mine for many days, at least. Oh, I haven’t consulted him on the subject. I knew it would be useless. I ordered his man Martin to pack up his effects and bring them over here this afternoon. So, sister, you may have a room made ready for the lieutenant, and a hammock swung somewhere for the seaman—or lacking a hammock, an ordinary cot and mattress will do,” said Justin.

“Oh, Rosenthal,” began the young officer.

“Hold your tongue, Ethel! You’re not on your quarterdeck now! I’m commander of this ship, and I mean to be obeyed!” exclaimed Justin.

“But you will allow me to say——”

“Not a syllable against dropping your anchor in this harbor.”

“Well, I won’t! I was only about to observe that I used to hear Judith threaten her ‘gay Tom’ to make him do as he liked! You are only making me do as I like,” said the young lieutenant, with a bow to Erminie.

“And now let us talk about something else! Young ladies, this is a great holiday! To-night there is to be a brilliant illumination, in honor of the two great victories of Gettysburg and Vicksburg. I have ordered in several pounds of wax-candles, which, when they come, you will have cut into the proper lengths. I have also spoken to a carpenter to come and fix holders for the lights at the windows. You can send a servant with him through the rooms,” said Justin.

CHAPTER III.
JUSTIN ENLISTS.—ELFIE DRILLS.

Sound, sound the clarion—fill, fill the fife!

To all the sensual world proclaim,

One crowded hour of glorious strife

Is worth an age without a name!

’Twas bustle in the street below—

“Forward! march!” and forth they go.

Steeds neigh and trample all around—

Steel rings, spears glitter, trumpets sound!—Scott.

Young Ethel remained the honored guest of the old parsonage. He had been relieved of the command of the Sea Scourge and promoted to the rank of first lieutenant, and he was now waiting orders.

Major Fielding also, while recovering from his wounds, made the parsonage his home.

But neither arguments nor entreaties could induce Miss Conyers to profit by the large-hearted hospitality of the Rosenthals, and take up even a temporary residence under their roof. She found cheap board in a respectable private family, on the suburbs, near the parsonage, and she visited her friends very often, and went every day with Erminie to the hospitals.

Justin, very soon after his return home, made known his intention of enlisting as a private soldier in the army.

This announcement filled the heart of his sister with dismay. All the latent pride in the gentle bosom of the Lutheran minister’s meek child arose in arms. In her own person, so deep was her humility of love, she would have stooped to the most menial office by which she could serve her country, or one of its lowliest defenders; but for her idolized brother she was more ambitious, and she could not endure the thought of the hardships, privations and humiliations he would have to suffer as a soldier in the ranks.

“Do try to get a captain’s commission in one of the new regiments now being filled up. You and your friends have influence enough to secure one; you know it, Justin,” she urged.

“But, my Minie, I know no more of the science of military tactics than I do of the art of alchemy,” laughed Justin.

“What of that? Are not lawyers’ clerks, doctors’ boys, counter-jumpers, barbers, bar-tenders, penny-a-liners, and all sorts of men, who know no more of the science of war than you do, daily turned into commissioned officers—captains, majors, colonels, and even brigadier-generals?” rather impatiently demanded Erminie.

“And hence the defeats that attended our arms during the first two years of the war. No, Erminie; I am not so presumptuous as to apply for even a second lieutenancy, while conscious that I know nothing of tactics,” said Justin, seriously.

“Oh, but you can learn. There are no end to the works on military tactics. You meet them staring you in the face from every bookseller’s window, and find them lumbering up every counter where the new novels used to be displayed.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I could not begin to tell you how many there are; but two of them I remember—Casey’s Infantry Tactics and Hardee’s ditto; each in three pretty volumes, that look for all the world like song-books—little mites of volumes, that a hard student like you could master in a week.”

“I dare say,” said Justin, smiling; “and at the end of a week I should be very competent to drill a company, manœuvre a regiment, or fight a battle—on paper!”

“Oh, nonsense, brother! don’t be sarcastic. I tell you it is all easy enough. I began reading the first volume of Hardee myself, and I assure you I feel equal to the simple regimental drill. Now do, Justin, study tactics for an examination for a captain’s commission in one of the new regiments.”

“My good little sister, tactics cannot be learned from books comfortably conned in the chimney corner. They must be learned on the parade ground and on the battle-field.”

“But I cannot bear that you, with your scholarly intellect and refined habits should be a common soldier, Justin! I cannot bear it!” said Erminie, almost ready to cry.

“My Minie! for ages to come the children of the ‘common soldiers’ who fight in this war for the Union will look back upon their forefathers with more just pride than ever did the sons of kings upon their royal ancestry.”

“I know it, Justin! But, in the meantime, the association! Why, the rank and file of our army are made up of all sorts of men!” pleaded Erminie.

“My sister, your experience among the wounded soldiers in the hospitals must have taught you that there are as noble men and true gentlemen in the rank and file of our army as any that ever wore the stars of a major-general,” said Justin, very gravely.

“I know it! oh, I know it! Heaven forgive me for my pride; for while you spoke I thought of Grandison, a Frenchman, who died after many months of suffering in the Trinity Church hospital in Georgetown. He was one of the most accomplished scholars and polished gentlemen I ever met anywhere, not even excepting his countrymen the Orleans princes whom I met at the President’s reception. Heaven forgive me for saying anything in disparagement of the common soldier!” said Erminie, meekly, as her brown eyes filled with tears at the remembrance of the dying soldier whose death-bed she had smoothed.

“And you will oppose my plan no longer, my sister?” inquired Justin, caressing her.

“No longer,” she murmured in reply.

So Justin went and enlisted in a new regiment that was being formed to go into active service.

And his sister saw no more of him for a week, at the end of which he re-appeared at the parsonage with his fine auburn hair cropped close to his head and surmounted by the soldier’s cap, and his athletic form displayed to the very best advantage in the round blue jacket and trowsers of the private’s uniform.

The three young ladies were alone in the drawing-room when he was ushered in in this dress.

Half laughing and half crying, Erminie sprang to welcome him.

With visible emotion Britomarte also offered him her hand.

And Elfie openly expressed her opinion:

“Justin, you were cut out for a common soldier! I never saw you look so well in my life. But then the closefitting uniform of a private certainly does show off ‘a fine figure of a man,’ as no other dress in the world could. Somehow or other, I think of a gladiator, and of an Apollo, and the Colossus of Rhodes, when I look at you in that tight fit, Mr. Rosenthal.”

“Miss Fielding, I am your slave and your knight. Were it permitted in the ranks, I would pin your glove upon my cap for a feather and bear it through the battle-field to certain victory!” said Justin, laughing and bowing.

“No, don’t! Britomarte would put a spider in my dumplin!”

“Elfie!” indignantly exclaimed Miss Conyers.

“You know you’d poison me if I should dare to—hem—be a friend of Justin’s! Oh, I know! I’ve read the story of the dog in the manger! how the dog couldn’t eat the hay and wouldn’t let the heifer eat it!” laughed the girl.

“You are privileged to jest roughly, I suppose,” said Miss Conyers, coldly.

“I know I am,” admitted Elfie—“privileged to do everything but flirt with Justin. If I was to dare to do that—hush, girls! you know how Britty can hate men, but you will never know how she can hate women until some unlucky woman gives Justin her glove to wear in his cap!—Mercy! there, I’ve done!” exclaimed Elfie, shrinking from Britomarte’s flashing eyes. “And now we’ll change the subject. Justin, mon brave! you look very clean and very nice; your tight suit is such a clear bright blue, and your shirt-collar is as white as the driven snow; but, Justin, mon ami, can you keep clean over there in camp? that is the question! or, when you come to see us, shall we have to put you in soak over night before we can breakfast with you next morning?”

“The river flows below our fort, and the sutlers keep a good supply of brown soap and crash towels, so I have hopes to be able to keep out of the category of the ‘unwashed!’” said the volunteer.

“I am very glad to hear it. For as far as my observation goes, there seems to be the most intimate relationship, and an inevitable connection, between dirt and glory. Why, even my pap, in speaking of the victorious field of Gettysburg, could only describe it as a ‘very dusty’ place.”

As Justin was obliged to be back at his camp before the hour of “tattoo,” he could stay but a few minutes with his friends. He soon arose, took an affectionate leave of them, and went away.

After this they saw but little of him at the parsonage.

And when Erminie wished to see her brother, she had to get a pass from the provost marshal’s office, and cross the river, and visit him in camp, in one of the forts of the lines forming the southern defences of Washington.

All this time Major Fielding passed his days reclining in an easy chair under the shade of the vine-wreathed porch, reading, smoking, and recruiting his strength.

Young Ethel went every day to the Navy Department, with which he seemed to have a great deal of business.

Britomarte and Erminie went daily to the hospitals, with kind words and good gifts to the soldiers.

And what was Elfie doing? For one thing, she was making great havoc in the heart of the young lieutenant, who had been, from the first, fascinated by her elfin charms, and for another thing, by the mysteriousness and eccentricity of her appearance and deportment, she was exciting all manner of disagreeable conjectures concerning herself among her surrounding friends.

She was not encouraging her young adorer; far from it, she was snubbing him in the most contemptuous manner possible, by either ignoring his offered attentions entirely, or else repelling them carelessly, as she would have brushed off a troublesome fly.

She grew moody, silent and unsocial. She studied Casey’s Tactics all day long, except for an hour in the morning, which she spent in drilling. She borrowed her father’s rifle, and went through the exercises with it, while the quiet drawing-room of the parsonage echoed with “the accents of an unknown tongue.”

“Shoale-dore—HUMS! Pre-sent—HUMS! Shoale-dore—HUMS!”

“For you see, Britty, I notice that the drill officer on parade don’t say ‘shoulder,’ but ‘shoale-dore!’ nor ‘arms,’ but ‘hums!’ and I want to be right by drill and not dictionary,” Elfie explained to Miss Conyers, who sat watching her performance in amazement.

“But Elfie, my dear, why do you go through all this!” she inquired.

“Don’t you wish I’d tell you?” mocked Elfie, trailing arms and panting for breath.

“Yes, I do!” said Miss Conyers, gravely.

“But I won’t.—Dear me, this rifle is very heavy,” said Elfie, as she set the arms up in a corner, and threw herself into an easy chair to recover her breath; “I do wonder why the government don’t have lighter ones made, such as might be handled easily by a boy of fifteen—”

“Or a girl of twenty,” murmured Britomarte, looking wistfully at Major Fielding’s daughter.

“—I am sure they have enough of such boys in the army—”

“—And a few of such girls,” murmured Miss Conyers thoughtfully.

“And I don’t wonder the poor lads drop exhausted on the march, carrying such heavy rifles.”

“Or that the poor lasses sometimes break down and get found out.”

“I wish to goodness they would make lighter ones; I’m sure it would pay to do it.”

“So do I; I think so, too,” murmured Miss Conyers.

“Britomarte, why do you sit there whispering to yourself like a wicked enchantress muttering her incantations? What are you saying or thinking?” irritably questioned Elfie.

“I am thinking, Elfie, from what I see, that you are contemplating enlistment; and Elfie, I will not be the one to discourage you provided you have your father’s consent,” said Miss Conyers, earnestly.

“Yes; but I haven’t got it, and I couldn’t get it. At the mere mention of the thing the dear old boy raised such a row as never was. Blest if I didn’t think he’d raise the other Old Boy from the place below, you know. No, Britty, I am not dreaming of enlisting.”

“Well, then, what are you dreaming of?”

“Ah, wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Indeed I should. What is it, Elfie?”

