University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
MUSTERED IN.

CHRISTIE'S return was a very happy one, and
could not well be otherwise with a mother, sister,
and lover to welcome her back. Her meeting with
Letty was indescribably tender, and the days that followed
were pretty equally divided between her and her
brother, in nursing the one and loving the other.
There was no cloud now in Christie's sky, and all the
world seemed in bloom. But even while she enjoyed
every hour of life, and begrudged the time given to
sleep, she felt as if the dream was too beautiful to last,
and often said:

“Something will happen: such perfect happiness is
not possible in this world.”

“Then let us make the most of it,” David would
reply, wisely bent on getting his honey while he could,
and not borrowing trouble for the morrow.

So Christie turned a deaf ear to her “prophetic
soul,” and gave herself up to the blissful holiday that
had come at last. Even while March winds were howling
outside, she blissfully “poked in the dirt” with
David in the green-house, put up the curly lock as
often as she liked, and told him she loved him a dozen

times a day, not in words, but in silent ways, that
touched him to the heart, and made his future look so
bright he hardly dared believe in it.

A happier man it would have been difficult to find
just then; all his burdens seemed to have fallen off,
and his spirits rose again with an elasticity which surprised
even those who knew him best. Christie often
stopped to watch and wonder if the blithe young man
who went whistling and singing about the house, often
stopping to kiss somebody, to joke, or to exclaim with
a beaming face like a child at a party: “Isn't every
thing beautiful?” could be the sober, steady David,
who used to plod to and fro with his shoulders a little
bent, and the absent look in his eyes that told of
thoughts above or beyond the daily task.

It was good to see his mother rejoice over him with
an exceeding great joy; it was better still to see Letty's
eyes follow him with unspeakable love and gratitude in
their soft depths; but it was best of all to see Christie
marvel and exult over the discoveries she made: for,
though she had known David for a year, she had never
seen the real man till now.

“Davy, you are a humbug,” she said one day when
they were making up a bridal order in the green-house.

“I told you so, but you wouldn't believe it,” he answered,
using long stemmed rose-buds with as prodigal
a hand as if the wedding was to be his own.

“I thought I was going to marry a quiet, studious,
steady-going man; and here I find myself engaged to
a romantic youth who flies about in the most undignified
manner, embraces people behind doors, sings opera

airs, — very much out of tune by the way, — and conducts
himself more like an infatuated Claude Melnotte,
than a respectable gentleman on the awful verge of
matrimony. Nothing can surprise me now: I 'm prepared
for any thing, even the sight of my Quakerish
lover dancing a jig.”

“Just what I 've been longing to do! Come and
take a turn: it will do you good;” and, to Christie's
utter amazement, David caught her round the waist
and waltzed her down the boarded walk with a speed
and skill that caused less havoc among the flower-pots
than one would imagine, and seemed to delight the
plants, who rustled and nodded as if applauding the
dance of the finest double flower that had ever blossomed
in their midst.

“I can't help it, Christie,” he said, when he had
landed her breathless and laughing at the other end.
“I feel like a boy out of school, or rather a man out of
prison, and must enjoy my liberty in some way. I 'm
not a talker, you know; and, as the laws of gravitation
forbid my soaring aloft anywhere, I can only express
my joyfully uplifted state of mind by `prancing,' as
you call it. Never mind dignity: let 's be happy, and
by and by I 'll sober down.”

“I don't want you to; I love to see you so young
and happy, only you are not the old David, and I 've
got to get acquainted with the new one.”

“I hope you 'll like him better than the frost-bitten
`old David' you first knew and were kind enough to
love. Mother says I 've gone back to the time before
we lost Letty, and I sometimes feel as if I had. In
that case you will find me a proud, impetuous, ambitious
fellow, Christie, and how will that suit?”

“Excellently; I like pride of your sort; impetuosity
becomes you, for you have learned to control it if need
be; and the ambition is best of all. I always wondered
at your want of it, and longed to stir you up;
for you did not seem the sort of man to be contented
with mere creature comforts when there are so many
fine things men may do. What shall you choose,
Davy?”

“I shall wait for time to show. The sap is all astir
in me, and I 'm ready for my chance. I don't know
what it is, but I feel very sure that some work will be
given me into which I can put my whole heart and
soul and strength. I spoilt my first chance; but I know
I shall have another, and, whatever it is, I am ready to
do my best, and live or die for it as God wills.”

“So am I,” answered Christie, with a voice as earnest
and a face as full of hopeful resolution as his own.

Then they went back to their work, little dreaming
as they tied roses and twined smilax wreaths, how near
that other chance was; how soon they were to be called
upon to keep their promise, and how well each was to
perform the part given them in life and death.

