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DIES IRiE.
OB
Under the Stars and Bars.
BY CELESTE HliTCHINS BAUKSDALK.
CHAPTER Ilf.
•Let it flame or fade, and the war roll down like a wind.
We have proved we have hearts in a cause, we are noble
si ill.’—Tanstson.
• Virginia has seceded!' father gonoaBCH, at
the breakfast table.
Had the gentle eminence upon wfcioh out
house is situated suddenly puffed forth roloanio
smoke, the oommotion oould hardly have been
greater.
•My boy ! my son !* wails our mother, going
to where John sits motionless, folding her arms
around him as if to ward off danger.
•Your duty is clear, my son !’ exclaims father,
grasping John's outstretched hand.
Clear as noonday, father; and I go to it un
flinchingly,’ John replies, his eyes flashing.
■We shall all be ruined !’ moans Barbara.
•What’s that, mamma?’ asks Ellie, with her
mouth full of chicken.
Eve trembles and shivers like an aspen leaf,
grows pale; grasps the edge of the table to keep
from falling. Father springs to her side, oatoh-
es her in his arms as she falls fainting from her
chair.
Excited as I am at the news, I pity this poor
child to whom it brings so much woe. She knew
that when the tidings came she must be separat
ed from Henry Jerome, or be alienated from
father, mother, brother, sisters, friends and
home forever. Often, and sadly, have we de
bated among ourselves the course she would
take, the choice she would make. Not one word
have we ever said against her Northern lover;
refraining studiously from expressing ourself
before her,—and now the time has come when
she most decide her fate and oar happiness.
Since February I have decided, by circum
stantial evidence, that, come what will, Eve will
cling to Jerome.
In the coming struggle it will be humiliating
to say thet one of our sisters, standing afar off,
applauds and abets those who are against
us.
Mother, with a face showing the tenderest
sympathy for her unhappy child, kneels beside
her as she lies upon the lounge, murmuring.
‘Direct her my Father, that she may see the
path leading to the right.’
John and I chafe her cold, white hands while
Barbara and the servants gather round with
restoratives.
•Better to die now than to live a life of misery
and disgrace,' mutters my father sternly. In
his eyts death is preferable to a union with an
alien and an enemy—one too, whom we do not
believe possessed of any true nobility of soul,
any real honor and principle despite his pol
ished exterior and the fascination of his man
ner. But he has thrown his glamor over our
sister. In this momentuous crisis of our coun
try s destiny, her thoughts her fears are for
him. No wonder it angers our proud father.
It humiliates us all, and yet our hearts yearn
over the lovely young creature, lyicg like a
lilv bowed by a sadden storm.
Under repeated applications of oau phor, and
water, Eve opens her eyes to cast glances from
John's grave face to mine, to mother’s tear-
stained eyes, to father's stern countenance, to
the awe stricken negroes.
Struggling to her feet she turns to John as if
knowing he will be more lenient than the rest;
she sobs out her grief on h;s broad breast, for
a tew moments, then raising her head she looks
at father and comes and stands before him. He
takes her hand and turns to the library; the
rest of us repair to th§ flower.s^entejA-xXMflfle:.
wJueed not the open piano, tLe nodding blue
bails, the half blown rose buds,the fragrant gera
niums to make ns think of her. They speak
eloquently of her, in their sweet flower lan
guage, petitioning that we would not judge her
hardly.
Her canary pipes shrilly for its breakfast, and
flutters its yelli w wings against the bars that
keep it from freedom.
We group around mother : John sitting at
h s feet, while she abstractedly strokes bis brown
hair, gtzing out the window; I, leaning over
the back of her chair, toying with an cxalis cup,
I had taken from one of the vases, thinking of
B rt, for he always wore oxalis his button hole,
and of his parting words to me.
We had been speaking of Eve and Jerome,
the evening before his departure to Richmond,
when he said, smiling sadly, yet with a light
in his eyes.
"Love is never lost, though hearts run waste,
Acd sorrow makes the chastened heart a se^r;
The deepest dark reveals the starriest hope.
And Faith can trust her Heaven behind the veil.’