“Why, that’s the mystery; but it may come out in a few days, as the doctor said of the measles, or the cat of the mouse, I forget which.”

“Elfie, what are you talking of, love? Mystery, measles, mouse—what do you mean?”

“When does the draft come off?” inquired Elfie, without answering Britomarte’s question.

“Next week.”

“Then next week you will find out what I mean.”

“How?”

“That’s all.”

And that was all, for not another word of explanation could Britomarte get from Elfie.

The next morning after this conversation, Justin paid one of his rare visits to the parsonage.

He informed his sister that he was promoted to the rank of corporal, and laughingly pointed to the chevrons on his sleeves.

Major Fielding, who was much better, and was expecting to be ordered to his regiment, chuckled as he congratulated Corporal Rosenthal.

“Your promotion is the second step up the ladder of military fame, on which your enlistment was the first step. And let me remind you, my boy, that half the greatest generals the world has ever known were men who rose from the ranks. Why, Lord bless my soul, boy, I myself enlisted as a private soldier, and see where I am now,” said the major, with a little pardonable egotism.

“Good gracious, pap, that was two years ago! If Justin rises no faster than you did, the war will be over before he is a drill sergeant,” said Elfie.

“Yes; but he will rise faster, daught’. Young men can rise faster, as well as run faster, than old ones. You see with me there were drawbacks, daught’. For one thing, I wasn’t tip-top at the double-quick!”

“Except in retreat, pap!”

“Hush, you saucy imp!”

“But, in any case,” sighed Erminie, “Justin’s promotion must be very tedious.”

“Not at all,” said the major. “He will rise as fast as he learns. A young man like our volunteer here is not going to be overlooked in the lines. He will be promoted as fast as possible. The regiment is not filled up yet, you know. New companies are being formed. And I will guarantee, before the regiment marches, Justin will have received his captain’s commission.”

“Heaven send it!” aspirated Erminie.

“Dear sister, and good friends,” said Justin, earnestly, “I beg you to understand that I did not enter the army to seek my own advancement, but to do my duty to my country.”

“I know that, Justin,” said Erminie—“know it well; but——”

“Advancement will be your destiny whether you seek it or not,” said the major.

As time was up, and Justin had to be back in camp by the evening roll call, he took leave of his sister and friends and departed.

The prophecies of Major Fielding were fulfilled. Justin rose rapidly from the ranks. The next time he visited his sister, he wore the badge of a sergeant upon his sleeves. And he delighted Erminie with the announcement that the colonel of his regiment had notified him that he should have a lieutenant’s commission in a company that was then being formed of new recruits, and had also hinted at still further advancement.

CHAPTER IV.
THE SOLDIER’S LOVE.

’Tis often in the parting hour,

Victorious love asserts his power

O’er coldness and disdain;

For flinty is her heart can view

To battle march her lover true.

Can hear perchance his last adieu,

Nor own her share of pain.—Walter Scott.

At length the draft commenced, and the city was in a pretty state of excitement. There were hundreds of youths who had been withheld by the authority of parents or the persuasions of friends from volunteering, but who were now in great hopes of being drafted and “made to do as they liked.” And there were hundreds of men whose health had never been known to suffer before, but who now suddenly fell ill of grievous disorders. Never—no, never since the cholera of ‘32, had the city been so sickly. Never were so many people at one time affected with so many aches and pains. It was as if Pandora’s box had been then and there opened for the first time, and all the maladies to which flesh is heir had been sown broadcast over the district. And never had there been such deplorable destitution; never so many only grandmothers, widowed mothers, orphaned sisters and motherless children dependent upon men for support.

But what else could be expected?

All, or nearly all, the heroes had volunteered long before the enrollment; and the men who did not were either serving humanity in some other way, or else lacked the power or the will to serve their country.

But in all the excited multitude not one was more excited than our Elfie.

Every morning when the paper came, she was the first to seize it; and she would let her coffee grow cold while she read out the list of drafted men to the company at the breakfast table.

And on the day on which the draft for her sub-district was to come off, Elfie was very nearly beside herself. She could not be easy for one moment. She rambled all over the house and grounds in the most restless manner. She drilled a little while, and then she threw aside her rifle and re-commenced her rambles. She bought every edition of the evening papers, extras and all, and read the list of the drafted men; but at the very latest issue the list was incomplete, and Elfie was discontented.

In the morning she was the first one down stairs, watching for the early paper. It came, and the list was complete. But on this occasion, for the first time, Elfie omitted to read it aloud, and apparently no one had interest enough in the subject to try their eyes over the diamond type. But Elfie, who had been insane herself with anxiety on the preceding day, seemed mad with exultation on this. She laughed at everything and at nothing. She sang and danced all over the house, and drilled more than ever.

“Really, Elfie,” said Erminie, “one would think that yesterday you had been in an agony of suspense lest some favorite brother or friend should be drafted, and that to-day you are in an ecstacy of joy on perceiving that he has escaped. What ails you dear?”

“Never mind, you’ll soon see.

‘We are coming, Father Abraham,

Five hundred thousand more,’”

replied Elfie, singing and dancing out of the room.

In two or three days they did know. It was one morning after breakfast.

Major Fielding had walked out for the first time since he was wounded.

Miss Conyers had just dropped in for a morning call.

Erminie, Elfie, Britomarte and Lieutenant Ethel were assembled in the drawing-room, discussing the one great topic of the day, the very last battle, when there came a ring at the bell, followed by the entrance of Uncle Bob, bringing a large, formidable-looking letter, and gazing around in perplexity, as doubting to whom to deliver it.

“Penny pos’, Miss,” he said at length, appealing to the young mistress of the house.

But Elfie sprang up and darted past every one, and seized the letter, exclaiming:

“It is for me!”

“For you, Elfie? That letter!” said Erminie, in incredulous surprise.

“Yes; if you doubt it look at it!” replied Elfie, triumphantly, turning the back of the letter to the whole group, so that each one could read its superscription.

It was a long, large, yellow envelope, bearing on its upper-right-hand corner the words: Provost Marshal’s Office. Official Business. Directed to Sydney Fielding.

And exclamations of wonder broke from all present.

“It cannot be for you, Elfie. It is from the Provost Marshal’s office, and on official business. You can have no official business with the Provost Marshal, my dear,” said Erminie.

“Can’t I?” mocked Elfie.

“But what business can you have?”

“You’ll hear presently—

‘We are coming! we are coming! our Union to restore——’”

“Elfie, dear, do stop singing, and be reasonable. This letter is directed to Sydney Fielding. There must be a mistake. Sydney Fielding!”

“Well, what is my name? Isn’t it Elfrida Sydney Fielding!”

“Yes; but——”

“Just so. The Elfrida’s left out. I had it left out on purpose. Not that I intend to claim exemption on that account, like the poltroon Jonson, who tried to get off on the ground that the enrolling officer had spelt his name wrong, naturally writing it ‘Johnson.’ This summons is directed to Sydney Fielding, which means me, Elfrida Sydney Fielding, since there is no other Sydney Fielding in existence, and I shall respond to it.”

“Summons! Enrolling officer! Whatever do you mean, Elfie?” inquired Erminie, in growing amazement, which was fully shared by young Ethel.

As for Britomarte, she seemed to know, or guess, the meaning of the whole affair.

“Wait a minute!” said Elfie, breaking the broad seal, and reading the letter, which was half print and half manuscript.

Her companions watched her impatiently.

“I knew it!” she exclaimed, jumping up and singing: “‘We are coming, we are coming, our Union to restore!’”

“Oh, Elfie! Elfie! are you quite distracted?” exclaimed Erminie, in distress.

“No, my dear, I am not ‘distracted;’ I am only drafted!” said Elfie.

“Drafted!” exclaimed all, in a breath.

“Yes, drafted, friends and fellow citizens!”

“Elfie, you are crazed,” said Erminie.

“No, not ‘crazed’—conscripted! You always hit upon the right initial, but not on the right word!” replied Elfie.

“You do not mean to say, in sober earnest, that you are drafted, Miss Fielding? Such a thing was never heard of! Women have enlisted, and have served; but always when disguised as men. I never in my life heard of a woman being drafted. Such an event would be impossible,” said Lieutenant Ethel.

“‘Impossible!’ Lor!” mocked Elfie. “Are you so young and green as not to know impossible things constantly happen? And here is the proof in black and white.”

“If that document is the official summons of a drafted man, it proves beyond a doubt that it was never intended for you,” urged the young officer.

“For whom then?” mockingly inquired Elfie.

“Why, of course, for some individual who was enrolled under that name.”

“All right! I was the individual enrolled under that name.”

“You, Elfie!” exclaimed all her companions, in a breath.

“Yes—I, Elfie. Now, if you will all stop exclaiming and gesticulating, I’ll explain.”

“Do so, then.”

“Well, you know, last June, when the enrolling officers were going round?”

“Yes,” said Erminie.

“The day they came here no one was at home but myself and the servants. You, Erminie, were at the hospitals, and my pap was with General Hooker. So I was keeping house that morning, when there came a peremptory ring at the bell. Old Bob, as usual, answered it, and then came to me with a scared face, saying there were two ‘ossifer gemmen’ at the door, asking for the head of the family.”

“Well?”

“I was the vice-head, and so I went out to see what was wanted. There stood the two enrolling officers, with the big books and stumpy pens. I knew what they were at a glance. They looked tired and heated that warm summer day, so I invited them to sit down and rest in that cool, shady porch, which they did; when this sort of talk came off:

“‘How many male adults are there belonging to this house?’ inquired the spokesman.

“‘Three or four in all,’ I said.

“‘Name them if you please.’

“‘First, then, there is the Reverend Justin Rosenthal.’

“He began to take that name down.

“‘But then he sailed for India two years ago, and it is feared he is lost at sea,’ I went on.

“He stayed his hand, and looked annoyed, but then said:

“‘Go on. Who else?’

“‘Well, then there is Benoni Fielding.’

“Away he went scribbling at that name.

“‘He is with General Hooker’s army,’ I continued.

“He snatched up his hand impatiently, exclaiming:

“‘Then of course we don’t want his name. Who else?’

“‘Robert Snowflake,’ I answered.

“Off he started scribbling again.

“‘He is an African gentleman, aged seventy, the same old man who opened the door for you,’ I added.

“Again his hand was arrested, and he inquired, half angrily:

“‘Well, is there any one else in the house?’

“‘Yes,’ I said—‘there is Sydney Fielding.’

“‘Well, before I take that name down I must be sure that he is not lost at sea.’

“‘No,’ I answered.

“‘Nor serving with General Hooker?’

“‘No.’

“‘Nor yet an African gentleman aged seventy?’

“‘No,’ I assured him; ‘Sydney Fielding is at present at home, and not in the service, is white, is twenty years old, and sound in mind and body.’

“‘He’ll do, then, beyond the least doubt!’ exclaimed the enrolling officer, entering the name of Sydney Fielding on his list. Then he inquired:

“‘Is there any other male adult in the house?’

“I answered, ‘No—not one.’

“And he shut up his book, and asked me the favor of a cool drink of water, which Uncle Bob brought him. When he and his companion had drank their fill, they thanked me and went away. And that’s all,” said Elfie, with a sigh of relief.

“Well, I declare I never heard such a story in my life!” exclaimed Erminie, while Lieutenant Ethel looked grave, and Britomarte seemed amused.

“Now see here, friends,” said Elfie, as if she were upon her defence, “I told no fibs to the enrolling officer—not one. If he enrolled me it was all his doings, not mine. You know they are a very suspicious set, those enrollers. They are always suspecting us of suppressing the name of some favorite friend or relative, to keep him from catching cold in the draft.”