The gun fired one April morning at Fort Sumter
told many men like David what their work was to be,
and showed many women like Christie a new right to
claim and bravely prove their fitness to possess.

No need to repeat the story of the war begun that
day; it has been so often told that it will only be
touched upon here as one of the experiences of Christie's
life, an experience which did for her what it did
for all who took a share in it, and loyally acted their
part.

The North woke up from its prosperous lethargy, and
began to stir with the ominous hum of bees when rude
hands shake the hive. Rich and poor were proud to
prove that they loved their liberty better than their
money or their lives, and the descendants of the brave
old Puritans were worthy of their race. Many said: “It
will soon be over;” but the wise men, who had warned
in vain, shook their heads, as that first disastrous summer
showed that the time for compromise was past, and
the stern reckoning day of eternal justice was at
hand.

To no home in the land did the great trouble bring
a more sudden change than the little cottage in the
lane. All its happy peace was broken; excitement
and anxiety, grief and indignation, banished the sweet
home joys and darkened the future that had seemed so
clear. David was sober enough now, and went about his
work with a grim set to his lips, and a spark in his eyes
that made the three women look at one another pale
with unspoken apprehension. As they sat together,
picking lint or rolling bandages while David read
aloud some dismal tale of a lost battle that chilled
their blood and made their hearts ache with pity, each
woman, listening to the voice that stirred her like martial
music, said within herself: “Sooner or later he
will go, and I have no right to keep him.” Each tried
to be ready to make her sacrifice bravely when the
time came, and each prayed that it might not be
required of her.

David said little, but they knew by the way he
neglected his garden and worked for the soldiers, that
his heart was in the war. Day after day he left Christie

and his sister to fill the orders that came so often
now for flowers to lay on the grave of some dear, dead
boy brought home to his mother in a shroud. Day after
day he hurried away to help Mr. Power in the sanitary
work that soon claimed all hearts and hands; and,
day after day, he came home with what Christie called
the “heroic look” more plainly written on his face.
All that first summer, so short and strange; all that
first winter, so long and hard to those who went and
those who stayed, David worked and waited, and the
women waxed strong in the new atmosphere of self-sacrifice
which pervaded the air, bringing out the sturdy
virtues of the North.

“How terrible! Oh, when will it be over!” sighed
Letty one day, after hearing a long list of the dead
and wounded in one of the great battles of that second
summer.

“Never till we have beaten!” cried David, throwing
down the paper and walking about the room with his
head up like a war-horse who smells powder. “It is
terrible and yet glorious. I thank heaven I live to see
this great wrong righted, and only wish I could do my
share like a man.”

“That is natural; but there are plenty of men who
have fewer ties than you, who can fight better, and
whose places are easier to fill than yours if they die,”
said Christie, hastily.

“But the men who have most to lose fight best they
say; and to my thinking a soldier needs a principle as
well as a weapon, if he is to do real service.”

“As the only son of a widow, you can't be drafted:
that 's one comfort,” said Letty, who could not bear to
give up the brother lost to her for so many years.

“I should not wait for that, and I know mother
would give her widow's mite if she saw that it was
needed.”

“Yes, Davy.” The soft, old voice answered steadily;
but the feeble hand closed instinctively on the arm of
this only son, who was so dear to her. David held it
close in both of his, saying gratefully: “Thank you,
mother;” then, fixing his eyes on the younger yet not
dearer women, he added with a ring in his voice that
made their hearts answer with a prompt “Ay, ay!”
in spite of love or fear:

“Now listen, you dear souls, and understand that, if
I do this thing, I shall not do it hastily, nor without
counting well the cost. My first and most natural impulse
was to go in the beginning; but I stayed for
your sakes. I saw I was not really needed: I thought
the war would soon be over, and those who went then
could do the work. You see how mistaken we were,
and God only knows when the end will come. The
boys — bless their brave hearts! — have done nobly,
but older men are needed now. We cannot sacrifice all
the gallant lads; and we who have more to lose than
they must take our turn and try to do as well. You
own this; I see it in your faces: then don't hold me
back when the time comes for me to go. I must do
my part, however small it is, or I shall never feel as if
I deserved the love you give me. You will let me go,
I am sure, and not regret that I did what seemed to
me a solemn duty, leaving the consequences to the
Lord!”

“Yes, David,” sister and sweetheart answered,

bravely forgetting in the fervor of the moment what
heavy consequences God might see fit to send.

