/ 
 
 THE WIVERS/TV OP 
 NORTH CAROLINA '^ 
 LIBRARY 
 
 THE WILVfER COLLFr-r,^ 
 ^'\IL ft AR NOVELS 
 PRESENTED BY 
 R'CHARD H. WLMER, jr. 
 
j^gjAEAGOU^^I 
 
 \ 
 
/ 
 
CAMERON HALL: 
 
 A STORY OF THE CIVIL WAR. 
 
 BY 
 
 M. A. C. 
 
 AUTHOR or " THE UTTLE EPISCOPALIAN," " BESSIE MELVnXB," ETC. 
 
 War, 
 Grim-visag'd, fierce, relentless War 
 Hath ravag'd all our land ! Fields, which once 
 Smiled in the beauty of the early spring, 
 Or waved with golden grain in harvest-time. 
 Are desolate and waste. Homes, which once 
 Kesounded with the mirth of joy and song. 
 Are voiceless now, and still. Hearts, which once 
 "Were glad and bright as our own sunny skies. 
 Are cold, and dark, and dead ! Land, homes, and hearts 
 Alike are desolate ! 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 
 
 18 67. 
 
Entered, according to the Act of Congress, in the year 18G6, by 
 
 MARY A. CRUSE, 
 
 In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
 
 Northern District of Alabama. 
 
TO 
 
 # 
 
 MRS. L. :N'. WALTHALL, 
 
 OP MAMON, AXABAMA, 
 
 father's friend, 
 
 f StAiCKit t%x^ Volume, 
 
 AS A GRATEFUL AC KK W LEDGM E N T 
 
 OF KINDNESS WHICH CAN BE 
 
 NEITHER REPAID NOR FORGOTTEN. 
 
 (iii) 
 
 602794 
 
TO THE READER. 
 
 X 
 
 The following story was completed several months before the 
 termination of the war, the result of which, so different from our 
 anticipations, seemed at first to necessitate a change, or at least 
 a modification of many of the opinions and hopes confidently 
 expressed by some of the characters. Upon reflection, however, 
 it was decided to leave it as it is ; a truthful picture as it is 
 believed to be, not only of scenes and events which occurred im- 
 mediately around the author's home, but also of the inner 
 thoughts and feelings, the hopes and expectations, in a word, 
 the animus of the Southern heart. In the delineation of scenes, 
 all exaggeration has been avoided, and a middle ground has 
 been taken. One section of the country will most probably 
 pronounce them overdrawn; the other, alas! will know and 
 feel that " the half has not been told." 
 
 I send my book out, neither challenging nor fearing criticism. 
 It pretends to have no great literary merit ; but it does 'claim 
 to belong rather to truth than to fiction, and this claim will be 
 acknowledged by thousands of hearts in this, our land. 
 
 M. A. C. 
 
 HuNTSViLLE, Ala., 
 
 March, 1866. 
 
 1* (v) 
 
CAMERON HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A PLEASANT, old-fashioned Yirginia country house was Came- 
 ron Hall ; not old fashioned in the English sense of the word, 
 with the clustering ivy, the growth of centuries, clinging to its 
 moss-grown walls, but old fashioned in the meaning of that word 
 in this country of rapid progress and development. The Hall 
 had been built by Mr. Cameron's grandfather, and was therefore 
 regarded in this new world of ours as a very old mansion. The 
 present proprietor had no sympathy with that restless propensity 
 to modernize, that is so -common in this age and land. He was 
 content with the old homestead as it was, and the associations, 
 which extended far back to his early childhood and infancy, were 
 more valuable to him than those so-called modern improvements 
 by which the old house, as if ashamed of what in reality made it 
 venerable, should, .like the frail old devotee of fashion, seek to 
 hide its age beneath a fictitious show of youth. The old-fash- 
 ioned appearance of the Hall was not unlike its old-fashioned 
 hospitality ; and in winter none remembered that the spacious fire- 
 place was old fashioned when its blazing fire of hickory logs diflfused 
 warmth and cheerfulness through its spacious rooms, nor in sum- 
 mer, when its windows, opening down to the floor upon a pleas- 
 ant veranda, gave free admission to the cool country breeze, did 
 any recollect that those windows were too narrow and the panes 
 of glass too small to meet the requirements of modern architec- 
 ture. At all times and seasons its wide-spread doors were open 
 to receive the many guests who were not unwilling to accept its 
 invitations ; and the Christmas festivities and the summer parties 
 at Cameron Hall afforded both present enjoyment and pleasing 
 memories to all who participated in them. 
 
 Mr. Cameron's was one of those calm, unrufiled spirits whose 
 equanimity is not easily disturbed. His was a quiet rather than 
 an enthusiastic temperament, and he found in his own home, and 
 in his domestic circle, all the earthly happiness that he desired. 
 
 (t) 
 
8 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 The stream of his life had always flowed with a gentle current, 
 for although he had his trials like other men, still he bore with 
 patient fortitude what would have chafed and fretted a more rest-- 
 less disposition; and those who looked upon his placid face often 
 attributed to prosperous circumstances a serenity which was in 
 truth mainly due to his own even temper. 
 
 His wife was, by nature, a gentle, dependent woman, and made 
 still more so by disease and weakness ; but she leaned with un- 
 swerving trust upon the strong arm and the strong love that had 
 supported her for so many years, and the life that might other- 
 wise have been wearisome if not intolerable, was rendered as 
 calm and peaceful as unwearied attention and gentle offices could 
 make it. As husband and wife, there was nothing to disturb the 
 serenity of their happiness ; but as father and mother, they had 
 much to cause anxiety and to cloud their hearts. 
 
 Their family consisted of two sons and two daughters. 
 
 George, the eldest, was a wayward, moody, self-willed boy, one 
 of those incomprehensible freaks of nature, which makes one mem- 
 ber of the family circle utterly unlike all the rest, inheriting the 
 disposition of neither father nor mother, and developing from the 
 same training with the others, entirely different results. His 
 mother had tried every kind of discipline with him, until, worn 
 out in the unequal conflict, rendered still more unequal by her 
 weakness and shattered nerves, she had at last given up every- 
 thing except praying for him and loving him. He was now a 
 tall, stalwart youth, robust and well made, and but for the dark 
 frown that generally clouded his brow, he would have been ex- 
 tremely handsome. In his intercourse with his younger brother 
 and sisters, there was nothing kind or endearing. On the con- 
 trary, he had ruled them all with a rod of iron, until they had 
 learned to regard him with mingled fear and dislike. 
 
 The little Julia was a gentle, thoughtful child, several years 
 younger than George. She had been, all her life, the companion 
 of her invalid mother, and had learned in her sick-room to be 
 quiet beyond her years. The circumstances of her childhood had 
 conspired to render her mature and womanly. Whenever her 
 mother was confined to her bed,^she was the housekeeper; and 
 the pleasure, and pride that she felt when her father called her 
 "his little woman," urged her, even in early childhood, to emu- 
 late those virtues and perform those duties which belonged to her 
 mother. 
 
 Walter, the third child, was five years old ; a thorough boy, 
 full of fun and frolic and noise, shouting and hallooing all day 
 long in the exuberance of life and animal spirits, and bounding 
 and rushing through the house, with his dog Carlo at his heels, 
 
CAMERON HALL. 9 
 
 until his mother's nerves could bear no more, and she would offer 
 him a reward (which he was never known to win) if he would sit 
 still one half hour. Unlike his brother, he was social in his dis- 
 position, and as he found in George a tyrannical ruler rather than 
 an elder brother, and as he could not be interested in Julia's quiet 
 amusements, he was thrown upon his baby-sister, Eva, for society, 
 and these two, the youngest of the family, were inseparable. 
 
 Eva was just three years old, and tottered about all day long 
 at Walter's side. When she grew tired, he used to put her into 
 her little carriage and pull her about, under the supervision of 
 Mammy Nancy, the old nurse ; but one day when she was out of 
 sight, Master Walter slipped his little sister hastily into the carriage, 
 and, promising her " a splendid ride," went tearing along furiously 
 down the graveled carriage-way that led from the house to the 
 gate of the lawn. Of course the carriage was upset, and Eva's 
 screams brought Mammy Nancy to the spot, where she found the 
 little culprit trembling with terror, and wiping away the blood 
 from his sister's face. Since that time he had been forbidden 
 ever to "play horse" again to Eva's carriage; and afraid now 
 ever to trust the two children together out of her sight, the 
 limbs of the old nurse often ached in her vain effort to follow 
 them in their ceaseless round. And so it came to pass that the 
 little maiden Julia frequently offered to relieve Mammy, by taking 
 charge of Eva ; and as she could be implicitly trusted, she very 
 soon established her claim to be as good a nurse for the baby as 
 she was for her mother. 
 
 Her quiet and gentle firmness soon gave her a sort of motherly 
 authority and Influence, not only over her baby-sister, but also 
 over Walter, who, though only three years younger than her- 
 self, always acknowledged her supremacy, and obeyed her when 
 he only laughed at his old nurse. 
 
 Eva, the joyous little Eva, was the sunbeam of the household. 
 Sunny-faced, sunny-haired, sunny-hearted, she seemed the very 
 embodiment of sunshine. The merry laugh, however loud and 
 ringing, never disturbed her mother, or jarred her nerves, and 
 the little face, always smiling, and set in a frame-work of fair 
 clustering curls, was ever welcome. Nobody ever passed her 
 without a caress : sometimes a kiss, sometimes a gentle tap upon 
 the plump, white neck, or a pull at her curls, and sometimes only 
 a word ; but in return she always gave a bright, arch look from 
 her brown eyes, or a happy smile. Her brother George was the 
 only one who ever passed her without notice, and from him she 
 always seemed to shrink. He did not often make any overtures 
 to her, and when he did, it always galled and fretted him to see 
 that she resisted all his efforts to make friends with her. She 
 
10 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 was afraid of him, and whenever she saw him coming, she would 
 hide her head in Mammy Xaney's lap, or under Julia's apron. 
 
 As to Walter, he did not love his brother, but, true boy that he 
 was, he was not afraid of him. While the difference in their 
 ages would, under any circumstances, have prevented them from 
 being companions, yet there were many ways in which George, 
 as the elder brother, might have won the little Walter's heart 
 and made him love him. But the reverse was the case ; and 
 sometimes, either to assert the authority to which he thought his 
 superior age entitled him, or else from an innate love of seeing 
 others unhappy, George invaded Walter's domain and inter- 
 fered with his amusements. In these contests, Walter was of 
 course always worsted ; but, undaunted and defiant still, he as- 
 serted his rights just as boldly the next time, to find himself again 
 overcome by superior strength. Sometimes, stung by a sense of 
 injustice and wrong, and unable to defend himself, the little 
 Walter appealed to his mother ; but Julia, seeing how sick and 
 exhausted she invariably was after one of those scenes with 
 George, tried herself to be first Walter's champion, and after- 
 ward a peace-maker, and was generally unsuccessful in both ca- 
 pacities. 
 