“They have often just cause for suspicion,” said young Ethel.

“Be that as it may, these officers must have suspected me of suppressing some name. For when I had cited every male creature belonging to the premises, he persisted in inquiring if there was ‘any one else?’ Mind, he didn’t say any man, but any ‘one.’ So I was able to answer, ‘Yes, there was Sydney Fielding.’ And thinking only of men, he took it for granted that Sydney Fielding was the name of a man, and enrolled it accordingly.”

“It was a practical joke on your part, of course, Elfie, but you can carry it no farther. You will either take no notice of this summons, or you will get your father to take it up to the Provost Marshal’s office and explain,” said Erminie, gravely.

“Indeed I shall do neither one nor the other. I shall just obey the summons by walking up to the Provost Marshal’s office and reporting myself.”

“Oh, Elfie! Elfie! But your father will never permit you to take such an extraordinary step,” exclaimed Erminie in dismay.

“I shan’t stop to consult him. I shall promptly obey peremptory orders. I shall go up and report for duty. I have been regularly enrolled, regularly drafted, and I shall regularly report.”

“Oh, Elfie! Elfie! how shocking!”

“Why, see here. I must. I don’t come under any one of the heads of exemption. I know that much. I am not an alien, nor an invalid, nor an idiot. I am not under eighteen or over forty-five. I am neither the only son of my grandmother, nor am I the father of fourteen small motherless children, and one at the breast. In short, I cannot put in even the smallest of the numerous pleas by which the cowards cry off from serving their country. I am a native born citizen of the United States, aged twenty years, sound in mind and body, wind and limb, single, and with no one but my country depending on me for support.”

And so saying, Elfie jumped up and danced out of the room to the tune of “Rally round the flag, boys! rally once again!”

“Will she be so mad as to act upon that summons?” inquired young Ethel, in consternation.

Britomarte laughed. Erminie sighed. Neither could answer his question.

To the confusion of all her friends, Elfie did act upon that summons. When Erminie went in search of her to try to persuade her to abandon her wild project, Elfie was no where to be found.

Britomarte and Erminie went their morning rounds of the hospitals, and returned home to dinner. But Elfie did not appear. Neither, luckily, did her father. The two friends went out again on their afternoon rounds, and returned to tea. They found Major Fielding walking up and down on the porch. He greeted the young ladies cordially, and apologized for his unexpected absence from the dinner table by explaining that he had met a brother officer, who had carried him off to dine at Willard’s. Then he inquired:

“Where is my girl? I haven’t seen her since I came home.”

“She is in her room, perhaps,” answered Erminie, uneasily, but hoping earnestly that Elfie might be found there.

Erminie hurried into the house, and up stairs to Elfie’s chamber, where, sure enough, she found the girl, with her bonnet and shawl thrown carelessly upon the floor, and herself sitting down on the sofa, sulking.

“Oh, Elfie, dearest, I am so glad to see you back again. We have been so anxious about you all day. Where have you been, darling?” exclaimed Erminie, going towards her.

“Where have I been? To the Provost Marshal’s office, of course.”

“Oh, my dear!”

“Yes, I have. But would you believe it, Erminie? they wouldn’t accept me. No, they wouldn’t, although I told them all that I told you, and proved to them that I didn’t come under any one of the heads of exemption, and that I was both willing and able to serve my country. No; for all I could say they wouldn’t accept me.”

“My dear, did you really expect that they would?” inquired Erminie in astonishment.

“I don’t see why they shouldn’t. It’s all bosh about my being a woman. I tell you, Erminie, a healthy young woman is quite as well able to perform military duty as most men are, and much more able than the mere boys they are constantly mustering into the ranks. I put that all to them. But they laughed at me—they did, the narrow-minded old fogies!”

“My dear, it was the most indulgent manner in which they could have treated your bad joke,” gravely replied Erminie.

“Joke? I never was more in earnest in my life. I did my duty. But they didn’t do theirs. And mind, Erminie, I didn’t abandon my point very easily. I didn’t until they sent me away from the office.”

“Well, I hope here is an end of the whole absurd affair, my dear Elfie. And I am very glad that your good father has not been vexed by hearing of it.”

“But here is not an end of it. Erminie, I mean either to serve in the army, as some women are doing at this present moment, or I will furnish a substitute in some able bodied alien.”

“Then, darling, as your father is well off in means, notwithstanding his great losses, I see no objection to your furnishing a substitute, though you are not obliged to do so. I myself have a representative in the field.”

“You, Erminie!”

“Yes, dear, and I think it the duty of every wealthy and independent woman in the country to have a representative in the army. But come, your father is waiting for you, Elfie. And tea is ready. Let us go to it.”

The two girls rose to leave the room.

“Dear Elfie, pray do not speak of this vexatious subject before your father this evening. This, you know, is his first day out. He has made a long one of it, and he looks tired; so let him have his tea in peace,” said Erminie, as they went down stairs.

“All right. I’ll not say anything to spoil the dear old boy’s digestion or disturb his night’s rest.”

“‘Old boy!’ Oh, Elfie! to speak of your father so! How I wish you had a little more veneration!”

“So do I; but as I haven’t, what’s the use of talking? May be though honest affection isn’t a bad substitute.”

“And you have that, Elfie dear, certainly. Here we are,” said Erminie, opening the back hall door leading out on the lawn, where, under the shade of a spreading horse chestnut tree, the neat tea table was set.

Britomarte, Major Fielding and Lieutenant Ethel were already out there.

Young Ethel started with delight on seeing Elfie; but Erminie raised her finger in a warning manner, and he subsided into quietness. Not a word was said about Elfie’s adventure. They sat down at the table.

Erminie poured out the tea. The major gave a description of the friends he had met at an early dinner at Willard’s. And he spoke of his approaching departure to join his regiment.

Lieutenant Ethel announced his own appointment to the command of the gunboat “Thunderbolt,” then lying off the Navy Yard.

While they were still at the table the garden gate opened and Justin entered, smiling.

They all arose eagerly to welcome him. He shook hands with Britomarte and Elfie, and with the two gentlemen, and kissed his sister, and then drew a chair to the table, where room was speedily made for him.

“Why, he wears the captain’s straps!” exclaimed Elfie, in delight.

“Yes,” smiled Justin, “I have my company at last, Elfie.”

“But you said nothing about it!”

“I wanted to see whether you would notice the straps without my pointing them out.”

“Well, I declare!—Ladies and gentlemen I have the honor to present to you—Captain Rosenthal!” said Elfie, solemnly.

“I saw your new straps, Justin dear—I saw them at once. What change could take place in you that I should not see?” said Erminie, in a low voice.

“I understood you, my sister,” murmured Justin. Then he turned his eyes on Britomarte.

She met the glance and answered gravely:

“When you are promoted for services rendered on the battle-field, Justin, then I will congratulate you.”

Captain Rosenthal bowed in silence.

“Certainly; what have we all been thinking of? He has risen from the ranks without ever having been under fire; he has been advanced upon the small merits of keeping himself clean and minding his drill. Bosh! When you have seen twenty well-fought fields and come to us with one arm and both legs off and the stars of a major-general on, then we’ll make much of you,” said Elfie.

“Oh, how cruel!” murmured Erminie.

“No, they are not cruel, my sister. They are right,” said Justin. “Promotion is best earned in the battle-field, where I shall soon seek it. Though I hope to bring back a limb or two more than Elfie would leave me.”

“Yes—I hope so too; for she would literally leave you not a leg to stand upon!” exclaimed Major Fielding heartily.

Justin then announced that the brigade to which his regiment belonged was now ready for service, and was hourly expecting marching orders.

And when tea was over he took leave and departed.

It was not until the next morning, at the breakfast table, that Major Fielding discovered his daughter’s escapade. Now that the draft was over, Elfie no longer read the papers aloud while others breakfasted. So Major Fielding had the morning paper in his hand, leisurely looking over it while he sipped his coffee.

Suddenly he set down his cup with emphasis, and nearly let out an oath.

Erminie, Elfie and Ethel looked up to see what was the matter.

“What the —— is this? How is it? Why wasn’t I told about it? Answer, Miss!” exclaimed the angry old soldier, turning upon his daughter.

“Now here’s a row! Answer what? Now don’t obstreperate, but explain, pap,” coolly replied Elfie, as she daintily ate her egg from its shell.

“This, Miss! THIS!” exclaimed the almost infuriated old man, holding up the paper with one hand and rapping upon it with the fist of the other.

“Don’t make a noise over the breakfast table, you dear old boy—it is impolite; and don’t destroy the paper before other people have read it,—it is selfish. But tell me like a good boy, what’s the row?”

“She is half right. Erminie, my dear, I beg your pardon; but that girl of mine is enough to drive any sane man mad! Ethel, take that and read it,” said the major, extending the paper to the lieutenant and pointing out the offensive paragraph.

It was headed—

A GIRL DRAFTED BY MISTAKE AND INSISTING ON SERVING.

And it was a full account of Elfie’s visit to the Provost Marshal’s office and all that took place in her interview with the officers there.

“There!” said the major, when Ethel had finished reading—“what do you think of that? Oh, I’ll take her across to St. Elizabeth’s and shut her up in the lunatic asylum!”

“No you won’t, pap! People can’t do that with sane women in this country! Now do be just! that’s a nice old boy! Could I help being drafted?”

“It was some infernal mistake! I beg your pardon, Erminie, my dear. It was some mistake. But you could have helped reporting, you exasperating——”

—“As if I would have helped reporting, pap? No! I leave that sort of poltroonery to the men!” said Elfie.

The major fairly shook with wrath.

“Be consoled, pap, they wouldn’t have me, you know. They said I didn’t belong to a good fighting family!” said Elfie.

The major started up from the breakfast table, and left the room in hot anger.

The breakfast party looked dismayed.

Erminie arose and threw her arms around the perverse girl’s neck, and pleaded with her.

“Elfie! dear Elfie, go after him. Ask his forgiveness. Make friends with your father!”

“Leave me alone, Minie! I know my dear, old governor; he’ll soon be all right!” said Elfie.

But the dear, old governor did not get over his vexation as soon as Elfie expected. He kept his little daughter at a distance for some days.

“Come, pap,” she said to him one morning, “let’s compromise! I will promise you ‘never to do so more,’ if you will buy me a substitute!”

But the indignant major made her no reply.

Elfie persisted in her proposal with all the perseverance of the Beast, who daily for a year asked Beauty to marry him.

“Come, pap! buy me a substitute and I’ll promise you not to run away in boy’s clothes, and ’list!”

But still the old man did not deign to answer. All this time, also, Elfie was, as she always had been, in all substantial services a most devoted daughter to her father. She attended to his room, to put all those little finishing touches to its comfort that no one but herself could effect. She kept his clothes in perfect order. She had one of his half dozen pairs of slippers always just where he wanted them. His pipe was always at hand. His pitcher of iced lemonade was never empty. Nothing that tended to his comfort was wanting.

But still the major was inexorable.

“Just look at my pap!” Elfie would sometimes say, “sitting there sulking and distilling bile! If he goes on this way much longer, he’ll make himself so sick I shall have to give him a dose of calomel and jalap!—Pap! you may sulk as long as you please, and make yourself as yellow as saffron, but—if you don’t buy me a substitute I’ll ’list! I will, as sure as I’m the daughter of a hero!”

So at length by coaxing, threatening, wheedling, and bantering, Elfie brought her indulgent old father out of his anger, and so far into her way of thinking that he actually did buy her a substitute. He gave five hundred dollars to a fine young foreigner to represent Elfie in the field.