“Good! I knew my Spartans would be ready, and
I won't disgrace them. I 've waited more than a year,
and done what I could. But all the while I felt
that I was going to get a chance at the hard work, and
I 've been preparing for it. Bennet will take the garden
and green-house off my hands this autumn for a year
or longer, if I like. He 's a kind, neighborly man, and
his boy will take my place about the house and protect
you faithfully. Mr. Power cannot be spared to go as
chaplain, though he longs to desperately; so he is near
in case of need, and with your two devoted daughters
by you, mother, I surely can be spared for a little
while.”

“Only one daughter near her, David: I shall enlist
when you do,” said Christie, resolutely.

“You mean it?”

“I mean it as honestly as you do. I knew you would
go: I saw you getting ready, and I made up my mind
to follow. I, too, have prepared for it, and even spoken
to Mrs. Amory. She has gone as matron of a hospital,
and promised to find a place for me when I was ready.
The day you enlist I shall write and tell her I am
ready.”

There was fire in Christie's eyes and a flush on her
cheek now, as she stood up with the look of a woman
bent on doing well her part. David caught her hands
in his, regardless of the ominous bandages they held,
and said, with tender admiration and reproach in his
voice:

“You wouldn't marry me when I asked you this

summer, fearing you would be a burden to me; but
now you want to share hardship and danger with me,
and support me by the knowledge of your nearness.
Dear, ought I to let you do it?”

“You will let me do it, and in return I will marry
you whenever you ask me,” answered Christie, sealing
the promise with a kiss that silenced him.

He had been anxious to be married long ago, but
when he asked Mr. Power to make him happy, a month
after his engagement, that wise friend said to them:

“I don't advise it yet. You have tried and proved
one another as friends, now try and prove one another
as lovers; then, if you feel that all is safe and happy,
you will be ready for the greatest of the three experiments,
and then in God's name marry.”

“We will,” they said, and for a year had been content,
studying one another, finding much to love, and
something to learn in the art of bearing and forbearing.

David had begun to think they had waited long
enough, but Christie still delayed, fearing she was not
worthy, and secretly afflicted by the thought of her
poverty. She had so little to give in return for all she
received that it troubled her, and she was sometimes
tempted to ask Uncle Enos for a modest marriage portion.
She never had yet, and now resolved to ask
nothing, but to earn her blessing by doing her share in
the great work.

“I shall remember that,” was all David answered to
that last promise of hers, and three months later he
took her at her word.

For a week or two they went on in the old way;
Christie did her housework with her head full of new

plans, read books on nursing, made gruel, plasters, and
poultices, till Mrs. Sterling pronounced her perfect; and
dreamed dreams of a happy time to come when peace
had returned, and David was safe at home with all the
stars and bars a man could win without dying for them.

David set things in order, conferred with Bennet,
petted his womankind, and then hurried away to pack
boxes of stores, visit camps, and watch departing regiments
with a daily increasing certainty that his time
had come.

One September day he went slowly home, and, seeing
Christie in the garden, joined her, helped her finish matting
up some delicate shrubs, put by the tools, and
when all was done said with unusual gentleness:

“Come and walk a little in the lane.”

She put her arm in his, and answered quickly:

“You 've something to tell me: I see it in your face.”

“Dear, I must go.”

“Yes, David.”

“And you?”

“I go too.”

“Yes, Christie.”

That was all: she did not offer to detain him now;
he did not deny her right to follow. They looked each
other bravely in the face a moment, seeing, acknowledging
the duty and the danger, yet ready to do the one
and dare the other, since they went together. Then
shoulder to shoulder, as if already mustered in, these
faithful comrades marched to and fro, planning their
campaign.

Next evening, as Mrs. Sterling sat alone in the twilight,
a tall man in army blue entered quietly, stood

watching the tranquil figure for a moment, then went
and knelt down beside it, saying, with a most unsoldierly
choke in the voice:

“I 've done it, mother: tell me you 're not sorry.”

But the little Quaker cap went down on the broad
shoulder, and the only answer he heard was a sob that
stirred the soft folds over the tender old heart that
clung so closely to the son who had lived for her so
long. What happened in the twilight no one ever
knew; but David received promotion for bravery in a
harder battle than any he was going to, and from his
mother's breast a decoration more precious to him than
the cross of the Legion of Honor from a royal hand.

When Mr. Power presently came in, followed by the
others, they found their soldier standing very erect in
his old place on the rug, with the firelight gleaming on
his bright buttons, and Bran staring at him with a
perplexed aspect; for the uniform, shorn hair, trimmed
beard, and a certain lofty carriage of the head so
changed his master that the sagacious beast was disturbed.

