University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.
TOM'S RECEPTION.

THE people of Rockland had become somewhat accustomed
to the “Rebel lion,” as they had playfully
called Jimmie Carleton, and the latter could
now go quietly through the streets without attracting attentions
which at first had been vastly disagreeable to
the sensitive young man. Gradually, as he mingled more
with the people, they had learned to like him, and were
fast forgetting that he had ever joined the ranks of the
foe and struck at his mother country. With the rabble
who had met him at the depot on his first arrival at Rockland
he was vastly popular, for forcing down his pride, he
had been very conciliatory toward them, and they still adhered
to their olden promise of making him their next
police justice, provided he would consent to run.

With his usual impudence, Bill Baker continued to annoy
the proud Bostonian with his good-humored familiarities,
some of which Jimmie permitted, while others
he quietly repulsed, for Bill's constant allusions to the
past were exceedingly disagreeable, and as far as possible
he avoided his quondam associate, who, without the
least suspicion that his manner was disgusting in the extreme,
would hail him across the street, addressing him
always as “Corp'ral,” and if strangers were in hearing,
inviting him to “call 'round and see a fellar once in a
while for old acquaintance sake.”

At the Mather mansion matters remained about the
same as when Jimmie first came home. Mrs. Carleton
was still there, waiting for her other son, and Rose, as

usual, was ever on the alert, seeking ways and means by
which the soldiers might be benefited, compelling Jimmie
to be interested in all her plans, dragging him from
place to place, sending him on errands; and once, when
in a great hurry to get a box in readiness for the hospitals
at Washington, actually coaxing him into helping tie a
comfortable, which was put up in her back parlor, and
which she “must send immediately, for some poor fellow
was sure to need it.” “Jimmie could learn to tie as well
as herself,” she said, when he pleaded his ignorance as an
excuse for refusing his services. “She didn't know how
once, but Widow Simms and Annie had taught her a
heap, and Annie would teach him, too. All he had to do
was to put the big darning needle through twice, tie a
weaver's knot, cut it off, and the thing was done; besides
that, 'twas a real pretty quilt, made from Annie's calico
dress, which she used to wear last summer and look so
sweetly in. Annie was tying on one side and Jimmie
must tie on the other; he needn't be so lazy. He ought
to do something for the war.”

By the time Rose had reached the last points in her argument,
Jimmie had closed the book he was reading, and
concluded that there might be duties required of him a
great deal worse than tying a soldier's comfortable with
Annie to oversee! It was strange how much teaching
he needed, and how often Annie was called to the rescue.
The needle would stick so in the cotton, and he could
not remember just how to tie that knot. So Annie, never
dreaming that he knew how to tie the knot as well as
she, would come to his aid, her hands sometimes touching
his, and his black curls occasionally brushing her pale,
brown braids as he bent over her to see how she did it,
so as to know himself next time! There was a world of
mischief in Jimmie's saucy eyes as he demurely apologized

to Mrs. Graham for the trouble he was giving her, but
Annie never once looked up, neither did the color deepen
in the least upon her cheek, and when Jimmie, on purpose
to draw her out, suggested that “he was more
bother than help,” she answered that he “had better return
to his reading, as she could get on quite as well
alone.”

After this, Jimmie thought proper to learn a little
faster, and soon outstripped his teacher, who rewarded
him with no word of approval save a cool “Thank you,”
when the comfortable was done and taken from the
awkward frames. And this was a fair specimen of the
nature of the intercourse existing between Jimmie and
Annie. Secure now in the belief that she would never
be recognized as the “Pequot of New London,” Annie
regarded Jimmie as any ordinary stranger, in whom she
had no particular interest, save that which her kind
heart prompted her to feel for all mankind. She could
not dislike him, and she always defended him from the
aspersions of the widow, who could not quite conquer
her repugnance to a Rebel, and who frequently gave
vent to her ill-will toward Jimmie, whom she thought so
proud.

“Stuck-up critter!” she said, “struttin' round as if
he was good as anybody, and feelin' above his betters.
Of course he felt above her, and Susan, and Annie, she
knew he did; and if she's Annie she vummed if she'd
stay there, and be looked at as Jim looked at her.”

Although making due allowance for the widow's prejudice,
these remarks were not without their effect upon
Annie, who, imperceptibly to herself, began to feel that
probably Jimmie did regard her as merely a poor dependent
on his sister's bounty, and she unconsciously assumed
toward him a cool reserved manner, which led him

to fancy that she entertained for him a deep-rooted prejudice
on account of his past error. Twenty times a
day he said to himself he did not care what she thought
of him, and as many times a day he knew he did care
much more than was at all conducive to his peace of
mind. Where this caring might end he never stopped
to consider. He only felt now that he respected the
Quaker-like Annie more than he ever respected a woman
before, and coveted her good opinion more earnestly than
he ever remembered to have coveted anything in his
life, unless, indeed, it were his freedom when a prisoner
in Bill Baker's power.