Penelope comes flattering in joyous with the
thought that her beloved Dixie has declared for
independence. But she has toned down
much since March. Bert’s sorrow reflects itself
from her brown eyes, and her face is sadder if
not ltss enthusiast than on night, when she
uttered her rebel sentiments so freely. On see
ing John the blood dyes her cheeks. Intui
tively she knows the oause of onr grave looks
and her, own face betrays the sympathy she is
to delioate too speak.
‘How is Bert, Fen ?’ I ask, after kissing her.
‘Quite well, Miss Helen. *
‘When is he coming ?’ asks John.
*1 do not know, neither does he,’ tears well
ing np as Bhe speaks. Then proudly: ‘Not un
til he is fully cured of his fancy for—tor Eve, I
hope.’
She goes over to mother and softly caresses
her faded cheek. Not one word is said relative
to Eve or to secession, and soon she takes her
departure.
Ged bless her!’ murmurs mother. ‘She is a
noble girl.’
She strokes John's hair softly, looks wistfully
into his eyes. He understands that pleading
glance, shakes his head slowly but deoidedly.
Mother Bighs,- aud we again take up oar weary
watching and waiting for Eve and father.
Now and then through the oloaed oaken door
conus sounds of sobbing, broken exclamations,
passionate entreaties from Eve, mingled with
father's measured tones. The hoars seem in
terminable; the minutes drag by as if weighted
down by sorrow.
At last onr anxious eyes are greeted by the
form of father. How great a change a few hoars
have wrought in him. Sorrow's stylus defcoes
and mars more faces than Time’s.
How thankful I am when I look into father's
face that I have never cansed him sorrow. How
my heart goes ont to him when I remember
that loving sympathy he gave me loug ago
when I had my life grief. Never shall I forget
the look of utter anguish upon his face as he
comes into the room. The die is cast, we know;
Eve will go North with Jerome.
CaD I blame her, I who have stood over the
dead form of my lover and prayed that God
wonld have compassion on me and let me die
too ? Gan I, I who know what partings with
loved ones mean, I who know the angnish of
putting from sight forever loved faoes, can I
censure her ? I can only deplore her decision.
John rises as father comes with faltering steps,
toward ns; mother hurries to him and isolasped
to his heart
‘Helen ! Helen !’ he says, brokenly, ‘onr child
is going from ns ! She thinks nothing of the
years of oare and devotion we have lavished up
on her !’
Sad faoea look acroas at each other at the din
ner table. Eve does not make her appearance.
After dinner we assemble again in the parlor.
Mother and father go into the library, and amid
onr desultory conversation, we hear his voioe
as if in prayer.
Barbara employ g her time in twining Ellie’s
golden curls around her fingers, and in arrang
ing her bracelets. John ensoonoes himself in
the bay-window, idly puffing oigar smoke
through the lace curtain, to the infinite delight
ofEllie. I try to read Heine, the god of my
aesthetic idolatry; failing I sit watohing a sculp
tured face of Antigone—
“Not ye, lead
Bat in old marbles ever beautiful.”
It is strangely fascinating to-day, as I sit look
ing at it,. There is a calm defianoe in the sor
row-stricken features, as if setting at naught the
cruel edict of Creon. I am startled to find my
self endeavoring to traoe a resemblance between
this marble face and Eve, It is dispelled as
as soon as I recall these words in Sophocles:
‘‘Alas 11 only wished I might have died
With my poor father; wherefore should I ask
For longer life ?”
Not so with Eve; she is no devoted Antigone,
Rather a Soylla ready to shear the purple lock
of royalty. The daintily soulpturcd features of
Antigone are not more clearly out than Eve’s,
but, alas ! the contrast is most painful. My rev
erie is broken by the footman announcing,
pompously:
‘Mr. Jerome.’
No one advances to welcome him. Had Perse
us appeared and as suddenly presented the hid
eous head of Mednsa we oonid not sit more
mote. He enters with a firm step and smiling
face. Our grave, cold faces repel even his self-
con Science, and he pauses embarassed.
‘Can I see Eve—Miss Eve? Is she ’ he
says.
‘Her s at home, np stain. Her cried all the
morning; all of ’em oried. Grandpapa shat her
np, and said he wish her wonld die.’
It is Ellie who volunteers this information;
and before we, divine her intention she speeds
away to tell Eve.
I raise my eyes from my book and fix them on
Mr. Jerome. I see by the deepened flush on
his face, the angry scintillation of his eyes
that he understands to. the utmost why we have
so far forgotten onr usual hospitality. Mr. Je
rome is undoubtedly a handsome, fascinating
man, but be is a pigmy compared with Bert.