 All through the years of his childhood, Mr. Cameron had 
 watched this son with anxiety, but as in all the circumstances of 
 life he was accustomed to be serene and hopeful, so he was now. 
 Like his wife, he too had tried every kind of discipline ; he had 
 tried first to make him love him, and then to fear him, had ap- 
 pealed to all that might be noble and generous in his nature, and 
 afterward had tried the effect of severity. He did not know 
 what else to do now except to wait patiently for results which 
 he could not but acknowledge were long in coming. George was 
 now old enough to be somewhat of a companion for his father, 
 who thought that to place hini on an equality with himself, to 
 discuss his plans with him, and to interest him in his business 
 affairs might, by making him realize that he was one day to be a 
 man like his father, and even to take his father's place, fire his 
 ambition to emulate the virtues of manhood ; but it was all of no 
 avail. He sought George's society, offered to participate in his 
 amusements, and treated him not only as a son but as an equal 
 too ; but the boy could not be won. Generally sullen and moody, 
 he seemed to want no society, and yet this habitual temper was 
 sometimes lighted up by a vivacity and sprightliness which showed 
 how much there was both of mind and of the capacity to please, 
 if he only chose to exercise it. Even at this early age, called by 
 common consent "the awkward age," George Cameron showed, 
 when he pleased, much of his father's courtesy and ease of man- 
 
CAMERON HALL. 11 
 
 ner; and if his hnmor prompted, could make himself as agreeable 
 to the guests of his father and mother as to those of his own age. 
 But these occasional and fitful gleams were like the fringe of sun- 
 light upon the thunder-cloud, showing how dark and impenetra- 
 ble must be the veil which can hide so much light. 
 
 The only use that George seemed to have for his kind, was to 
 tyrannize. He loved to be supreme, to control; not only him- 
 self to know his power, but to make others feel it too. It was an 
 unnatural and enormous development of that feeling which be- 
 longs to man, which was implanted in his nature for wise pur- 
 poses, and, if properly restrained, will produce wise and beneficial 
 results. Man's consciousness and love of power is, when prop- 
 erly exercised, one of the noblest elements of his manhood. It 
 gives stability, firmness, self-reliance to him who needs them all, 
 not only for himself, but also for that weaker sex whom God has 
 intrusted to his keeping : but unrestrained or abused, it allies 
 him who was "made in God's own image," to those fallen spirits 
 whose love of power was their ruin. 
 
 George tyrannized over all who came within his reach, and the 
 contests between Walter and himself became more instead of less 
 frequent, as they grew older. In one, the love of power was 
 strengthened by daily indulgence; and in the other, a determined 
 resistance grew stronger iu* proportion as he learned better his 
 own rights and the injustice of his brother's usurpation. 
 
 Mr. Cameron saw it all with pain. He was too just a man, 
 too true a father, to allow the stronger child to oppress the 
 weaker, and whenever he knew it he interfered ; but his efforts 
 with George had all been so fruitless, and his conflicts with him 
 were so painful, that, disheartened and discouraged, he tried not 
 to see these childish difficulties, and to allow the children to settle 
 them themselves. 
 
 This son, the first born, was the only domestic sorrow that Mr. 
 Cameron had ever known. The bond between himself and his 
 wife was a marriage in the true sense of the word. They were 
 one in heart and soul, in interests and sympathies, and the fervor 
 of youthful passion, unhke the foam^crest upon the wave which 
 leaves no trace behind, had been rather like a little rill, which, as 
 years passed on, had deepened and widened into a quiet and sub- 
 dued, but a strong, full current of affection. She had now been 
 so long an invalid that the anxieties which he felt at first were 
 all gone. She had been spared so long, and from year to year 
 was so little changed in appearance, that her husband, clinging 
 to her with the hope that always sustained him, seemed to forget 
 that disease, unchecked, must at last sap the foundations of life. 
 She was not always confined to her bed, or even to her room, and 
 
12 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 if her wasted form and pallid cheek sometimes excited his fears, 
 they were soon allayed by her uncomplaining patience and uniform 
 cheerfulness. 
 
 And so it had gona on for years. She still loved to see her 
 friends, and to have them in her house, although her days of 
 health and strength were gone; and no child enjoyed the Christ- 
 mas-tree, and the Christmas dance after it, more than the in- 
 valid mother, who, wrapped in shawls and seated close by the 
 fire, watched the bright eyes and the happy faces of childhood, 
 and whose kindly heart kindled with the pleasure that was re- 
 flected from theirs. 
 
 One day, in the early summer, Julia, Walter, and Eva were 
 sitting on the lawn upon the grass under an oak-tree. Walter 
 was making curls of dandelion stalks, which his sister fastened in 
 among Eva's curls, while Julia herself was twining a wreath 
 with which to surmount the whole, and thus arrayed, the child 
 was to be taken in to see mamma and Mammy Nancy. Julia 
 and Walter were very busy, when the former felt Eva creep up 
 close to her side, and the little head was nestled against her 
 shoulder. Julia looked round and saw George coming toward 
 them. 
 
 "Don't be afraid, baby," she whispered ; "he won't hurt you." 
 
 Walter now looked up from his w&ck and squared himself for 
 the approaching contest, for experience had taught him that 
 whenever he and George were together, such a result was inevi- 
 table. 
 
 Julia patted him on the head, and said : 
 
 "Be a quiet, good boy now, Walter. Go on making your 
 curls, and don't notice George. Perhaps he won't say anything 
 to vou." 
 
 The child did not reply, but he gave a little defiant toss of his 
 head, which said plainly that he intended to maintain his rights 
 if it should become necessary. 
 
 George came along, apparently not intending to stop; but 
 when he saw Walter's work, he paused, and said disdainfully: 
 
 " Turning girl, Walter, are you ? I always thought that it was 
 a pity you had not been born a girl, you love to stay with them 
 so much, and try so hard to be like them." 
 
 He well knew how this taunt would exasperate the child, who, 
 with true boyish nature, would rather be called anything in the 
 world than a girl. His face grew red and his eyes filled, but he 
 choked back the tears which he knew would only bring a repeti- 
 tion of the hateful epithet. He sprang from his seat, dashed his 
 dandelion curls upon the ground, and, planting himself firmly and 
 squarely before his antagonist, he said, half crying ; 
 
CAMERON HALL. 13 
 
 " I would rather be a girl — yes, I would rather be two girls — 
 than to be such a cross boy as you are. If ever I grow up to be 
 like you, I'd be sorry sure enough that God didn't make me a 
 
 girl !" 
 
 George held in his hand a willow twig, and his only reply to 
 the child was a contemptuous flourish of it, which, either acci- 
 dentally or otherwise, stung Walter's hand severely. He cried 
 out with the pain, and Julia, jumping up and placing herself be- 
 fore Walter, exclaimed indignantly : 
 
 • *' For shame ! for shame ! you are a coward to treat a little boy 
 so, and you shan't do it if I can help it ! If you want to strike, 
 strike, but Walter shall not feel it." 
 
 So saying, she planted herself so as to shield him; but there 
 was no need now. George forgot Walter altogether in his rage 
 at being called a coward by such a child as Julia, and this time, 
 intentionally, the switch cut her severely across the face, leaving 
 a bright red mark. 
 
 She screamed with the pain, and then hot, passionate tears 
 rushed down her cheeks. Seizing Eva, she partly carried and 
 partly dragged her to the house to lay the case before mamma, 
 and had almost reached her mother's door before she remembered 
 that her father had told her never to disturb her mother with any 
 childish quarrels, and so she changed her mind and went to him 
 in the library. 
 
 Mr. Cameron was lying asleep on the sofa, from which he 
 started up in haste at the unusual sound of that sobbing voice. 
 She did not often cry, and never before had her father seen any- 
 thing like this storm of passion. Her accustomed gentleness and 
 quietness only made her present excitement the more remarkable, 
 and he tried in vain for some minutes to find out, between the 
 choking sobs, what was the matter. At last she wiped her eyes, 
 and, looking up in his face, pointed to the bright mark just under- 
 neath her eye, and sobbed out : 
 
 " Brother George did it 1" 
 
 The father was outraged. If there was a spot deep down in 
 his heart more tender than the rest, this little daughter had found 
 it and nestled there. This "little woman "was often his only 
 companion, for while his eldest son avoided him, and the two 
 youngest children were too restless to be contented with him long 
 at a time, the quiet Julia was never happier than when with her 
 father, nor was he ever lonely if she was near. 
 
 The sight of that mark upon her face stirred up all his indig- 
 nation, and, rushing out on the veranda, he called loudly for 
 George. There was no response ; and, returning to the library, 
 Mr. Cameron muttered : 
 
 2 
 
14 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "Perhaps it is well: I am too angry to talk to him now." 
 
 He took Julia in his lap, and wiped away her tears; and when 
 her excitement was suflBciently abated, he made her tell him all 
 the particulars of the occurrence. She related it all just as it 
 happened, and finished by saying, with flushed cheeks and flash- 
 ing eyes : 
 
 "We were not troubling him, papa. We were attending to our 
 own business, and if he had gone along and attended to his, all 
 this would never have happened." 
 
 Mr. Cameron, while trying to calm his little daughter, was 
 himself greatly excited, and the more he thought of it, the more 
 indignant he became, and the more his justice revolted from the 
 idea of permitting one child thus to tyrannize over the others. 
 He was so annoyed and perplexed that he felt incapable of ex- 
 ercising his usually good judgment, and although he endeavored 
 to keep all such troubles from his wife's knowledge, yet he felt 
 constrained to lay this one before her and ask her advice. When 
 Julia was sufficiently calmed, he left her to entertain herself and 
 Eva in the librarv, and he went to seek his wife. 
 
 She listened in silent sorrow; and when the story was ended, 
 her husband said: 
 
 "Such conduct cannot be permitted. It is not only unjust to 
 the other children, but to ourselves as well. It will not be long 
 before the boy will be so tyrannical and overbearing, that even 
 father and mother will be set aside or perhaps trampled upon. I 
 will put a stop to it at once, and give him a plain talk to-night, 
 which will show him that there are limits even to my forbear- 
 ance ; and God knows that if ever a father tried forbearance with 
 a wayward son, I have with him." 
 