Letty smiled at him approvingly, then went to comfort
her mother who could not recover her tranquillity
so soon. But Christie stood aloof, looking at her lover
with something more than admiration in the face that
kindled beautifully as she exclaimed:

“O David, you are splendid! Once I was so blind
I thought you plain; but now my `boy in blue' is the
noblest looking man I ever saw. Yes, Mr. Power, I 've
found my hero at last! Here he is, my knight without
reproach or fear, going out to take his part in the
grandest battle ever fought. I wouldn't keep him if I

could; I 'm glad and proud to have him go; and if he
never should come back to me I can bear it better for
knowing that he dutifully did his best, and left the
consequences to the Lord.”

Then, having poured out the love and pride and confidence
that enriched her sacrifice, she broke down and
clung to him, weeping as so many clung and wept in
those hard days when men and women gave their dearest,
and those who prayed and waited suffered almost
as much as those who fought and died.

When the deed was once done, it was astonishing
what satisfaction they all took in it, how soon they got
accustomed to the change, and what pride they felt in
“our soldier.” The loyal frenzy fell upon the three quiet
women, and they could not do too much for their
country. Mrs. Sterling cut up her treasured old linen
without a murmur; Letty made “comfort bags” by the
dozen, put up jelly, and sewed on blue jackets with
tireless industry; while Christie proclaimed that if she
had twenty lovers she would send them all; and then
made preparations enough to nurse the entire party.

David meantime was in camp, getting his first taste of
martial life, and not liking it any better than he thought
he should; but no one heard a complaint, and he never
regretted his “love among the roses,” for he was one
of the men who had a “principle as well as a weapon,”
and meant to do good service with both.

It would have taken many knapsacks to hold all the
gifts showered upon him by his friends and neighbors.
He accepted all that came, and furnished forth those of
his company who were less favored. Among these was
Elisha Wilkins, and how he got there should be told.

Elisha had not the slightest intention of enlisting,
but Mrs. Wilkins was a loyal soul, and could not rest
till she had sent a substitute, since she could not go
herself. Finding that Lisha showed little enthusiasm
on the subject, she tried to rouse him by patriotic
appeals of various sorts. She read stirring accounts of
battles, carefully omitting the dead and wounded; she
turned out, baby and all if possible, to cheer every
regiment that left; and was never tired of telling Wash
how she wished she could add ten years to his age and
send him off to fight for his country like a man.

But nothing seemed to rouse the supine Elisha, who
chewed his quid like a placid beast of the field, and
showed no sign of a proper spirit.

“Very well,” said Mrs. Wilkins resolutely to herself,
“ef I can't make no impression on his soul I will on his
stommick, and see how that 'll work.”

Which threat she carried out with such skill and
force that Lisha was effectually waked up, for he was
“partial to good vittles,” and Cynthy was a capital
cook. Poor rations did not suit him, and he demanded
why his favorite dishes were not forthcoming.

“We can't afford no nice vittles now when our men
are sufferin' so. I should be ashamed to cook 'em, and
expect to choke tryin' to eat 'em. Every one is sacrificin'
somethin', and we mustn't be slack in doin' our
part, — the Lord knows it 's precious little, — and there
won't be no stuffin' in this house for a consid'able spell.
Ef I could save up enough to send a man to do my
share of the fightin', I should be proud to do it. Anyway
I shall stint the family and send them dear brave
fellers every cent I can git without starvin' the children.”

“Now, Cynthy, don't be ferce. Things will come
out all right, and it ain't no use upsettin' every thing
and bein' so darned uncomfortable,” answered Mr. Wilkins
with unusual energy.

“Yes it is, Lisha. No one has a right to be comfortable
in such times as these, and this family ain't goin'
to be ef I can help it,” and Mrs. Wilkins set down her
flat-iron with a slam which plainly told her Lisha war
was declared.

He said no more but fell a thinking. He was not as
unmoved as he seemed by the general excitement, and
had felt sundry manly impulses to “up and at 'em,”
when his comrades in the shop discussed the crisis with
ireful brandishing of awls, and vengeful pounding of
sole leather, as if the rebels were under the hammer.
But the selfish, slothful little man could not make up
his mind to brave hardship and danger, and fell back
on his duty to his family as a reason for keeping safe at
home.

But now that home was no longer comfortable, now
that Cynthy had sharpened her tongue, and turned
“ferce,” and now — hardest blow of all — that he was
kept on short commons, he began to think he might as
well be on the tented field, and get a little glory along
with the discomfort if that was inevitable. Nature
abhors a vacuum, and when food fell short patriotism
had a chance to fill the aching void. Lisha had about
made up his mind, for he knew the value of peace and
quietness; and, though his wife was no scold, she was
the ruling power, and in his secret soul he considered
her a very remarkable woman. He knew what she
wanted, but was not going to be hurried for anybody;

so he still kept silent, and Mrs. Wilkins began to think
she must give it up. An unexpected ally appeared
however, and the good woman took advantage of it to
strike one last blow.