As Barbara a onid say, it wes pure peryersity in
Eve.
Eve oomes into the room at this juncture. A
languid paleness gives her an air of contrition,
bnt I am not to foolish as to interpret in that
manner. If Mr. Jerome found scant hospitality
with us he does not with Eve.
I have oalled to tell yon that I leave immedi
ately for Washington,’ he says, possessing him
self of her hands.
•For Washington !’
It is a wail of sorrow at which my own heart
aches in sympathy. It is more than John can
bear, so he conus from behind the curtain and
approaches them.
My poor little sister! he says, drawing her
to him. ‘Do von go to join the ‘loyal army,’
Mr. Jerome ? It is best that matters should oul-
minate here—’
‘I do; thinking it my—’
Spare ns your reasons. Let us understand
you at once, and be understood by you.’
Be merciful to me, John!’ pleads poor Eve,
lifting her face, white as a jessamine flower, to
his.
It is yon m aime, whom we should ask to be
meroiful. Eve, dear sister, do not lacerate our
heaits, do not blight our lives, do not bring sor
row to the old age of father and mother, do not
become the blot upon onr family name by this
ill-advised step! Think, Eve, think aud act.’
Eve stands apart from him now; her face is
pale with the jpallqr o£ d«tt*p_ anga* ^ Jokt-
fluids but hTs arms to her, but she only shakes
her head slcwly.
* "Ephraim is joined to his idols; let him
alone,”’ he quotes, with bitter emphasis.
Father aud mother enter. Mr. Jerome takes
Eve's hand and aivanocs to meet them, saying.
•Mr. Ross, I ask your permission—‘
‘Sir, you are a guest in my house, aud courte
sy forbids the use of words that mav more forci
bly convey my feelings on the subject. I can
never give my child to the man who is about to
take np arms against my state, my property, my
son, my peace. I do not believe that this in
comprehensible infatuation has transformed Eve
into such a Medea that she would willingly sac
rifice her brother to gain her orn happiness.
She must choose between us. If she goes with
you, never, so iong as she lives, shall I behold
his face, never hear her voice, nor shall any
communication be held with her by any mem
ber of my family.*
‘Turning to Eve, he continued:
•Eve, child of my dearest love, will you, can
you leave me? Will you go forth from the home
that has been made so happy by your presenc< ?
My child, do not desert ns 1 do not bring onr
gray hairs in sorrow to the grave !’
There is something sublimely touching in this
simple appeal. It touohed the hidden springs
of her heart, even as Moses touched the rock in
the desert, and the stream of filial love and duty
gushes out pure and nndefiled. Stretching her
hands to father she glides to his side.
Glad thankgivings rise iB our hearts. Turn
ing tour. Jerome she says, with sad sweetness:
‘I oannotgo with yon, Mr. Jerome, as I had
hoped to do. If my life would heal the breach,
span the chasm yawning between South and
North that life should be given. Bat my daty
is made plain—I cannot misinterpret it. f love
you; this yon know well, and will be true to
you unless somo act of yonrs loosens tbs bond
whiob draws me to you—and when the decree
of peace goes forth onoe more in onr land I will
be yonrs. Goodbye, and oh, Henry, do not, do
not forget me.’
It is the passionate wail of one who gives np
all that makes liie lovely or blessed.
North Virginia. Eve goes about the house with
a pale face, but oalm lips that do not complain.
She will not add to our distress. Barbara too,
rouses from her luxurious selfishness and be
comes more helpful and sympathetic.
It is June afternoon mellow, leafy, irresisti
ble. So I think, and equip mvself for a walk.
‘Where are you going Helen ?’ Eve asks look
ing up from her book.
•To Mrs. Revere’s. Will you go ?
‘Not today. My love to Pen and Mrs. Re
vere.’
At the steps I stop to gather some scarlet ver
bena from one of the atone vases to add to my
bouquet of geranium leaves and Arabiaa jessa
mine. At the gate I gather acme slender twigs
from the gloomy deodars. Ten minutes brisk
walking carries ms through the one wide street
of our little village to the two-story brick house
at the farther end. It has been dabbed Helio
polis on account of the two rad sandstone pil
lars on either side of the gateway, eaoh bearing
colossal Floras holding huge vases, from which
trail luxuriant vines.