 "Henry," said his wife, laying her hand gently upon his arm, 
 "let me manage this business. You are excited now, and so is 
 George, and if you come in conflict you will both probably say 
 something that were better left unsaid. I am calm; and I am 
 his mother; let me do it, will you?" 
 
 " Yes, wife, if you say so ; but you are too feeble to be worried 
 and excited by these things ; and besides, you are too genile with 
 him. The boy needs a strong curb." 
 
 "I will be firm and plain, husband," she answered; "and gen- 
 tleness combined with these will surely not be wrong. I shall not 
 conceal from George what I think of his conduct generally, and 
 of this case particularly. While I remember that I am his mother, 
 I shall certainly not forget that I am also the mother of my other 
 children." 
 
 "You will do right, wife, I know," he replied. " I only wish 
 that I had self-control enough to do it as well, and save you the 
 pain and sorrow." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 15 
 
 When Mr. Cameron returned to the library, Julia and Eva 
 were sitting upon the floor with a large book open before them, 
 looking at the pictures; at least Eva was, but Julia was in a 
 deep study. She did not look up or notice her father until he 
 was close to her, and said : 
 
 "What are you thinking about, little daughter?" 
 
 "About myself and brother George, papa, that we are both 
 naughty children: he, for striking me, and I, for getting into 
 such a passion and running to tell you. Please, papa, don't tell 
 him that I told you, and don't scold him for it. I am sorry that 
 I was angry with him, and may be he is just as sorry that he struck 
 me. So let it go, will you, papa ?" 
 
 " But, Julia, if I let it go, he may strike you again, and I must 
 not permit that." 
 
 " No, sir," she answered confidently, " he will never strike me 
 again if he thinks that I wouldn't tell upon him." 
 
 " What makes you think so ?" 
 
 " Because, papa, it would be mean, too mean for him to strike 
 me when he knows that I won't tell upon him — no, he would 
 never do that." 
 
 Her father smiled at the childish magnanimity, and promised 
 that he would not say a word to G-eorge upon the subject. 
 
 After tea, George was summoned to his mother's room. What 
 passed at the interview never transpired; but that night she had 
 a violent hemorrhage which threatened instant death, and was, 
 with great difficulty, checked. The next morning George was 
 gone. No message or word of explanation was left, no farewell 
 for father or mother, no confession of wrong, or petition for 
 
 pardon. 
 
 Mr. Cameron did not tell his wife. Prostrate in body and 
 broken hearted, she asked no questions and made no allusion to 
 him. The physician had forbidden her to speak; but once or 
 twice, as her husband bent over her pillow, he caught the low 
 murmur : 
 
 "Oh, the pang of a thankless child ! a thankless child I" 
 
 Three days afterward she died. 
 
 ^ "^ ^ 
 
 «« 
 « 
 
16 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 Several years had now passed away. From George himself 
 Mr. Cameron had never received a line ; but once or twice he 
 had heard of him, tidings not very welcome to a father's ear. 
 Children soon forget; and the name of George, once as familiar 
 in the household as that of Julia or Walter'became a strange, 
 unaccustomed sound. Eva had no recollection whatever of the 
 brother who had been the terror of her infancy, and with Walter 
 his memory was more liiie a painful dream than a reality. Julia, 
 of course, remembered him well, and that last painful scene ; but 
 her father had taken care that she should never know that it had 
 aught to do with his departure from home, or with her mother's 
 death. She was an undemonstrative child ; but she had a warm, 
 affectionate heart, and he well knew how it would grieve her in 
 after-life to know that a childish quarrel with her had been the 
 cause of a brother's voluntary exile, or, what was still worse, that 
 it had remotely caused the death of the mother whom she so 
 dearly loved. 
 
 Only the father still remembered George with a painful, bitter 
 memory — not only as his wayward, undutiful son, but as the im- 
 mediate cause of a calamity which would darken all the rest of his 
 life ; but the name of George never passed his lips, and, as years 
 rolled by and he was immersed in the cares and duties of life, it 
 might have seemed that the father, as well as the children, had 
 forgotten the rebellious son. 
 
 The education of his children now engrossed much of Mr. 
 Cameron's thought. They were quite old enough to go to school, 
 and there were no good schools in Hopedale. They were too 
 young to send from home, even if he had been willing to do so ; 
 but he never for a moment entertained such a thought. He did 
 not think that any education could compensate for the loss of 
 home influence; and, besides this, he could not consent to subject 
 himself to a life of loneliness without his children. He had been 
 trying for some time to secure the services of a governess ; but 
 upon this point, too, he had peculiar notions, which it was diffi- 
 cult to satisfy, and so he had himself taught his children at home. 
 
 One day about this time the little Julia came running in to tell 
 her father that Mr. Derby was coming; and Mr. Cameron went 
 out to meet the minister. 
 
 When they were seated in the library, Mr. Derby said : 
 
 ^ 
 
CAMERON HALL. • 17 
 
 "Well, sir, you could at last have your long- wished for gov- 
 erness but for one thing, which I am afraid will prove a grave 
 deficiency. The lady is a Southerner, and feels herself quite ca- 
 pable of teaching ; but unfortunately she comes without reference 
 or recommendation," 
 
 " Unfortunately truly, I should think, for her hopes of success. 
 This, of course, sir, decides me at once. I cannot consent to re- 
 ceive into my family and commit my motherless children to the 
 care and training of a stranger who comes without reference or 
 recommendation. You know, Mr. Derby, that my circumstances 
 require me to be doubly careful. I have to be both father and 
 mother to my children. Is she a young woman?" 
 
 " Scarcely more than twenty, I judge. I always feel a profound 
 pity when I see a woman scarcely more than a girl, just when she 
 seems most to need the protecting shelter of home, thrown out 
 upon this hard world to struggle for herself. My sympathies are 
 greatly enlisted for this young stranger. Young and friendless, 
 ignorant of the ways of the world, and without experience, life 
 promises to be a rough and thorny road for her." 
 
 '' If she is so young and inexperienced, Mr. Derby, perhaps 
 she does not know the value of references ; — but, pshaw ! that can- 
 not be either, for, if she were so ignorant herself, she surely would 
 have some friends to tell her better. Give me her address, Mr. 
 Derby ; I will write to her myself. If She is a proper person, I 
 would like extremely to have her, for my children (Julia especi- 
 ally) are old enough to require more regular teaching than I give 
 them ; and yet I cannot make up my mind to send them away from 
 home to school." 
 
 "You can see Mrs. Merton, Mr. Cameron, by riding into 
 town." 
 
 "Already herel" exclaimed Mr. Cameron. "Does she expect 
 to drop down into a community, a perfect stranger and without 
 recommendation, and get employment at once? She must be 
 inexperienced, indeed." 
 
 " Really, Mr. Cameron, I scarcely know what she expects or 
 what she intends to do. I received a note from her yesterday 
 requesting me to call and see her immediately, which I did. She 
 looked so young and so helpless, she seemed to have so little 
 knowledge of the world, and yet withal such a strong, brave pur- 
 pose to aid herself by any honest means, that I could not help 
 getting interested in her ; nor could you, I am sure, sir, if you were 
 to see her. And then, too, she has a blind child about a year 
 old." 
 
 "A child! — hal" exclaimed Mr. Cameron, as his brow dark- 
 ened J and, after a short pause, he added decidedly : 
 
 2* 
 
18 • CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " A stranger without reference. No, sir, I could not have her 
 as governess for my daughters." 
 
 " I am not surprised, Mr. Cameron, that you should feel so ; 
 for it is not only natural, but it is right that you should know to 
 whom you commit the training of your children. I myself feel 
 persuaded that you would run no risk in opening your doors to 
 this stranger; but I cannot prove it to you. I judge only from 
 appearances, which are not always to be relied on, and it is pos- 
 sible that in this instance I may be mistaken. I have promised 
 to do what I can for her; but I must acknowledge to others, as 
 I have to you, that she is a stranger, and comes I know not 
 whence, and without recommendation. All these things must, of 
 course, be obstacles in the way of her success, and so I told her * 
 frankly. " 
 
 "And what did she say to that ?" 
 
 " She only answered that she had no reference, nor was it pos- 
 sible for her to give any ; that all she wanted was a fair trial, and 
 if she did not faithfully perform what she undertook to do, that 
 she neither expected nor desired to be encouraged. I told her, 
 as delicately as I could, that more than this was generally re- 
 quired, and that parents liked to know something of the character 
 and acquirements of those to whom they intrusted their children. 
 She seemed neither surprised nor resentful ; but a slight flush was 
 upon her pale cheek as she answered, with an indescribable sad- 
 ness: 'I can tell them nothing about myself; my past life is now 
 dead and buried ; it is only with the present that they or I have 
 anything to do.' Her words made me feel uncomfortable, and I 
 could not repress a slight feeling of annoyance at the quiet but 
 decided way in which she silenced all allusions to her past life ; 
 and yet there was something in her manner and deportment which 
 effectually put down any unpleasant suspicions that her words 
 might have awakened. She seemed as free from vanity and self- 
 sufficiency as any person that I ever saw ; and yet there was a 
 quiet confidence in her own capacity, a firm self-reliance which, 
 while it was not inconsistent with humility, relieved her at once 
 from the attitude of a suppliant, and excited an involuntary ad- 
 miration. She asked for nothing except an opportunity to help 
 herself; and, although she did not say so by word or look, yet I 
 suspect that if I do not help her to find the opportunity, she will 
 find it without me. The only thing that she seems fully determ- 
 ined upon is to live in Hopedale. What she is to do here, how 
 she is to support herself, — these are still open questions ; but to 
 stay here is her fixed, unalterable resolution." 
 
 " Did she give you any reasons for this?" 
 
 " Two or three, which I interpreted rather as a delicate way of 
 
CAMERON HALL. ' 19 
 
 declining the question than an answer to it. When I reminded 
 her that Hopedale was a very small town, and perhaps she might 
 do better in a larger sphere of action, she replied very quietly, 
 but with an indescribable positiveness that permitted no further 
 discussion: ' No, sir, I prefer to live in Hopedale.' " 
 
 " What do you propose to do for her, Mr. Derby ?" 
 
