The messages I bore Ellen from Aunt Martha, when I rode to Mr. White's to bring her home, were ample in assurances of forgiveness and reconciliation, while Uncle Thomas' were full of affection and satisfaction at her return. Aunt Martha I found much changed; she looked not only older, but a new expression of meekness struggled with the habitual one of self-righteousness and indomitable will. Mother, ready as ever to make excuses for the faults of those she loved, declared that Aunt Martha's whole nature had been softened by recent chastenings, and that she had even lost her restless, bustling energy, so that one could spend, now, a peaceful afternoon with her and not be conscious of having interrupted a soap boiling, a candle molding, or a quilting. It was evident from my brief talk with her that Ellen's return was a great satisfaction; that she regarded it in some sense as a vindication in the eyes of husband, son, and neighbors. Thomas had just departed for Liberty Hall Academy to continue his ministerial studies, which was one reason, perhaps, that Aunt Martha could welcome Ellen sincerely. Especially had Thomas' full confession of all that had passed between Ellen and himself softened his mother's heart toward her, and increased her regret for past harshness.

Thomas, I found, had been most considerate, having given no hint to any one of my feelings toward Ellen. But I told my mother, as we sat talking, late into the night, and got her blessing, with a promise of profound secrecy, and whatever help she might find quiet opportunity to give me. All my own affairs were for the present as I would have them, and my heart would have been as light as thistledown but for the discouraging war news I had from my father.

The year that had given us such unbroken success, and such fruitful victories in the Northwest, had been one of disaster for the American cause in the East. The British still held New York; Fort Washington had been taken, Continental currency was depreciated in value till it was no longer possible to procure necessary army supplies; the troops had not been paid for months, and were ragged, poorly equipped, half starved, and mutinous. Georgia had fallen, and South Carolina sorely beset by home and foreign enemies, could not hope to hold out much longer unless strongly reËnforced from without. Worse still, the gallant and patriotic Arnold had turned traitor, and a shuddering horror and apprehension was upon the land—since the noble and high-spirited Arnold could fall to such depths, might we not look for treason everywhere? On hearing all this discouraging news, I determined at once to visit Colonel Morgan, and to urge him, despite his physical infirmities and his justly wounded pride—for Congress had not yet raised him to the rank to which his past services had entitled him—to call together his scattered riflemen once more, and go to the help of the hard-pressed patriots of the sparsely settled South. And so I told Ellen as we rode together to Uncle Thomas'.

"Shall I feel as lonely, and as friendless when you are gone, I wonder, as I did the first time you left the valley with Morgan?" said Ellen with a light sigh.

"You were a child then," I answered, "and had few resources. Now you are sufficient to yourself. I fear you will not miss me half so much as you will the kindly Kaskaskians, and the good Father, and the faithful AngÉlique."

"Bless their memories! I shall miss them, and long for a sight of their kind faces. But, all the more, since they are so far away, I shall miss my one true and tried friend in the valley."

"Will you be very lonely and unhappy in the valley, Ellen? Would you have been far better contented had I left you in Kaskaskia?" I questioned anxiously.

"Father Gibault thought it my duty, Cousin Donald, and more and more I understand that it is the one right thing for me. I must find the way my God would have me walk by following the lowly path of duty, and by making reparation for past sins. Do you remember, Cousin, that night before you left the valley—when you found me star-gazing on the rock overhanging the spring?"

"Aye, Ellen! The vision of you, as you looked that night, has come back to me again and again—so often that I began to question, long before I knew I loved you, as man loves but one woman in his life, what import the vision might have, and to wonder if it foretold the crossing of our lives in some fateful way. That picture was the last that floated through my dream the day I slept in the forest, when you saved me from the Indian's tomahawk."

"Memory, it seems to me, has mysterious power,—beyond our will to guide, or our reason to explain," Ellen replied. "That night of our farewell at the spring, the first fibers of affection and sympathy reached out from your heart to mine, and through all these months have stretched and held till they have grown strong enough to bring me back to my duty."

"May they grow yet stronger, Ellen, till our hearts are knitted together for life, and for eternity!"

Ellen's serious absorption was shaken by these words, and she blushed like any earthly minded maiden, as she answered:

"My heart will ever feel itself bound to yours by the fibers of a deep and strong affection, Cousin Donald, wherever my duty leads me. There can be no harm in a nun's cherishing gratitude and affection, nor in her offering hourly prayers for one who has been to her the noblest of friends."

"Your thoughts and prayers would be but cheerless consolation for a desolate life. I want your daily presence, Ellen, the hourly benediction of your smile. But, forgive me, dear,"—for I saw that her lips trembled like a grieved child's, and that a tear had slipped from underneath her lowered lids; "I am very weak. After all my promises I continue to disturb you with my arguing and beseeching. You shall have a year to think upon it all, and, meanwhile, I shall smother in my breast every word that my heart may urge to my lips."

