Ethel left her uncle’s house in tears, but before reaching her destination had wiped them away and assumed an air of determined cheerfulness. Mrs. Baker gave her a kindly reception, said she was glad to see her, hoped she would never find reason to regret having come, and bade her sit down by the stove and get well warmed before taking off her hat and sack, for it was a cold, blustering March day.

“We’ll not be likely to have much custom to-day,” she remarked presently; “it’s so raw and cold out that I should think folks that have no particular call to go abroad would be likely to stay at home. Perhaps it’s a good thing for us, as we’ll have time to look over the bits of needlework you were telling me of. You have brought them along, I suppose?”

“I put them in my trunk,” replied Ethel.

“And that’s come and been carried up to your room; and when you’re right warm you may bring them down, if you choose.”

Ethel presently availed herself of the permission, and Mrs. Baker and her mother, Mrs. Ray, both examined the work with interest. “I think they are very handsome indeed, and shouldn’t wonder if she’d find a customer for them—some of them, anyhow—directly,” remarked the old lady. “I never saw as pretty work done by one so young.”

“I quite agree with you, mother, and hope she’ll make a good deal on them,” returned Mrs. Baker, with a pleasant smile into Ethel’s face, now rosy with pleasure at their warm commendation of her work. “I advise you to keep on, Ethel, as you tell me you have been doing, using spare moments in adding to your stock, and I think you’ll find it paying you well one of these days,” she continued, addressing the young girl. “If you wish, I’ll buy a piece of muslin for you some day soon when I’m out purchasing goods for the store. I think maybe I can get a better bargain than you could, seeing you are so young and not used, as I am, to such business; then I’ll help you with the cutting out of the garments, so that they’ll be ready when you can find time to work on them.”

“Oh, thank you, ma’am,” exclaimed Ethel, tears of gratitude springing to her eyes, “you are very kind to me.”

“Tut, child, I haven’t done anything yet to speak of,” laughed the kind-hearted woman. “But I want to do by you as I’d want anyone to do by my little Jenny, if she should ever be left fatherless and motherless, poor little soul!” glancing with moistened eyes at her four-year-old daughter, who was playing about the floor.

“Dear little thing!” Ethel said, holding out her hand to the child, who had paused in her play to look wonderingly from one to the other, “she reminds me of what my little sister Nan was when God took our father and mother to heaven.”

“My papa aint gone dere,” lisped the little one, gazing up into Ethel’s face; “he’s gone to de war to fight de rebs.”

“Has he?” said Ethel; “so have two of my cousins. Oh,” turning to Mrs. Baker, “I hope this dreadful war will soon be over!”

“So do I,” was the emphatic rejoinder; “or rather I wish it; things don’t look so very hopeful just at present. But folks seem to think the new general may be expected to make better progress against the rebels than the others did, I think myself it’s more than likely, considering what he has done out West.”

“And we are all praying for him, that the Lord will give him wisdom and success with his plans, so that this awful war may come to an end, and the country be saved,” said Mrs. Ray. “The men at the head of the rebellion have a great deal to answer for. They were not oppressed, but were dreadful oppressors—of the negro first, then of the whites both North and South, in order to hold on to slavery, which they found so profitable to their pockets, besides ministering to their wicked pride.”

“Well, I am sure the backbone of the rebellion is broken now; they know it can’t succeed, and I for one can’t see how the consciences of the rebel leaders can allow them to go on with the struggle—sacrificing so many lives to no purpose,” sighed Mrs. Baker. “Now, Ethel, I will show you round the store and make you acquainted with the places of the different articles we have for sale, so that you will be able to find them when called for.”

“And I must go and see to household matters,” her mother said, hurrying away in the direction of the kitchen.

Ethel was kept very busy all day, except for a little while in the afternoon, when Blanche came with Harry and Nannette to see her in her new quarters.

Mrs. Baker received them kindly and invited them to come again for Ethel’s sake, and though some tears were shed by the three girls at parting, they all felt better contented than they had before.

As the days, weeks, and months rolled on, Ethel was more comfortable and found things going more smoothly with her at Mrs. Baker’s than she had dared to hope. Waiting upon customers was not repugnant to her, she was fond of her needlework, and not averse to using the sewing-machine; though Mrs. Baker was kindly careful not to let her do too much of that last, lest she should injure her health; also she kindly contrived some errand for her every day, squares away from the store, that she might have the benefit of outdoor air and exercise.