As I open the iron gate and pass up the grav
elled walk a tall figure rises from a rustio seat
under the Wisteria arbor. The handsome face
of Bert beams upon me. He advanoes, grasps
my hand, stoops to kiss me.
‘How is Eve ?‘ he asks.
‘Eve is very well. You forget your manners.
‘You are well I know. I never saw you look
ing better,’ laughing.
‘And John ?' r
‘Is in excellent health.’
Then, after a moments pause. 'Tell me how
does Eve bear Jerome’s departure ?'
'Oh, very well. We never mention bis name.’
Penelope comes to us, and we go in where
Mrs. Revere is lying on the sofa. Seating my
self bi side the dear invalid, we converse upon
that all-abserbing theme—the war. We ques
tion Bert about the different officers in our
ranks, about the probable member of the ene
my.
•The enemy already begin to realize that we
have some of the 'spirit of the Revolution left
in us, Miss Helen !' Pen exclaims.
‘The holiness of our oause makes our faith
atroug,’ Mrs. Revere says, smiling at Pan fondly.
‘Like Sir Galahad, we pursue our Holy
Grail—our independence—and when it is at
tained by no fortuitous oircumsUnoe, we will
say with him, 'Lord, I thank Theel ’ I supple
ment.
The oenversation drifts on. Pen Bitting list
ening quietly until Bert chances to speak of
John. Awakening like Pandora after the life-
giving draught from the celestial cup contain
ing the divine ambrosia, she plies Bert with
many questions.
Over his face creeps a shadow. He knows
only too well the cause of this artless interest.
He sees the gulf yawning between this tender
little flower and her happiness. He knows
John bo well, knows his heart, and knows that
not one throb is for love of Penelope. It seems
as though his own heart-sorrow is not heavy
enough when he thinks of what she mast bear.
I rise at last, and bidding Mrs. Revere good
bye. say to Bert:
‘When will yqa leave ns?’
I return ttoporrow. Business, purely,
Gan I not eeoort yon home ?
brought me hotl
it is getting lafck
As we sanntd
branches of thn
than we can din
so much to ail’
tennation of )ri-
generously tabi
he not bored .
never have tip'
I do not off i
well hew us/^j
of his is like £
a translucent ;
widen, until tie
and broken, ’k
As we approa. t
Eve, through Ur
against the fence^
side-walk. Bert;
•long under the drooping
ks we converse more freely
[ire a third person. He has
: Eve, so much to say in ex-
\duot toward himself. He
he blame on himself; had
1 his attention she would
'erome.
ly sympathy, I know too
Xfruja^of words at suoh y
^im'silently.' This iove
og the serene depths of
fre
CHAPTER IV.
Oh the days that now came upon us ! Days
that quiokened our South with new, tumultu
ous life ! Days, filled full of changing, stirring
ineident, of intense action and passion—days,
that seem to ns now like the moments of some
wild fee er dream.
1 make no apology for recording these days
as they were. My objeot is to present a truthful
pioture of life in the South at that time —life
under the stars and bais. I say not that we
were right in beginning that straggle for inde-
pendance seen now to have been so vain, so
hopeless, so fraught with misery and rnin. I
say that we then believed we were right, that
onr cause was a just and holy one, that onr sol
diers were martyrs who poured out their blood
in a oanse as sacred as that of Greece’s or Po
land's.
Snoh was the feeling that then pervaded the
South. Men and women shared in it—gave
their gold, their blood, their prayers, their
tears for the cause they loved and believed in.
And I hold that by all this wealth of noble feel
ing, if by nothing else, the Southern cause was
ennobled and hallowed. Yee:
Let it flame or fade and the war roll dewn like a wind
We have proved we have hearts in a cause; we are noble
still.*
And the land teemed every where with gray
eloth and bright buttons, with shining muskets
and bayonets, with tattoo of drum and thrill
pipe of fife, with the thunder of cavalry and the
tramp, tramp of infantry, handsome, excited
boy-faces, quiet, stern looks of bearded men,
tremulous-lipped maidens, mothers and wives.
John has buckled on his knapsack, musket in
hand, has gone to join Bert in the army of
re the ripples widen and
Ip oalm boson. is rippled
if
•; j gate we see the figure of
•ening light, leaning idly
jpping rose leaves upon the
es a start as he secs her And
then motions me^|nbe silent as he looks at her
intently.