My visit to Colonel Morgan was made before Christmas, and I returned home cheered by his promise to take the field early in the spring. Meanwhile I was put to my old work of enlisting recruits—a work much interrupted by the malarial chills which every second day tied me to the chimney corner. Gradually they wore themselves out, and by the faithful use of bitters concocted from the Peruvian bark Father Gibault had given me, I made myself fit for active duty by the early spring, and gladly joined Morgan. He had been almost grudgingly made general by Congress at last, and generously forgetting all past wrongs and differences had hastened to join Gates, after the woeful disaster of Camden.

But that unfortunate officer reaped now the fruits of his previous scheming and bragging, and fell rapidly from the favor of Congress, in which he had held so high a place since Saratoga. He was replaced by the capable General Greene, and roundly abused by the whole country. Having been sent into North Carolina with dispatches from General Morgan to certain officers of the State Militia, it was my good fortune on my return to fall in with grim backwoodsmen marching to meet and repulse the advance of Ferguson. I accepted temporary service under Colonel Campbell, and so had the honor of fighting beside those indomitable militiamen, who won the victory of King's Mountain—one of the most glorious incidents of our Revolution, and the turning point of disasters, from which events marched on, more and more successfully, to Cowpens and Yorktown. At the risk of wearying my readers with constant reiteration of the praises of the race from which I, proudly claim descent—though I have played fair with them, saying, in the beginning, that it was partly with the hope of repairing our historians' neglect of the Scotch Irish that this chronicle was undertaken—I must call attention to the fact that King's Mountain was a Scotch Irish victory, won by militiamen of that race. I doubt, indeed, if the plan could have been conceived, or if conceived could have been executed, by regulars. Men used to climbing mountains, and to the methods of Indian warfare, were needed to fight and win as the frontiermen fought and won at King's Mountain.

By the first of January our affairs in the South were more hopeful. Recently discouraged patriots, inspired by the victory of King's Mountain, flocked to General Greene's standard, and that able officer, supported by General Morgan and Colonel Washington, and aided by the daring bands led by Sumter and Marion, soon threatened Cornwallis on both his flanks, and by a series of surprises and sudden maneuvers so confused that military pedant that he did not know what next to expect, and hardly which way to turn. Having divided his army into two bodies, Greene skillfully avoided a drawn battle, and continued to threaten the British communications. For Cornwallis to sit still was to await his doom; to march against either army was to give the other an opportunity to win a fatal advantage. He, therefore, divided his own force, sending the renowned Tarleton to hold Morgan in check, while he drew Greene after him into North Carolina.

Morgan retired slowly before Tarleton's advance to some meadows, not far from King's Mountain, and there formed his men upon the field of Cowpens, on gently rising ground, with hills to the left, and a deep, broad river in the rear. There would be no chance for the militiamen to run, for, said Morgan, with grim humor, when they had reached the river's bank they would likely be willing to turn and fight again. We slept that night upon our chosen battle ground, and until past midnight General Morgan was abroad in the camp, inspecting arms, inspiring his officers, joking with his men, and telling them what they and the "old wagoner" would do for the British regulars the next morning.

To form in fighting line, according to prearranged plan, was but an hour's work, when Tarleton's advance was discovered, and time was still left for our General to ride down the line, encouraging and animating us with a few hearty words—such as he so well knew how to fit to each heroic occasion. A furious rush, Tarleton's favorite maneuver, drove in our front line of militia, as had been foreseen, after they had obeyed General Morgan's oft repeated command to fire at least two volleys, at killing range, before breaking rank. But, behind the militia stood DeKalb and his Marylanders, and a tried company of Virginia Continentals, who met calmly the too confident pursuit of the British, and fought deliberately, till Colonel Washington's cavalry swooped down from the hills, attacking the enemy's right flank simultaneously with the charge of the militia, which had been re-formed, and marched around our position, on their left. Already entangled, by their over-eager pursuit of our first column, with their opponents, and now almost surrounded, the British fought on, gallantly but hopelessly. A bayonet charge from the Continentals in their front quickly brought about rout and panic, and nearly the whole British force engaged was killed or captured. Their loss was nearly one thousand; ours not more than seventy-five. No battle of our War for Independence was more skillfully planned, more boldly won, and to General Morgan, alone, belongs the credit for plan and execution.

A fortunately heavy rainfall cut off Cornwallis' pursuit, and gave us an opportunity to carry our prisoners across the Catawba. General Greene joined us here, escorted by a few dragoons, his force behind him. He had heard of Morgan's splendid victory, and pushed forward to help him reap the fruits of it. But Morgan was now attacked violently by his old enemy, rheumatism, and could not leave his tent; the gallant "old wagoner" who had never known defeat in battle, had more than once been vanquished by disease, the result, he bitterly admitted, of his own youthful excesses. A few weeks later he was forced to resign his command, and to return to his home.