 "I will do the best that I can," replied the minister; "but 
 that will be little enough. I would willingly do more, for I am 
 persuaded that my interest and sympathy are not misplaced ; but, 
 unfortunately for us both, she withholds from me the knowledge 
 without which it would be wrong to recommend her. All that I 
 am justified in doing is to tell others what I have told you, and, 
 as your own case proves, this is rather to excite prejudice than to 
 recommend. Perhaps, after all, it would be better to let her 
 make her own way. If all that I know of her operates against 
 her rather than otherwise, it were better left unsaid ; if I cannot 
 help the friendless young stranger, I would not certainly do any- 
 thing to injure her success." 
 
 " If she brought no letters, how did she happen to send for 
 you ?" 
 
 " Simply because I am a minister. She apologized for doing 
 so, and said, in a simple, touching way, that she took it for 
 granted that I had somewhat of my Master's compassion for the 
 desolate and friendless, and that, as she asked and needed no- 
 thing but kind words, she could not deem it presumption to ask 
 them from a minister of the church." 
 
 " That touched you, Mr. Derby, I know ; and what did you 
 answer ?" 
 
 " I could not and I ought not, Mr. Cameron," he replied earn- 
 estly, "to have been satisfied with offering kind words only, those 
 words which, St. James tells us, are but empty wind unless accom- 
 panied with the corresponding action. Desolate and friendless 
 she was, indeed ; she needed not to tell me, for I read it in her 
 face ; frail and delicate, and with a blind baby, too ! No, sir ; 
 words only would not have done for such a case as that." 
 
 " And what did you do ?" 
 
 " I asked her to go home with me until she had decided upon 
 some definite plan of action." 
 
 ''Were you doing justice then, Mr. Derby, to yourself, your 
 wife and children ? Your salary is small, and not proportionate 
 to the wants of your own family; was it right to add two more 
 to your household ? Excuse the liberty that I take, and put it 
 all down to the account of my personal friendship for you. You 
 ministers are too apt," he added, smiling, "to take a one-sided 
 view of duty, and sometimes, as in the present case, you need a 
 
20 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 little of the caution of the man of the world to adjust the bal- 
 
 ance." 
 
 "Xo apology is necessary, Mr. Cameron," he replied; "our 
 friendship is too old now for misunderstanding or misconception. 
 I will answer your questions as frankly as you have asked them. 
 My salary is small, as you say, scarcely sufficient, with the strictest 
 economy, to meet the wants of my household, and the addition of 
 two more to the family would not have been inconsiderable. All 
 these things I took into the account, and even then my duty was 
 plain." 
 
 "And what did your wife say to your bringing to your house, 
 and making one of your family, a stranger, who herself throws, 
 to say the least of it, a painful doubt upon her past history?" 
 
 "My wife, sir, learns her duty from the same book that I do; 
 and there we have both been taught to 'entertain the stranger.'" 
 
 Mr. Cameron shook his head and answered : 
 
 " It is a great risk, sir, a very great risk. I am glad that your 
 little daughters are too young to be injured by wrong influence. 
 I know that not for all this world would I trust my little woman 
 with her." 
 
 "I would not fear anything," said the minister, "from that 
 frank, open face ; but even if I did, my duty has in this instance 
 involved no sacrifice. Mrs. Merton would not accept my ofifer." 
 
 " She would not !" exclaimed Mr. Cameron, in surprise. 
 
 " No, sir ; she thanked me gratefully, but repeated that she 
 intended to help herself." 
 
 " That is the right spirit, certainly," replied Mr. Cameron, "and 
 speaks well for her so far at least. " 
 
 " Of her ability to do that, sir, she seems never to have enter- 
 tained a doubt ; and it is the more remarkable because she is so 
 frail looking. She does not look strong enough to bear much 
 fatigue, either bodily or mental, and yet she speaks with confi- 
 dence of supporting herself and child by her own unassisted ex- 
 ertions." 
 
 At the mention of the child, Mr. Cameron's brow was again 
 clouded, and he said, almost sharply : 
 
 " She cannot be governess for my children, Mr. Derby; nor if 
 she gets a school shall I send them to her." 
 
 And so the matter ended. The young stranger succeeded in 
 getting not more than half a dozen pupils at first; but to these 
 she devoted herself with energy and faithfulness, and it was not 
 many months before she proved to Mr. Derby that she had spoken 
 truly when she said that she only wanted an opportunity to help 
 herself. At first she was, of course, the subject of much painful 
 comment in the village. She knew and felt it, and her pale, young 
 
CAMERON HALL. 21 
 
 face would flush and her heart throb as she encountered the 
 curious, doubtful gaze, or heard the slighting remark. But she 
 lived in quiet, unobtrusive retirement, and busied herself, when out 
 of school, with her blind baby, which was at once her anxiety 
 and her comfort, her sorrow and her only pleasure. As time 
 passed on, the unknown stranger and the mysterious circum- 
 stances of her advent into Hopedale were forgotten in other 
 more important personal events, and Mrs. Merton, the school- 
 teacher, if thought of at all, was only remembered with reference 
 to her vocation, and none seemed to think or care that she had 
 not always belonged to the town. The minister and his family 
 were almost her only visitors. Mr. Derby's interest in her, so far 
 from diminishing, had increased with his more thorough knowl- 
 edge of her character. From his first acquaintance with her, he 
 had watched her narrowly and visited her frequently, and in all 
 his intercourse with her he had never seen anything in her char- 
 acter or demeanor to make him recall the involuntary admiration 
 that he had expressed to Mr. Cameron. On the contrary, he was 
 more and more convinced that whatever unexplained mystery en- 
 veloped her early life, and whatever sadness and suffering she had 
 endured, it was no fault of hers. The respect that he had felt 
 for the young stranger had gradually deepened into a warm 
 affection for his parishioner, whose friendlessness only served to 
 render stronger the bond that bound her to him, her only friend. 
 The kindness which was never withdrawn because she did not 
 give him her confidence, the delicacy which carefully avoided al- 
 lusion to what she chose to envelop in mystery, the word of pas- 
 toral sympathy and counsel which he never failed to leave behind ; 
 above all, his interest in the child whose infirmity rendered pov- 
 erty and friendlessness double evils, — all these touched her heart 
 and awakened its deepest gratitude. She soon learned to talk 
 to Mr. Derby without reserve. She went to him for advice as if 
 he had known her all his life ; but of that life she still said not a 
 word. It seemed, indeed, as if it were, to use her own words, 
 dead and buried, and as if she not only intended to bury itself 
 but its memory, too, in the grave of the past. Often had the 
 minister wondered that upon this point she was always guarded ; 
 she never forgot herself, and never had he in one single instance 
 heard her allude to herself or her life before she came to Hope- 
 dale, 
 
 That she still had, and would always have, a heavy burden upon 
 her heart, he could not doubt, for it was written upon her face j 
 but she had a quiet, patient way of bearing it, never trying to 
 conceal it under a false mirth, and yet never obtruding it upon 
 the notice of others ; and her brave, undaunted spirit, her energy, 
 
22 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 SO disproportionate to her physical strength, and her determinar 
 tion to take care of herself and her child, — all these seemed to 
 Mr. Derby very remarkable in one so young ; one, too, who, it 
 was easy to see, had all her life been herself taken care of, and 
 who was now making her first experiment in helping herself. 
 Such, however, the minister alone knew her to be ; to the rest of 
 the world she was only Mrs. Merton, the poor, young school- 
 teacher, a quiet, inofi'ensive woman, remarkable for nothing and 
 intruding upon nobody. 
 
 Ah, how little does the world know of our inner life I How 
 many a heart, whose struggles the angels watch with sympathy 
 and pity, is seamed and wrinkled and scarred by conflicts of which 
 the world never dreams! how many a young life totters and fal- 
 ters, and, alas I sometimes falls, under a burden of sorrow far 
 heavier than the weight of years, while the gay and jesting world, 
 like the priest and the Levite, passes by on the other side uncon- 
 scious or regardless of its suffering 1 
 
 Grace Merton had been in Hopedale two years. Her school 
 was now quite flourishing, and she had rented a cottage, very 
 small and very humble, but suflScient for the requirements of her- 
 self and her little Agnes, now three years old. Sometimes, as 
 she sat in the summer evening in her little porch, over which the 
 sweet-brier and the yellow-jasmine clambered, holding Agnes 
 in her lap, and trying, with such patient effort and with such a 
 yearning expression upon her young face, to teach the child by 
 the sense of touch what flowers were, those who passed by for- 
 got for the moment that she was Mrs. Merton, the school-teacher, 
 and thought of her with sympathy and pity as the young mother 
 of a blind child. 
 
 For two years Mr. Cameron had adhered to his resolution, and 
 kept his children from Grace's school. As he was a man of in- 
 fluence and high standing in the community, and it was known 
 that he had long wanted to send them to a good school, and as 
 Mrs. Merton had now established the claim of hers to be so con- 
 sidered, it was remarked that Mr. Cameron did not patronize it. 
 Mr. Derby had never, of course, betrayed his conversation with 
 Mr. Cameron upon that subject; but there were not wanting 
 others who were willing to tell her why it was, and, while she 
 could not blame him, still it stung her to the quick. She did not 
 know Mr. Cameron; she had no personal knowledge of his ge- 
 nial temper, his kindliness, his warmth and cordiality of heart and 
 manner, and she conceived him to be one of those proud sons of 
 the Old Dominion, in whom the republican spirit of equality and 
 fraternity had not yet been able to exterminate the inborn patri- 
 cian element, who reposed with serene complacency upon his an- 
 
CAMERON HALL. 23 
 
 cestral name and dignity, and would not sully either by giving 
 countenance to the unnamed and the unknown. And while she 
 sorely felt this peculiarity in her own individual case, yet to a cer- 
 tain extent she rather sympathized with the feeling than otherwise, 
 and if this alone had been the cause of Mr. Cameron's discoun- 
 tenance (for such in effect it was), she could not altogether have 
 despised it; but she knew that he had a deeper, a better reason 
 than this. She had heard the circumstances of the family, that 
 there was no mother to train and guide those little ones, and she 
 could not but respect the father's anxiety and carefulness, even 
 though in her own case she felt it to be undue and misjudged, to 
 know who it was to whom he intrusted their education. On the 
 other hand, Grace felt that two years' conscientious fulfillment 
 of hei: duty had entitled her to the confidence of the community, 
 and she could not but know that Mr. Cameron's silent disappro- 
 bation was very much to be deplored. All these things she re- 
 volved in her mind, but she never uttered them, not even to Mr. 
 Derby. No human being knew that she had ever thought of Mr. 
 Cameron or his children. Nor had he been altogether unmind- 
 ful of her and her school. While be had the same misgivings as 
 before with regard to her past history, and would still have been 
 unwilling to receive her as an inmate of his family, yet, from 
 what he had heard of G-race from Mr. Derby and others, and, 
 indeed, from what he himself saw of her Sunday after Sunday in 
 church, he was willing to believe that he would run no risk in con- 
 fiding his children to her care. He deemed it absolutely neces- 
 sary that they should now have, besides the knowledge to be 
 acquired from books, that other training which children get in 
 school ; that friction of clashing spirits and interests which wears 
 away the morbid sensitiveness of some, and teaches the selfishness 
 of others that there are feelings and inclinations in the world be- 
 sides their own to be consulted, and which gives to all a foretaste 
 adapted to their age and capacity of those trials which manhood 
 and womanhood must bring. So Mr. Cameron at last decided to 
 send his children to Mrs. Merton's school, and accordingly one 
 day, much to her surprise, he came and brought them. The in- 
 terview between the teacher and her patron was brief, but it was 
 satisfactory to both. He felt assured that he left his children 
 with a lady, and she felt equally certain that in imagining Mr. 
 Cameron distant and frigid and haughty, she had altogether mis- 
 judged him, for never had she seen greater kindness mingled with 
 courtesy and dignity. 
 
