My Soldier did not like to fight his battles over. He said that the memories they revived were too sacred and sorrowful for utterance. The faces of the dead and dying soldiers on the field of battle were never forgotten. The sorrow of widows and orphans shadowed all the glory for him. In the presence of memory he was silent. The deepest sorrow, like the greatest joy, is dumb.

"We are both too worn and weary now for aught else but to rest and comfort each other," he said. "We will lock out of our lives everything but its joys. From adversity, defeat and mourning shall spring calmness for the past, strength for the present, courage for the future. Now that, in obedience to the command of General Lee, I have finished and sent off the report of the last fight of the old division, the closing days of our dear lost cause, we will put up the pen for awhile and lay aside our war thoughts. We will rest and plan for peace and after a time we will take up the pen again and write down our memories for our children and perhaps for the children of the old division. We will build us a nest over the ashes of our grand old home on the James and plant a new grove in the place of the sturdy old oaks cut down."

My Soldier possessed the greatest capacity for happiness and such dauntless courage and self-control that, to all appearance, he could as cheerfully and buoyantly steer his way over the angry, menacing, tumultuous surges of life as over the waves that glide in tranquil smoothness and sparkle in the sunlight of a calm, clear sky.

This sweet rest which we had planned for ourselves, however, was of but short duration. We had been at my father's home only a few days when a private messenger brought letters of warning from some of my Soldier's old army friends. Two officers high in authority, solicitous for his welfare, advised that in the existing uncertain, incendiary, seditious condition of things he should absent himself for awhile until calm reflection should take the place of wild impulse and time bring healing on its wings and make peace secure. Knowing his fearlessness and stubbornness, General Ingalls and General Tom Pitcher came in person to voice their apprehensions, lest my Soldier might not heed the warning.

Butler, who had not yet recovered from the "bottling-up" experience, had instigated a movement to have my Soldier indicted for treason, based on the assertion that he had joined the Confederacy before his resignation from the United States Army had been accepted by the War Department. He was at that time on the Pacific coast where information of the secession of Virginia had been received many weeks after the ordinance was passed and many more weeks must elapse before a message could be delivered to the Department in Washington and a reply returned.

The nation had gone mad with grief and rage. The waves of passion rose mountain-high and from the awful storm the angels of justice, mercy and peace took flight. All that was bad in the hearts of men arose to the surface; all that was good sank to the depths. The first person that could be seized was regarded as the proper victim to the national fury. The weakest and most defenseless was made the target of popular wrath because rage could thereby most quickly spend itself in vengeance. Mrs. Surratt was imprisoned, and the whole country was in a state of frenzy and on the verge of revolution.

Strictest secrecy was enjoined upon us. Only my father and mother were taken into our confidence. Lucy was bridled, saddled and brought to the door. I walked with my Soldier, he holding the bridle, to the upper gate. It was ten o'clock; the moon was shining brightly and all was quiet and still.

My Soldier's plan for me was that I should go next day to Norfolk, take the steamer to Baltimore and visit his aunt, whose husband, Colonel Symington, had been in the old army, and who had not left it to join the Southern Confederacy, though his sons had fought on that side, one of them having been detailed on duty at my Soldier's headquarters.

"My aunt will welcome you," he said, "and you will remain with her until a telegram shall come to you saying, 'Edwards is better.'" (Edwards was my Soldier's middle name.)

That telegram would mean that he was safe and that I was to join him, starting on the next train. I was to telegraph to "Edwards" from Albany, on my way to him, sending my message to the place at which his telegram had been dated. If his telegram should say, "There is still danger of contagion," I was not to start, but remain with his aunt until another message should come.

"Cheer up, the shadows will scatter soon. Already bright visions and happy day-dreams flit through my brain and thrill my heart; so keep up a 'skookum tum-tum,' little one, and take care of yourself. Watch for the telegram, 'Edwards is better,' for it will surely come."

I smiled up at him as he repeated the familiar old saying, learned from an old Chinook warrior on the Pacific. In the darkest days he would lift my face upward, look down with his kind eyes and gentle smile and say, "Keep up a skookum tum-tum, dear one." All through my life have the sweet old words come back to me when the sun has been hidden by the darkest clouds.

I heard the footsteps of the horse keeping time to my Soldier's whistle, "Believe me if all those endearing young charms," away in the distance long after he was out of sight. I remembered a trick of my childhood which had been taught me by a half-Indian, half-negress and, putting my ear to the ground, I listened to the steps until the last echo was lost. Later I learned that the faithful Lucy bore her master safely to the station and when the train carried him away lay down and died, as if she felt that, having done all she could, life held for her no more duties or pleasures.

The night-wind sighed with me as I walked back, repeating, "Keep up a skookum tum-tum." My pathway lay parallel with the Chuckatuck Creek, a stone's throw to the left. The tide was high and still coming in. The surging of the waves seemed to call out to me, "Skookum tum-tum! Skookum tum-tum!" I could not be all desolate when the most beautiful forces of nature, echoing his words, called to me, "Keep up a brave heart—brave heart!"

My precious old father had waited to have us say good-bye alone and was now coming forward to meet me. Our baby awakened just as we reached home and I confided to him the secret of the telegram and told him his dear father said that it would surely come and he always said what was true.

The stars were burning brightly in the midnight sky to light the traveler on his way as he went afar off. Could there be light on the pathway that led him from me? Had his face been turned southward, with his eyes fixed joyfully upon the loved home where he would be welcomed when the journey was over, what radiant glory would have flooded the way.

Far up in the zenith I could see "our star" gleaming brilliantly, seeming to reach out fingers of light to touch me in loving caress. It was a pure white star that sent down a veil of silvery radiance. Near it was a red star, gleaming and beautiful, but I did not love it. It seemed to glow with the baleful fires of war. My great, loving, tender, white star was like a symbol of peace looking down with serenest benediction.

"Our star," he had said as we stood together only one little evening before—how long it seemed!—and gazed upward to find what comfort we might in its soft glow. "Wherever we may be we will look aloft into the night sky where it shines with steady light, and feel that our thoughts and hearts are together."

I fell asleep, saying softly, "God's lights to guide him."

There were no steamers and no railroads from my home to Norfolk, but my father secured a pungy—a little oyster-boat—and the following day we—baby and I—started off.

A storm came up just as we left Chuckatuck Creek and we were delayed in arriving at Norfolk. We had hoped to be there some hours before the departure of the Baltimore steamer, but reached the wharf as the plank was about to be taken in, so that my father barely had time to say good-bye to me and put me on board.