The days fell dark for the Confederacy. It seemed that the whole world had sprung up in arms against the South. Stronghold after stronghold was taken, and Richmond itself was threatened. No hope was left to illumine the soldier's heart; he had followed a bright phantom, year after year, expecting it to lead him out of the wilderness, but he was becoming deeper and more darkly involved in the thicket, and now the phantom was fading. In his haversack, he carried roasted acorns and pieces of sugar-cane, and his enemies, in blood his brothers, shook their heads and marveled at his courage, for he was just as ready to fight as he had been on the morning after Bull Run. To face death at morning, to shed his blood at noon, to lie down supperless upon the wet ground at night, was a duty that he was not there to question, but to discharge.

One night my master and I occupied a room in a deserted farm-house near Richmond. About us lay a broken army and the scattered fragments of a civilization.

"A few more days will settle it, I think, Dan," he said. Sitting on a box, with one leg drawn up and with his hands clasped over his knee, he was gazing at the lightwood sputtering in the fire-place, and upon his thoughtful countenance a black shadow and a yellow light alternately arose and fell. "Only a few more days and most of us may be shot or permitted to go home. Who would have believed that we could have gone through such a time since Jane stood on the stile-block waving the silk flag she had made for me. And I can't carry even a scrap of it back to her. Do you know one thing that I'm going to do if I'm permitted to go home?" he asked, his face brightening. "I am going to acknowledge to father that I was wrong, not in fighting so hard after I got in, but in permitting a glamour to blind me in the first place. The most gigantic mistake of the age. I was like you, Dan. I followed my heart rather than my judgment. But you are free. I am your master no longer. Don't turn away. I don't reproach you; I congratulate you. If any man deserves freedom, you do. Better spread the blankets and let's try to get a little sleep. We need no alarm clock to wake us up. Brother Ulysses with his cannon will see to that."

And with his cannon he did see to it. We were aroused before the break of day, and by the time the sun came up we were in the thick of a fight. There came a charge—a wild rush, sword, pistol, bayonet—and when it had swept past, I was on the ground beside the man whose fortunes I had followed. He was desperately wounded. The farm-house was turned into a hospital and I took him to the room which we had occupied the night before. The weak remnant of our army was crushed. We were prisoners.

The hour was late. Precaution no longer was necessary and camp-fires were burning everywhere. A surgeon told me that Master could not live until morning. And this was to be his end, in an old house, a prisoner, the hungry dogs howling on the hill.

"Dan," he called. I was bending over him, my face close to his. "Are you here, Dan?"

"Yes, Mars. Bob."

"It's all over, Dan. And I don't see how it could have been otherwise. I seem to have been born for this hour. Dan, I want to be buried where I fell. And tell them not to disturb me, but to let me sleep there. Bury her letters with me. Tell the old man that I love him."

Early in the morning, with the tears falling upon him, I folded his arms on his breast; and I heard a glad shout and the cry that the war was done. From an officer in command, once a neighbor, I obtained permission to bury my poor Master under an apple-tree shading the spot where he had fallen; and assisted by an old negro, I laid him to rest. My heart was so heavy that I cared not what might become of me. Judgment day had come and I was branded a sinner.

I built a fire near the grave and watched beside it a whole night, wretched, struggling with myself, feeling that I could not leave him lying there alone. In the morning I was ordered to mount a mule and drive a wagon into Richmond. As I drove along I scribbled a note to Old Master, not knowing how long I might be held, and gave it to a neighbor to give to him. Now I was in the service of the North, driving a team of mules into the city that I had striven to defend. But I liked it not. I was heart-sore to hear the babble of our creek and to look upon the colts in the pasture. And after two days of enforced labor I was permitted to turn my face homeward. I was now even worse off than the regular rebel soldier. I was looked upon with suspicion. I had no means of transportation and therefore was compelled to walk. I slept in the woods or on the road-side. Once when I went up to a house to buy food, an old man set his dog after me. My money gave out (I had started with but a few dollars, the amount earned by driving the government wagon) and now I was reduced almost to starvation. The country was destitute. Everyone looked to the army for food, and supplies were delayed. At last, after days of tramping and nights of sleepless hunger, I crossed the Kentucky line. Two more days and I should be at home.