In this state of affairs it required all Rose's tact to
sustain anything like sociability between her brother
and Annie, and the little lady was perfectly delighted
when the joyful tidings was received that Tom was coming
home. Annie would like Tom, for everybody did; besides,
Tom had written as if he were almost a good man
himself, and Annie was sure to be pleased with that; they,
at least, would be fast friends; and secure on this point,
Rose, with her usual impulsiveness, plunged into the preparations
for Tom's reception. Even Annie did not think
any reasonable honor too great for him, particularly after
Isaac wrote from Washington to his mother, telling her of
Tom's generous sacrifice, and how he might have been home
long before if he had not chosen to stay and care for a
poor, sick boy. How the widow's heart warmed toward
the Carletons, taking the whole family into its hitherto
rather limited dimensions. Even Jimmie was not excluded,
the widow admitting to Mrs. Baker, between
whom and herself there had been many a hot discussion
touching the so-called Rebel, that when he laughed,
`he was uncommon handsome for a Secessioner,” and

she presumed that “at the bottom he was as good they
would average.”

But if the widow were thus affected by Tom's kind
act, how much more were the mother and sister pleased
to know how noble and good he was, while Annie, amid
the tears she could not repress, said to Rose,

“You should be proud of such a brother! There are
few like him, I am sure!”

How Jimmie envied Tom, as he heard, on all sides,
praises for his noble unselfishness, and the resolution
to welcome him and Isaac with military honors. Once
more in his element, Bill Baker industriously drilled
his clique, who were to answer no earthly purpose save
to swell the throng and prolong the deafening cheers.
Bill began to feel related to the Carletons, and regularly
each day he called at the Mather mansion to keep Rose
posted with regard to the progress of affairs. They were
to bring out the new gun, he said, and as it was minus a
name, the villagers had concluded to call it the “Thomas
Carleton,” asking “how she thought the 'Square would
like it, and how many times it ought to be fired. The
band would serenade Tom in the evening,” he said,
“and we shall have bonfires kindled in the streets,” talking
as if instead of being merely cannon-tender, he were
head manager of the whole, and that all the responsibility
was resting on himself. Rose understood him perfectly,
and with the utmost good nature listened to his
suggestions, and scolded Jimmie for calling him her
prime minister and confidant.

From the cupola of the Mather mansion the Stars and
Stripes were to be hung out, and on the morning of Tom's
expected arrival, Jimmie and Annie climbed the winding
stairs and fastened the staff securely to its place. There
were tears in Annie's eyes as the graceful folds shook

themselves to the breeze, for she remembered the coming
of another soldier when this same banner was wrapped
around a coffin. Across the valley and beyond the confines
of the village she could see where that coffin with
its loved inmate was buried, and as the past came rushing
over her, she suddenly gave way, and sitting down
beneath the flag wept bitterly, while Jimmie, with a
vague idea as to what might have caused her tears, stood
looking at her, wishing he could comfort her. But
what should he say? As yet they had scarcely passed
the bounds of the most scrupulous politeness to each
other, and for him to attempt to comfort her seemed
preposterous, while to leave her without a word, seemed
equally unkind. Perhaps it was the beautiful glossy
braids of hair which brought him at last to a decision,
causing him to lay his hand involuntarily upon the bowed
head, while he said:

“I am sorry for you, Mrs. Graham, for I know how
much the contrast between my brother's return and that
of your husband must affect you, and gladly would I
spare you the pain, if I could. I am not certain but the
good people of Rockland, in their intended kindness to
Tom, are doing you an injury, and surely Lieutenant
Graham, having been a resident of this place, should
receive their first thought with all pertaining to him.”

There was no mistaking the genuine sympathy which
thrilled in every tone of Jimmie's voice, and for a moment
Annie wept more passionately than before. It was
the first time he had ever spoken to her of her husband,
and his words touched a responsive chord at once.

“It is not that so much,” she answered, at last. “I
am glad they are honoring your brother thus; he richly
deserves it for his noble adherence to his country in her
hour of peril, and for his generous treatment of poor

Isaac Simms. I would do much myself to show him my
respect; but oh, George, George, I am so desolate without
him!” and covering her face with her hands, Annie wept
again, more piteously than before.