And there were many exchanges of visits between herself and her younger sisters and brother; occasional letters from Mrs. Keith and her mother to be read and replied to, and interesting news from the seat of war, the daily papers being eagerly searched for it by Mrs. Kay, Mrs. Baker, and herself.

With what a thrill of horror they read of the awful massacre by the savage Forrest and his troops at Fort Pillow, taken by a resort to trickery under a flag of truce; the terrible battles of the Wilderness, Spottsylvania, Cold Harbor, and others of the sanguinary conflicts of that last year of the war of the rebellion!

These divided Ethel’s attention with her needlework, waiting upon customers, doing errands for Mrs. Baker, and chatting with the little ones, who were a source of entertainment, and of whom there were two boys in addition to Jenny. They were but little fellows, going to school until the summer holidays began, but full of fun and frolic when at home, and Ethel and they soon became fast friends.

One day early in the fall Ethel received a letter from Mrs. Keith, in which she told of the coming home of her husband, a paroled prisoner from Andersonville, where he had been for some time, suffering so terribly that his health seemed ruined for life. His parents and other near relatives in Indiana were anxious to see him, she added, and they had decided to go out there for some weeks, taking the children with them. She hoped the trip would prove of benefit to Mr. Keith, and that he would return home looking and feeling more as he did before going into the army, for now he was so pale and thin that it almost broke her heart to look at him and hear his sad story of the barbarous treatment he and his fellow-prisoners had received at the hands of their cruel jailors; then from that she went on to tell of the starvation, filth, exposure to the weather, and shooting down on the slightest protest, which made of Andersonville prison-pen a veritable hell upon earth.

Ethel read that part of the letter first to herself, then aloud to Mrs. Baker and Mrs. Ray, with the tears streaming down her cheeks, while her hearers wept with her.

“Ah,” sighed Mrs. Baker, “God grant this cruel war may soon be over, and that my poor husband may never be a prisoner in the hands of those worse than savage men!”

“And oh, I hope my poor cousins, George and Albert, may escape it too!” exclaimed Ethel. “How very, very dreadful it is! how can men be so cruel? worse than any wild beast.”

“Oh, hark!” exclaimed Mrs. Baker. “What is it that newsboy is crying? Atlanta taken? I must have a paper!” and she rushed to the door, beckoned to the lad, and in a minute was back again with the paper in her hand, and reading aloud to her mother and Ethel.

They rejoiced together in this new proof that the Union cause was gaining, the rebellion nearing its end.

Ethel had come to feel very much at home with these good women; though her wages were but small, she had succeeded so well in the disposal of the garments she had made on her own account and adorned with the specimens of needlework she had brought with her, that she felt in good spirits and very hopeful of being, at no very distant day, able to carry out her plan of starting in a business of her own and making a home for herself, her brother and sisters.

She was extremely desirous of doing that; yet she had become so attached to the two good women she was with that it gave her something of a heartache to think of leaving them.

She had thought she might be able to accomplish her desire at the end of her first year with Mrs. Baker, but her means were not sufficient, and all the friends she consulted esteemed her too young for such an undertaking; they also thought that while the war lasted she would not be so likely to succeed as in the better times to be hoped for at its close. So she waited and worked on with patience and perseverance, comforting herself with the thought of the future.

In April came the glad news of Lee’s surrender, which virtually ended the war. It was glorious news to her and those she was with, as well as to all other loyal Americans, filling their hearts with joy and gratitude to the Giver of all good; but alas! how quickly followed by intense grief and indignation over the cruel and cowardly assassination of him who had guided the ship of state through the breakers and the fearful storm that had raged about her, threatening her destruction for the last four years.

On Saturday morning, April 15, the news reached Philadelphia, telegraphed from Washington, that President Lincoln had been shot the previous night and had just died of his wound.

The early breakfast was over at Mrs. Baker’s, the store was in order, and Ethel sitting behind the counter engaged upon a bit of needlework while awaiting the coming of customers. Mrs. Ray was busy in the back part of the house, little Jenny playing about on the pavement in front of the door, and Mrs. Baker had gone to market, taking the two boys with her.

As Ethel’s needle flew in and out, her thoughts were busy with the glad news of a few days before—that Lee had surrendered to Grant.