But how cold and distant had begun to sound the word home. How time must have transformed the old place. And all the negroes were free. I scarcely could realize it. I wondered what they would do with their freedom, if they knew how to act. They could not support themselves by standing about and proclaiming themselves free. They must work and after all their liberty was to be tinged with slavery. Thus I mused as I moved with sore tread along the hard turn-pike, slowly entering the domain of my boyhood, growing heavier and sadder with the sight of each familiar object. I came to the old mill, gray and green, with roof fallen in, with cap-stones pulled down by the wanton hands that reach out to destroy when a war-storm has swept over the land. The creek sang to me, not as of yore, a sweet and poetic tune, but a sorrowful and hollow-sounding dirge.

Onward I strode, limping now, for my shoes were worn through and my feet were bleeding. The day was closing. The shadow of the trumpet vine, clustered high on the top rail of the fence, fell dark athwart the white and ghastly pike. Another rise of ground and Potter's house was thrown into view, red in the setting sun. I had to halt to calm the tumultuous beating of my heart. I wondered if the news had reached her. Surely word must have been sent from Old Master's house. But it was my duty to stop and repeat his last words, to tell her that I had buried her letters with him. I dreaded the look she would give me, the tone of her voice. Now I could see that she had been passionately fond of him. I thought of the sentence I had passed upon her nature, the complaint that I could not hold her clear in my mental gaze, and I repented of this dark injustice. Onward again I limped, my eyes low upon the white pebbles; and I did not look up until abreast of the gate. Then I found myself among a number of carriages and buggies. A score of horses were tied to the fence. An old man stood by the road-side and I addressed a question to him.

"What means all this?"

He nodded his head toward the house and thus he answered me: "Miss Jane Potter has just married a Yankee general."

I tried to run, when it seemed that I had grabbed myself up from falling, and I stumbled away down the pike. In a corner of the fence I dropped upon my knees and cried aloud. Merciful God, was the whole world false! Long I knelt there in agony, reviewing my pitiable life, with my master's image and his blood vivid before me. Merry laughter startled me to my feet. A carriage, followed by other vehicles and horses, passed briskly along; and fiercely I shook my fist at the carriage in front, and bitterly I wished for a gun, a cannon, that I might be avenged upon a black and traitorous heart.

Homeward now I turned, chilled to the core, prepared for anything. Over a fence I climbed and took a shorter way across the pastureland. Darkness had fallen and I heard old Stephen calling the sheep, to be housed for the night, safe from the ravages of prowling dogs. I came upon the little creek, weaker than far below at the old mill, but chanting the same hollow dirge. I stood upon the rock where Mr. Clem had found me with his shrewd temptation; and a little further on I came to the deep hole wherein Bob and I had sworn to drown ourselves. Here I stopped and bathed my face and hands, lingering, dreading to meet Old Master's grief-chilled eye. Fire-light came from some of the cabins, feeling its way and trembling through the darkness; but for the most part the negro quarter appeared deserted.

The door of the "big house" stood open and the hall lamp was burning. With dragging feet I climbed the steps and raised the brass knocker, the familiar old dragon's head, but did not let it fall; so much was I in dread of its startling alarm. I stepped back to go round to the rear veranda, when Old Miss came out of the library. She saw me and her cry pierced my heart. Oh, how wretched she looked and how feeble! And how weak was that cry, a mere whisper; but it rang in my ears night and day for many a month. I believe she would have fallen, I thought she was falling and I put out my hands and caught her, eased her upon the hall settee and fanned her with my hat.

"Go," she said, motioning me away, "go to your Old Master. He is dying in his room up stairs. Wait, let me send him word. He was afraid you wouldn't get here. May, May!" she called, "go and tell him Dan has come."

Miss May, pale and tear-stricken, had stepped out of the parlor. She grasped my hand and then hastened up the stairs.

"Elliot brought the news," said Old Miss, leaning back against the wall. "And May went over—over to tell 'her.' Infamous creature, she was making preparations for her wedding. Oh, this world, this world! Oh, my son, if I could only call him back!" She looked at me with her head turned to listen for Miss May's footsteps. "I have been the most miserable woman in the world, and a thousand times I have prayed for death." Her eyes grew brighter. She straightened up with pride. "But he died like a hero. Tell me about him."

I told her how he had fallen; and when I mentioned the letters that were put into the grave with him, she cleared her throat with the old dry rasp.

"How long has Master been sick?" I asked, wishing to change the subject.

"A long time, but the doctors did not give him up until the day before yesterday. They might have known at first that there was no hope for him. Why should there be any hope for him or for anyone? Why can't we all get out of this miserable world and be done with it?"