CHAPTER V.
THE LOVERS’ PARTING.

She weeps the weary day.

The war upon her native soil,

Her lover’s risk in battle broil.—Scott.

Britomarte boarded with a widow of the name of Burton, who had three grown daughters. They lived in a small white cottage, in a large, shady garden, in the northeastern suburbs of the city, and not very far from the parsonage. The mother and daughters supported themselves by taking in plain sewing from the quartermaster’s department. As Britomarte was their only boarder, and was contented to share their own simple and frugal meals, her living was inexpensive, and she paid for it by needle work.

Every hour of the day that she did not devote to visiting the hospitals with Erminie, was employed in this work, and the stroke of midnight often found her still at her needle. And yet, with all this industry, Britomarte could scarcely make enough to pay her small expenses.

Justin and Erminie guessed all this, and felt great but vain regret; for so long as Miss Conyers remained so obstinately proud and independent, they could do nothing on earth to assist her.

“It seems to me,” complained Erminie, “that if I were in Britomarte’s place, I would allow those who love me to improve my condition.”

“You cannot understand her, and I do not blame her,” answered Justin.

Once, while the two girls were on their way to the Douglass Hospital, Erminie said:

“Britomarte, dearest, if you will be so independent, why can you not be so in a more agreeable way—agreeable to yourself, I mean? Instead of delving over those coarse garments for the quartermaster’s department, why do you not give music lessons?”

“Because, my dear, I only want transient work, something that I can give up at any moment without wronging any one.”

“But what do you mean by that, Britomarte?”

“My stay in Washington is short and uncertain.”

“Oh, pray don’t say that. Where will you go?”

“I do not know, dear,” answered Miss Conyers, in that grave tone that forbade farther cross-questioning.

So Erminie sighed and fell into silence.

Britomarte was now so closely engaged that she seldom got time to spend an evening at the parsonage. Something like a fortnight had elapsed since that evening when she had taken tea with Erminie, and laughed at Justin for his mere camp promotions; and since then she had not visited their house.

One afternoon she sat diligently sewing on a coarse blue jacket, when Mrs. Burton came up to her room and told her that there was an old colored man below asking to speak to her.

She went down stairs and found Uncle Bob, who handed her a note from Erminie.

It was very short, and ran thus:

“Dear Britomarte, please come to me at once, for I am in great distress.

Erminie.”

“What is the matter, Uncle Bob?” she inquired.

“Ma’am?”

“Is there anything amiss at your house?”

“No, ma’am, not as I knows of. Miss Erminie is crying, but I aint heern no bad news.”

Britomarte ran up to her room, and put on her bonnet and shawl, and came down and joined the old servant, and started for the parsonage. But her fleet steps soon distanced his feeble ones, and she arrived at the house first, and hurried immediately to the library, where she found Erminie in tears.

“What is it all, my dearest?” inquired Miss Conyers, throwing off her bonnet and shawl, and taking Erminie in her arms.

“Oh, Britomarte, I have no courage at all when the test comes,” sobbed Erminie, dropping her head upon the bosom of her friend.

“But what is it, dearest?” again inquired Miss Conyers, with a misgiving heart.

“Oh, can’t you imagine? Oh, Britomarte, the brigade has marching orders at last. It is to leave in the boats this evening.”

Even Britomarte for an instant reeled under the blow, but in another she rallied and replied:

“That is well. We don’t want any more camp heroes, Erminie.”

“But it is so sudden. True, we were expecting this, or rather hearing of it, every day. But it had got to be an old story. I began to think that the brigade would remain in the forts, when about an hour ago came an orderly sergeant with this note from Justin—listen to it,” said Erminie, unfolding a little note and reading:

Head Quarters of the ——

Fort ——

“My Dearest Sister:—We have received our marching orders. We go by the six o’clock boats this afternoon. I will try to see you before we leave. If I cannot get to the house, will you be at the wharf? And as you love me, send for Britomarte, and prevail on her to remain with you at the house, or accompany you to the wharf, as the case may require. Heaven bless you both.

Justin.”

“It is now two o’clock. Shall you stay here or go to the wharf?” inquired Britomarte, in a tremulous tone.

“I shall remain here until five o’clock. If he does not come before that hour, I shall know that he will not come at all, and that the only chance we shall have of taking leave of him, will be at the wharf,” replied Erminie.

“My darling, if he is not here within a very few moments, he will not be here at all; for you know he must leave himself time enough after visiting you to get back to camp to march his company.”

“That is true. Still, it is not worth while for us to leave the house before five o’clock, as they will not be at the boats before half-past five,” said Erminie.

“You are right,” agreed Britomarte.

“And oh! I still hope that he may come here. It will be dreadful to have to bid him good-bye at the wharf, in the multitude of men. But if I do have to go to the wharf, you will go with me, Britomarte?” pleaded Erminie.

“Certainly,” replied Miss Conyers.

“And oh! Britty, Britty, if you would only give him a little hope—a little hope to cheer him on his way.”

“Don’t speak of it, Erminie. I would die for your brother rather than sacrifice my principles so far.”

Erminie sighed and forbore to reply.

“Where is Elfie?” inquired Miss Conyers, to change the conversation.

“She is packing her father’s portmanteau. He, too, leaves us to join his regiment to-morrow; and Ethel goes the day after. We shall have a lonely house here, Britomarte.”

“You will fill it with refugees from the South, never fear,” said Miss Conyers, cheerfully.

Even while she spoke, the door bell rang sharply.

“That is Justin!” she exclaimed, springing to her feet and running out to meet him.

Britomarte remained pale and breathless where Erminie had left her.

There was a sound of meeting, and of sobbing, and of cheering words, and then the brother and sister entered the library.

Britomarte arose and gave her hand to Justin. He pressed it in silence. They could not trust themselves to speak just then.

“How long—can you stay with us, my brother?” said Erminie, striving hard to control her emotion and to speak with composure.

“I may remain with you until five o’clock, dear. My first lieutenant will march my company to the boat, and I have leave to join it there.”

“Thank Heaven for so much grace!” replied Erminie, as she turned and left the room.

She went out from a two-fold motive—to order a dainty dinner prepared, so that they all might partake of one more meal together, and also to give her brother the opportunity of making one more last appeal to his obdurate love.

When they were left alone together, Justin and Britomarte remained for a few moments silent and motionless. Both were too full of suppressed emotion to trust themselves to move or speak.

Justin was the first to master himself. When he had done so, he approached Britomarte, stood before her a moment, and then taking her hand, said, in a tone thrilled with passion:

“I promised you never again to speak of the subject nearest my heart.”

“Then keep your promise, Justin,” she said, in a gentle, solemn voice.

“You will not free me from it?”

“I cannot.”

“Britomarte!”

“Well?”

“Do you know why, after so long a delay, we have at length received such sudden marching orders?”

“I do not.”

“Nor yet where we are going?”

“No.”

“I will tell you. We are ordered to C——, to reinforce General M——, who is hourly expecting a battle.”

Britomarte started as if she had suddenly received a stab; but quickly recovered herself, and firmly replied:

“Then I congratulate you, Justin. I would to Heaven I could stand at your side—your brother-in-arms—on the day of battle!”

“So would not I,” said Justin, gravely—“so would not I. But, Britomarte, you have it in your power to give my arm great strength, if you please to do so.”

“Love of your country should be all sufficient to nerve your arm, Justin,” she answered, earnestly.

He took her hand, and sought to read her face; but she turned away her head to conceal the emotion she could not quite control.

They were interrupted:

“‘Malbrook is bound to the wars!

Malbrook is bound to the wars!

Malbrook is bound to the wars!

And I hope he’ll never return!’”

sang Elfie, dancing into the room.

“So you are really off, are you, Justin?” she inquired, giving him her hand.

“Yes, Elfie—really, off at last,” replied Justin, smiling.

“Well, so is my governor, and so is my substitute! And I wish with all my heart and soul that I was going too! But, you see, I have given my pap my sacred word not to enlist, unless my substitute jumps the bounty, or gets himself killed or taken prisoner!” said Elfie.

Erminie hearing the voices in the library, thought it would be of no use for her to remain out any longer, depriving herself of her brother’s society. So she came in. And after that the conversation, under the auspices of Elfie, became general and cheerful.

A very nice dinner was served at four o’clock. And Justin and the three young ladies sat down to it together.

Major Fielding and Lieutenant Ethel were not at home, and not expected before six o’clock.

After dinner Erminie sent out for a carriage.

“You must let us ride down to the wharf with you, Justin, and see you off,” said his sister.

“Yes, yes—it is just what I wish,” he answered.

“Britomarte, dear Britomarte, you, too, will go with us,” pleaded Erminie.

“Of course I shall, love,” murmured Miss Conyers, in reply.

“Elfie dear, I know that you must stay here to receive your father when he comes in to dinner, else I would ask you also to go with us,” said Erminie.

“Thanks for nothing!” laughed Elfie. “I can’t go, and I don’t want to go; and as Captain Rosenthal is neither my brother nor my lover, there is no necessity for me to go.”

The carriage was at the door at five o’clock.

Justin took leave of Elfie, left his regards for Major Fielding and Lieutenant Ethel, and then entered the carriage where Britomarte and Erminie were already seated.

A half hour’s rapid driving brought them to the steamboat wharf, which was now a scene of great excitement.

The troops were embarking; and a great number of people—relatives, friends and even mere acquaintances were assembled to see them off.

The regiments were embarked by companies. And while one company would be passing on to the boat in files, those remaining on the wharf were “at rest.”

Some were devouring fruit and cakes at the stands on the grounds; some buying papers of the newsboys, who were crying the last victory; some were shaking hands with friends; and others, many others, were bidding good-bye to mothers, wives, sisters, or sweethearts, assembled there, “to see the last of them.”

In the crowd one boy attracted Britomarte’s attention. Though he wore the uniform of a soldier, he did not seem to be more than fifteen years of age. A bright, spirited-looking lad he was, but he seemed quite alone in that crowd. No one accosted him, and he spoke to none. Britomarte watched him with some interest.

“He belongs to my company,” said Justin.

Britomarte and Erminie now got out of their carriage and stood with Justin, until the company immediately before his own fell into order to embark. Then it was the turn of Justin’s company to form.

“I must leave you now, Erminie! be a woman, my little girl!” said Justin, hastily but fervently pressing his sister to his bosom.

“God bless you! Oh! God bless you, my brother!” she cried, trying hard to swallow and keep down her sobs and tears.

“Good-bye, Britomarte!” said Justin, solemnly, giving her his hand.

“Good-bye! May God strengthen your arm, and preserve your life in the battle, and send you back with victory! Good-bye!” she answered, wringing his hand and dropping it, and turning away her head to hide the strong emotion all but too manifest in her countenance.

A sigh reached her ear, and then the piteous words:

“Well, there is no one in the world to bid me good-bye, or ask God to bless me. Oh, well, so much the better may be, for if I’m killed there’ll be nobody’s feelings hurt.”

Britomarte looked up.

It was the lonely boy who had spoken, and now he stood there with a smile that was more touching than tears could have been.

Britomarte’s pity moved for the friendless lad.

“Yes, my boy, I will bid you good-bye, and pray God to bless you, and to bring you back to us safe!” she said, taking the lad’s hand, stooping and pressing a kiss upon his brow.

Justin saw it all; but not a shade of jealousy clouded his own mind. He understood Britomarte too well.

“God bless you for that, noble woman!” he whispered. “I will look after the lad as though he were my younger brother, or yours.”