Here was a point which Jimmie could not touch, and
an askward silence ensued, broken at last by Annie,
who, resuming her usual calm demeanor, frankly offered
Jimmie her hand, saying:

“I thank you, Mr. Carleton, for your sympathy. It
has made me believe you are my friend, and as such I
would rather consider you.”

“Your friend! Did you ever deem me other than
that?” Jimmie replied in some surprise, involuntarily
pressing the little hand which only for an instant rested
in his, and then was quietly withdrawn just as Rose from
the foot of the stairs called out to know “what they
were doing up there so long.”

It was strange how differently Jimmie felt after this
incident, and how fast his spirits rose. The few words
said to him by Annie up in his sister's cupola had made
him very happy, for he felt that a better understanding
existed between himself and Annie, that she did not so
thoroughly despise him as he had at first supposed, and
that the winning her respect was not a hopeless task.

As early as two the crowd began to gather in the
streets, and half an hour later Rose's carriage, with Jimmie
in it, was on its way to the depot. Mrs. Carleton
did not care to go, and so Rose, too, remained at home,
and mounting to the cupola, watched for the first wreath
of smoke which should herald the approach of the train.

“I see it,—he's coming!” she screamed, as a feathery
mist was discernible over the distant plains, and in a few
moments more the cars swept round the curve, while a

booming gun told that Bill Baker was faithful to his
duty.

There was a swaying to and fro of the throng at the
depot, a pushing each other aside, a trilling of fife, a
beating of drums, and then a deafening shout went up as
Tom Carleton and John Simms appeared upon the platform,
carefully supporting the tottering steps of the
weak, excited boy, who stood between them. At sight
of Isaac, there was a momentary hush, and then, with a
shriek such as a tigress might give when it saw its young
in danger, the Widow Simms rushed frantically forward,
and catching the light form of her child in her arms,
tried to bear him through the crowd, but her strength
was insufficient, and she would have fallen had not Jimmie
relieved her of her burden, which he sustained with
one hand, while the other was extended to welcome the
stranger who came near.

Half bewildered, Tom looked around upon the multitude,
asking in a whisper what it meant. He could not
think they had come to welcome him, and when assured
by Jimmie that such was the fact, his lip quivered for an
instant, and his tongue refused its office. Then, in a few
well-chosen words, he thanked the people for the undeserved
surprise, so far as he was himself concerned. Isaac
was more worthy of such welcome, he said, and more than
half of it was meant, he knew, for their townsman, who
had shown himself equally brave in camp, in battle, and
in prison, while, had they known that Lieutenant Simms,
too, was coming, he was sure they would not have
thought of him a stranger to them all.

The brief speech ended, and Rose, listening at home,
clapped her hands in ecstasy as she heard the terrific
cheers and caught the name of “Carleton” mingled with
“Isaac Simms.”

“Poor boy!” she said, “I wonder how he'll get home?
I wish I had told Jimmie to drive that way, and take
him in the carriage.”

She need have given herself no uneasiness, for what
she had forgotten was remembered by Jimmie, who,
after a hurried consultation with Tom, insisted that both
Isaac and his mother should take seats in the carriage,
while he and Tom mingled with the crowd.

“And your other son, there's room for him,” he said,
looking round in quest of John, who, at the last moment,
had obtained permission to visit his bride, and so came
on with Isaac.

At a glance his eye had singled out Susan, and the
young couple were now standing apart from the rest, exchanging
mutual caresses, and words of love, the tall
lieutenant kissing fondly the blushing girl who could
not realize that she stood in the presence of her husband.
After a little it was decided that Tom and Jimmie,
Mrs. Simms and Isaac, should occupy the carriage,
while John and Susan walked, and so from her lofty
stand-point, Rose watched the long procession winding
down the streets, amid the strains of music and the cannon's
bellowing roar. It was very exciting to Isaac, and
by the time the cottage was reached he was glad to be
lifted out by Jimmie, who bore the tired boy tenderly
into the house and laid him down on the soft, warm bed
he had dreamed about so many nights in the dark, filthy
prison corner. How faint and weak he was, and how
glad to be home again! Winding his arms around his
mother's neck, he sobbed out his great joy, saying amid
his tears, “God was so kind to let me come back to
you.”

It was a very happy group the villagers left behind in

that humble cottage, and neither John nor Susan thought
it out of place when the mother called on them to kneel
with her and thank the Giver of all good for his great
mercy in granting them this blessing.