"Have many of the negroes gone away?" I asked.

"No, not many. We have hired most of them to work the land. I don't see much difference in them. They are as near no account as they can be."

"It will take them some time to adjust themselves to their freedom," I remarked.

"Freedom!" she repeated with a sneer. "They can never adjust themselves to it. They think it means a privilege to take whatever they can lay hands on."

Titine was in my mind, but I was afraid to ask about her. She had treated me with scorn when I was well dressed, and now I must be far below her contempt.

"Do you want me to remain and take charge of things about the place?"

"No," she said, with sharp emphasis, "you must go away and let me die in peace, or as near in peace as possible, for I shall never know a moment's ease. Looking back, it seems that I was born wretched; and yet I know that I was happy until treachery—but I will say nothing. Oh, this miserable world!" She swayed herself to and fro, her lips tightly drawn, her eyes hard-set. "But an end of it all will come sooner or later, and then we can say that it all amounted to nothing—that it was all a nightmare. Here comes your Miss May."

"Walk as softly as you can," Miss May said to me, and then looking down, she added: "Poor fellow, you couldn't make a noise with those tattered feet."

I followed her up the stairs, through the hall where so often I had found the old man walking in the dead silence of the night—followed her into the room opposite our "office." At a glance I saw my young master's canopied bed; and upon it lay the old man, propped high with pillows.

"Come here, Dan," he commanded. His voice was weak, but I was surprised at its clearness. "May, leave us alone, please."

I knelt beside the bed. I took one of his hands and he gave me the other, looking at me with an ashen smile. "Dan, I was determined not to die until I had seen you and I have compelled them to leave me alone most of the time. I was afraid of company—afraid that it might lead my mind off and let death sneak up and master me. I was so determined to live, that nothing but my own mind could have killed me."

How changed he was, even aside from the ravages of disease. His hair was perfectly white and his teeth were gone. His eyes were sunken, but they were still sharp.

"I did not believe he would ever come home, Dan. Something kept on telling me that he would not, morning, noon and night. When we knew that the war could certainly last but a few days more, I took hope; but that something was louder than ever, dinging my boy's death in my ears. So I was not greatly surprised when Elliot came with the news. He gave me your note and told me how he died—like a Gradley and a man. In your note you said—I have it under my pillow—that he told you to say that he loved me. God bless him."

"Master, he told me more than the note contained. He said that if he lived to get home, he would acknowledge to you that he was wrong."

He broke down at this and I wiped the tears out of his eyes.

"He didn't owe me any apology; he had as much right to his opinion as I had to mine. Some of the noblest minds and kindest hearts in the country went wrong. Don't tell me anything he said that bordered on an apology. He should not have apologized. In my heart I forgave him a thousand times; and, night after night, I sat in his room, reading his books. When I was taken down I had them bring his bed in here that I might die on it. Yes, we were all wrong," he said, pressing my hands. "Dan, lean over." My face was almost touching his, and I trembled violently. "You know the hoof-marks on the stairs—you know that I killed Solomon Putnam. But you never knew why."

"No, sir; no one ever told me."

"No one knew. Dan, your mother was a beautiful woman. Titine reminds me of her. Did anyone ever tell you that your mother was handsome?"

"Yes, sir, an old negro man, a long time ago."

"Dan, that scoundrel offered to buy your mother. I scorned his money and he poisoned her. And I sent him word that I would kill him on sight; and he rode up the stairs, drunk, to kill me in my bed. I raised myself up and shot him—Dan, lean over further. My life has been miserable and I am—I am the author of all your misery. There, don't pull away from me. Put your head on this old breast for a moment. My poor boy—I have been a disgrace unto myself and the cause of your humiliation. But I have loved you and have shown it whenever I could without bringing a cruelty down upon your head. My poor wife—God forgive me—always strongly suspected, but she did not know. She hated you and who could blame her? That scoundrel Bates kept her mind on fire with insinuations—He was afraid to tell her outright. A thousand times I have been tempted to tell her and beg her forgiveness, but the quality of forgiveness was always a stranger to her heart. She has had enough to harden her against the world and I am going to beg her for mercy as I would beg at the Judgment seat. Dan, I have no money to leave you. The farm is mortgaged. All I can leave is the love and the blessing of a wretched old man, a sinner. Is that someone at the door?"

I opened the door. Old Miss and Miss May came in. They drew near to the bedside and stood there, seeing that the hour of parting was not far off.