“The war must be just about over,” she said to herself, “and how glad dear, good President Lincoln and all the people that love the Union must feel! I don’t think one wants to punish the rebels now, much as we have lost and suffered through the efforts of the Confederates to destroy it—the grand old Union—we just say ‘They’ve given up now, and we will do all we can to help them to repair their losses and begin to prosper again.’ But, oh, hark! what’s that the newsboys are crying?”

With the last words she dropped her work and ran to the door.

The newsboy, drawing nearer, was literally crying, sobs mingling with the words, “President Lincoln shot——”

“Oh, what—what’s that he’s saying?” cried Mrs. Ray, rushing in from the back room and through the front door. “Here, boy, bring me a paper! Oh, it can’t be possible that anybody’d be so wicked as to fire at the President! Was he much hurt?” as she took the paper from the hand of the weeping boy and gave him the money for it.

“Oh, ma’am, he’s dead! he’s dead! He was shot last night and died just a few minutes ago. And they’ve murdered two or three more o’ the big men in Washington,” and with the last words, accompanied by a sob, the lad passed on, repeating his mournful cry.

“Oh, I can’t believe it! I don’t know how to believe anybody, even a reb, could be so wicked,” sobbed Mrs. Ray, hastily glancing over the headings. “Yes, yes: here it is! but I can’t believe it; it’s surely a hoax; for who could be so wicked as to murder such a good, kind man as dear Mr. Lincoln?”

“I can’t believe it either!” exclaimed Ethel, tears raining down her cheeks, “but read it aloud, won’t you, Mrs. Ray?”

“I can’t—I can’t! the tears come so fast. You—you may,” thrusting the paper into Ethel’s hand.

The young girl did as requested, but with many a pause to wipe away the falling tears and check the sobs that well-nigh choked her utterance.

She had not finished when Mrs. Baker and her boys returned, all three weeping.

“Oh, mother, mother, so you’ve got the news! I thought you would before we could get home, for it has gone over the city like wildfire, and almost everybody’s heartbroken!” cried Mrs. Baker, laying on the counter a parcel she carried and wiping her streaming eyes.

“Not just everybody, mother; you forget that mean, bad woman we saw get paid off so well in the market,” exclaimed Mark, the eldest boy, his eyes flashing through tears. “You and Miss Ethel should have seen it, grandmother. We were buying some fish for dinner, the fishwoman and everybody round talking about the dreadful news, and most of them crying to think of dear, good President Lincoln being murdered, when up came a woman dressed in her best—at least I should think it might be her very best—and she says to the fishwoman, ‘How much do you ask for these fine shad? I’ll buy one, for I’m bound and determined to have an extra good dinner to-day to show how delighted I am at the good news I’ve heard.’ ‘And what may that be?’ the other woman asked. ‘Why, that that old tyrant, Abe Lincoln, is killed!’ and she’d hardly got the words out when that big shad was flapping round her ears in the liveliest kind of a way; and it went on flapping till it was all broken to pieces, her face smeared with the fish, and her bonnet crushed and broken and soiled till nobody would ever want to wear it again.”

“Just what she deserved,” said his grandmother. “I can’t pity her in the least.”

“And nobody did,” said Mark exultingly; “the crowd around just cheered the fishwoman, and groaned and hissed at the other, till she was glad to hurry away as fast as she could. There, mother, now you tell about what we saw and heard on Walnut Street.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Baker. “As we were coming home along that street a servant girl was scrubbing off the pavement in front of one of those big, handsome residences, and, a gentleman going past, she hailed him with, ‘An’ it’s the good news we’ve got this marnin’, sor; that ould Lincoln’s shot to death an’ won’t nivver——’ But there he interrupted her, his eyes fairly flashing with anger and his fists clenched. ‘If you weren’t a woman I’d knock you down!’ he said in a tone as if it would be a great satisfaction to him to do it. Then the gentleman of the house came to the door (I had seen him step to the parlor window as the girl began her remark) and said in a tone as if he would enjoy knocking her down, ‘You may consider yourself dismissed from my service, Bridget. You shall never enter my doors again with my knowledge and consent. I’ll have your clothes sent out to you and you may go at once.’”