Lisha sat eating a late breakfast one morning, with a
small son at either elbow, waiting for stray mouthfuls
and committing petty larcenies right and left, for Pa
was in a brown study. Mrs. Wilkins was frying flapjacks,
and though this is not considered an heroical employment
she made it so that day. This was a favorite
dish of Lisha's, and she had prepared it as a bait for
this cautious fish. To say that the fish rose at once
and swallowed the bait, hook and all, but feebly expresses
the justice done to the cakes by that long-suffering
man. Waiting till he had a tempting pile of the
lightest, brownest flapjacks ever seen upon his plate,
and was watching an extra big bit of butter melt luxuriously
into the warm bosom of the upper one, with a
face as benign as if some of the molasses he was trickling
over them had been absorbed into his nature,
Mrs. Wilkins seized the propitious moment to say impressively:

“David Sterlin' has enlisted!”

“Sho! has he, though?”

“Of course he has! any man with the spirit of a
muskeeter would.”

“Well, he ain't got a family, you see.”

“He 's got his old mother, that sister home from
furrin' parts somewheres, and Christie just going to be
married. I should like to know who 's got a harder
family to leave than that?”

“Six young children is harder: ef I went fifin' and

drummin' off, who 'd take care of them I 'd like to
know?”

“I guess I could support the family ef I give my
mind to it;” and Mrs. Wilkins turned a flapjack with an
emphasis that caused her lord to bolt a hot triangle
with dangerous rapidity; for well he knew very little
of his money went into the common purse. She never
reproached him, but the fact nettled him now; and
something in the tone of her voice made that sweet
morsel hard to swallow.

“'Pears to me you 're in ruther a hurry to be a
widder, Cynthy, shovin' me off to git shot in this kind
of a way,” growled Lisha, ill at ease.

“I 'd ruther be a brave man's widder than a coward's
wife, any day!” cried the rebellious Cynthy: then she
relented, and softly slid two hot cakes into his plate;
adding, with her hand upon his shoulder, “Lisha, dear,
I want to be proud of my husband as other women be
of theirs. Every one gives somethin', I 've only got
you, and I want to do my share, and do it hearty.”

She went back to her work, and Mr. Wilkins sat
thoughtfully stroking the curly heads beside him, while
the boys ravaged his plate, with no reproof, but a half
audible, “My little chaps, my little chaps!”

She thought she had got him, and smiled to herself,
even while a great tear sputtered on the griddle at
those last words of his.

Imagine her dismay, when, having consumed the
bait, her fish gave signs of breaking the line, and
escaping after all; for Mr. Wilkins pushed back his
chair, and said slowly, as he filled his pipe:

“I 'm blest ef I can see the sense of a lot of decent

men going off to be froze, and starved, and blowed up
jest for them confounded niggers.”

He got no further, for his wife's patience gave out;
and, leaving her cakes to burn black, she turned to him
with a face glowing like her stove, and cried out:

“Lisha, ain't you got no heart? can you remember
what Hepsey told us, and call them poor, long-sufferin'
creeters names? Can you think of them wretched
wives sold from their husbands; them children as dear
as ourn tore from their mothers; and old folks kep
slavin eighty long, hard years with no pay, no help, no
pity, when they git past work? Lisha Wilkins, look at
that, and say no ef you darst!”

Mrs. Wilkins was a homely woman in an old calico
gown, but her face, her voice, her attitude were grand,
as she flung wide the door of the little back bedroom,
and pointed with her tin spatula to the sight beyond.

Only Hepsey sitting by a bed where lay what looked
more like a shrivelled mummy than a woman. Ah!
but it was that old mother worked and waited for so
long: blind now, and deaf; childish, and half dead with
many hardships, but safe and free at last; and Hepsey's
black face was full of a pride, a peace, and happiness
more eloquent and touching than any speech or sermon
ever uttered.

Mr. Wilkins had heard her story, and been more
affected by it than he would confess: now it came
home to him with sudden force; the thought of his
own mother, wife, or babies torn from him stirred him
to the heart, and the manliest emotion he had ever
known caused him to cast his pipe at his feet, put on
his hat with an energetic slap, and walk out of the

house, wearing an expression on his usually wooden face
that caused his wife to clap her hands and cry exultingly:

“I thought that would fetch him!”

Then she fell to work like an inspired woman; and
at noon a sumptuous dinner “smoked upon the board;”
the children were scrubbed till their faces shone; and
the room was as fresh and neat as any apartment could
be with the penetrating perfume of burnt flapjacks still
pervading the air, and three dozen ruffled nightcaps
decorating the clothes-lines overhead.