 Every morning Mr. Cameron brought his children to school, and 
 came for them again when they were dismissed for the day. All 
 the kindliness of his nature had long ago gone out toward the 
 
24 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 little blind child whom he had often watched in church, with her 
 face all radiant whenever the organ struck up ; and now, when he 
 sometimes called at the school before it was dismissed, he would 
 frequently take the child upon his lap and entertain himself with 
 her until his children were ready to go. And so, before long, 
 quite a friendship existed between them. Agnes very soon learned 
 to recognize his step, and she could distinguish Mr. Cameron as 
 readily by touching his hand as other children could by looking 
 at his face. Agnes was a great pet among the scholars, and not 
 one of them could ever let her pass without a kind word or a 
 gentle touch. Nor was it surprising, for the little blind child was 
 all light and sunshine except in her eyes. She was as happy and 
 merry as a bird, and in the recess her laugh was often as loud and 
 joyous as any of the rest. The motherly little Julia soon made 
 Agnes her firm friend; and Grace, while she anxiously watched 
 her little girl if any of the other children took her out to play, 
 always confided her to Julia's care without a thought or an anx- 
 iety. After awhile, Julia and Eva wanted to take Agnes home 
 with them, but to this the mother would not consent. Agnes was 
 almost a baby, and the others were little children, quite too young 
 to be intrusted with her; but one day Mr. Cameron himself came 
 and promised to take care of her. The child was delighted, and 
 afterward it became a common occurrence for Agnes to spend 
 the day at Cameron Hall. Mr. Cameron often took her with 
 him when he rode on horseback over his plantation, and tried to 
 teach her with a patience scarcely less than that of the mother 
 herself. Little Julia often begged her teacher to go home with 
 her, but she never did, not even when, in process of time, the 
 childish invitation was cordially seconded by the father. She 
 always replied by saying: 
 
 " Thank you, but you must excuse me ; I never visit." 
 One summer evening Grace was sitting on the porch with 
 Agnes in her lap. The child had a strange fancy for flowers, 
 not only for fragrant ones, but for them all. The mother had 
 taught her to value them, and herself loved to see them about the 
 child, and so A2:nes almost alwavs had a flower in her hand, or 
 one pinned upon her bosom. The mother was now stringing a 
 garland of jasmine blossoms for Agnes's head, such as all chil- 
 dren love to wear, and Agnes herself was tracing with delicate 
 touch the tiny scollops of the petals, and counting the stamens 
 and pistils of one in her hand. While thus engaged, Mr. Derby 
 came in- at the gate. He was always welcome there, and Grace 
 hastened to gather up the leaves and flowers scattered upon the 
 bench, so as to give him a seat beside her. He had reached the 
 
CAMERON HALL. 25 
 
 porch before she had finished, and told her to sit still and he him- 
 self would find a seat. Her work-basket was also on the bench 
 beside her, and so was her open prayer-book ; and, as he took it 
 up to remove it, his eye rested upon the forty-second Psalm, .that 
 strange and beautiful commingling of complaint and comfort, of 
 sorrow and support, of longing and fullness. Several verses were 
 marked, and, as he read the mournful plaint, "all thy waves and 
 storms are gone over me;" "why art thou so full of heaviness, 
 O my soul, and why art thou so disquieted within me ?" he in- 
 voluntarily looked full into her face. In that look there was no 
 intrusive curiosity, no desire to surprise her into the betrayal of 
 what she wanted to conceal; it was a look of sympathy, nothing 
 more, but of sympathy so full, so tender, so compassionate, that 
 it touched a chord whose vibrations she could not control. For 
 the first time she was overpowered, and Mr. Derby looked on in 
 silent surprise and sorrow as she bent her head down into the 
 child's lap and wept bitterly, passionately. Agnes was bewildered 
 and distressed. The storm of sorrow she could not see; but 
 she could hear the bursting sobs, and could feel the throbbings 
 of her mother's heart. 
 
 After awhile, the storm ceased. Her head was still buried in 
 Agnes's lap, but she was quiet, except now and then a sob, which' 
 shook her whole frame. 
 
 Mr. Derby took the hand that fell at her side, and said, 
 gently : 
 
 " My poor Grace I how I wish that I could help you !" 
 
 She raised her head, and pushing her hair nervously back from 
 her temples, gazed at him almost wildly. She seemed trying to 
 look into the very depths of his heart to see if she could trust 
 him. Her lonely heart was starving for sympathy. She had 
 borne her burden so long, and had so long shut up her grief in 
 her own breast, that she felt ready to faint beneath the load. 
 She looked long, and earnestly, and searchingly into the min- 
 ister's face, and then murmured, rather to herself than to him : 
 
 "Yes, I can trust him." 
 
 And she did. There, in the gathering shadows, she unfolded 
 the history of a life as dark as the twilight around her. Mr. 
 Derby did not interrupt her; but when the sad story was ended, 
 he only repeated in a low voice the familiar words : 
 
 " Put thy trust in God ; for I will yet give him thanks for the 
 help of his countenance 1" 
 
 Old words 1 familiar words ! but for all that, none the less full 
 of comfort and of counsel, of support and of strength ; and as 
 such they went deep down into her soul. 
 
 3 
 
26 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 When the minister was going away, she clasped his hand firmly, 
 and looked at him earnestly, beseechingly, as she said: 
 "You will keep my secret, Mr. Derby?" 
 And he answered: 
 " Sacredly 1" 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 From early infancy Agnes had manifested a passionate love 
 for music. She loved the harmony of any instrument, and the 
 only temptation that had proved irresistible to the mother to 
 revive the songs and music of her girlhood, was the enjoyment 
 of the little blind baby who, before she could either speak or 
 walk, would sit contented and happy for hours if her mother 
 would only play and sing. As infancy merged into childhood, 
 this love of music, while it did not abate, seemed to concentrate 
 itself upon a single instrument — and organ-music became her pas- 
 sion. Often in church the children would smile, but older people 
 looked almost with awe upon the blind face, so radiant with more 
 than childish happiness as she listened to the organ, the first note 
 of which always brought her to her feet, with her face turned to- 
 ward the place whence the music came. Soon she wanted to 
 touch the organ herself and see if she too could not bring out its 
 harmonies; and when she was scarcely six years old, her mother 
 obtained permission for her to amuse herself at the organ in the 
 church. "To amuse herself" was the mother's literal meaning 
 and expectation ; she little dreamed of the music that was hidden 
 in that childish heart, nor did she know, until long afterward, 
 what a blessed compensation for her blindness God had given 
 Agnes, and that music would be to her instead of eyes. It soon 
 became, not an occasional but a daily enjoyment for the child, 
 who spent a part of every morning at the church. The children 
 missed her day after day at school, and when they asked where 
 she was, her mother always replied, with a smile of quiet satis- 
 faction : 
 
 " She is amusing herself at the organ." 
 
 Yes, the blind child had found a companion, a friend. She 
 needed no teacher, for experience soon taught her the use of the 
 instrument, and that was all she wanted. She cared not for the 
 composition of others; what she required, was a language and 
 expression for what she felt in her own heart. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 27 
 
 It relieved her mother of much anxiety when Agnes found this 
 source of interest and pleasure. She felt assured that her little 
 girl was safe from danger when she had sent her to the church 
 under the care of the faithful servant who always accompanied 
 her, and she knew that while thus employed, she did not feel the 
 weariness and loneliness of her sad life. 'No ! Agnes would never 
 again be lonely, nor indeed was she, as her mother for a long 
 time supposed, without other companionship in the church ex- 
 cept that of her servant. 
 
 There was in the town a harmless idiot, known as " Silly Joe," 
 whom the compassionate pitied, and the heartless jeered. He 
 wandered about, all day long, with vacant stare, never receiving 
 any positive unkindness, and happily unconscious that he was 
 sometimes the subject of cruel ridicule. Soon after Agnes began to 
 go to the church to play, Joe found his way there, attracted by 
 sounds to which he was unaccustomed, and which pleased his ear. 
 The poor idiot, senseless to all else, was interested in the music, 
 and although incapable of appreciating the genius of the child- 
 organist, still he liked the sweet sounds, and was, by degrees, at- 
 tracted to the child, who was, in some way or other unintelligible 
 to himself, the medium through which he enjoyed this pleasure. 
 Gradually a friendship grew between them ; and a sympathy, 
 which neither could explain, and of which neither was conscious, 
 bound these two together, — the blind child and the idiot boy. 
 The little Agnes, in her simplicity, could not realize his deficien- 
 cies, especially since she could not see the face upon which the 
 stamp of idiocy was so plainly written; and Joe, not knowing 
 what blindness meant, was drawn to his new friend, not by any 
 bond of conscious sympathy, but simply by her uniform kindness 
 to him, and in obedience to a law which controls alike the rational 
 and irrational creation. 
 
 One day Joe wanted to take Agnes's place at the organ, to 
 make, as he said, "a pretty noise." Agnes laughingly assured 
 him that she could make much better music than he ; but Joe in- 
 sisted, and, to gratify him, she yielded her place. 
 
 The result was, of course, just what might have been expect- 
 ed : there was a frightful burst of discord, from which even the 
 idiot himself recoiled. Surprised and disappointed, he made 
 repeated attempts with the same result, and because he could 
 not understand the reason why her sounds were so pleasant, and 
 his so disagreeable, he was irritated and annoyed. Agnes tried 
 in her childish way to soothe and comfort him ; but all in vain. 
 At last, however, she thought of a new expedient, and ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 "Oh! I can tell you, Joe, how you can make this pretty noise, 
 
28 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 as you call it. You cannot do it by yourself, but you can help 
 me. Give me your hand," 
 
 She led him round the organ, and made the bellows-blower 
 show him how to work the bellows. 
 
