Only twice had I seen my Soldier since with tearful eyes I watched the United States transport, St. Louis, bear him away to join in the frontier warfare, and later to play his important part in holding San Juan and other Pacific Islands against the British. Occasionally letters came from that far-off sunset shore in answer to my little printed notes before I had learned to write well.

The last time I had seen him was at the Greenbrier White Sulphur Springs, where, though still a child, I held that he was pledged to me and resented his attentions to the belles nearer his own age. Amused and pleased by this, he humored me by devoting most of his mornings to joining in my games and assisting me in sketching, and by dancing in the evening with no one but me until the children's bed-time came, when the ballroom was reluctantly given up to the grown people. One Baltimore beauty took my Soldier to task for his bad taste in dancing with a child, thereby cancelling the little friendship which had existed between them.

White Sulphur Springs, situated in a valley surrounded by hills and mountains, was the most celebrated watering-place in Virginia. It was known to the Indians as the most important lick of the deer and elk. Its medicinal qualities first became known in 1772, when an Indian maiden, suffering from a disease which baffled the skill of the "medicine men," was healed by its waters. It is a beautiful and enchanting spot, the valley opening half a mile in breadth, winding in graceful undulations from east to west beyond the line of vision. The fountain issues from the foot of a gentle slope which ends in the low interval of a beautiful river. The ground ascends from the spring eastward, spreading into a lawn covering fifty acres. Over the fountain was a stately Doric dome, supported by twelve large pillars and surmounted by a statue of Hygeia looking toward the rising sun. A short distance from the spring were the hotel, dining-hall and ballroom. The rest of the ground was occupied by cottages, some of brick, some of wood, and a few of logs, whitewashed. The cabins were all painted white.

The winding roads, leading away into an enchanted world of greenery, were veritable Cupid's paths, opening sometimes into the springtime vales of gay flirtation, sometimes into the warm, deep dells of love. Many were the belles and beaux who met their fate amid the leaf-walled environment of Greenbrier and more matches were made there than in heaven.

My Soldier's furlough soon came to a close and he left, by chance, the day we did. I shall never forget the ride on the top of the old stagecoach, the wonderful red and gold foliage, the birds that sang in the autumn trees, the good dinner at the hotel, the stories told me by my Soldier, who knew everything, I thought. Of the name Greenbrier he said:

"Old Colonel John Lewis, whose grandson you danced with this summer, named this river in 1751 because of its thick growth of green-briers in which his son, Andrew, was once entangled. It had been owned by the French. In 1749 a hunter, wandering through the woods, came to the river-bank and observed that the water ran in a direction opposite from the usual course and reported it, exciting the curiosity of two New Englanders, Jacob Martin and Stephen Sewall. They took up land there, living together in a little cabin until one day they quarreled and separated. One made his home in a hollow tree, the other keeping the cabin in which they had formerly dwelt in peace with the world, themselves and each other. They agreed never to say anything to each other but 'Good morning, Mr. Martin,' 'Good morning, Mr. Sewall,' confining themselves to this limited conversation for the remainder of their years."

My Soldier told me of the Indian wars after peace had been confirmed between England and France, the Dunmore wars, the massacre at Muddy Creek where, under the guise of friendship, the Indians had descended upon the settlers and destroyed their village, the attack of two hundred Indians upon Donnally Fort, and the bravery of the old negro, Dick Pointer, whose freedom was purchased by the State of Virginia in reward for his services. In his helpless old age an unsuccessful effort was made to secure a pension for him. Comparing his fate with that of alleged soldiers of later years who volunteered to do guard duty around their homes for three days, receiving pensions for their courageous efforts, one might wish that he had lived in a later period and served a more appreciative government.

From White Sulphur I returned to my father's home, brightened now by three brothers and two sisters, all of whom had seen so little of "Sister" that they knew nothing of her shortcomings and thought she was the greatest thing in the world.

Then lessons began in earnest and stern duties came to interrupt childish diversions. When the course laid out for me at home was completed, my father decided to take me to Lynchburg Seminary. It was a serious epoch for me, as I was to go among strangers for the first time, so the farewells were solemn.

As a parting present, "Uncle Charles" brought me a nest of guinea eggs, a box of sweet gum which he had been collecting for months, a string of chinquapins and some dried haws, saying as he gave them to me:

"Honey, don't fergit de ole man en bring him sump'n, en remember you's born but you ain't dead yit."

Others of the servants came with blessings and farewell gifts. Mary-Frances, who always received more presents than her twin sister and was noted for her stinginess, bade me a pathetic good-bye, assuring me that she was "gwine to be good en 'vide her light'ood and things wid Arabella." As I had disapproved of her selfish refusal to share her "light'ood" with her sister she thought this promise of generosity would be the best gift she could bestow upon me as a parting keepsake.

After tender farewells from mother, sisters, and brothers I started off with my father on what seemed to me a long, long journey.

At Richmond a man in uniform boarded the train. I looked at him with admiration as he came down the aisle. He was tall and walked erectly with graceful carriage and a commanding air not dependent upon his military dress. He stopped and spoke to my father, who arose, greeted him cordially and, turning back the seat, invited him to join us. He accepted and my father introduced "Colonel Robert E. Lee." The Colonel shook hands with me in a gentle way and began to barter for one of my long curls. In my diffidence I did not close with any of his offers, though I would have given every curl on my head for the asking, for even then, to my romantic vision, Colonel Lee was a hero.

He said that he had just returned from Harper's Ferry, where there had been great excitement. John Brown had descended upon the town and taken possession of the United States Arsenal. Colonel Lee, home on furlough from the West, had been sent with the marines from the Washington barracks and four companies of troops from Fortress Monroe to dispossess them and restore quiet to the little town in the Virginia hills. It was not alone Harper's Ferry that had been terrorized; the entire state had been thrown into a turmoil of excitement.

To a child whose infancy had shuddered at the story of the Nat Turner insurrection of 1832, the John Brown raid in 1859 was a subject of horrible fascination, and I listened intently as Colonel Lee talked of this strange old fanatic and his followers.

"What do you think would be the effect upon the negro, Mr. Corbell," Colonel Lee asked my father, "if we should be compelled to hang John Brown?"

My father replied, "Well, I've thought of that, too, Colonel, and I asked my foreman, who is a representative of his race, if he did not think we ought to hang old John Brown." He looked at me earnestly for a while then, shaking his head slowly, said, "I knows, Marse Dae, dat po' Marse John done en bruk de law, killin' all dem mens; but den, Marse Dae, even ef po' Marse John did bre'k de law, don't you think, suh, dat hangin' him would be a li'l abrupt?"

Colonel Lee laughed and replied, "I think that just about expresses the sentiment not only of the colored people but of many others." They agreed that John Brown was an honest, earnest, courageous old man and that his friends ought to put him where he would be cared for.

My eyes were turned steadily toward Colonel Lee with a large measure of that admiration he won from observers older and more experienced than I. Yet I could not have told what manner of man he was, except that he was impressive in appearance and that he drew people toward him with a subtle attraction which was indescribable as well as irresistible.

The story of John Brown was graphically told and heard with absorbed attention, but it is not likely that the Virginia planter with all his knowledge of history and character, nor the great soldier with his military training, recognized signs of the impending storm any more than did the wide-eyed child lost in breathless wonderment over the thrilling episode.

At the next station the Colonel left us and I went on into the hill country.