Meantime the procession passed on until it reached
the Mather mansion, where, with three cheers for Captain
Carleton, the crowd dispersed, leaving Tom at liberty
to join the mother and sister waiting so impatiently
for him, one on the steps, and the other in the parlor,
just where she had welcomed Jimmie.

“If Will were only here, it would be the happiest day
I ever knew,” Rose said, as, seating herself on Tom's knee
with her chubby arm around his neck, she asked him
numerous questions concerning her absent husband.
Then, as she saw in him signs of weariness she said, “You
are tired, I know. “Suppose you go to your room till dinner-time.
It's the one right at the head of the stairs,”
she continued, and glad of an opportunity to rest, Tom
went to the room where Annie Graham just then chanced
to be. She had discovered that the servant had neglected
to supply the rack with towels, and so she had brought them
herself, lingering a moment after they were arranged, to
see if everything were in order. She did not hear Tom's
step, until he opened the door upon her, and uttered an
exclamation of surprise and apology. He had no idea
who the little black robed figure was, for though he knew
the wife of George Graham was an inmate of his sister's
family, he had her in his mind as a very different person
from this one before him. Mrs. Graham was young, he
supposed, and possibly good looking, but she did not
bear the stamp of refinement and elegance which this
graceful creature did, and fancying he had made a mistake
and stumbled into the apartment of some city visitor,

he was about to withdraw, when Annie came toward
him, saying:

“Excuse me, sir, I came in to see that all was right in
your room. Mr. Carleton, I presume?”

This last Annie spoke doubtingly, for in the tall, handsome
stranger before her there was scarcely a vestige of
the “greyish haired, oldish, fatherly-looking man” she
had in fancy known as Captain Carleton, and but for the
eyes, so much like Mrs. Mather's, and the unmistakable
Carleton curve about the mouth, she would never have
dreamed that it was Tom to whom she was speaking. As
it was, she waited for him to confirm her suspicions,
which he did by bowing in the affirmative to her interrogation,
“Mr. Carleton, I presume?”

Then holding the door for her to pass out, he stood
watching her till she disappeared at the extreme end of
the hall, wondering who she was, and why a mere visitor
should take so much interest in his room. Once he
thought of Annie Graham; but this could not be a widow,
though the deep mourning dress told of recent bereavement.
Still Annie Graham was a different personage,
he knew; and thus perplexed, Tom, instead of resting,
commenced his toilet for dinner, determining, as soon
as it was completed, to go down and have the mystery
unravelled.

Restless and impatient to know just what his brother
thought of his late treachery to the Federal Flag, Jimmie
paced the parlors below until he could wait no longer,
and knowing by the sounds which came from the chamber
above, that Tom was not trying to sleep, he finally
ran up the stairs, and knocking at the chamber door, was
soon closeted with Tom. It was an awkward business
to speak of the past, but Jimmie plunged into it at once,
stating some reasons which had led him to abjure his

own government, expressing his contrition for having done
so, and ending by saying he hoped Tom, if possible, would
forget that he ever had a rebel brother.

It had taken Tom a long time to recover from the
shock of meeting his brother in the Virginia woods, and
knowing he was a traitor to his country, but the same
generous feeling which led him to refrain from any allusion
to that meeting in the messages sent to his mother
and sister from his Richmond prison, now prompted him
to treat with kind forbearance the brother whom he had
loved and grieved over since the days of his mischievous
boyhood.

“I should have found it very hard to forgive you if
you had staid in the Southern army,” he said, “but as
it is we will never mention the subject again.”

Jimmie knew, by the warm pressure of Tom's hand, that
he was forgiven, and with a burden lifted from his mind
he was about leaving the room, when Tom, with a preliminary
cough, said:

“By the way, Jimmie, who has Rose got here,—what
visitor, I mean?” and Tom tried to look vastly indifferent
as he buttoned his vest and hung across it the chain
made from Mary's hair.

But the ruse did not succeed. Jimmie knew he had
seen Annie, and with a sudden uprising of something undefined
he answered in apparent surprise:

“Visitor! what visitor! He must have come to-day,
then. Where did you see him?”

“I saw her in here,” Tom replied, and Jimmie laughingly
rejoined:

“A pretty place for a her in your quarters! Pray, what
was she like?”

“Some like Mary, as she used to be when I first knew
her,—a little body dressed in black.”

“With large, handsome, blue eyes?” interrupted Jimmie,
while Tom, without suspecting that his brother's
object was to ascertain how closely he had observed the
figure in black, replied:

“Yes, very handsome, dreamy eyes.”

“And pale, brown curls?” was the teasing Jimmie's
next query, to which Tom quickly responded:

“Curls, no. The hair was braided in wide plats and
twisted around the head, falling low in the neck.”