And these were Justin’s parting words to Britomarte.

While he was leading his men on to the boat, Britomarte and Erminie returned to the carriage, where they sat watching until the few remaining companies embarked, and the boat got up her steam, and steamed away from the wharf.

Even then they continued to watch the boat as long as she remained in sight.

And finally they gave the order to drive back to the parsonage. When they arrived, Erminie tried to persuade Britomarte to alight and go in; but in vain. Miss Conyers felt that she needed the solitude of her own chamber.

“Go in, dear Erminie. Elfie and her father will cheer you up this evening. To-morrow I will come to you,” she said, embracing her friend, and then drawing her veil over her face and turning her steps homeward. Britomarte reached her boarding-house and opened the front door, which admitted her immediately into the neat little parlor where the landlady and her daughters were seated at tea.

Mrs. Burton arose in a little bustle to get another cup and saucer, and saying, apologetically:

“We waited an hour for you, Miss Conyers, and then we concluded that you were spending the evening with your friends, and so we thought we would have our tea. But I will make some fresh for you in a moment.”

“No—pray do not disturb yourself. I can not take anything just now. By and by, may be, I may come down and make a cup for myself,” said Britomarte, passing hastily through the parlor to the back room, from which the stairs ascended to her own chamber.

Arrived there, she bolted herself in, threw off her bonnet and shawl, and dropped down upon her bed, in a collapse of all her enthusiasm, and wept bitterly.

For nearly three years she had been the constant companion of Justin, under circumstances that threw them entirely upon each other for mutual comfort and support; and the love that had first been inspired by his high personal excellence was now confirmed by habit.

Since they had returned to their native country, and mingled freely with their fellow-creatures, each little event that had come between herself and her lover, to part them even for a day, had been felt like the stroke of a cleaving sword dividing her bosom.

Even the first little parting in the city, when she went temporarily to a hotel, and he went to his home, a few streets off, was a sharp pain, although she knew that she would see him every day.

The second parting, when he enlisted, and went over to his fort on the south side of the river, was a much sharper pain, for she knew that she should see him only every week at oftenest.

But now this parting was insupportable agony, for she felt that she might not see him for years, if indeed she should ever see him again.

Moaning and weeping in her anguish and despair, she now realized how utterly her soul had passed into the soul of her lover, so that she lived only in his life.

Yes, only in his life. Lifeless, except in its painful half-consciousness of death, seemed her own being; lifeless the great, populous city; lifeless the long lines of occupied forts; lifeless all, because he was no longer in the midst. While away down the broad river, somewhere, in one man’s bosom, beat the heart of all life for her.

An unsupportable sense of suffocation, like the being stifled with grave clods, overwhelmed her. She struggled up and threw open the windows of her room for air. But it was a subtler air than any in her reach that she needed for her relief. And an intolerable longing to be near him, to be with him at all costs, seized her. She felt that she could not breathe apart from him; that there could be no evil in this world come to her so great as this evil of separation from him; that there was nothing could be compared with it; nothing could be weighed against it; no cause on earth could or need justify such a mortal severance.

Without him, the fairest, brightest scenes of earth would be to her as lifeless and as gloomy as the charnel house, while with him any scene—a hut, a cave, a bomb-proof, the rifle-pits, the battle-field, aye, the Libby Prison itself, would be endurable.

In the great bitterness of her anguish, she repented that she had not married him, and gone with him to the field. That would have been happiness, and the only happiness possible for her. But then she was pledged to abjure his whole sex in the way of love and marriage.

But if it were possible that she could have followed him to battle, followed him through life, as his sister, that would have been the next best thing to being his wife; or better still, as his brother, for as his brother she might be beside him on the battle-field, in the midst of an engagement, when shot and shell were flying fastest, in the thickest carnage, where, as his wife, she would never be allowed to appear.

A vehement, passionate desire to be all this to her beloved; to be to him more than wife, sister or brother had ever been to man before—more than all these combined could ever become—to be his brother-in-arms, his inseparable companion, his shadow, his shield, his guardian angel, in the tented field, in the pitched battle, in the rebel prison, or in the grave.

And why should she not be all this to him? she asked herself. There was no law of God or man that forbade it. There was no human creature whom she could hurt by it.

In the midst of her impassioned aspirations she stopped short, sat down, and put her hands to her temples and took herself to task.

“Am I mad or morbid?” she inquired. “All this must be wrong and extravagant. There are thousands and thousands of wives who are parted from their husbands, and girls who are parted from their lovers, by this war. I meet such every day, and they are very cheerful over it. ‘My husband is on General Sherman’s staff,’ says one lady, with more pride than regret. ‘John is with Admiral Dahlgren before Charleston,’ chirps another, whose betrothed is daily exposed to death. Is my love greater than theirs, or is my patience only less?” She paused, and then answered herself—

“I know not how it may be with others—I only know that I cannot live or breathe except I go to my lover’s side and share his toils and dangers.”

And she arose and put back the dark tresses of her hair, while a wonderful calmness and resolution settled her stormy features into stillness.

CHAPTER VI.
THE GUERRILLA’S WIFE.

Danger, long travel, want and woe,

Soon change the form that best we know;

For deadly fear can time outgo,

And blanch at once the hair;

Hard time can roughen form and face,

And what can quench the eye’s bright grace,

Nor does old age a wrinkle trace

More deeply than despair.—Scott.

Erminie grieved bitterly over the departure of her brother; yet she, no more than Britomarte, would have kept him back even if she could have done so. But she wept and prayed through the whole of the succeeding night. Only the reflection that he was doing his duty to his country, and the belief that her prayers for his safety would be heard in Heaven, at length sufficed to console her.

The next morning she had no time to grieve and but little to pray. A busy and exciting day was before her.

Early in the forenoon, Lieutenant Ethel, with earnestly grateful acknowledgments of the affectionate hospitality he had enjoyed for so many weeks, took a sorrowful leave of the parsonage.

It is true that he need not have hurried away to join his ship at Baltimore that day. But a fine sense of delicacy suggested to him a certain impropriety in his remaining the guest of a house where there were only two young ladies left to entertain him. So he took leave a few hours previous to the departure of Major Fielding.

“I feel really sorry that he is gone. He is a gentlemanly young officer,” said Erminie, looking after the hack that was conveying him to the railway station.

“Yes, but he was a nuisance for all that! and I am very glad he is out of the way,” said Elfie, who was standing by her side.

“Oh, Elfie, how can you say any thing so unkind!”

“It isn’t unkind; it is true.”

“He never was in my way.”

“No; because you are so methodical, you never can be put out by anything. You rise, dress, eat, walk, read and sleep by rule. Now I’m different. I like to sail all over the house in a loose wrapper, without the danger of meeting with one of the male sect of Christians. And when I am in a hurry in the morning I like to run down from my chamber to the kitchen in my bare feet. But I declare I never undertook to do either, yet, while there was a male creature in the house, that the male creature did not start out of the drawing-room or the library and meet me full face, as if Old Nick had kicked him into my path. Not that I cared, only I didn’t like it. And so I’m heartily glad Ethel for one is gone.

‘Malbrook is gone to the wars

And I hope he’ll never return!’”

sang Elfie, saucily dancing into the house.

In the afternoon Major Fielding took an affectionate leave of his daughter and their hostess, and left the city to join his regiment.

Elfie had admonished him to keep his face clean and his hair combed and his shoes tied; to obey his superior officer, write home once a week, and be a good old boy generally. She had watched him out of sight.

And now that he was quite gone, she ran up stairs, away up into the attic, where she felt sure of being free from interruption, and she locked herself in and gave herself up to a good howling spell.

She heard Erminie looking for her in the empty chambers below, doubtless with the intention of offering her consolation, and she held her breath to keep from being discovered. Presently she heard Erminie give up the search and go down stairs.

And soon after Elfie also arose, wiped her eyes and stole down to her own room, where she washed her face, brushed her hair and arranged her dress. And then she ran down to the library and joined Erminie.

“I feel very sorry that your father has gone, Elfie,” said the gentle girl, in a sympathizing tone.

“So do I. But then he’s gone ‘where glory waits’ him, and all that, you know, and—it’s a great relief!”

“Elfie!”

“Well it is, Minie. Bless the dear old governor! he is just as little of a nuisance as one of the male persuasion can be reasonably expected to be; but they are all nuisances, Minie, and it is a great relief to get rid of them.”

“Oh, Elfie, your father, dear!”

“Oh yes, I know, and I’m really very fond of my pap, and I shall pray every day that he may keep out of the Libby Prison! And I’m very sorry he is gone. But why may I not draw what comfort I can from the reflection that the dear old fellow fagged me almost to death while he was here? Bless the tall baby! he never knew where he left his boot-jack, or what he did with his spectacles, or how to find his gloves. And I was worked harder than a draft horse with waiting on him to keep him straight! Now I can recline back in my chair, and kick my heels all day long at my ease!” And the perverse imp suited the action to the word.

“I know you too well to believe you, Elfie. Although you say these shocking things, and seem to take pleasure in seeing how they really do shock me, yet I am sure that at this moment you would give the world, if it was yours, to have your dear father back again, if you could have him consistently with his duty. As for poor Ethel, however, I really do believe that you are glad he is gone,” said Erminie, gravely.

“You better had believe it. Ethel was a horrid bother, and I am delighted to be rid of him. Oh, Minie, it is a great blessing that there is not a man left in the house to worry us! What a good old time we shall have all to ourselves! We needn’t trouble our heads now about puddings and soups and salads and things! When we are hungry we can eat a bit of bread and butter, with some nice jam spread over it, and have a cup of tea. And we can sail about the house all day long in our wrappers and slippers, without feeling like blockade runners in imminent danger of meeting the enemy.”

Erminie’s thoughts had wandered to Britomarte, so she let her wild companion rattle on unheeded and almost unheard. She reflected that Britomarte had spoken of calling to see her in the course of this day. Now the day was nearly over, and Miss Conyers had not come.

“And I tell you what, Erminie, this is freedom. No more addling our brains over incessant changes of dishes to suit their exacting appetites. Lor, Erminie, if it were not for the men, we would never trouble our heads with the study of a new omelette, or a new sauce or gravy, would we? But those gormandizing animals, you know, they think of nothing on earth all day long but their blessed stomachs, unless it is their bothering shirt buttons! I really do believe we women were the original creations, and men were afterwards inflicted on us in punishment of our sins. They are such torments, Minie. And now they are all gone we shall have a glorious old time! And I’m going to begin mine by——”

Here a sharp, loud, impatient ringing of the door bell put a sudden stop to the conversation.

“That’s Britomarte, now,” exclaimed Erminie, starting up.

“No, it isn’t. It’s not her ring,” cried Elfie.

Then both paused and listened while Old Bob opened the door.

A minute passed, and then the library door was opened by the old man, who announced:

“Madame Vittorio Corsoni!”

And to the unbounded astonishment of the two girls, she who was once Alberta Goldsborough entered the room.

“Oh, Alberta! Alberta! I am so glad to see you, love!” exclaimed Erminie, forgetting the guerrilla’s wife, and impulsively springing up to meet with an overflowing welcome her beloved old schoolmate.

Elfie never budged.

“Glad—glad to see me whom you Unionists term a rebel? In truth, I had not expected this, Erminie,” said the visitor, pushing farther off her face the long rusty black veil that had nearly concealed it.

Erminie’s countenance changed, her frame trembled, and her tones vibrated with emotion, as she replied:

“I am grieved, Heaven knows how deeply grieved to hear you say so, Alberta.”