“Tell me the instant minute you see Pa a comin', and
I 'll dish up the gravy,” was Mrs. Wilkins's command, as
she stepped in with a cup of tea for old “Marm,” as
she called Hepsey's mother.

“He 's a comin', Ma!” called Gusty, presently.

“No, he ain't: it 's a trainer,” added Ann Lizy.

“Yes, 'tis Pa! oh, my eye! ain't he stunnin'!” cried
Wash, stricken for the first time with admiration of his
sire.

Before Mrs. Wilkins could reply to these conflicting
rumors her husband walked in, looking as martial as his
hollow chest and thin legs permitted, and, turning his
cap nervously in his hands, said half-proudly, half-reproachfully:

“Now, Cynthy, be you satisfied?”

“Oh, my Lisha! I be, I be!” and the inconsistent
woman fell upon his buttony breast weeping copiously.

If ever a man was praised and petted, admired and
caressed, it was Elisha Wilkins that day. His wife
fed him with the fat of the land, regardless of consequences;

his children revolved about him with tireless
curiosity and wonder; his neighbors flocked in to applaud,
advise, and admire; every one treated him with
a respect most grateful to his feelings; he was an object
of interest, and with every hour his importance increased,
so that by night he felt like a Commander-in-Chief,
and bore himself accordingly. He had enlisted
in David's regiment, which was a great comfort to his
wife; for though her stout heart never failed her, it grew
very heavy at times; and when Lisha was gone, she
often dropped a private tear over the broken pipe that
always lay in its old place, and vented her emotions by
sending baskets of nourishment to Private Wilkins,
which caused that bandy-legged warrior to be much
envied and cherished by his mates.

“I 'm glad I done it; for it will make a man of
Lisha; and, if I 've sent him to his death, God knows
he 'll be fitter to die than if he stayed here idlin' his life
away.”

Then the good soul openly shouldered the burden
she had borne so long in secret, and bravely trudged
on alone.

“Another great battle!” screamed the excited newsboys
in the streets. “Another great battle!” read
Letty in the cottage parlor. “Another great battle!”
cried David, coming in with the war-horse expression
on his face a month or two after he enlisted.

The women dropped their work to look and listen;
for his visits were few and short, and every instant was
precious. When the first greetings were over, David
stood silent an instant, and a sudden mist came over his
eyes as he glanced from one beloved face to another;

then he threw back his head with the old impatient
gesture, squared his shoulders, and said in a loud, cheerful
voice, with a suspicious undertone of emotion in it,
however:

“My precious people, I 've got something to tell you:
are you ready?”

They knew what it was without a word. Mrs. Sterling
clasped her hands and bowed her head. Letty
turned pale and dropped her work; but Christie's eyes
kindled, as she answered with a salute:

“Ready, my General.”

“We are ordered off at once, and go at four this
afternoon. I 've got a three hours' leave to say good-by
in. Now, let 's be brave and enjoy every minute
of it.”

“We will: what can I do for you, Davy?” asked
Christie, wonderfully supported by the thought that
she was going too.

“Keep your promise, dear,” he answered, while the
warlike expression changed to one of infinite tenderness.

“What promise?”

“This;” and he held out his hand with a little
paper in it. She saw it was a marriage license, and on
it lay a wedding-ring. She did not hesitate an instant,
but laid her own hand in his, and answered with her
heart in her face:

“I 'll keep it, David.”

“I knew you would!” then holding her close he said
in a tone that made it very hard for her to keep steady,
as she had vowed she would do to the last: “I know
it is much to ask, but I want to feel that you are mine

before I go. Not only that, but it will be a help and
protection to you, dear, when you follow. As a married
woman you will get on better, as my wife you will be
allowed to come to me if I need you, and as my” —
he stopped there, for he could not add — “as my widow
you will have my pension to support you.”

She understood, put both arms about his neck as if
to keep him safe, and whispered fervently:

“Nothing can part us any more, not even death; for
love like ours will last for ever.”

“Then you are quite willing to try the third great
experiment?”

“Glad and proud to do it.”

“With no doubt, no fear, to mar your consent.”

“Not one, David.”

“That 's true love, Christie!”

Then they stood quite still for a time, and in the
silence the two hearts talked together in the sweet
language no tongue can utter. Presently David said
regretfully:

“I meant it should be so different. I always planned
that we 'd be married some bright summer day, with
many friends about us; then take a happy little journey
somewhere together, and come back to settle down at
home in the dear old way. Now it 's all so hurried,
sorrowful, and strange. A dull November day; no
friends but Mr. Power, who will be here soon; no journey
but my march to Washington alone; and no happy
coming home together in this world perhaps. Can you
bear it, love?”