“Not a very white neck, was it?” Jimmie continued,
with imperturbable gravity.

“Indeed, it was,” Tom said, industriously scraping his
thumb nail with his penknife. “White as snow, or
looked so from the contrast with her dress. Who is
she?”

“One question more,—had she big feet or little, slippers
or boots?” and this time Jimmie's voice betrayed
him.

Tom knew he was being teased, and bursting into a
laugh, he answered:

“I confess to having observed her closely, but not
enough so to tell the size of her slipper. Come now, who
is she? Some lady you spirited away from Secessiondom?
Tell me,—you know you've nothing to fear from
steady old Tom.”

For an instant the eyes of the two brothers met, with
a curious expression in each. Both were conscious of
something they were trying to conceal, while a feeling
akin to a pang shot through Jimmie's heart as he
thought how much more worthy of Annie Graham's respect
was steady old Tom than a rollicking young scapegrace
like himself.

“From your rather minute description I think you
must have stumbled upon the Widow Graham,” he said.

“Rose has taken her up, you know, and as a word of
brotherly advice, let me say that if you wish to raise Rose
to the seventh heaven you have only to praise her protégée.
We, that is the widow and I, do not get on very
well, for she is a staunch patriot, and until this morning
I verily believe she looked on me as a kind of monster.
She's a perfect little Puritan, too, and if she stays here
long, will make a straight-laced Methodist of Rose,
under the garb of an Episcopalian, of course, as she
is the strictest kind of a church woman.”

“I shall not esteem her less for that,” Tom said,
and in rather a perturbed state of mind, as far as
the Widow Graham was concerned, he went with Jimmie
to the parlor, half hoping his brother had mischievously
misled him, and that the stranger would prove after
all to be some visitor from Boston.

But the first object he saw on entering the parlor was
the dainty figure in black, standing by the window, and
on the third finger of the hand raised to adjust the heavy
curtain glittered the wedding ring. Tom knew now that
Jimmie had not deceived him, and with a feeling of disappointment
he addressed Mrs. Graham, when introduced
by Jimmie, making some playful allusion to their having
met before, but saying nothing to her then of George,
for remembering his own feelings when Mary died, he
knew that Annie would not thank him, a stranger, to
bring up sad memories of the past by talking of her husband.
Still, in his manner toward her there was something
which told how he pitied and sympathized with
her, and Annie, grateful always for the smallest kindness,
threw off her air of quiet reserve and talked with him
freely, asking many questions concerning Isaac Simms
and the condition of the Richmond prisoners generally.

“She was going round after dinner to call on Isaac,”

she incidentally said, whereupon Tom rejoined that wishing
to know how Isaac bore the journey and the excitement,
he had intended going there himself, and would,
with her permission, time his visit to suit her convenience,
and so accompany her.

Instantly Jimmie's black eyes flashed upon Annie a look
of inquiry, which brought the bright color to her cheeks,
for she knew he was thinking of the night when she had
refused his escort, and she felt her present position a rather
embarrassing one. Still the circumstances were entirely
different. There was a reason why Tom should call on
Widow Simms, while with Jimmie there was none, and
bowing to Captain Carleton, she replied that “she presumed
Mrs. Simms would be glad of an opportunity to
thank him for his kindness to Isaac, and that, though
not in the least afraid to go alone, she had no objection
to showing him the way.”

“What! going off the first night, and they are coming
to serenade you, too? You must not go, Tom. Shall
he, mother?” cried Rose, who at first had been too busy
with her duties as hostess, clearly to comprehend what
Tom was saying to Annie.

“It will look as if you do not appreciate the people's
attention,” Mrs. Carleton replied, while Jimmie vehemently
protested against the impropriety of the act, and so
Tom was compelled to yield, thinking the while that a
walk to the Widow Simms' might possibly afford him quite
as much satisfaction as staying at home for a serenade.

“I always surrender to the majority,” he said, playfully,
while Jimmie's spirits rose perceptibly, and Annie had
never before seen him so witty or gay since he came home
from Washington as he was during the dinner.