Eve ! ’ I oall, determined that he shall not
startle her.
She raises her rose-leaf face; perceiving Bert
she hastily undoes the gate and advances to
meet ns, her beautiful eyes shining in the
dusky light, her face eager and expressive.
‘Have you come, Bert? When did you ar
rive? After dinner, and never notified us!
Why, Bert! When do you return ? To-mor-
row ? Why, Bert! ’
There is a lack of lover's warmth in his greet
ing. Eve notes the difference in his manner
toward her now afid formerly, for the color
comes flattering to her oheeks. 1 say with
malicions pleasure:
•I had to use every inducement to bring him
this near. If you will come in, Bert, I prom
ise you a hearty reception. No ? ’ as he shakes
his head, meanwhile feasting his eyes upon the
lovely, mobile face of Eve. ‘Shall I oall father
to see yon? ’
•Not now, Miss Helen. I have not time to
tarry with yon, and must be so discourteous as
to deoline your kind invitation. Will yoa not
oome to bid me good-bye in the morning?
When I go into battle I should like to have
your words of cheer and enoouragsment echo
ing in my heart. I would like to think that
some one besides mother and Penelope wonld
monrn for me if I fell.’
Of that yon mast be assured, Bert,' I say
ohokingly.
■Yes,’ smiling at me in his tender way. ' Tou
will oome? Good-bye, Miss Eve,* taking the
white hand rt sting lightly upon the briok pil
lar.
•Good-bye, Bert,’ raising her pure fsos where
his worshiping eyes can take in each feature.
He bows himself away, and Eve and I go
slowly up the walk to the stone steps. She
turns to me suddenly saying :
‘How much older are yon than Bert, Helen ? *
‘He is my senior by two years,’ I reply de
murely, inwardly delighted that she should
ask suoh a question.
•Do you fanoy transferred affeotion ?’
•Affection ia the same thing whether labeled
‘transferred’ or not,’ I observe sagely.
‘I am glad yon view the matter so philosoph-
icly,’ rattier dryly.
Oh, E - •», where are your eyes 1
She siii down upon the steps, I go to pat up
my bat. Coming back, I find her leaning over
one of the tall vases plnoking the scarlet velvet
petals of a verbena, scattering them like little
bits of the sun-set olouds over her white dress,
staining her white fingers with them.
‘Ariadne, alone upon Naxos, oould not have
looked more forlorn and forsaken,’ I say.
•Le. ve me alone. Helen 1* she exclaims pettish
ly-
‘Cheer np, dear. I have glad tidings for you:
Bert was ordered ont on a scouting expedition,
and coming np with some oavalry of the enemy
made a charge and rooted them. Bert slashed
after a lieutenant,* laughing maliciously as I
see the terror coming into her dreamy eyes aud
paling Ler lips. 'The lieutenant was Jerome.
Happy cironmstanco that caused Bert to recog
nize him so quickly. Cheer up, Eye; Bert let
him esoape tor yonr sake—'
She says nothing, but her eyes brighten and
her lit s move.
‘Not before he had asked about you,* I add,
‘Why did not Bert tell me /* she inquires in
an unsteady voiee.
tenant Jerome was in perfect health ten daja
ago* There is the tea bell; let's go.*
I go, leaving her upon the steps, in the fliok
ering moonbeams that struggle through the
trees.
Novembeb.
Eve is sitting at the piano playing one of those
sorrow-burdened pieces that make hearts ache,
I, who sit by the ruddy fire, interpret it an a
longing for Jerome. Why, I don't know, unless
I remember the white face beside the window
last night with "twilight eyes" gazing desolate
ly at the moon. My heart hardens toward Eve
and her sorrow as I think of John and Bert. I
get np and go to the window. It is an exquis
ite soene, snoh as would stir the heart of an art
ist.
Below me nestle the few houses among the
evergreens; beyond them the mountains out the
sky with dim distinct ness. The sky is radiant
I hear the rushing of the river, and the wind
murmuring over the mountains, in the tree tops,
among the deodars.
Eve stops playing and leaves the room. Some
thing indefinable carries my heart and soul
back. I think of these words of Ossian:
‘Often, like the evening sun, oomes the mem
ory of former times o’er my soul.’