“Have no fear for me: I feel as if I could bear any
thing just now; for I 've got into a heroic mood and I

mean to keep so as long as I can. I 've always wanted
to live in stirring times, to have a part in great deeds,
to sacrifice and suffer something for a principle or a
person; and now I have my wish. I like it, David:
it 's a grand time to live, a splendid chance to do and
suffer; and I want to be in it heart and soul, and earn a
little of the glory or the martyrdom that will come in
the end. Surely I shall if I give you and myself to
the cause; and I do it gladly, though I know that my
heart has got to ache as it never has ached yet, when
my courage fails, as it will by and by, and my selfish
soul counts the cost of my offering after the excitement
is over. Help me to be brave and strong, David: don't
let me complain or regret, but show me what lies beyond,
and teach me to believe that simply doing the
right is reward and happiness enough.”

Christie was lifted out of herself for the moment,
and looked inspired by the high mood which was but
the beginning of a nobler life for her. David caught
the exaltation, and gave no further thought to any thing
but the duty of the hour, finding himself stronger and
braver for that long look into the illuminated face of
the woman he loved.

“I 'll try,” was all his answer to her appeal; then
proved that he meant it by adding, with his lips against
her cheek: “I must go to mother and Letty. We
leave them behind, and they must be comforted.”

He went, and Christie vanished to make ready for
her wedding, conscious, in spite of her exalted state of
mind, that every thing was very hurried, sad, and
strange, and very different from the happy day she had
so often planned.

“No matter, we are `well on't for love,' and that is
all we really need,” she thought, recalling with a smile
Mrs. Wilkins's advice.

“David sends you these, dear. Can I help in any
way?” asked Letty, coming with a cluster of lovely
white roses in her hand, and a world of affection in her
eyes.

“I thought he 'd give me violets,” and a shadow
came over Christie's face.

“But they are mourning flowers, you know.”

“Not to me. The roses are, for they remind me of
poor Helen, and the first work I did with David was
arranging flowers like these for a dead baby's little
coffin.”

“My dearest Christie, don't be superstitious: all
brides wear roses, and Davy thought you 'd like them,”
said Letty, troubled at her words.

“Then I 'll wear them, and I won't have fancies if I
can help it. But I think few brides dress with a braver,
happier heart than mine, though I do choose a sober
wedding-gown,” answered Christie, smiling again, as
she took from a half-packed trunk her new hospital suit
of soft, gray, woollen stuff.

“Won't you wear the pretty silvery silk we like so
well?” asked Letty timidly, for something in Christie's
face and manner impressed her very much.

“No, I will be married in my uniform as David is,”
she answered with a look Letty long remembered.

“Mr. Power has come,” she said softly a few minutes
later, with an anxious glance at the clock.

“Go dear, I 'll come directly. But first” — and
Christie held her friend close a moment, kissed her tenderly,

and whispered in a broken voice: “Remember, I
don't take his heart from you, I only share it with my
sister and my mother.”

“I 'm glad to give him to you, Christie; for now I
feel as if I had partly paid the great debt I 've owed so
long,” answered Letty through her tears.

Then she went away, and Christie soon followed,
looking very like a Quaker bride in her gray gown with
no ornament but delicate frills at neck and wrist, and
the roses in her bosom.

“No bridal white, dear?” said David, going to her.

“Only this,” and she touched the flowers, adding
with her hand on the blue coat sleeve that embraced
her: “I want to consecrate my uniform as you do
yours by being married in it. Isn't it fitter for a soldier's
wife than lace and silk at such a time as this?”

“Much fitter: I like it; and I find you beautiful, my
Christie,” whispered David, as she put one of her roses
in his button-hole.

“Then I 'm satisfied.”

“Mr. Power is waiting: are you ready, love?”

“Quite ready.”

Then they were married, with Letty and her mother
standing beside them, Bennet and his wife dimly
visible in the door-way, and poor Bran at his master's
feet looking up with wistful eyes, half human in the
anxious affection they expressed.

Christie never forgot that service, so simple, sweet,
and solemn; nor the look her husband gave her at the
end, when he kissed her on lips and forehead, saying
fervently, “God bless my wife!”

A tender little scene followed that can better be

[ILLUSTRATION]

"Then They Were Married."

[Description: 445EAF. Page 379. In-line image of the wedding of David and Christie. The are being blessed by the minister as two women look on.]

imagined than described; then Mr. Power said cheerily:

“One hour more is all you have, so make the most
of it, dearly beloved. You young folks take a wedding-trip
to the green-house, while we see how well we can
get on without you.”