 "Now, Joe," she said, "if you will do this, we can make music 
 together. " 
 
 At first, Joe indignantly refused the monT)tonous labor ; but 
 Agnes's persuasions finally overcame him and he consented to try 
 it. She called his attention to the fact that every failure to per- 
 form his duty was as fatal to the music as if she h./rself had 
 ceased to play, and thus she convinced him that he was indeed 
 not only helping to make the music, but that it could not be 
 made without him. The poor idiot was delighted. He had 
 found something to do; and every creature in the universe of 
 God requires employment. From this time forth, whenever 
 Agnes went to the church she found Joe waiting to help her 
 "make music." He knew nothing of time: the morning and 
 evening were alike to him, and he was ignorant of hours; but the 
 same sort of instinct which recalls the lower animals home at cer- 
 tain times, made the idiot repair regularly to the church at the 
 hour when Agnes might be expected there. Joe too enjoyed it, 
 or rather the emotion which he experienced while performing 
 his work was as near akin to pleasure as anything that he was 
 capable of feeling; and an expression that seemed as it were a 
 feeble reflection of satisfaction and contentment rested upon his 
 face, as, hour after hour, he plied his monotonous labor. 
 
 Thus together, the idiot and the blind child made their music, 
 and their respective pleasures were a faithful exponent of their 
 respective afflictions. The child, in her blindness, sat with the 
 veil upon her outward vision, and all earthly objects shrouded in 
 impenetrable darkness, but her intellect was clear and undimmed, 
 receiving ideas and acquiring knowledge, independent of external 
 organs and without communication with the external world; the 
 idiot, with his eyes open, but his intellect blinded, looked all day 
 upon the beauties and wonders of the world around him, and was 
 yet hopelessly, totally blind ! 
 
 Truly there is a blindness deeper, darker, blacker, than that 
 which veils the eyes I 
 
 As Agnes grew older, the feeling of compassion with which 
 her mother had been accustomed to regard her gave way to one 
 of grateful satisfaction, as she saw the child's evident enjoyment 
 of her great pleasure, and became daily more and more con- 
 vinced that it was one of which she would never grow weary. 
 Besides this, Agnes was a companion for the mother, long before 
 children usually are. Her blindness, and her living, as it were. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 29 
 
 constantly in the atmosphere of those ennobling feelings and 
 aspirations which alone can find expression through organ-music, 
 seemed to lift her, in some respects, immeasurably out of child- 
 hood; and while she was in most things a thorough child, yet, 
 whenever she was improvising her strange music, she seemed to 
 her mother as belonging less to this lower world, and being in 
 some way mysteriously linked with the angels rather than with 
 the dwellers upon this lower earth. 
 
 Grace often found her ingenuity greatly taxed, and she was 
 sometimes painfully perplexed in her efforts to teach Agnes ; but 
 there is nothing that so certainly insures success as interest in 
 our work, and the mother was herself astonished at the facility 
 that she finally acquired in imparting knowledge to her. As is 
 always the case with the blind, Agnes had a very retentive 
 memory. What others always saw, she had always to remember. 
 The veil upon her eyes shut out from her mind the distracting 
 influence of external things and threw her inwardly upon herself, 
 so that she pondered her mother's teachings until they became 
 indelibly impressed upon her memory. She was already familiar 
 with much of the church service, and had memorized most of the 
 collects. Chanting was a kind of music that she specially loved, 
 and her mother soon found that in order to secure a quick and 
 accurate memory of the Psalter, she only needed to adapt each 
 portion of it to a particular chant. 
 
 The hour before the commencement of school in the morning, 
 Grace devoted to Agnes, hearing her repeat a portion of the 
 Psalter, a hymn, and her catechism. While doing this, her fin- 
 gers were not idle, but were busily engaged upon some article of 
 childish dress, which was none the less carefully elaborated, even 
 though those blind eyes could never see its beauty. 
 
 She was thus engaged one morning, and Agnes stood beside her 
 repeating a hymn. It was one that she often said, as she did 
 now, voluntarily. Her face, usually so glad and bright, wore a 
 solemn, sad expression, as she repeated the lines : 
 
 " No midnight shade, no clouded sun, 
 But sacred, high, eternal noon." 
 
 There was still another verse, but she came to a full stop. 
 The mother looked up, and the tears filled her eyes in sympathy 
 with those that were slowly tracing each other down the child's 
 cheeks. 
 
 Presently she wiped them away and said : 
 
 "Mother, does it really mean that there is no midnight in 
 heaven, but that it is always day there ?" 
 
 3* 
 
30 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " Yes, my child, there is a verse in the Bible which says that 
 there shall be no night there." 
 
 "That must be a pleasant home," the child answered, "a very 
 pleasant home for those wlio are not blind; but oh, mother! it 
 will be no day to me, for the darkness and the light are both alike 
 to me." 
 
 For an instant the mother did not reply. Then she drew her 
 child close to her and said : 
 
 "God be thanked, my darling, it will not be so there ! Agnes, 
 in heaven you will be no longer blind, and that eternal day will 
 be to you fuller, brighter, and more glorious, because you have 
 never seen even the glory of an earthly day !" 
 
 " Not blind in heaven ! Oh, mother, do you, can you mean that 
 inheaven I will see too ?" 
 
 Oh, the rapture that lighted up that little blind face ! It 
 seemed as if a beam of that heavenly day had penetrated those 
 sightless eyes, and made them radiant with the anticipation of 
 its full, unclouded glory. Never was there a revelation of heaven 
 more full of rapture than this promise of eternal light to a sun- 
 less life 1 Never can we, who know what the blessed sunshine is, 
 realize the thrill with which that blind child heard of a cloudless 
 day ! 
 
 There was a pause, and presently Agnes asked : 
 
 "Mother, didn't you tell me once that they have music in 
 heaven ? Is it organ-music, mother ?" 
 
 " The Bible tells us, Agnes, that the angels have harps in their 
 hands." 
 
 " I wish it was ihe organ, mother," she answered thoughtfully ; 
 " its music is so deep that I don't only hear it, but I feel it too. 
 I wish it was the organ !" she repeated in a disappointed 
 tone. 
 
 "Never mind, my child," said Grace, "you will be perfectly 
 satisfied with the music in heaven. It is an eternal song with- 
 out a discord, and neither the ear nor the heart will ever grow 
 weary of it." 
 
 " Eternal day ! eternal music !" repeated Agnes thoughtfully. 
 " Oh, what a happy heaven that must be I" 
 
 Nothing more was said. Agnes was satisfied, for the mind 
 of the blind child-musician could grasp no fuller, deeper, or more 
 satisfying thought of heaven than as a home of eternal day and 
 eternal song ! 
 
 As Agnes grew more skillful in the use of the organ, it became 
 her mother's greatest pleasure to listen to her music. In the 
 twilight hour, when the duties of the day were done, the mother 
 and child were generally together in the church. Agnes needed 
 
CAMERON HALL. 31 
 
 no light ; and there was something in the subdued and quiet hour, 
 and the peaceful shadow that rested upon the holy place, that 
 seemed to the mother beautifully in unison with the music which 
 the child loved most, and so she always chose this time to hear 
 Agnes's music. Sometimes, while listening, Grace would dream 
 pleasantly of the melodies of heaven ; sometimes an unexpected 
 strain would recall her with a painful thrill back to this earth ; 
 and then again, as she looked upon her child's upturned face, 
 glowing with pleasure in the possession of a happiness which 
 nothing could take from her, — there, in God's own bouse, the 
 mother would thank Him that He had given her so much to 
 gladden her life's long night. 
 
 It was late one evening when Grace and Agnes were in the 
 church. She had been playing as was her wont, and with -a 
 sweetness which the mother fondly thought no earthly music 
 could surpass, when all at once she stopped. Grace was accus- 
 tomed to these abrupt pauses, and for some moments did not 
 look round. When she did, there was something in Agnes's ap- 
 pearance and attitude which almost startled her. 
 
 She sat in a dreamy, abstracted state, seemingly unconscious 
 where she was, with her ear strained in a listening attitude, as 
 if she heard music, and with a fixed expression upon her face 
 that was almost painful, as if some powerful thought or feeling 
 were struggling for utterance. She was wondering if she could 
 interpret by music one thought of which her little heart was full. 
 Presently, with a nervous haste, her hand arranged the stops, 
 and then she struck the chord. She shook her head with disap- 
 pointment and dissatisfaction, and then she made a different com- 
 bination. This time the chord responded to her feeling, and she 
 went on. A deep swelling tide of harmony rose and fell, ebbed 
 and flowed, until the whole air was tremulous with sweetest 
 music. It was strange as it was beautiful ; a commingling of a 
 penitential wail with a song of praise, with the fervor and sweet- 
 ness of the one without its sadness, and the richness and fullness 
 of the other without its exultation. Agnes was now giving ut- 
 terance to feelings for which she knew no words, but her music 
 had evidently found for them a voice and expression which satis- 
 fied her heart. Grace listened and looked in silent wonder. 
 The child's appearance and attitude were as full of expression 
 as was her strange music; her face was lighted up, and for 
 several moments after the strain had ceased, it still glowed with 
 pleasure, as if the melody yet lingered in her heart. Presently 
 Grace asked : 
 
 "What is that, my daughter?" 
 
 " That, mother," she replied, " is the Song of the Redeemed, 
 
82 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 that you were reading about this morning. That is something 
 like the song that I expect to sing in heaven." 
 
 " Do you think, my daughter, that it is joyous, rapturous 
 enough, for the Song of the P^edeemed ? Just think how very 
 happy the Redeemed must be to find themselves safe in a home 
 where there is no more trouble, or sorrow, or death, or sin." 
 
 " Yes, mother, but if they feel in heaven as I do now, they will 
 sing the sweetest but not the loudest song when they are the hap- 
 piest. You know when my heart feels the most, I don't play the 
 loudest music ; and I know that in heaven, where I won't be blind, 
 and where I can sing, even with the angels, without making dis- 
 cord, — oh ! I know that I will be too happy there to sing a loud 
 song." 
 
 • " But, Agues, the Bible expressly says that the Song of the Re- 
 deemed is a very loud song, even 'as the voice of many waters 
 and as the voice of a great thunder.'" 
 