It was joy at his brother's return, she thought, never
suspecting that Tom's decision had anything to do with

it, and Jimmie hardly knew himself that it had. He only
felt relieved that Tom was not to receive a favor which
had once been denied to himself, and glad also that Annie
was to spend the evening with them. But in this he
was mistaken. There was no necessity for Annie's deferring
her visit. The serenade was not for her, and with
that nice sense of propriety which prompted her to shrink
from anything like intrusion, she felt that on this first
night of their reunion, the Carleton family would rather
be alone. This rule would apply also to Mrs. Simms, but
Annie knew she was always welcome to the widow, and
wishing to see the boy who had led her husband from the
battlefield, she went to her room, and throwing on her
cloak and hood, stole quietly down stairs just as Jimmie
was crossing the hall. He guessed where she was going,
and coming quickly to her side, said,

“I supposed you had given up that call, but if you persist
in going, it must not be alone, this night of all others,
when the streets are likely to be full of men and boys.
You accepted my brother's escort, you cannot, of course,
refuse mine,” and seizing his hat from the hall stand he
led her out upon the steps and placed her arm in his with
an air of so much authority that Annie had no word to
offer in remonstrance.

It was not a very comfortable walk to either party, or
a very sociable one either, but ere it was ended Annie
had reason to be glad that she was not alone, for as
Jimmie had predicted, the streets were full of men and
boys, following the band up to the Mather Mansion, and
as they met group after group of the noisy throng, Annie
timidly drew closer to her companion, who pressed more
tightly the arm trembling in his own.

“I am glad you came with me,” she said, when at last
the friendly gleam of the widow's candle appeared in

view, “but if you please I think you had better not go in
to-night. You are so much a stranger to the family, and
Mrs. Simms' boys have but just returned. John will see
me safely home, and I'll excuse you now. You must feel
anxious to rejoin your brother.”

But Jimmie was not to be disposed of so easily. He
had no intention of entering the house, but he should
wait outside, he said, until Annie's visit was over. Annie
had no alternative save submission, and parting from
Jimmie at the gate, she hurried up the walk and was soon
bending over the couch of the sick boy, whose eyes beamed
the welcome his pale lips could scarcely speak. How
many questions she had to ask him, and how much he
had to tell her of that day when her husband received
his fatal wound. Altogether it was a sad interview, and
Annie's eyes were nearly blistered with the hot tears she
shed while listening to Isaac's touching account of George
ere the woods were gained, and Tom Carleton generously
gave up his seat to the bleeding man, thereby becoming
himself a prisoner. Much, too, was said in praise of Tom,
and Annie felt that she could not do too much for one
who had shown himself so generous and brave. Talking of
Tom reminded her of Jimmie stalking up and down the
icy walks, waiting patiently for her, and when at last the
music of Tom's serenade had ceased she arose to go,
wishing to get away ere the band came there, as she knew
they were intending to do. As John arose to accompany
her, she had to say that “Jimmie Carleton was waiting
for her by the gate.” Instantly the sharp eyes of the
widow shot at her a curious glance, which brought the
hot blood to her cheek, while John and Susan exchanged
a smile, the meaning of which she could not fail to understand.
Poor Annie! How her heart throbbed with pain as
she guessed of what they were thinking! Could they for a

moment believe her so heartless and cold? The mere idea
made her dizzy and faint, and scarcely articulating her
good-night, she hastened out into the cool night air, feeling
half tempted to refuse outright the arm offered
for her support. If she only dared tell him to leave her
there alone,—leave her to flee away through the dark,
lonely streets to the still more lonely yard, where on
George's grave she could lay herself down and die. But
not thus easily could life's heavy burden be shaken off;
she could not lay it down at will,—and conquering the
emotions which, each time she thought of John Simms'
significant smile, threatened to burst out into a fierce
storm of passionate sobs, she apologized for having kept
Jimmie waiting so long, and taking his arm left the cottage
gate just as the throng of serenaders turned into that
street. Jimmie knew she had been crying, and conjecturing
that she had been talking of her husband, he, too,
began to speak of George, asking her many questions
about him, and repeating many things he had heard in his
praise from the Rockland citizens. It seemed strange
that this should comfort her, but it did. The hard, bitter
feeling insensibly passed away while listening to Jimmie,
and by the time the Mather Mansion was reached the
tears were dried on Annie's cheeks, and outwardly she
was cheerful and patient as ever.

After that night Rose had no cause for complaint that
Jimmie was rude to Annie, or Annie cool toward him,
for though Annie talked to him but little, she did not for
get the sympathy so delicately manifested for her, and
treated him with as much respect as she awarded Tom,
who grew each day more and more interested in the
black-robed figure, reminding him so much of his lost
Mary. Jimmie knew he did, and watched narrowly for
the time when she would know it, too; but such time

did not come, for Annie had no suspicion that either of
the brothers regarded her with the shadow of a feeling
save that of ordinary friendship. As much of her time
as possible was spent with the Widow Simms, and a great
part of Isaac's visible improvement was owing to her
gentle care and the sunshine of her presence. John's
furlough had expired, and now that he was gone, the disconsolate
Susan turned to Annie for comfort, while Isaac
watched daily for the sound of the little feet coming up
the walk, and bringing with them so much happiness to
the lonely cottage.