“I don’t blame him,” said a lady customer who had just come in; “it was exactly what she deserved. Think of anybody being so heartless as to rejoice in such a murder—the assassination of a man so patient and kind to all, desirous to have rebels forgiven who in any other country would be speedily executed for their attempt to destroy the government. People’s hearts are very sore,” she went on, weeping as she spoke, “and no wonder they cannot and will not stand hearing any rejoicing over this terrible calamity that has befallen the country—the dear land just saved from the dismemberment which threatened it! They are draping the public buildings with black, putting all the flags at half mast, and tying them with crape. Men shed tears; some women will wear deep mourning as for a near relative; others rosettes of the national colors and black ribbon. I came in here to look for the ribbons needed for mine.”

Ethel waited upon her and while she did so another customer came in on the same errand. Her eyes were also wet with tears.

“Oh, isn’t it dreadful?” she sobbed. “I think I could hardly feel worse if I’d lost my own father. And to think that some folks talk of the awful deed as if they were delighted that it was done. The heartless wretches! They might know, if they had any sense, that the loyal people—who were just rejoicing that the dreadful fight was over and the country saved—can’t and won’t stand it. I don’t know whether it’s true or not, but I just heard that a fellow who was so heartless as to be openly rejoicing over the dastardly deed, was knocked down for expressing his exultation and kicked along the pavement by the exasperated crowd till he was dead, and that a soldier shot down another such rejoicer at one of the depots and nobody made any attempt to arrest him for it.”

“Oh, those are dreadful things!” exclaimed Mrs. Kay. “It is certainly wrong to kill a man for expressing his opinion; but they should have sense enough to keep such opinions and feelings to themselves while loyal people’s hearts are so sore over this dreadful, dreadful thing.”

“Well there is one comforting thought—that the dear man was certainly a Christian, ready to die, and is now done with all earth’s troubles and trials,” said Mrs. Baker, tears of mingled joy and sorrow shining in her eyes. “How sweet the rest and peace of heaven must be to him—so worn and weary as he was with the griefs and cares of the last four dreadful years. We must weep for our own great and irreparable loss, and for all he suffered before God took him home, but at the same time we may rejoice in the blessedness that is now his in that better land.”

“Yes, indeed,” responded the two lady customers, one of them adding, “I don’t know how anyone can doubt that he was a Christian man, well prepared to die; for he certainly displayed a Christian spirit toward all—even the rebels who were his deadly foes and had planned to murder him on his way to his first inauguration. It must be a blessed change for him; but oh, what is the country to do without him!”

“Oh, ma’am, our God still lives,” said Mrs. Ray. “He is our Rock and Refuge, a very present help in trouble.”

“Oh, mother, all the stores are putting black over their doors and windows,” exclaimed Mark, peering out into the street; “tying their flags with crape too. Can’t we do the same with ours?”

“Yes, yes, to be sure,” she replied. “I’ll go at once and buy some yards of black stuff and we’ll fasten it along under the windows of our second story and around the doors here.”

“Get some crape for the flag, too,” said her mother. “Here, I’ll pay for it,” taking out her purse as she spoke. “And hadn’t you better lay in a fresh supply of black, red, blue, and white ribbons for making the rosettes? I feel sure that a great many folks will be putting them on as a sign of mourning for him—the dear, murdered President!”

“Yes, mother, I’ll lay in a fresh stock, and the sooner I get off to see about it the better; for I’m pretty certain that there will be a great demand for it before the day is over,” replied Mrs. Baker—and hurried on her way.

A busy day followed—a day full of sad, heart-breaking excitement. Troops were in hot pursuit of the murderers—the one who had slain the President, and his confederates, him who had attacked Secretary Seward, and those who had aided and abetted them.

The newsboys’ cry of “Extry! Extry!” was frequently heard, and the papers sold rapidly. All loyal hearts rejoiced that though evidently it had been the intention of the conspirators to slay Secretary Seward, perhaps General Grant also, both had escaped with life, though the secretary had been severely wounded by his would-be assassin.

Cavalry and a heavy police force were speedily sent out in pursuit of the criminals, who were finally taken and brought back to Washington to receive the punishment due to their crimes—with the exception of Booth who, refusing to surrender, was shot and killed in the barn which, he had made his hiding place.

When it was known that he was no longer at large, had not escaped with impunity after his awful deed—people seemed to breathe more freely, their hearts to be a little less sore, though they still mourned deeply for the loss of their martyred President, who was borne to the grave amid the tears and lamentations of almost the entire nation. There were few who did not mourn for him as for one very near and dear; one whose place could never be filled.