I had no stateroom in the Lake Champlain steamer, and my little sick baby and its poor tired mother were very thankful when, after the long, dreary night, they welcomed the dawn of day which counted them many miles nearer to their Mecca.

I have forgotten the name of the place from which we took the train for Montreal after leaving the steamer, but I remember a fact of more consequence concerning it—that it was the wrong place.

On reaching the Canada side the passengers were summoned to the custom-house office to have their baggage examined, and I, with my carpet-bag, basket and baby, followed my fellow travelers. When my turn came I handed the officer my keys and checks, which, after a glance, he gave back to me, saying with haste and indifference, as if it might have been the most trivial of matters:

"Your luggage has been left on the States side. Your checks were not exchanged."

Taking the wrong train at the wrong point put me into Montreal later than I was expected, but I religiously followed instructions to remain on the train which stopped over at Montreal, until I should be claimed, like a general delivery letter.

Every passenger had left the coach, and baby and I were alone. I was waiting and watching breathlessly for my claimant, when my hungry eyes caught sight of three gentlemen coming straight toward me. It was with but a languid interest that I regarded them, for I had preconceived convictions as to the appearance of the one who should assert proprietary rights over me, and none of these newcomers seemed at first glance adapted to respond to those convictions. The face of one seemed rather familiar, but I was not sure, so I drew my little baby closer to me and looked the other way. I felt them coming, and felt them stop by my side.

"What will you have of me?" I asked.

There were tears in the eyes of the gentleman whose face had seemed familiar, and the next minute baby and I were in his great strong arms, and his tender voice was reproachfully asking:

"Don't you know your husband, little one?"

I was looking for my Soldier as I had been used to seeing him—dressed in the dear old Confederate uniform, and with his hair long and curling. The beautiful hair had been trimmed, and while he was not subject to the limitations of Samson in the matter of personal strength, a critical observer might have detected variations in personal beauty. An English civilian suit of rough brown cloth had replaced the old Confederate gray.

The two gentlemen with him were Mr. Corse, a banker, a brother of one of my Soldier's brigadiers, and Mr. Symington, of Baltimore, a refugee. I noticed that these gentlemen called my Soldier "Mr. Edwards" and me "Mrs. Edwards," which made me feel somewhat strange and unnatural. I may have reflected that I was in a foreign country, and very far north of our old home, and perhaps even people's names were affected by political and climatic conditions.

I had expected my Soldier to take us to a quiet little room in some unpretentious boarding-house, but was too tired to express my surprise when we were driven in a handsome carriage to a palatial home, with beautiful grounds, fountain and flowers. A big English butler with side-whiskers opened the large carved doors, and a pretty girl in a cap took baby from my arms.

After that I remember only being tired—so tired—so very tired. When I had rested enough to think again, I was on a sofa dressed in a pretty, soft, silken robe, and I heard a kind voice saying:

"The lady is better; she will be all right. Let her sleep."

Glancing up, I saw a benevolent-looking old gentleman and a pair of spectacles. I closed my eyes and heard the gentleman with the familiar face say such beautiful things, and his voice and touch thrilled my heart so that I kept my eyes shut and never wanted to open them again; and presently the pretty girl with the cap on came in with baby in her arms, dressed in a beautiful robe.

"Ze petite enfant—very much no hungry now—he eat trÈs pap—he sleep—he wash—he dress—he eat trÈs much. He no hungry; he eat some more trÈs much again. He smile; he now no very much hungry again some more."

Was I in the land of fairies, and was the gentleman with the familiar face the prince of fairies, as he was the prince of lovers? Our baby's outstretched arms and cry for me as he recognized me dispelled any such delusion, but I was too tired to hold out my hands to him. I soon felt his little face, however, nestling close against my own, and felt, too, the touch of yet another face, and heard the same voice which had made my heart thrill with bliss whisper again more things like unto those other things it had whispered, but I was too tired and too happy to speak, and my blessings seemed too sacred to open my eyes upon, so I kept them closed. When the old English physician came in the next day he said:

"Ah, ha! Ah, ha! The lady is most well. Keep on feeding her and sleeping her. She is half-starved, poor lady, and half-dazed, too, by sleeplessness. Ah, ha! Ah, ha! Poor lady! That will do—feed her and sleep her; feed her and sleep her. Ah, ha! Ah, ha! that's all."

When the old doctor was gone I remember listening for the tread of the sentinel outside—confusing the "ah, ha! ah, ha!" with the tramp, tramp, tramp—and as I asked, the question brought back the memory that the war was over, the guns were stacked, the camp was broken, and my Soldier of the sweet face was all my very own. I looked around inquiringly and up into the familiar face for answer, and he, my Soldier, a General no longer, explained our pleasant surroundings. His old friends, Mr. and Mrs. James Hutton, he said, had been suddenly summoned to England, and had prayed him, as a great favor to them, to be their guest until their return, as otherwise the delay to make the necessary arrangements for their going would prevent their catching the first steamer. Thus we had a beautiful home in which to rest, to grow well and strong, to forget all that could be forgotten of the past, and to enjoy the present.

While in Canada we received letters telling us of the troubles that had come upon our people after the close of the war, but the saddest news was of the suffering of Mr. Davis for whole generations of national mistakes. Captain Bright, who had served on my Soldier's staff, wrote that, through his kinsman, the surgeon in charge of Fortress Monroe, he had been permitted to see Mr. Davis.