“I wish you'd stay home more; we miss you so much,
and it's so dismal without you. Mother nods over
her knitting, Tom just walks the floor, or reads some
stiff Presbyterian book, while Jimmie thrums the piano
and teases my kitten awfully,” Rose said to Annie one
night when the latter came in from a tour of calls, the
last of which had been on Mrs. Baker, uow a much happier,
better woman, than when we first made her acquaintance.
“It's so different when you are here,” Rose
continued, as Annie came and sat down by her side.
“Tom is a heap more entertaining, while Jimmie is not
half so mischievous and provoking.”

“I did not supppse my absence could affect your happiness,
or I would certainly have staid with you more,”
Annie replied; and Rose continued:

“Well, it just does, and now that both Tom and Jimmie
are going so soon, I shall need you to oversee the things
I must get ready for them.”

“Captain Carleton and Jimmie going away soon!”
Annie repeated, in some surprise. “Where are they
going? The Captain's furlough has not yet expired.”

“I know it,” Rose continued, “but as he is perfectly

well, he thinks it right to go back, and has fixed on one
week from to-day.”

“Yes, but Jimmie. You spoke of his leaving, too,”
Annie said, and Rose rejoined:

“Jimmie is going with Tom to join the Federal Army
on the Potomac, and, as he says, retrieve, if possible, the
character he lost by turning traitor once.”

“Oh, I am so glad! and I like him so much for that!”
Annie exclaimed, her white face lighting up with a sudden
animation, which made it seem very beautiful to the
young man just entering the door.

“I would brave the cannon's mouth for another look
like that,” was Jimmie's mental comment as he stepped
into the room, and advanced to the ladies' side. “So
you are glad I am going?” he said, half playfully, to Annie,
who answered frankly:

“Yes, very glad.”

“And won't you miss me a bit? Folks like to be
missed, you know, if they are ever so bad. It makes one
think better of himself, and consequently do better if he
knows that his absence will cause a feeling of regret, however
slight, to the friends left behind,” Jimmie remarked,
while in his eyes there was a peculiar expression which
Annie failed to see, as he stood looking down upon her.

She would miss Jimmie, she knew, for she had become
accustomed to his merry whistle, his ringing laugh, his
teasing jokes at Rose's expense, and his going would
leave them very lonely, and so she frankly admitted,
adding that “it was not because she wished to be rid of
him that she was glad; it pleased her to see him in the
path of duty, even though that path led to danger and
possible death.”

“Oh, don't, Annie, don't talk of death to Jimmie!”
Rose cried, with a shudder. “You can't begin to guess

how it makes me feel, or how terrible it would seem if
either he or Tom should die!”

“Can't I?” Annie asked, with such a depth of mournful
pathos, that Rose's tears flowed at once.

Of course Annie knew how it felt, and every fibre of
her heart was bleeding now, as she remembered one who
left her as full of life and hope as either Tom or Jimmie,
but who came back no more, save as the dead come back,
shrouded and coffined for the grave. But Annie would
not give way to her own feelings then. She would comfort
Rose, and encourage the young man, who, she felt,
shrank from the perils spread out before him. So she
told how few there were, comparatively, who died on the
battle-field, while the chances for life in the hospitals were
greater now that better care and skill had been procured.

“Annie,—excuse me, Mrs. Graham?” and Jimmie spoke
vehemently, while his eyes kindled with a strange gleam.
“Why don't you go as nurse? You might be the means
of untold good to the poor fellows who need such care as
you could give.”

“I have thought of it,” said Annie, while Rose exclaimed:

“You turn hospital nurse,—ridiculous! You never
shall, so long as I can prevent it. Shall she, Tom?”
And she appealed to the latter, who had just come in.
“Shall Annie go into those horrid hospitals?”

“I am not Mrs. Graham's keeper,” Tom replied, “but
I should be sorry to see her acting in the capacity of
hospital nurse, even though I know that some of our
noblest, best women are engaged in that work.”

“Yes, old chap,” and Jimmie laughed a merry laugh.
“It's mighty easy talking that way now, but suppose you,
Captain Carleton, are some day among the terribly

wounded, thigh shot through, arm splintered above the
elbow, jaw-bone broken, and all that, wouldn't the pain
be easier to bear, if the nurse should happen to be Mrs.
Graham, or somebody just like her?”