‘Lady at the door, Miss Helen,’ says Sam at
my elbow.
‘Show her in,’ turning again to the contempla
tion of the fair pioture. I turn as the ladv en
ters. The royal-purple walking suit sets off well
the rare blonde beauty, like some opalescent
pearl nestling upon a purple bed; a slender,
graeeful figure; large, expressive blue eyes;
well formed features, not olassically regular
like Eve's , not piquant like Pen s, but a touch
of that soft beauty that distinguishes Raphael's
Madonnas. She must be, at most, only two
years older than Eve, and yet a certain immo
bility of features tells me that she has queened
it in society. I advance to meet her.
‘I am sure this is Helen. Your brother John
told me that yon would be the first to meet and
give me welcome,* extending her hands.
‘I am Helen, and you are—*
•Valarie Mercer. Pray don't think I am a
lunatic rushing in on yon so—I have a letter
from your brotber for you. ‘
_ I forget my visitor, sink into a ohair and has
tily read John's letter. Its sum and substanoe
is this:
John, while ont on a scouting expedition in
Maryland, had been discovered by some troops
of the enemy. His danger was imminent, for,
did they captnre him, he would suffer the fate of
a spy. He had known Miss Meroer while he
was in Europe, when she was a girl, and it was
she who had first warned him of his danger.
Living with distant relatives, who were Union
ists, she was conversant with the plans to oep-
tnre the “Rebel spy."
John having secured valuable information
stops at this house as he goes to join his ootn-
mand. He is hospitably reoeived at the front
door while they plot to send a note to the Fed
eral troops stationed in the next town. Of all
this Valarie is cognizant. She reeognized John
as her quondam fellow traveler but gave no
attention to him. After he and the family had
retired she slipped to his door and informed
him of his danger. Attired in one of her long
riding skirts he made good his esoape.
The vials of wrath are poured out upon Val-
arie's head, she is utterly cast off by her rela
tions, Later she joins John in Richmond. All
this John's letter tells, and more: he declares
his love for the brave girl who saved his life.
He sends her to us that she may find a home
until be can legally give her one. Will we re
fuse her that home ?
I lay t' e letter aside and "take the gikl to my
hearj^ Even I, partial q^I.ajn to .TohnjUtccgde
the" piace in his heart to her, and thinkfibat she
is worthy to be his wife.
Mother and father are called, briefly made ac
quainted with the case, then Eve and Barbara.
This has been days ago, and we have all learn
ed to love Valarie. The family are all sitting
around the fire talking of John and of the cam
paign. Ellie and Snip are having a romp un
der the table.
•Our northern neighbors are beginning to
resize the truth of General Beauregard a‘s astute
assertion that the invading army comes only for
booty, 1 Barbara says.
Mother sighs. She is thinking of her boy
who may even now be a corpse out on the cold
ground of the battle field.
Ah, the woes, the terrors, tho heart aches of
war ! Who can tell of them ?
CHAPTER IV.
“ The abui=e of war,
The desecrated shrine, the trampled year,
The smouldering homestead, .• nd the household flower
Torn from the lintel.”—Ten* yson.
January 18G2.
The Are burns cherrily on the hearth. Eve and
Valarie are at the piano singing welcomes to the
new year Father is reading a paper, mother
knits on a sock for John. Barbara, dressed in
her best, sits on a sofa ‘alone in her glory.'
Little Ellie is in my lap listening to the won
derful tales cf Araby's sweet clime. We have
been speaking of our success last year, and re
joicing in the rising star of the young Confed-
eraoy. We are startled by the clash of horses
feet and clanking of swords.
Eve starts up, looks expeotantly out at the
window. Valarie and I run to her side.
‘It is John ! exclaimed mother, joyfully, while
Valarie’s face became radiant.
‘Surrender !' cries some one in the hall.
*Oh, master, master, the Yanks is oome !’
A rnsh of feet, and half a dozen servants,
mostly females, come pell-mell into the parlor.
‘Federal spldiers !' calls Valarie, quietly, keen
disappointment in her eyes.
‘God save ns!’ moans Barbara, going into
hysterics on the sofa.
•Oh, the pitty buttons!’ Ellie ories, from her
perch on the window sil’.
Eve says nothing, bat there is a terror in her
eyes.