And then Erminie paused, in doubt as to what she should say or do next.

Had the visitor been her own personal enemy coming to her in this seemingly inoffensive guise, she would have made her very welcome, and treated her very kindly.

But her country’s enemy was another affair. Had she the right to entertain a secessionist? Would it not be aiding and abetting secession?

Erminie hesitated in much distress of spirit. Her gentle heart pleaded for the worn and sorrowful-looking woman before her, but her scrupulous conscience warned her not to yield to these feelings.

While Erminie thus hesitated, the visitor turned to Elfie, and said, in surprised recognition:

“Why, this is Elfrida Fielding, is it not?”

“Yes, that is my name, and it is very nearly all that the confederates have left me,” answered Elfie, without even raising her eyes to the face of the questioner.

“And have you no welcome for me, Elfie?” sadly inquired Alberta.

“No. I should have no welcome for my grandmother, were the old lady a guerrilla’s wife,” relentlessly answered Elfie, averting her head.

“But I am no guerrilla. And I have taken the oath of allegiance, or you would not see me here,” said Alberta, with a strange, discordant laugh.

But these words seemed to set Erminie’s spirit free.

“Have you? have you? Oh, have you, indeed, Alberta? Then you are welcome! welcome! thrice welcome! to my heart and home, and to our country’s cause, Alberta. Sit down, love, and rest here, and let me take off your wrappings,” she said, gently forcing her visitor into the easiest chair, and tenderly untying and removing her bonnet.

“You wonder at seeing me here?” said Alberta.

“No, indeed; I wonder at nothing in these days,” smiled Erminie.

“I must tell you, however, why I have intruded upon you.”

“Your visit is no intrusion, and you shall tell me nothing more, dear Alberta, until you are rested and refreshed. Tea will be ready very soon, and after you have had it, you shall share my chamber, and in its privacy tell me what you like. Just now, it is enough for me to hear that you have returned to your old allegiance, and to see that you are weary and sorrowful.”

Again that strange discordant laugh broke from Alberta’s pallid lips, and jarred harshly upon the ears of her hearers.

Erminie felt that she would rather have seen her weep than heard her laugh so strangely. Her act was more like hysteria or even madness.

The girls had been sitting in the light of the fire, which the chill of the early autumn evening rendered very welcome. But now Erminie arose and lighted the gas. And then they saw their visitor plainly.

Alberta was awfully changed, and Erminie shuddered as she gazed on her. Her dress was all black, but rusty and travel-stained. Her face and form were still beautiful, but the “glory” of their beauty was “obscured.” Her once oval face was lengthened and hollowed, her perfect features pinched and sharpened; her fair complexion sun-burned, her brilliant hair faded, her graceful form emaciated.

Her whole aspect spoke of the hardships and exposures of the hunted and battling life she led by the side of the guerrilla chief.

Yet one saw, in contemplating this change, that it was, at worst, beauty impaired and not destroyed, and that a few months of quiet happiness might restore it in all its pristine splendor.

“Oh, how much you seem to want repose! Stay with me and rest, oh, poor, storm-beaten friend!” murmured Erminie, gently caressing her visitor.

“I knew that you were humane and tender-hearted, Erminie, and I felt encouraged to come to you—to you of all the world—in the hour of my distress.”

“And you have not trusted in vain. I will do everything in my power to serve you, Alberta. Everything, I mean, not incompatible with the service of our country, and of course you would not wish me to compromise my duty to her, for you have taken the oath of allegiance.”

“Yes, I have taken the oath of allegiance. I should not have been here else,” replied Alberta, in a tone that grated unpleasantly upon the nerves of her hostess.

“Then it was a compulsory oath,” put in Elfie, very dryly.

“It was a compulsory oath in so far as this: that I should not have been allowed to cross your lines without having first taken it.”

“‘Your lines?’ Why do you not say our lines, since you have taken the oath, and are one of us?” inquired Elfie.

“I spoke from the force of habit, that is all,” answered Alberta.

“Do you mean to keep your oath?” inquired Elfie.

“Most assuredly I do. Why?”

“Because you needn’t, you know, if you don’t like to—that is all. It is a compulsory oath by your own showing, and compulsory oaths are neither morally nor legally binding; at least they are not held to be so by persons of your way of thinking, Alberta.”

“I hold myself bound by my oath; but it seems that you are mocking me, Elfrida. And whether you yourself are loyal or otherwise, you are no true daughter of the South to mock at a fallen sister,” said Alberta.

“You are down, I see, but blest if I know whether you have ‘fallen’ down, or whether you have crouched down for a fatal spring! By the gleam of your eyes, Alberta, I should say the latter.”

“Elfie! Elfie! your words are cruelly unjust, I do believe. Remember

‘Who by repentance is not satisfied,

Is nor of heaven nor earth,’”

said Erminie, gravely.

“I’ll say no more, except this: If you are in the possession of any state secrets that it would profit the Confederacy to know, do not communicate them to Alberta.”

“In the first place, I know of no state secrets whatever. And in the second, I fear no betrayal of confidence on the part of Alberta,” said Erminie, holding out her hand in pledge of trust to her sorrowing visitor.

Alberta took it and held it tightly for a few moments, while an inexplicable expression of something like prophetic remorse overshadowed her countenance.

“Don’t mind Elfie, dear. She is rightly named. She is an elf—a tricky spirit. She mocks at everything, even, alas! at her own father!” said Erminie.

“I do not heed her since you trust me,” replied Alberta.

“I am expecting Britomarte every moment; and when she comes, we four, who used to be called the ‘Belles of Bellemont,’ and to be inseparable companions, will be together once more—be together for the first time since that happy summer we spent at your father’s lovely home, ‘The Rainbows.’”

“That happy summer before the war. Oh! Heaven! ‘Sorrow’s crown of sorrow is the memory of happier days,’” said the guerrilla’s wife, mournfully.

“Be comforted. You are young yet, and the happy days may return again,” said Erminie, kindly.

“My father’s home is desolate; his household goods broken and scattered. Federals and Confederates have occupied his house and ravaged his land in turn. The forests have been levelled, the crops swept away, the cattle driven off, and fences and buildings destroyed! Desolate! desolate! all is desolate there!” said Alberta, in a sepulchral tone.

“All have suffered something in this awful war, Alberta. But peace will come again, and all will be well——I wonder why Britomarte don’t make her appearance? I do not think I can wait for her any longer. We will have tea, and then you shall go to my chamber and sleep with me, and tell me all your troubles, as you used to do when we were girls at school together,” murmured Erminie.

And she rang the bell and ordered the tea brought in there.

“Britomarte? I read a very strange account of her having been shipwrecked upon a desert island in the Indian Ocean, and rescued thence by one of your ships of war. Was it true?”

“It was all true—every word of it,” said Erminie.

“Why do you say ‘your’? Why do you not say our ships of war, since you have taken the oath of allegiance in good faith, and are really one of us?” dryly questioned Elfie.

“Force of habit, I repeat,” replied Alberta.

“Oh, Elfie! Elfie! do mind what you are saying!” pleaded Erminie.

“Don’t distress yourself, Minie! She means well, but she mistakes me; that is all,” said Alberta, resignedly.

The tea service was brought in and arranged upon the neat table. And the three young women seated themselves at it.

Erminie presided over the urn.

“Do you know, Erminie, that this is the first blessed cup of tea that I have tasted for more than a year?” said Alberta, as she raised the fragrant Oolong to her lips.

“Oh! what a privation! but you had coffee?” said Erminie.

“No, nor chocolate!”

“But how was that?”

“I was always with my husband; he had an independent command, and was what you call a guerrilla chief; ours was a hunted life, a Cain’s life; our hand was against every one, and every one’s hand against us! Our home was the wildwood or the ruined farm-house; our occupation war, rapine, plunder. We were far enough from the comforts of civilized life, as you may judge!”

“Oh, Alberta! what a fate for you, delicately reared as you have been! But it is all over now, love; you have come in to us and all will be well!” said Erminie.

“But you have not heard my story yet,” murmured Alberta.

“I will hear it very soon; and no matter what it is, or has been, now that you are with us, Alberta, I will hold you to my heart of hearts,” said Erminie.

They finished drinking tea and arose from the table.

And still Britomarte did not make her appearance.

“She will not be here to-night! It is now too late to expect her,” said Erminie, as she rang for a servant to come and remove the tea service.

“Now, Alberta, dear, I will show you to our room, and—would you like a bath?”

“Oh yes! very much, indeed! that, too, is a luxury I have not enjoyed lately.”

“Then I will order one got ready. Come, dear,” she said, leading the way from the library followed by her guest.

In a moment, as from the impulse of an after thought, Erminie stepped back to speak to her guest.

“Elfie, dear, you are my sister; and so much at home here that I know you will kindly excuse my absence this evening.”

“Yes, certainly! But listen to me! You are going to have a tête-à-tête with the wife of Vittorio Corsoni, the Guerrilla Chief! Hear her story, since you must! But give as little credence to it as you can! And—give her no confidences in return; for, mark me, Erminie, she is a spy!”

An hour later Erminie and Alberta sat together beside the fire in the bed chamber of the former. And there the minister’s daughter heard the terrible story of the guerrilla’s wife—a story that need not be told in detail here. It is sufficient to say, that Alberta Goldsborough, the delicately nurtured daughter of the South had suffered some of the most horrible evils of the civil war.

Her parents had just become reconciled to her marriage when her father was killed in battle, his house burned to the ground, and her mother turned out to die of exposure and privation.

Alberta, maddened by these sufferings, joined her husband in his wild guerrilla life and incited him to the very worst of those depredations that made his name a terror to all the Unionists of the valley.

In one of his encounters with the Union troops he had been taken prisoner and conveyed to Fort W., where he had been tried and condemned to death, and where he was then waiting the execution of his sentence.

It was in the desperate hope of gaining a pardon for her husband, that the guerrilla’s wife had come to Washington.

Erminie, with tears of pity, told Alberta that she would accompany her to the President, to sue for this pardon.

Accordingly, the next morning Erminie ordered a carriage and took Alberta to the White House.

But it happened that the President was even more than ordinarily engaged, and they failed to obtain an interview.

This disappointment excited Alberta’s anxieties to the utmost pitch, and in her desperation, she vowed, that if she could not obtain the pardon of her husband she would do that which should place her by his side on the scaffold.

These wild words greatly alarmed Erminie, who with much difficulty persuaded Alberta to come home with her.

There a surprise met them in the shape of a paragraph in the morning’s papers announcing the escape of the famous Free Sword from Fort W.

The joy of Alberta was now as excessive as her previous grief had been. She even apologized for her mad threats.

Erminie persuaded her to take some refreshment and to go and lie down.

And in truth the minister’s daughter was suffering great anxiety on account of the guerrilla’s wife.

CHAPTER VII.
ABOUT ALBERTA.

The look, the air that frets thy sight

May be a token that below

The soul has closed in deadly fight

With some infernal fiery foe,

Whose glances would scorch thy smiling grace,

And cast the shuddering on thy face!—A. A. Proctor.

Erminie, in the midst of all her distress about Alberta, felt also a growing anxiety concerning Britomarte.

Another day was passing, and Miss Conyers had not made her appearance at the parsonage.

Erminie feared that she was ill, and longed to go to her boarding-house to see her, but dared not to leave home while so doubtful a guest as the guerrilla’s wife was under her roof, and while she was looking for the arrival of her pastor to consult with him as to what should be done in the case of Alberta.