“Undoubtedly it would,” Tom answered. Still I
should be sorry to have her there amid the sickening
horrors.”

“Please stop, I can't bear to hear about it!” Rose exclaimed.
“I know it would be nice to be a Florence
Nightingale, and Annie would make a splendid one, but
I'll never let her go, unless you, or Jimmie, or Will are
wounded, and then we'll come together, won't we,
Annie?”

There was no response from Annie, until Jimmie
said:

“Say, Mrs. Graham, if I am ever wounded, and you
hear I am suffering in some dismal hole, will you come
and care for me?”

He did not join Will's or Tom's name with his own.
It was “Jimmie Carleton” whom Annie was to nurse.
But it did not matter. Lifting up her head so that her
soft, blue eyes looked into his, Annie answered, unhesitatingly:

“Providence permitting, I will, and I would do the
same for any brave fellow who follows, as my husband
did, where duty to his country leads.”

“So you see you will fare no better than I, after all,”
Tom laughingly rejoined, while Jimmie thought within
himself:

“Why need she always bring that husband in? It's
bad enough to know she's had one, without eternally
hearing about him.”

Foolish Jimmie. It was folly for him to lie awake so
long as he did that night, or to dream, when at last he

slept, of hospital walls expanding into a palace as an
angel form with hair and eyes like Annie's bent over his
feverish pillow, while soft, white hands dressed some
gaping wound where the enemy's bullet had been. Sheer
folly, too, was it for “dignified old Tom,” to watch from his
window the young moon, until it set in the western sky,
thinking of Mary, as he tried to make himself believe,
wondering why it was that Annie reminded him so much
of her, and why he should be so deeply interested in one
who, until a few weeks past, had been to him a stranger.

To Annie, Captain Carleton and Jimmie were nothing
more than friends, and if, during the week preceding
their departure, she was quite as busy as Rose, and apparently
as much interested in the various preparations
for their comfort, it was only because they were soldiers,
and not, as Widow Simms once suggested to Susan, “because
they were Carletons, and handsome and rich, and,
—and,—well, there's no tellin' what will happen, when a
widder's young and handsome, but this I know, I've
never married, and my man's been dead this nineteen
years! Nobody need tell me she'd be so busy for anybody
but them Carletons. If 'twas the Cap'n, I wouldn't
mind, but that sassy-faced Jeems. Ugh!” and in her ire
at Annie's supposed preference for “sassy-faced Jeems,”
the widow spilled more than half of the spiced chocolate
she was carrying to Isaac.

Never was the widow more mistaken. Annie Graham
would have done for Eli, John, and Isaac Simms, or possibly
William Baker, the same offices she was doing for
“the Carletons,” and her voice would have been just as
sweet and hopeful when she bade them farewell, as it
was that bright spring morning, when, in the parlor of
the Mather mansion, Tom and Jimmie were waiting to
say good-bye.

At the very last moment Bill Baker had announced his
intention of going too.

“Thirteen dollars a month and dog's fare was better
than layin' round hum,” he said; “and livin' on the old
gal, who was gittin' most too straight and blue for his
notions. Besides that, he felt kinder 'tached to the
Corp'ral, and wanted to be where he could see him and
wait on him like any other nigger.”

Jimmie would gladly have dispensed with such a singular
attaché, but Bill could not be shaken off, and as
he did in various ways evince a strong regard for his
former captive, Jimmie was forced to submit to what he
termed “his thorn in the flesh,” giving from his own
purse money for Billy's outfit, and furnishing the mother
with means to repair her dwelling and make it far more
comfortable than at present. This he was sure pleased
Annie, and no sacrifice was too costly if it won her regard.
She had prayed for him, he knew, for Rose had
told him so, and prayers like hers, though they did not
avail to save her George's life, would surely shield him
from danger. He should come back again when the war
was over,—come back to find an older grave by Rockland's
churchyard gate, while the wife, who daily watered
that grave with tears, would be as young, as beautiful,
and far more girlish-looking than now, when, in her
widow's weeds, she offered him her hand at parting, bidding
God-speed to him and the noble Tom, who stood
beside him.

There were tears, and kisses, and blessings from Rose
and her mother, a few low-spoken words of sympathy
and good will from Annie, and then the two young men
were gone.

Half an hour later, and the eastern train thundered
through the town, bearing away to the fields of bloody

carnage, three more young, vigorous lives, and leaving
desolate two homes, one the lonely cottage, where Bill's
mother wept alone, the other the Mather mansion, where
Mrs. Carleton and Rose sobbed bitterly, while Annie
strove in various ways to comfort them.