The week I spent in Hartford County, Maryland, reminded me of my childhood, when I used to play that I was a "Princess" or a "Beggar," or "Morgiana of the Forty Thieves," or "The White Cat," or whatever character it would please me to select to play, for my heart and soul were separated from my body. I was not what I pretended to be. My body went to parties and receptions and dinners, and received people and drove and paid calls, while my soul waited with intense longing for the telegram, "Edwards is better."

One day I had been out to dine and, coming home, found awaiting me the message for which eyes and heart had been looking through a time that seemed almost eternal.

That night I took the train for New York, starting out all alone again, baby and I. I was tired and sleepy, but there was such joy in my heart as I thought of soon seeing my Soldier that I did not think of my discomforts. I repeated the telegram, "Edwards is better, Edwards is better," over and over again. I sang it as a lullaby, putting baby to sleep to the measure of the happy words, "Edwards is better." Only for us was that sweet refrain. When he slept I leaned back and closed my eyes and saw a world of beauty and bloom as the glad words went dancing through my heart. Was there ever so sweet a slumber-song since babies were invented to awaken the deepest melody of mother-hearts! I went to sleep with my little one in my arms. I had not money enough to get a berth—just barely enough to buy my ticket and pay my expenses through to Montreal, Canada, at which point the telegram was dated.

When I awakened later I found that a home-spun shawl had been placed under my head. I never thought about who had been so kind, nor why the shawl was there. All my life long everyone had been thoughtful of me; things had been done for me, courtesies had been extended to me, and I had learned to accept kindnesses as only what I had a right to expect from the human race. Murmuring softly the comforting words, "Edwards is better," I turned my face over and went to sleep again on the shawl and did not awaken until my baby became restless.

We took the steamer up the Hudson from New York to Albany. My poor little baby was not well and I censured myself for having allowed him to catch cold on the train while I was sleeping. He was teething, and was very fretful. He had been used to his nurse, his black mammy, and missed her customary care and attention and was tired of me, preferring anybody else. Some philanthropic ladies on board the steamer seemed very much concerned, and at a loss to understand why he was so unhappy with me, not knowing that he was accustomed to a circle of admiring friends to whom he might appeal in turn.

"Nurse, why do you not take the child to its mother?" one would say, and a look of incredulity would follow my assertion that I was its mother. "Then, why don't you quiet the child, if you are, and find out what is the matter with it?" and so on.

I was indignant and my manner must have made them think there was something wrong with me and the child, for they followed me about, asking intrusive questions and making offensive remarks. I was walking the deck, trying to quiet him, all tired and worn out as I was, when a gentleman came up to me. On his shoulder I recognized the shawl that had been put under my head on the cars the night before. He said:

"Madam, excuse me, but I do not think you have had any dinner, and you must be worn out with hunger and fatigue from fasting and carrying the baby. Won't you let me hold him while you go down and eat something?"

Even though he carried the shawl which bespoke my faith, I was afraid to trust him with so precious a treasure, and would rather have starved than have permitted my baby to go out of my sight.

"Thank you, very much, but I could not think of troubling you," I said. "No—oh, no."

Then he asked:

"May I order something for you here?"

I was hungry, and was glad for the open way he had found for me, and said, "Yes," handing him twenty-five cents. It was all I could afford to pay for dinner, but as I looked at the tray when it was brought to me, I thought, "How cheap things must be in New York," for there were soup and fish—a kind of yellow fish I had never seen before, salmon, I afterward learned it was—stewed with green peas, a bird, asparagus, potatoes, ice-cream, a cup of coffee and a glass of sherry.

Upon his insisting that it would be restful to the baby, I let him hold little George while I ate my dinner. I had not known how hungry I was, nor how much I was in need of nourishment. Baby immediately became quiet in his arms. Whether it was due to the change or not, I do not know, but in a little while he was fast asleep. I covered him up with the shawl to which the gentleman pointed, finished eating my delicious dinner, taking my time and enjoying it, while he read his book and held my baby. When the servant came and took away the tray, I arose and, thanking the stranger for his kindness, said:

"I will take the baby now, if you please."

"If you would rather," he said, "yes, but I think he will be more comfortable with me for awhile. Then, too, you might waken him if you moved him. Let me hold him while you rest. Here is a sweet little book, if you would like to read it. I think, however, it would be better for you to rest; to sleep, if you could. You look really fagged out."

The book he gave me was a child's book—it may have been "Fern Leaves." I can't remember the name, but pasted in the book was a letter written in a child's irregular hand:

For my dear darly popsy who is gon to fite the war fum his little darly dorter little mary

Dear popsy don kill the por yangees and don let the yangees kill you my poor popsy little mary

Dear popsy com back soon to me an mama an grandad thats all. I says your prayers popsy evry day fum little mary

Beneath little Mary's name was this line:

"Little Mary died on the 16th of May, 1864—her fifth birthday."

I rested, but thought of little Mary as I watched my own baby who was sleeping so sweetly in this childless stranger's arms—till presently the waves brought back to me the days of my childhood—the story of the sailor with his stolen mill, grinding out salt, forever and forever, and the lost talisman lost still—back to my grandmother's knee, listening with wonder-eyes to "Why the sea is salt," the while my soul chanted to music those all-healing, blissful words, "Edwards is better," gaining strength for the o'erhanging trial I least dreamed of—and the shadows rose to make place for one darker still.