It is true that she might have sent a messenger to inquire after Britomarte, but in the momentary expectation of Dr. Sales’ call, she hoped to get the interview over in time to visit her friend in person. She also hoped that Britomarte herself might make her appearance.

So she waited, and the day wore on to the dinner hour. And she now began to think that Alberta was sleeping very long—unusually long, even for an exhausted traveller. It was more than four hours since she had lain down.

Erminie stole softly up to her chamber, noiselessly opened the door and peeped in.

The room was quiet and shaded, and the white curtains were drawn around the bed as she had left them; so she softly closed the door and stole quietly down stairs again.

The table was set in the dining-room, and Catherine was in the act of bringing up the soup, when Erminie met her in the hall.

“You may keep the dinner back for a little while, Catherine. Madame Corsoni has not yet waked up,” she said.

“Very well, Miss,” replied the girl, turning back towards the kitchen.

Besides Alberta and Britomarte, a third subject of anxiety troubled the young girl; for three days she had not visited the hospitals. On Tuesday she had waited at home all day long to take leave of her brother before his departure for the front. On Wednesday she had stopped to see her guests, Major Fielding and Lieutenant Ethel, off to their respective posts of duty; and to-day she was detained by the necessity of watching over her distracted visitor. In truth, the minister’s orphan daughter had enough upon her hands just now.

Another hour passed, and Erminie began to grow uneasy, and Elfie impatient, and Frederica rather cross.

Again Erminie stole up to the room and peeped through the door. No change since she was there last. Curtains drawn, room cool, shady and quiet. She returned to the library and said, “We will wait a little longer. I do not like to wake her up, or to eat dinner without her.”

And so, to the disgust of Elfie, the annoyance of Catherine and the indignation of Frederica, the dinner was still kept back.

“There,” said Elfie, “she has been sleeping six hours now! The clock has struck seven. She ought to be waked up for her own sake.”

“I will go and look at her. If she is still sleeping quietly, I will not wake her, but I will have the dinner served at once. If however she is awake and feeling well, I will get her up and help her to dress.”

So once again Erminie went up stairs and entered her chamber.

All shady, cool and quiet as before.

She stole to the bedside and drew the curtains.

The bed was empty.

“She has got up and gone to the bath-room. She was always a duck in her love of laving in water,” thought Erminie, feeling no sort of uneasiness at her guest’s absence from the chamber.

But to assure herself of the truth of her own surmise, she went to see if the bath-room door was shut. She found the door wide open and the room empty.

Perplexed and anxious, she made a hasty tour through all the rooms on that floor, then ran up to the story above and searched the rooms there, then up into the attic and searched that.

“I know she is deranged, and she may be lurking somewhere about the house with a fit upon her,” said Erminie, as she hurried from place to place in her vain quest.

But the guerrilla’s wife was nowhere to be found.

“It cannot be that she is in any of the rooms below. Some of us must have seen her,” reflected Erminie, as she ran down the three flights of stairs to the first floor.

“Well, has Alberta finished her Rip Van Winkle sleep yet?” inquired Elfie.

“Yes; but I cannot find her. I have looked in her room and in all the other rooms above and she is nowhere to be seen in any of them. I think she must have come down here.”

“Of course she must if she isn’t up stairs; but I haven’t seen or heard anything of her. I will go and hunt her up, while you order the dinner put on the table. I am as hungry as an unhurt hero after a fight,” said Elfie, dancing out of the room in search of the guest.

Dinner was served and only waited the reappearance of Elfie. But fifteen minutes passed, when she came into the dining-room, flushed, excited and almost indignant.

“I can’t find her. She is neither in the house nor the garden, that is certain. And it is my opinion she has taken French leave!”

“Taken French leave!” echoed Erminie, in surprise.

“Yes, it would be just like her,” said Elfie, who, since the escape of Vittorio, had lost much of her pity for Alberta.

“I can easily ascertain. I will go and see if her bonnet and mantle are in their places,” said Erminie.

And once more the patient girl ran up stairs to examine the chamber that had been occupied by her guest.

But bonnet, mantle, parasol and reticule were all gone.

Not a doubt now remained upon the mind of Erminie that the guerrilla’s wife had gone away. But whether to return again Erminie could not decide. While she stood perplexed in the middle of the room, a scrap of paper attached to the toilet pin-cushion caught her eye. She went and unfastened it, and read the pencilled words:

“Thanks and blessings, and good-bye.”

And now she felt assured that Alberta had indeed gone to return no more.

But for Erminie’s compassion for her suffering state, the absence of the guerrilla’s wife would have been felt as a great relief. But Erminie had no time now to analyze her contradictory emotions. She hastened down to the dining-room, and showed the scrap of paper, with its six words of adieu, to Elfie.

“I felt sure she was gone,” was the comment of Miss Fielding; “and now I hope we shall have our dinner,” she added.

“Certainly,” said Erminie.

“But no,” said Fate; for at the moment the front door bell rang sharply, and in a few minutes Dr. Sales was ushered into the drawing-room and his card was brought to Erminie.

“Elfie dear, go on with your dinner; don’t wait for me,” said Miss Rosenthal, as she arose from the table, and passed into the drawing-room to receive her visitor.

“Your message only reached me a few minutes ago, my dear, and I came away directly to answer it,” said the reverend gentleman, rising and shaking hands with the orphan.

“Thank you, Dr. Sales. I ventured to send for you on a very important matter, that has perplexed and distressed me very much; and not the less because I could not clearly see my own duty in the affair. The absence of my brother and Major Fielding made it necessary that I should trouble you for counsel.”

“My dear child, you know that I am always happy to serve you. You do indeed look as if you were worried almost to death! What is the matter, my child?”

“Oh, Dr. Sales! I have had such a terrible fright!” exclaimed Erminie, on the brink of bursting into tears, but controlling herself.

“Come! tell me all about it.”

“I hardly understand it myself. I may have been on the eve of witnessing one of the most appalling crimes that ever was perpetrated! one of the most tremendous misfortunes that could befall our country!” exclaimed Erminie, shaking violently with agitation at the bare memory of the threats in the President’s anteroom.

“Compose yourself, my dear; and, in order to do so, avoid using strong language, which only excites you,” said the clergyman, laying his hand solemnly on the bowed head of the girl.

“But you see I cannot recur to it without horror.”

“Is it necessary to recur to it at all, my child.”

“Oh, yes, else I had not sent for you. I have a solemn duty to perform in the matter, and do not see clearly how to do it. And I want your counsel.”

“Then tell me all about it, my dear. Come, now, quietly like a Christian child,” said the clergyman, in a soothing manner, and speaking with much more calmness than he really felt, for the words of Erminie had surprised and alarmed him.

Erminie made a great effort to control her agitation, and then began to tell him of the visit of Alberta Corsoni.

And Dr. Sales put a constraint upon himself, and listened composedly, without making a single comment upon the narrative, lest he might increase the excitement under which his companion was laboring.

Erminie faithfully related all that had occurred—the visit to the President’s house, the muttered threats of the guerrilla’s wife, “I will have my husband pardoned, or do that which shall place me on the scaffold by his side,” her own alarm at hearing these awful words, the difficulty with which she got the desperate woman out of the White House, the subsequent apology made by the woman for her wicked threats, the paragraph relating to the escape of Vittorio Corsoni, the excessive joy of Alberta, and her secret flight from the house.

“Now,” said Erminie, in conclusion, “Alberta’s apology for her sinful threats seemed very earnest and might have been quite sincere, and but for her gloomy looks, and muttered threats and strange behavior, I should have received it without a doubt.”

The clergyman slowly shook his head, but made no remark.

“My mind has been distracted with grief and perplexity,” continued Erminie; “for on the one hand it seems beyond measure cruel and treacherous to lodge information against a poor, unfortunate woman who has sought the refuge of my home, who may be quite innocent of any wrong intention, and who may suffer great injustice from a mere suspicion. And on the other hand, the probability of her insanity, and the bare possibility of such an atrocious—oh, I cannot speak the word! But you see I feel as if I dare not withhold this information from the authorities,” exclaimed Erminie, shuddering.

“No, you dare not withhold it,” said the clergyman. “It is your solemn duty to go to the Provost Marshal, and tell him exactly what you have told me. It will be for him to judge whether there is sufficient cause for pursuing and arresting this miserable young woman.”

“It is one of the most repugnant duties I ever had to perform. Oh, the office of a spy or an informer is very, very abhorrent to my feelings. And she was my old schoolmate, and friend and guest. Ah, it is very bitter!” said Erminie, trembling with emotion.

“I know how hard it is, my child. But if you should not perform this duty, think what might happen. Erminie, my dear, next to our duty to God is our duty to our country, and neither friends, guests nor kinsfolk should stand between us and that. Now, go get your bonnet on, my child, and I will myself attend you to the Provost Marshal’s office to lodge this information,” said Dr. Sales.

And Erminie, feeling as miserably as she had ever felt in her life, went obediently to prepare herself, thanking Heaven, in the meantime, that Alberta was no longer in her house.

When she was quite ready she came down. And she and her pastor set out for the Provost Marshal’s office.

Meanwhile Elfie waited for her hostess. But when she saw Erminie, attended by Dr. Sales, leave the house, she lost all patience, exclaiming:

“Well, really, people in this place never seem to know when other people ought to eat. Catherine, bring in the pudding.” Elfie finished her dinner, and rang the bell for the parlor maid. Catherine came in.

“Here, you remove these things, and tell Frederica that Miss Rosenthal has gone out without her dinner, and direct her to have a young chicken ready for the gridiron, and to keep the kettle on the fire and make some toast. Miss Rosenthal having missed her dinner, will require something warm with her tea.”

“Very well, Miss,” answered acquiescent Catherine.

And Elfie arose rather impatiently and passed into the library, where the gas was now lighted, and flung herself into one of the easy chairs, exclaiming crossly:

“Plague take the people, I do wish they would let poor Minie have some peace of her life. From her early rising to her late retiring, she has not one hour to herself, poor child. She is at everybody’s beck and call. And between the wounded soldiers in the hospitals and the refugees from the South, and the contrabands, and—bless patience—yes, the guerrillas, too, she is harrassed almost to death, poor girl. And now where on earth has the old parson taken her? I declare she doesn’t even get time to eat!”

So grumbled Elfie, unable to settle herself to any sort of employment. After awhile she again rang the bell, and brought Catherine to her presence.

“You may lay the cloth for tea in this room. It is more comfortable than the dining-room. And you must have everything ready for Miss Rosenthal by the time she returns.”

“What time do you expect her, please, Miss Fielding?” inquired the girl.

“I expect her every moment, for it is after eight o’clock, though it is very possible she may not be in before ten, but you do as I bid you,” replied Elfie.

And as she was fully recognized as commanding officer in the absence of Erminie, her orders were immediately obeyed.

The cloth was no sooner spread than Erminie’s ring was heard and answered.

Erminie lingered at the hall door for a moment, trying to persuade Dr. Sales, who had attended her home, to come in and rest himself before going farther. But the clergyman pleaded an engagement and bade her good night.

And Erminie came into the library.

“Well, upon my word! But I suppose angels can do without food or sleep, and that is the secret of your living and working without either,” exclaimed Elfie, as she arose and made Erminie sit in the easy chair and rest herself, while she untied and removed her bonnet, and unpinned and took off her shawl.

Erminie, instead of answering, burst into tears, and wept softly behind her pocket handkerchief.

“Here, Catherine, take Miss Rosenthal’s bonnet and shawl up stairs, and put them away. And you needn’t come in again until I ring,” said Elfie handing the articles named to the parlor maid, who was still engaged in arranging the table.