•Does she or does she not wish it, Jerome ?” I
ask myself.
Father is engaged in quieting the negroes and
Barbara.
•Go to the door, Helen,’ entreats mother.
Stilling the frightoned beating of my heart I
pass into the hall and confront half a dozen
booted and blue-coated oavalry men. I shrink
as they stare at me curiously, bat manage to
ask, audibly:
‘What do you wish ?’
•Dinner,’ answers one laconically, while the
others step back to look at the facts of Eva and
Valarie pressed against the window.
Father joins me and asks what they wish.
‘Dinner.’
•Sir, we do not keep a public house,’ he ex
claimed mildly.
‘That s nothing to us, old man. We’ve been
told to come here, and wa expect to get din
ner.’
•We do not entertain stragglers. J ; m, show
these men the gate !’ father says, with dignity.
Show them the gate indeed ! In less than live
minutes they are seated around our fire side.
It is ridiculous as well as annoying to see a
youthful officer approach our proud Barbara,
who is still crying cn the sofa, saying,
•I say, sissie, what ails you ?’
Sobbing from Barbara.
•You need'ot be scared, we have’nt oome to
hurt you,’ reassuringly.
Father and mother are in the dining room.
The former has decided that he most go to his
plantation lying direotly in the route of those
'He asked me to tell yon, and to say that lien- marauders. He has Bent for good old Dr. Eustis
Mrs. Attory, a regular amazon, joins mother
i Q s r °°- ,D ’ ■ dd ‘ a * P*ot<st upon*pre-
Lft 7r “ £f/ ,Ve8 ordera for dinner. I am
• f f°“ the dining loom into the parlor to
before me ^ 1 fi “ d Pen and “**. ^ere
‘Miss Helen, weeameover to beg protection,’
P “ . 8 £ y8 ‘ h « re « Mis? Helen, she
will take you to Mre. Boss.'
I conduct Mrs. Revere to mother. When I
return I find Valarie and Penelope confronting
a brawney lieutenant, who has taken it into his
head to thrum on the piano. The other offieers
look on smilingly. Eve angrily, Barbara fright
ened ont of her wits. °
‘How date yoa, yoa vandal 1’ ories (Pen, pas
sionately. ‘How dare you intrade into this
hoase and act as if you were welcome guests ?
‘My dear girl—*
'Silence' oried the angry girl, ‘Do not dare to
speak to me so. I have a brother in the Go nfed-
federate service: he shall hear of this.
Oh, graoious, we are so soared of him !’ says
one.
‘Sweet little rebel,’ says another. ‘She’ll soon
be a good Unionist.’ obimes in another. I know
she’d like a good Union sweetheart now’.
•Penelope grows white with rage.
‘You frighten the dear little thing says the
lieutenant.
‘Afraid of you, you mercenary hirelings !’ the
girl goes od, recklessly. ‘Not I. You Judge
me by yourselves. You, who proved how you
could fly, rather than fight at Manasas.’
The lieutrnant’s brow darkens with anger.
•What are you, little girl?’ asks one of tbe sol
diers of Eilia, who stands in the door eating
cake and listening to Pen.
‘I am a Secesh,’ cries Ellie, pertly.
‘Well little Secesh, I am going to kiss you,
catching the child in his arms.
Barbara utters a dismayed exclamation, Vala
rie starts forward, but Ellie is too true to what
she has heatd Penelope say, she gives her captor
a smart slap with her pink palm and a scratch in
the eyes with her chubby fingers.
He pats her down with an exclamation of
pain and anger, raises his band to strike her
fiercely, when Eve starte forward and receives
the blow intended for little Ellie. It id harder
perhaps than he intended ana she falls to the
floor. Mute and horror stricken, we gather
around her. Valarie takes her bead in her lap.
Pen and I chafe her hands.
‘I—I—beg pardon, Miss Ross.’ stammers the
soldier.
•Eve, precious child, are you hurt ?’ I ask,
wildly, as she opens her eyes.
•Eve, tell iae you are not dead !’ cries Pen.
She shakes her bead slowly.
‘What is all this mean ?’ asks a voioe from tho
door way.
It isa musical well modlulated voice. I know
it well. Rising to my feet I point to Eve, say
ing to Henry Jerome, with trenohant empha
sis :
‘This is the work of your men !’