That circumstance made easier for me the duty which had been assigned me—namely, to command one company of the militia which was to escort our seven hundred prisoners to Virginia. My latest service, on General Morgan's staff, had been most congenial to me, and even the honor now offered me of a similar position with General Greene did not console me for the loss of my first leader. The place would have been gratefully accepted, however, for I admired and trusted General Greene, both as man and leader—even with loss of the opportunity of a few days at home, and a glimpse of Ellen—had not a circumstance occurred which made me entirely willing to perform the duty which had been first assigned me. This circumstance was communicated to me by General Morgan.

"Whom, in heaven's name, think you I found this morning among our prisoners, McElroy? Young Buford—the pretty Nelly's brother, he who rescued you from Philadelphia prison hospital. He has a painful but not dangerous wound in the hip, for which reason he sent to me, asking for ambulance service, his wound having become inflamed from the march."

"Make him my prisoner, General?" I asked eagerly; "I claim no other share of the spoils."

"Eh? You'll hold him as hostage for his sister's favor—fair stratagem, I suppose. He'll be perfectly safe in your hands, doubtless, so I'll turn him over to you."

"To him and to his entire family I owe an obligation which can be repaid in kind only; this is a longed for opportunity."

"And what will you do with him?"

"Take him to my own home, even as he did me, and leave him to my mother's nursing, till he is well enough to be discharged."

"And no parole asked? The terms granted you were less generous."

"Buford did not make the terms; but if he had, I should still wish to surpass my enemies in generosity, as well as in bravery."

"Then you will decline Greene's offer of a place on his staff? I asked it for you, thinking this excursion to Virginia in charge of prisoners less to your liking."

"It was most kind of you, General, but for this find of Buford it would have been my choice—could the place be held for me?"

"It can be, doubtless, especially if you can bring back some recruits. Greene will need reinforcements, and must look to Virginia for them. But for these swollen and painful limbs of mine,"—with a grimace toward those much swathed members—"I should be the last to desert him. It's a bitter pill, lad, to be obliged to go home—to be chained by disease to my chair, like a galley slave to his bench, when my spirit is with the front ranks, against our country's enemies."

"It is a sore grief to me, also, General, and particularly that your malady should attack you now, when your newest laurels are still green, and there are more awaiting you. Your retirement takes half the heart out of me for the service, as it does for every rifleman in the regiment."

"That spirit must not be encouraged, lad. As much as it pleases me to be regretted by my gallant boys, it would sincerely grieve me were my going to affect in any way their zeal or bravery. I shall expect them to do no less than they have always done, indeed they must fight the more determinedly because their commander has gone stiff and lame and must be content to stand like a used up horse in the stall, munching memories for diversion."

"You'll get better after a rest, General, and be at it again before the war's over. Not even disease can conquer your spirit."

"Right, lad! If the war lasts long enough for my good Abigail to tea and poultice the swelling from my joints, I'll be at 'em again."

That evening I had Buford removed to my tent, where, presently, I visited him.

"I am sorry for the occasion, Captain Buford," I said, extending my hand to him, "but since it was written that this misfortune of war should befall you, I am grateful that the opportunity has come to me to repay in some degree the courtesy and kindness I received at your hands, when my situation was similar to your present one."

"It is indeed Donald McElroy!" Buford exclaimed, in pleased tones. "I am lucky in spite of this painful accompaniment to my good fortune," pointing to his bandaged thigh.

"You are now my prisoner," I said, "and your wound shall have the best attention possible."

"You are then in command of the militia which is to convey us to Virginia? Is it proper to tell me our final destination?"

"Yours, with your consent, Captain Buford, is my own home. My mother is the best of nurses. I promise you comfort and kind care, at any rate, if you will agree to the arrangements just made between Colonel Morgan and me."

"One would think me an urged guest, rather than a poor sick prisoner," answered Buford, a smile upon his face. He was much like Nelly, though his was strictly a masculine, as hers was purely a feminine, type of comeliness. "There is small likelihood that I shall decline so generous an offer—a comfortable home and woman's nursing are all too tempting for my present weakness."

"As was your offer to me in Philadelphia. It is seldom, I imagine, that a man is granted so high a boon as the opportunity to evince in fitting deeds his gratitude. Your mother and sister are well, I hope, and in safety?"

"My mother is dead, Captain McElroy, and I fear her constant anxiety for me hastened her end. Nelly, poor girl, is left lonely and desolate. She has taken refuge for the present with Quaker friends near the city."

I expressed my regret and sympathy, and left him to make arrangements for the march next day. His news oppressed my spirit more than one would have supposed; it was hard to think of light-hearted Nelly as a sad refugee. Oh, this weary, cruel war! When would it end?