Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

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