He arrived at the Fortress on the morning that the fetters had been removed from the ankles of the feeble old man by order of the physician, because they endangered the life of one so ill and weak, and was told by the surgeon that the only way for him to see Mr. Davis was to accompany the surgeon on his rounds, when he could see all the patients, the ex-President among the rest.

The captain followed the surgeon until he came to the imprisoned chief. The face of Mr. Davis was turned from the door and the visitor stood for a moment silently observing the great change in the man whom he had last seen as the President of the Confederacy. Then he stepped forward and laid his hand on the arm of Mr. Davis.

"Mr. President!" he said reverently.

Mr. Davis looked up quickly.

"I am Robert Bright, of General Pickett's staff."

The hand of the prisoner closed warmly over the one lying upon his arm. "He looked into my face as if a miracle had been performed," wrote Captain Bright.

"My own! One of my own again!" said Mr. Davis, in that musical voice that held a note of heart-break always after the fall of the Confederacy—a cadence which deepened and saddened his melodious tones until they were merged into the perfect symphony of the greater life.

In his loneliness he had so yearned for some one who had belonged to him—some one who had taken part with him in that short-lived, tragic dream-nation for which the South had given her blood and treasure—that his heart leaped up to meet the sympathy of the tender, reverent voice.

The surgeon came up to make his morning examination. At sight of him the light in the sad face died away and the look of helpless suffering returned. Having finished his work the surgeon said:

"Come, Captain."

"And is this all?" asked Mr. Davis, as his visitor passed on and again reverently touched his arm.

"I would have given my whole fortune," wrote the captain, who had just succeeded to an inheritance of considerable value, "to have stayed there in his place and let him go free."

"There is not one of us in all the South, not a soldier of us, who would not gladly take his place and save him from humiliation and suffering," said my Soldier, looking up from the letter.

Captain Bright pleaded with his kinsman to let him make another visit and stay long enough to speak some word of cheer to his heartbroken chief.

"I do not think that I can," said the surgeon. "The risk to us all would be too great."

"I do not see any risk," was the reply. "The whole place is double-guarded. Neither that poor old feeble man nor I could possibly get away."

As the surgeon really wished to serve his kinsman, not only in return for past favors but to be gracious as a host, after reflection he said:

"To-morrow when I make my rounds I will try to arrange to leave you there till I return."

The next day the captain went into the cell and the surgeon, closing the door, turned to the sentinel and said:

"Guard that door well and see that it is not opened until I come back. That man in there is my relation, but we must not trust him too far."

Having thus secured for the caller an uninterrupted interview with Mr. Davis, the surgeon continued on his way.

"Mr. Davis, I have only a few moments before the doctor finishes his round. Can I do anything for you?—anything? Tell me, quick."

"No; there is nothing, my young friend—nothing; but I thank you for the wish."

The captain took from his pocket a cheque-book and pencil, saying:

"Write on the backs of these cheques any messages or letters you may want to send and I will see that they reach their destination."

Mr. Davis replied:

"I cannot do that. No; you would be risking your life."

"I have risked my life before and now would risk my soul for you. But there is no danger, Mr. President."

Mr. Davis wrote messages on three of the cheques, one to Senator Wall, of New Jersey, one to a friend in Pennsylvania, a third to another friend whose name I have forgotten.

"You can write to Mrs. Davis that you have seen me. Take my love to all my friends. I leave them in God's care. This means to me more than all the doctor's medicine—this one glimpse of one who says, 'Mr. President'—who comes to me and recognizes all that I have tried to do for my people."

Just as the cheque-book was returned to its place the surgeon came in, looking at him suspiciously. Seeing nothing, and knowing that there was no pen, ink or paper in the room, he went out, followed by the visitor.

Early next day Captain Bright left for Williamsburg. When he and the surgeon were on the wharf some soldiers came forward.

"Halt!" commanded the captain.

"What does this mean?" asked the surgeon.

"We are ordered to search this gentleman," was the explanation.

"This gentleman is my kinsman and my guest," said the surgeon.

After consultation with the officers the embarrassment was relieved by the countermanding of the order and Captain Bright departed with the precious messages in his pocket.

"The feeling of fear," he wrote, "came to me for the first time in all my life; not for myself but for that beloved old man who is dear now to us all."

Mr. Davis had not lived through those terrible four years without making enemies. Who in such a position could? But when he was made to suffer for the mistakes of the whole nation, every Southern heart went out in love to him, regardless of past antagonisms. All personal animosities, all political differences were forgotten, and the people were united in a loving sympathy with the toil-worn, feeble, sorrowful old man, as they never could have been by any gifts or favors which he might have heaped upon them had he won not only the object for which he had given his life, but the gold and jewels of a kingdom.

A generation later, when the people of the South met in Richmond to dedicate a monument to Jefferson Davis, they did not hold first in their hearts the memory of the statesman, the orator, the gracious gentleman, the President of the Confederacy. Above all the pictures that came thronging before them, as they recalled the life history of the man in whose honor they had met, was that scene in the gloomy cell and that bowed and feeble old man with the wounds of the irons upon him, in whose sad eyes the light of love shone as he reached out to greet a messenger of his own people and said brokenly: "My own! One of my own!"