"I was afraid of some sudden shock," said the old woman, and she looked hard at me. "Shall we go out again?" she asked, smoothing back Old Master's white hair.

"No," he said, his voice feebler than when he had spoken last. He motioned to her and she sat down beside him. Miss May was at the foot of the bed with her face buried in the covers. A few moments passed and he strove to talk, but the power of speech was gone. Several of the neighbors had come to see him, and they were admitted to the death-room, though the old man had passed beyond the border line of consciousness. His breathing grew heavier and, toward dawn, he fell asleep. I stood and gazed upon him with a new reverence, a strange and half frightened affection. The revelation did not come to me as a great surprise; it was as plain to me as to the reader who has followed me through these memoirs; but I had not permitted myself to muse upon it; there was always something so startling in the thought.

I turned to go and Old Miss followed me down the stairs, and in the hall she bade me wait a moment. I stood near the door, in the gray light, she halting near me; and her eyes were dry.

"What did he tell you?" she asked.

"Madam, for mercy sake don't ask me to repeat it."

"Madam!" she said bitterly. "You are drinking your freedom fast. But have you lost your sense of obedience, and at such a time as this?"

"I would rather not tell you."

"But I command you."

"Then you shall know. He told me that he was my father."

It seemed a long time before she spoke again. She stood looking at me. "You have been the humiliation and the bitterness of my life," she said. "The first sight of you gave me a shudder, and never since then have I known a moment of peace. I brooded in a doubt worse than a certainty—I could not find out the truth. And but for my children I would have drowned myself. Yes, you have been the humiliation and the bitterness of my life. Now go."

"Yes, I will go—But did you ever stop to reflect that while I might have been a humiliation and a bitterness, it was not my fault?"

"I thought of nothing but my own shame and my own bitterness. Go, and I hope never to see you again."

"Just one moment. There is something that I ought to tell you. I told Old Master before I went into the army. Young master did not kill Dr. Bates. I killed him to save my own life, and Master, knowing that they would hang me, took the blood upon himself."

"Then you shall be tried for murder!" the old woman said. "I will go and have you arrested," She turned her back upon me. "Sam," she called. "Sam, where are you?"

"Wait a moment before you send for an officer," said I. She faced me again, frowning. "You must know," said I, speaking as kindly as I could, "that you have no law to take hold of me now. The strong arm of the North has freed me, though I opposed it, and now it declares me the equal of any man before the law. It says that if I am innocent I shall be protected, and I am innocent. You could not have me arrested in the first place, and, even if you could, it would not be in good taste at this time. You have told me of the bitterness of your life, but I have not told you of the misery of mine. You—but I will charge my misery to nature. Good-bye, and in all truth I hope that God may bless you."

I stepped out upon the portico; and—and there in the growing light stood Titine. My breath came with a gasp as I beheld her. She looked at me, looked at my tattered feet and covered her face with her hands.

"Titine, I must now say good-bye forever."

She looked up. There was heaven in her eyes. "No," she said. "No, you are not to say good-bye. I am going with you."

"What!" I cried, almost choking with emotion.

"I am going with you. I would rather go to perdition with you than to be separated from you again." She caught my hand and held it and I stood there trembling. "You told me of your love and now I am going to tell you of mine," she said. "My soul has wept over you, and in the night my heart has cried aloud. I am going with you."

I put my arms about her, thanking God that I was alive, but almost unable to believe my senses. And then my condition smote me. "But I am a pauper, Titine. I am a penniless tramp and the dogs bark at me."

"You are not a pauper," she said. "Wait a moment."

She ran up the stairs and soon returned with a pocket-book.

"Take it," she said, handing it to me. "I have saved it for you. And now, let us go away from this desolate place—away off somewhere into the world of freedom and love."

And with my arm about her, we stepped forth into the light of a new day, our faces turned toward the rising sun.

* * * * *

I sit here to-night in my Ohio home, and I look at a portrait on the wall, enlarged from a powder-blackened photograph that I brought with me, when foot-sore and heart-heavy, I walked from Richmond to my desolate birth-place in Kentucky. And here beside the portrait is the picture of a monument and an apple-tree. I hear my daughter at the piano, and I hear Titine singing a mellow song of the long ago. It has been a night of company at my house, and some of the younger guests have lingered into this late hour, for the occasion is one of exceeding cheer. Early in the evening a committee called to inform me of what I knew full well, my re-election to Congress.

THE END.