David and Christie went smiling away together, and

if they shed any tears over the brief happiness no one
saw them but the flowers, and they loyally kept the
secret folded up in their tender hearts.

Mr. Power cheered the old lady, while Letty, always
glad to serve, made ready the last meal David might
ever take at home.

A very simple little marriage feast, but more love,
good-will, and tender wishes adorned the plain table
than is often found at wedding breakfasts; and better
than any speech or song was Letty's broken whisper,
as she folded her arms round David's empty chair when
no one saw her, “Heaven bless and keep and bring
him back to us.”

How time went that day! The inexorable clock
would strike twelve so soon, and then the minutes flew
till one was at hand, and the last words were still half
said, the last good-byes still unuttered.

“I must go!” cried David with a sort of desperation,
as Letty clung to one arm, Christie to the other.

“I shall see you soon: good-by, my husband,” whispered
Christie, setting him free.

“Give the last kiss to mother,” added Letty, following
her example, and in another minute David was
gone.

At the turn of the lane, he looked back and swung
his cap; all waved their hands to him; and then he
marched away to the great work before him, leaving
those loving hearts to ask the unanswerable question:
“How will he come home?”

Christie was going to town to see the regiment off,
and soon followed with Mr. Power. They went early
to a certain favorable spot, and there found Mrs. Wilkins,

with her entire family perched upon a fence, on
the spikes of which they impaled themselves at intervals,
and had to be plucked off by the stout girl engaged
to assist in this memorable expedition.

“Yes, Lisha 's goin', and I was bound he should see
every one of his blessed children the last thing, ef I
took 'em all on my back. He knows where to look,
and he 's a goin' to see seven cheerful faces as he goes
by. Time enough to cry byme by; so set stiddy,
boys, and cheer loud when you see Pa,” said Mrs.
Wilkins, fanning her hot face, and utterly forgetting
her cherished bonnet in the excitement of the moment.

“I hear drums! They 're comin'!” cried Wash, after
a long half hour's waiting had nearly driven him frantic.

The two younger boys immediately tumbled off the
fence, and were with difficulty restored to their perches.
Gusty began to cry, Ann Elizy to wave a minute red
cotton handkerchief, and Adelaide to kick delightedly
in her mother's arms.

“Jane Carter, take this child for massy sake: my
legs do tremble so I can't h'ist her another minute.
Hold on to me behind, somebody, for I must see ef
I do pitch into the gutter,” cried Mrs. Wilkins, with
a gasp, as she wiped her eyes on her shawl, clutched
the railing, and stood ready to cheer bravely when
her conquering hero came.

Wash had heard drums every five minutes since he
arrived, but this time he was right, and began to
cheer the instant a red cockade appeared at the other
end of the long street.

It was a different scene now than in the first enthusiastic,
hopeful days. Young men and ardent boys

filled the ranks then, brave by instinct, burning with
loyal zeal, and blissfully ignorant of all that lay before
them.

Now the blue coats were worn by mature men,
some gray, all grave and resolute; husbands and fathers
with the memory of wives and children tugging at
their heart-strings; homes left desolate behind them,
and before them the grim certainty of danger, hardship,
and perhaps a captivity worse than death. Little
of the glamour of romance about the war now: they
saw what it was, a long, hard task; and here were
the men to do it well.

Even the lookers-on were different. Once all was
wild enthusiasm and glad uproar; now men's lips were
set, and women's smileless even as they cheered;
fewer handkerchiefs whitened the air, for wet eyes
needed them; and sudden lulls, almost solemn in their
stillness, followed the acclamations of the crowd. All
watched with quickened breath and proud souls that
living wave, blue below, and bright with a steely
glitter above, as it flowed down the street and away
to join the sea of dauntless hearts that for months
had rolled up against the South, and ebbed back reddened
with the blood of men like these.

As the inspiring music, the grand tramp drew near,
Christie felt the old thrill and longed to fall in and
follow the flag anywhere. Then she saw David, and
the regiment became one man to her. He was pale,
but his eyes shone, and his whole face expressed that
two of the best and bravest emotions of a man, love
and loyalty, were at their height as he gave his new-made
wife a long, lingering look that seemed to say:

Christie smiled and waved her hand to him, showed
him his wedding roses still on her breast, and bore
up as gallantly as he, resolved that his last impression
of her should be a cheerful one. But when it was
all over, and nothing remained but the trampled street,
the hurrying crowd, the bleak November sky, when
Mrs. Wilkins sat sobbing on the steps like Niobe with
her children scattered about her, then Christie's heart
gave way, and she hid her face on Mr. Power's shoulder
for a moment, all her ardor quenched in tears as she
cried within herself:

“No, I could not bear it if I was not going too!”