 " Yes, I know, but that is because so many sing it. Isn't it 
 strange," she added dreamily, as if she were thinking aloud, 
 " that we will all sing our own song at the same time, and yet 
 there won't be any discord 1 How grand, how beautiful it 
 will be !" 
 
 Grace made no reply, and they sat there in the silence of the 
 deepening twilight all alone, as they thought, in the house of God. 
 But another had been a listener and a witness, and had they been 
 less occupied with their own thoughts, the acute ear of Agnes 
 would have detected an approaching footstep, and Grace would 
 have seen standing not far from her a stranger, leaning upon his 
 cane, with face and figure immovable as a statue. Before he had 
 awakened from the spell in which the music had bound him, the 
 child's strange, words had fallen upon his ear, and he was first 
 aroused from his reverie by a suppressed scream, as Grace, lead- 
 ing her child carefully through the gathering darkness, came sud- 
 denly and unexpectedly upon him. Without a word of explana- 
 tion or apology, he made way for them, and Grace, dragging 
 Agnes along, hastened out of the church. When she found her. 
 self in the street, it was already quite dark, and she hurried 
 home much more rapidly than was consistent with Agnes's com- 
 fort. 
 
 At last Agnes said, breathlessly : 
 
 "Mother, I am so tired. Plea'se don't go so fast." 
 
 Grace stopped a moment for Agnes to take breath, and the 
 stranger, who was close behind, now overtaking her, said respect- 
 fully : 
 
 " I owe you an apology, madam, first for intruding upon your 
 privacy, and afterward for my seeming rudeness. I am a dear 
 
CAMERON HALL. 83 
 
 lover of music, and in passing along tlie street was attracted by 
 the sound of the organ, touched, as I thought, by no unskillful 
 hand ; and, unconscious of intrusion, I entered the church. What 
 I did after I got there I do not know. Everything seems like a 
 dream from which your exclamation, as you passed, first awakened 
 me. I should have apologized then, if I had recovered myself in 
 time, and I have followed you now, hoping for an opportunity to 
 do so." 
 
 It was not to be expected that a mother could reject such an 
 apology as this, even when offered by a less attractive stranger; 
 but it was now tendered so respectfully, and with so much gen- 
 tleness of manner, that Grace felt no hesitation in accepting the 
 old gentleman's explanation. She was now obliged to walk more 
 slowly, for Agnes was thoroughly tired, and the stranger accom- 
 panied them along the street. 
 
 Presently she asked : 
 
 " Who is this, mother ? I never heard his voice before, and I 
 like it; it is pleasant." 
 
 " He is a stranger, my daughter, who came into the church to 
 hear your music." 
 
 "A stranger now, my little girl," said he, " but I do not in- 
 tend to be so long. I love little children very much, and I 
 love music as well, and to find both combined in one, will surely 
 win my heart. If you will let me, I will be your friend, — will 
 you ?" 
 
 '* Certainly, sir," she replied. " What is your name ?" 
 
 " My name is Uncle John." 
 
 "Uncle John what?" 
 
 " Uncle John," he said : " nothing more. That is name enough, 
 isn't it ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; and must everybody call you Uncle John ?" 
 
 " You must ; and now, what must I call you ?" 
 
 " My name, sir, is Agnes Merton ; but everybody calls me only 
 little blind Agnes." 
 
 "Blind!" exclaimed the stranger; "you blind I Surely that 
 cannot be," he added, looking at Grace. 
 
 " It is true, sir," she answered ; "she is blind." 
 
 " How then was it possible to teach her to play so beautifully, 
 at her age ?" 
 
 " She has never had an hour's instruction in her life. It is a 
 natural gift, and to her an invaluable one ; for with her love of 
 harmony and her power to produce it, her life is rendered not 
 only tolerable but positively happy, and while she is at the organ 
 she never remembers that she is blind." 
 
 "A blind-child-musician !" repeated Uncle John, slowly, and 
 
34 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 at intervals. Then he stooped down and put both his arms 
 around her, and kissed her almost reverently, as he said : 
 
 " How I shall love this child I" 
 
 The mother's heart could not but open to the stranger who 
 thus looked upon her child ; and when Uncle Johu proposed to 
 lead Agnes, and she herself did not object, Grace yielded the 
 little hand to him, and he led her carefully home. 
 
 When they reached the gate, Agnes said : 
 
 "Come in, Uncle John, I have not seen you yet." 
 
 He did not understand what she meant, but he went in with 
 her and was soon seated in their little parlor. Grace went to get 
 candles, but Agnes did not have to wait for the light to "see" 
 Uncle John. As soon as he was seated, she went up to him and 
 passed her hand gently through his hair, traced his features one 
 by one, and paused after each, as if trying to picture it in her 
 mind. She touched his hand, felt the size of his arm, and meas- 
 ured its length from the shoulder to the end of the fingers. Then 
 she asked him to stand up, and her hand glided rapidly from the 
 crown of his head to his feet. 
 
 " You are tall, Uncle John," she said. 
 
 " Yes, Agnes, I am quite a tall man. My eyes are dark hazel, 
 my hair is quite gray, and " 
 
 He checked himself and murmured sadly : 
 
 " What is the use of this ? colors are all alike to her I" 
 
 " What did you say, Uncle John ?" 
 
 " Nothing, child, except that if you cannot see me, I intend 
 that you shall at least learn to love me. And will you let me 
 come sometimes to the church and listen to your music ? It would 
 be a great pleasure," he added, turning to Grace, who now came 
 in, "if it would not be interfering." 
 
 Agnes hastened to reply : 
 
 "Oh no. Uncle John, it will not interrupt me in the least, and 
 if you would like to listen I would rather you should come than 
 not. I love the organ so much myself that I like all my friends 
 to enjoy it too." 
 
 Not the least attractive characteristic of the child-musician 
 was her unfeigned enjoyment of her own music. She loved it for 
 itself, and in her simplicity was quite unconscious that it could 
 excite either wonder or commendation. She never thought of 
 herself when she was playing, any more than she did when she 
 was talking; in the one case she enjoyed the expression of her 
 thoughts and feelings by words, and in the other by music, and 
 she was not yet old enough to know that one was any rarer gift 
 than the other; she only knew which gave her most pleasure. 
 
 To Uncle John's request Grace made no reply. She could not 
 
CAMERON HALL. 35 
 
 have refused it, and yet, in granting it, she felt that she would be 
 giving up her greatest pleasure. She had greatly valued the 
 freedom with which, there alone in the church, she was privileged 
 to indulge feelings which elsewhere, and at all other times, were 
 kept under restraint. That music always spoke to her heart, and 
 she was accustomed to yield herself entirely to its influence, un- 
 checked by the presence of a human being, for the blind child was 
 of course no restraint. Now that her privacy was liable at any 
 moment to be intruded upon, her twilight hour with Agnes would 
 no longer be the goal of her thoughts all through the day, and for 
 a moment Grace was selfish enough almost to regret that her child 
 had made a new friend. 
 
 After he was gone, Agnes said: 
 
 " Mother, do you love Uncle John very much ?" 
 
 " No, my daughter, not yet. I expect, however, soon to like 
 him extremely, if, for no other reason, because I see that he is 
 going to love you " 
 
 " I love him already, mother, and am so glad that he loves 
 music, because I can play for him. What is the reason that we 
 never knew him before ?" 
 
 "Because he has only lately come to Hopedale. I have seen 
 him several times at church ; but he is a stranger here, and I don't 
 think anybody knows him yet." 
 
 " Is he going to live here, mother ?" 
 
 " I do not know. All that I know about him is what he 
 told us of himself as we came home, and you heard that." 
 
 " Yes, but that is very little to know about anybody that you 
 love. The next time he comes I will ask him to tell me all about 
 himself, and I will tell him all about ourselves ; that will be fair, 
 won't it, mother ?" 
 
 Grace was thankful that the child could not see in her face 
 the effect of her unconscious words. She thought how little 
 Agues knew of her own or her mother's history, but she only 
 said in reply : 
 
 •* I think, my daughter, that it will be better to wait until 
 Uncle John chooses to tell us his history. Perhaps he may not 
 like 10 talk about it." 
 
 " Why, mother ? what objection could he possibly have ?" 
 
 " I do not know, Agnes ; perhaps he may have had a great 
 deal of trouble in his life, and may not like to talk about it to 
 strangers." 
 
 " But, mother, we are not strangers," persisted Agnes. "Don't 
 you know he said himself that we are friends, and of course if 
 we are friends, he would rather tell us all about himself than 
 not I" 
 
36 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 Her heart had evidently been already won by the gentle kind- 
 ness of the stranger, and with the freedom of childhood, she 
 wanted at once to make herself acquainted with his past life. 
 She could not understand or appreciate her mother's unwilling- 
 ness to question him herself, but to prevent her from doing so, 
 seemed to Agnes a most unreasonable restriction. She could 
 not help showing her disappointment, when her mother said : 
 
 "Agnes, your mother knows what is right and proper much 
 better than you do, and you must not ask Uncle John anything 
 of his past life or history. I do not know that he would have 
 any objection to telling you, but he might have, and you must 
 not do it." 
 
 The tone was gentle, but it was firm and positive ; and how- 
 ever disappointed Agnes might be, and however unreasonable 
 might seem the command, yet she dared not disobey it. The 
 next time that Uncle John came, the temptation to gratify her 
 curiosity was strong, and nothing but the fear of her mother's 
 serious displeasure prevented her from asking the forbidden ques- 
 tion; but afterward, she soon forgot in her pleasant and unre- 
 strained intercourse w4th him that she had not always known and 
 loved him. 
 
 In the course of months he became a regular and constant 
 visitor at the cottage, and after awhile Grace became so accus- 
 tomed to his presence when Agnes was at the organ, that she did 
 not object to it. Indeed, he was scarcely a restraint, for he seemed 
 so absorbed in the music, or else in some associations and memo- 
 ries that it might have awakened, that he was oblivious to things 
 around him. 
 
 Uncle John was a great lover of children, and was soon claimed 
 by the children of Hopedale as their special property. It was 
 no uncommon sight to see him walking along the street with a 
 child holding each hand and one or two others clinging to the 
 skirts of his coat, all chattering together, and he apparently as 
 much interested and as much of a child as any of them. If he 
 happened to be passing by the school at recess, the sight of him 
 was sure to awaken a shout of entreaty from dozens of little 
 voices that he would come in and have "a real nice play," an 
 invitation which he rarely refused, not only because he liked to 
 make them happy, but because he really enjoyed their society, 
 for he was accustomed to say that he felt himself a better man 
 for hours, after he had been in the atmosphere of childhood. It 
 w^as at the school that he became acquainted with Julia and 
 Eva Cameron, both of whom soon found a soft spot in old Uncle 
 John's heart. The "little woman," timid almost to shyness with 
 strangers, was very soon won over, by some unaccountable mag- 
 
CAMERON HALL. 37 
 
 netism, to perfect freedom and unreserve with him; while the 
 little Eva, the sunbeam, was, if possible, brighter and happier 
 when she was holding his hand or sitting in his kp listening to 
 a story. 
 