The girl took the things and left the room.

And then Elfie caressing Erminie, inquired:

“Where have you been?”

“To the Provost Marshal’s office, to lay before him certain information regarding poor Alberta. Dr. Sales said that I must do it, and took me there,” replied Erminie, weeping.

“But what did the Provost Marshal say or do to set you grieving so?” demanded Elfie.

“Oh, nothing at all. He put me upon my oath, and then took down my statement regarding poor Alberta’s visit here and to the President’s house, and all that happened there,” replied Erminie, remembering that Elfie knew nothing about the episode of the concealed revolver.

“And what then?”

“The Provost Marshal thanked me for the information given, and requested me not to speak of it to others. So, Elfie dear, let us drop the subject, if you please.”

“But how will the Provost Marshal act upon your information?”

“I do not know. They never tell anything. They hear all that they can, but they tell nothing. It is not their business to do so.”

“Then I don’t see what there was in the interview to distress you so much,” said Elfie, rising and touching the bell.

“Oh, my dear, it is this. Though I have done only my duty—a most painful duty to me—I feel like an informer and a spy. Oh, Elfie, this awful war, that upsets not only all material but all moral life!” wept Erminie.

“Heaven bless your tender conscience! You seem to me to have done your duty by everybody. You didn’t invite the guerrilla’s wife to your house. She walked in upon you, told you that she had taken the oath of allegiance, and you received her kindly and treated her well. She left you under such suspicious circumstances—I know they must have been suspicious, else you would have had nothing to tell the Provost Marshal—that your pastor, on hearing of it, insisted that you should lodge information in the proper quarters, and actually took you off to do it. So why you should reproach yourself I don’t know.—Yes, Catherine, tea immediately.”

This last to the parlor maid who answered the bell.

Tea was soon served.

“And now I hope you will try to eat a little. Lord knows, between the saints and the sinners, you can scarcely call your body or soul your own,” said Elfie, as she sat down and began to wait on Erminie—pouring our her tea and placing the wing and breast of the broiled chicken on her plate.

“Thanks, Elfie; but help yourself, my dearest,” urged Erminie.

“Oh, I can’t eat. I had my dinner so late and ate then so heartily, having fasted so long, that I can’t touch a morsel now. I will have a cup of tea, however,” said Elfie.

“Britomarte has not been here this afternoon?” inquired Erminie.

“No.”

“I am very uneasy about her.”

“Oh, of course,” grumbled Elfie. “Some one or other of your friends are always making you uneasy, plague take them!”

“But, Elfie, I am afraid she is ill.”

“Mrs. Burton would have sent you word.”

“Yes, I hope she would. And then, to be sure, I have no more reason to wonder at her mysterious absence than my poor soldiers have to wonder at mine. Oh, Elfie, think of it! I never missed a day visiting them before, and now three days have passed since I have been to see them. What will the poor fellows think?” sighed Erminie.

“Whatever they think, it will not be to the effect that you are neglecting them. Perhaps they fancy that you are a little worn with your exertions in their behalf, and they hope to see you soon again.”

“Oh, Elfie! many a poor fellow that I hoped to see again has passed away in these three days, I know. They die every day. No day do I go without missing some familiar face,” sighed Erminie.

“See here, my dear! your pretty shoulders are tolerably fine ones for a young woman. But I doubt if they are so strong as to be able to bear the burdens of all the world. You have done what you could for the brave fellows. Continue to do what you can; and for the rest trust them to their Heavenly Father and ours, you weeping philosopher,” said Elfie.

“That is good advice, dear; and I will try to follow it. I am no weeping philosopher, Elfie. But to-night I believe I am despondent because broken down by the events of the last twenty-four hours.”

“Then you must go to bed and try to get some sleep. In the morning you will feel better.”

“I think I will go, Elfie; and I do hope I shall feel better; for to-morrow we must make our rounds of the hospitals, and also look up Britomarte, unless she should first make her appearance here,” said Erminie, rising from the tea table.

And soon after this the girls retired.

CHAPTER VIII.
ABOUT BRITOMARTE.

Your wisdom may declare,

That womanhood is proved the best,

By golden brooch and glossy vest,

That mincing ladies wear.

Yet it is proved and was of old,

Anear as well—I dare to hold

By truth, or by despair.—E. B. Browning.

Early the following morning Erminie arose very much refreshed and invigorated by a good night’s rest.

After breakfast, accompanied by Elfie, she went the rounds of the hospitals.

At two o’clock she sent Elfie home, while she herself went to Britomarte’s boarding-house.

A sickening presentiment of evil overcame her as she entered the little gate, walked up to the door and rapped.

Mrs. Burton opened the door.

“Oh, Miss Rosenthal! how do you do? I have been hoping that you would call. Please to come in,” said the mistress of the house.

“Mrs. Burton, how is Miss Conyers? Is she quite well?” anxiously inquired Erminie, as she followed the widow into the little parlor.

“Why, my darling child, she is gone,” answered Mrs. Burton, as she sat a chair for her visitor.

“Gone!” echoed Erminie, in dismay, sinking into the offered seat, and gazing at the speaker.

“Yes, my dear—gone. She has been gone these three days.”

“And without taking leave of me!” said Erminie, in a sorrowful voice.

“My dear, she left a letter for you. And I ought to have sent it over before this. But you see I had nobody to send it by but one of my daughters. And we are all so busy working upon a lot of havelocks that must be finished by Saturday, that we can’t take time to eat or sleep, or hardly to say our prayers. But I did mean to steal time to bring the letter over to you this blessed evening. I will go and get it now,” said the widow, leaving the room.

“Gone! I can scarcely realize it. Though indeed she has often hinted to me that she might leave the city at any moment,” said Erminie, as she arose to receive the letter from the landlady when the latter returned to the room and put it into her hand.

Britomarte’s letter was dated on the very evening of the day on which Justin’s regiment had marched. It was written in Miss Conyers’ usually firm and clear chirography, and ran thus:

“My Dear and Gentle Friend:—Duty, or what I believe to be such, calls me hence very suddenly. I have no time to bid you farewell in person, even if I could trust myself to such a parting interview. From time to time I will write and let you know where and how I am. I hope that you also will keep me advised of your well-being. For the present, a letter addressed ‘B. C., Baltimore Post Office, till called for,’ will find me. Give my love to Elfie. And, dear and good Erminie, accept my love and my prayers, which are always offered up for you.

Britomarte.”

When Erminie had finished reading this letter, she dropped again into her chair, covered her face with her hands, and wept.

Mrs. Burton brought her a glass of water, saying:

“Drink this, my dear; it will revive you.”

Erminie drank the water, and returned the tumbler to the landlady, and said:

“Dear Mrs. Burton, please tell me all about it. She went away the evening she wrote this letter, or the next morning?”

“The same evening, my dear. The evening of the day on which the brigade marched,” said the widow, placing the empty tumbler on the table, and taking the chair nearest her visitor.

“Yes?” exclaimed Erminie, in tearful eagerness.

“You never heard of anything so sudden in your life! You know, your old negro man, Uncle Bob, had been here in the morning to bring her a note.”

“It was from me.”

“Well; so she went away with Uncle Bob, and staid away all day.”

“She was with me.”

“At seven o’clock, while we were at tea—I and my girls—she came in. I jumped up to make fresh tea for her; but she stopped me, saying that she would take nothing then, but might make a cup for herself by and by. And so she hurried through the parlor and up into her own bed-room. She looked very much agitated, and that is the sacred truth. I spoke of her appearance to my girls; and they thought it was because she was grieving after some friends who might have gone with the brigade.”

“Yes, that was it,” said Erminie, frankly.

“Later in the evening she came down. I and my girls were still at work. I thought she wanted her tea, and again I got up to make her some; but again she stopped me, saying something like this:

“‘Mrs. Burton, I am about to leave you—I must do so to-night. Would you mind sending Johnny to call a carriage for me?’

“(Now Johnny is my nephew, on a visit to me at present.) I looked at her in perfect astonishment to hear her talk of leaving me so suddenly at that hour of the night. And when I looked I saw her face was as white as marble and nearly as hard in its expression of settled determination.

“‘My dear Miss Conyers,’ I said, ‘I hope you have heard no bad news that takes you away to-night. Hadn’t you better wait till to-morrow? It is very late to leave the house.’

“‘I must go nevertheless. Can you let Johnny call a carriage for me?’ she said.

“I declare I was so struck all in a heap that I hardly knew whether I was standing on my head or my heels. Johnny was drawing pictures on the slate by my side. And the livery stable was no great distance off; so I said ‘Yes,’ and sent the boy right away to call the carriage.

“And she went up stairs to put on her things, and I went down into the kitchen to make her a cup of tea and a round of toast; for I knew I should have time to do it, because the livery men would be at least twenty minutes getting the carriage ready; and the kettle was already boiling; and I was determined she shouldn’t go out of my house without her tea. So, sure enough in about ten minutes I had it all ready, and took it up on the waiter, and set it on the parlor table. She was sitting there, with her bonnet and shawl on, and her traveling basket in her hand.

“‘Try and eat a bit, my dear,’ I said. ‘You will have plenty of time. The carriage won’t be here for ten minutes yet.’

“She smiled and thanked me her own gracious way, that always reminds me of a princess, though I never saw one, and she sat down and drank the tea and ate the toast, and by that time the carriage came, little Johnny riding on the box with the driver.

“So she got up and sent the driver up to her room to bring her trunk down; and while he was doing that, she took out her little purse and paid me the week’s board, though it wanted two days of being due. And then she gave me this letter for you.

“And when the man had put her trunk on the carriage, she bade us all good-bye.

“‘But where are you going, my dear?’ I asked, as I held her hand, unwilling—oh, yes, the Lord knows how unwilling to see her go.

“‘To Baltimore,’ she answered.

“‘But there is no train to-night,’ I said.

“‘I shall go by the very first train in the morning. In order to make sure of it, I shall stop to-night at the best hotel that I can find nearest the station.’

“And so, kissing me and thanking me for what she called my motherly kindness to her, she went out.

“‘But you will write and let us know how you are?’ I called after her.

“‘Yes, yes,’ she answered, waving her hand from the carriage which was then driving off.”

The widow ceased to speak, and Erminie, leaning her head upon her hand, sighed deeply.

“And is that all you can tell me, Mrs. Burton?” inquired Miss Rosenthal.

“Every bit, my dear.”

“You haven’t heard a word from her since?”

“Not one word.”

“Have you the least idea of what she intends to do in Baltimore?”

“Not the least. She went away so suddenly that I hadn’t time to question her much, even if she would have submitted to be questioned. Dear me, it all passed like a flash of lightning. Before I could realize that she was going, she was gone!” said the widow. Then, after a short pause, she inquired: “Have you any suspicion what she intends to do, Miss Rosenthal?”

“Indeed no. I wish to Heaven I had!” answered Erminie, mournfully.

And then, finding that she could learn no more to throw light on the mystery of Britomarte’s departure, she arose, thanked the widow for the information given, and left the house.

On reaching the parsonage, Erminie found luncheon ready, and Elfie waiting for her.

“Minie,” said that impatient young lady, “if you are of the heavens, heavenly, and can live without eating, I’ll have you know that I’m ‘of the earth, earthy,’ and can’t do without victuals. It was seven o’clock when we breakfasted, and now it is three.”

“My dearest Elfie, always eat when you are hungry, and don’t wait for me. I have been to Britomarte’s boarding house,” said Erminie.

“Yes, I know, and found her all right, I dare say.”

“I found her place empty. She has left!”