•Eve, darling !’he cries, passionately, kneel
ing beside her. ‘My beloved, my Eve, are you
nurt?'
A shudder goes through her; she turns hey
head away and stretches her arms out to me.
Blinded by tears. I try to take her in my arms. Pen-
lope has risen, and stands with her back to us.
Barbara clings tightly to Ellie. Valarie bends
over Eve with me.
•Let me take her, Miss Helen,’ Mr. Jerome
says, in a stifled voice.
She feebly resists him, but he carrhs her up
to her room under Valarie’s direction. I go in
to the dining room :
‘Mother, Lieutepaut Jerome is in the par
lor.’
Ps or an instant mother forgets every thing but
family pride, and buries her face in her u«.nds.
I take advantage of this and send Dr. Corns to
Eve with the whispered request that it be kept
from mother.
My own heart is full of w e, bat I stave to
to comfort mother. I take Mrs. Amory aside,
tell her, and ask her to keep Eve's illness Irom
mother, then go upstairs to Eve's room.
Eve is not so badly hurt as wo feared, and
Valarie and Dr. Curtis make her comfortable
while I beg Dr. Curtis to go to mother.
There is a crasii down stairs.
‘It’s the piano,’ Eve murmurs, a look cf paia
coming into Ler eyes. To her the piano is
almost human.
‘There go the vases !’ cries Pen, as the jing
ling of shivered glass comes to us. Above the
noise comes the swt ec, clear notes ‘Home, sweet
home,’ played on the flute.
‘John’s flute !’ I s*y, angrily, while the bright
blood Itaps to V.ilarie's cheeks, and Pen's eyes
scintellate angrily.
‘The busts !’ ixolaims Barbara, as we hear a
heavy fall.
‘I am going to see whatthey are doing,* Pen
says, after a moment's paus9. We en raat her to
remain BS it is evident the soldiers are drink
ing but she is obstinate. She got s, and we stay
in agonized snspense a half an hour.
‘Miss Helt n,’ she says, coming back at the end
of that time, ‘they have torn the arch curtail.s
to shreds.’
•I have some I brought with me from Rich
mond,’ consoles Barbara.
•They have broken the busts of Goethe and
Schiller into fragments.’
A. cry of indignation follows this announce
ment. John brought them from Btrlir.
■They have muldated Beethoven and Mozait
beyond recognition.
Eve sighs softly.
•They have scraped off the paint from Nicho
las Tulp’s eyes, and have out ‘Old Sheperd's-
Ghief Mourner’ into a hundred strings. Bea
trice is out off the stretoher and rolled up.
No doubt a connoisseur fanoied it The vases
are shattered, two chairs are minus the blue
velvet coverings. The man who struck Eve is
playing ‘Home, sweet home on John's dnte. ’
‘What is Lieutenant Jerome doing?* I ask
interpreting Fve's look.
•Smoking a oigar, with his boots on the mar
ble mantle peioe,’
Eve turns her head away and sighs wearily.
Pen gnashes her white teeth together. She
thinks of Bart, and oompares the two.
Dinner is served to them at last. I go down
to assist mother. Mr. Jerome asks Mrs. Revere
about Bert, ssys be hopes he is well, sneaks
highly c f his courage. After dinner, in the
hall, he asks me if he oan see Eve. Idell him
no, that she is too ill to be seen. He begs that
I will not judge him by the others. I reply by
‘H'fds of a feather will flook together.*
They take their departure at last, and go to
raid upon other houses in the village.
Perhaps the moat pitiful object is Eve's
? « na ^ y r Beft ‘ s to her three years ago, which
I find lying dead on the white piano keys.
Ah, me ! distressing news comas to us from
t h fc« S !h t 0f 7 ar ’ More mounded, more slain
P'^ m onr already densely pop.
° k°ep tala <nl cemeteries.
Mn rLi 8ay have merely punished
Mo. Clel.au, bnt gained no permanent ground,
bad tidings oome from the border state, that
have borne the brunt of the battles.
Richmond is threatened with overpowering
Fremont, Banks, and McDowel are
bearing down upon that beautiful city as a
hawk upon its legitimate prey. J
nnw e i^ P M aa<1 t> her mothe r are residing with ns
now. In May, Bert comes home for a week He
and we think it too dangerous for them to re-
mam at H liopolis alone, and father begs that