 But while he seemed actually to reverence childhood and to 
 love all children, yet for the blind child he had a peculiarly ten- 
 der affection. His kind heart was touched with a feeling of sor- 
 row and sympathy for her infirmity, and was, at the same time, 
 won by her patience and cheerfulness. There was no repining 
 or complaining in her childish nature. She accepted whatever 
 pleasure her darkened life was susceptible of, and did not murmur 
 that she could not have more. And while there was a jealousy 
 and rivalry among the other children as to whom Uncle John 
 loved best, they all gave way to the blind child. She was the 
 acknowledged favorite, and none disputed her right or envied 
 her supremacy. Uncle John found the friendship of childhood 
 the best passport of recommendation to those of his own age, 
 and the hearts of parents soon opened to the stranger who had 
 found his way at once to those of the children ; it wa,s not very 
 long before he seemed to be as well known and as mu"eh beloved 
 in Hopedale as if he had always lived there, and the old and the 
 young alike forgot that Uncle John had ever been a stranger. 
 
 Uncle John did not, however, at once become acquainted with 
 Mr. Cameron. Grace Merton had^iot misjudged him, when she 
 supposed that there was a considerable leaven of the aristocratic 
 element lurking in his nature ; she had only judged him wrong- 
 fully, when she imagined that it had attained undue proportions. 
 He had a certain pride of birth and name, and if it did occa- 
 sionally tempt him to exaggerate their importance and value, yet 
 it was prevented from becoming haughtiness or offensive self- 
 conceit by that strict justice which never allowed him to forget 
 or disregard the claims of others. And while some might have 
 thought that Mr. Cameron laid too much stress upon birth and 
 station, yet none could deny that he was as ready as any other 
 man to see and acknowledge merit, and to give it the preference 
 when the two came in conflict. It was owing perhaps to these 
 feelings and opinions of Mr. Cameron that the Hall was among 
 the last houses where Uncle John was received upon intimate 
 terms. He was a stranger, none knew whence he came or who he 
 was, and Mr. Cameron did not seek him out. Like many others, 
 he too only learned to know him through his children, and it was 
 at last at the instigation of his "little woman" that he became 
 acquainted with him. It seemed so remarkable to her father that 
 the timid, shrinking little Julia could be so soon won, and Uncle 
 John appeared to have taken such firm, fast hold upon her heart, 
 
 4 
 
38 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 that Mr. Cameron felt persuaded that there must be something 
 in his character to admire and respect. Nor did he find himself 
 mistaken ; the same simplicity and gentleness and warmth of heart 
 that had attracted the children, awakened Mr. Cameron's esteem 
 and confidence. The truth was, that Uncle John was a remark- 
 able exemplification of the truth, that a man may have much in 
 common with a child without losing one atom of his manhood; 
 that the gentleness, the humility, and the kindly nature which 
 are so beautiful in childhood, are by no means inconsistent with 
 the firmness, the energy, the self-reliance which become the man; 
 and that he who can be the companion, the associate, the friend 
 of a child, is not therefore unfit to be the companion, the asso- 
 ciate, the friend of a man. And so it came to pass after awhile, 
 that the friend of the little Julia, Walter, and Eva became no 
 less the friend of their father, no less welcome to the head of the 
 family than he was to the little folks, who grouped themselves 
 around him, generally coming in for a full share of his conversa- 
 tion and attention, and yet quite content to hold his hand or his 
 coat in silence and listen, when told by their father to sit still and 
 not to interrupt the conversation. 
 
 Uncle John had been a long time in Hopedale before he learned 
 that Grace Merton had not always lived there, and that there was 
 a painful mystery thrown over the early part of her life. His kind 
 heart had been early drawn toward the mother of the blind child, 
 and what was, at first, only sympathy, became afterward respect 
 and admiration for her uncomplaining patience and quiet serenity. 
 He saw that she was sad, but thought that there was quite enough 
 to make her so in the object of her love and solicitude, and in the 
 poverty which rendered necessary an amount of labor exceeding 
 her strength ; but when he learned that there was some cause of 
 sorrow underlying and even exceeding this, his only reply was : 
 
 " Poor Grace I if she has more than that blind child upon her 
 heart, it must be heavy indeed !" 
 
 It was from Mr. Cameron that he first heard the circumstances 
 attending Mrs. Merton's arrival in Hopedale. Mr. Cameron had 
 frankly told him his own misgivings, but had also added that his 
 subsequent acquaintance with her, and knowledge of her char- 
 acter, had silenced them all. 
 
 " It cannot be her fault," he said thoughtfully ; "and yet I wish, 
 for her sake, that the mystery could be cleared up." 
 
 " Her fault I" repeated Uncle John, in surprise; "never, sir, 
 never ! There is sorrow in her face, but not remorse ; you may 
 read pain there, but not guilt. No, sir, not her fault!" 
 
 The subject dropped ; it was the first and last time that either 
 of them ever alluded to Grace Merton's early life. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 39 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 As at Cameron Hall, so also at the cottage, Uncle John now 
 came and went at his pleasure, with only one stipulation,, that he 
 should not interrupt the hours devoted to Agnes's instruction ; and 
 as Grace was in school in the morning and teaching Agnes in the 
 afternoon, his visits were limited to the evening, and he generally 
 came at tea-time or immediately afterward. 
 
 One evening, about twilight, he came in the midst of a pouring 
 rain. Grace was telling Agnes fairy tales, a poor compensation, 
 she said, for her usual enjoyment at that hour. 
 
 Uncle John sat down, and drawing her up to him, said 
 kindly : 
 
 '' You have been disappointed very often lately, my daughter, 
 in going to the church. So much rain during the last fortnight 
 has been unfortunate for you, hasn't it ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir; there have been several days lately that I have not 
 touched the organ at all, and then I always feel lonely." 
 
 "You will find, my child," said her mother, "that the winter 
 weather, now approaching, will be a much greater interruption 
 than the occasional summer rains have been. It is so cold in the 
 church that I cannot permit you to go there this winter." 
 
 " Oh, mother ! why not ? I went there a great deal last 
 winter." 
 
 " Yes, Agnes, I yielded to you then, when my judgment told 
 me that it was wrong, and the consequence was, that we both 
 suffered from it. The doctor says that I must never let you do 
 it again. I am sorry, my child, as much so as you are, for I love 
 your music almost as much as you do; but 1 must do what is 
 right." 
 
 Agnes's cheerfulness was all gone now. That organ had be- 
 come as much a part of her daily life as the air that she breathed, 
 and child that she was, she felt not only that she could not be 
 happy without it, but that she could not live without it. 
 
 The mother saw the pain that she inflicted, and so did Uncle 
 John, who said : 
 
 " My daughter, how would you like to have an organ here 
 in the house, that you could play on whenever you pleased, in 
 winter and summer, in rain and sunshine ?" 
 
 " I should like it very much. Uncle John, if it was a great big 
 organ like the one in the church, with just as many stops, and 
 
40 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 with that beautiful, deep pedal bass; but not without. Mother 
 once promised that when she had money enough she would buy 
 me a little one, like that Mr. Derby has in his parlor; but I don't 
 want that. I can't tell half that I feel on that. No, I love the 
 church organ, and am willing to go through the rain or the cold 
 to play on it. I was not cold a single time last winter while I 
 was there." 
 
 " Well, suppose that you could have one here at home just as 
 large as that ; how would you like it ?" 
 
 "How would I like it I" she exclaimed. "Oh, Uncle John, 
 I would rather have it than anything, yes, than everything in the 
 world besides !" 
 
 Grace looked inquiringly at Uncle John, who said : 
 
 "In which room, mother, shall we put Agnes's organ?" 
 
 "You are not in earnest. Uncle John," she said; and then 
 added, deprecatingly : "I am sorry that you have put that notion 
 into her head, for she thinks that you are in earnest, and she is 
 not accustomed to disappointment." 
 
 "Earnest !" he exclaimed. "I never was more in earnest in 
 my life. If you will give her a place to put it, I promise that 
 she shall have an organ with four more stops than the one in the 
 church, and just as many pedals." 
 
 " Oh, Uncle John, what shall I do, what shall I do to thank 
 you?" she exclaimed, rapturously. "When shall I have it? 
 Mother, where will you put it ?" 
 
 "Uncle John," said Grace, "do you know what you have 
 promised ? Have you any idea of the expense of such an in- 
 strument ?" 
 
 " Yes, I know all about it," he answered ; " but I am willing to 
 buy it to make her as happy as she will be." 
 
 " But, Uncle John, that is too expensive a present for you to 
 give Agnes. I am afraid " 
 
 " That you cannot afiford it," he said, finishing her sentence ; 
 "but that is my look-out, not yours. Don't you think, Agnes, 
 that your mother might allow me to spend my money as I 
 please ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, indeed I do, especially if you want to buy an organ. 
 When shall I have it — next week ?" 
 
 " Not quite so soon as that, my daughter, for I will have to 
 write for it, and then, even if it is already made, it will have to 
 be boxed up and sent out. I am afraid that you will have 
 to wait several weeks, and perhaps longer. But your mother 
 has not yet said where it is to stand." 
 
 " There is no other place for it," she replied, " except this room ; 
 but I am very willing to give up my parlor to Agnes's organ." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 41 
 
 " This house is so small, Agnes," said Uncle John, " that it 
 will not sound so well here as in the large church." 
 
 " Yes, sir, to me it will, for I will be just as near it in one place 
 as in the other." 
 
 " That is true," he replied ; " and as it is for your own special 
 use, if you are satisfied, the rest of us ought to be. I will write 
 and order it this very night. I wish that I could have it made 
 in Germany, where they make such sweet, rich-toned instruments. 
 Oh, Agnes, wiiat exquisite pleasure it would give you to hear 
 some of the organs in the Old Country, played by those wonder- 
 ful musicians !" 
 
 But Agnes cared not at that moment to hear any musician in 
 the world. She was so delighted at the idea of being the sole 
 possessor of a large organ, that all other earthly pleasures seemed 
 to sink into insignificance. 
 
 She sat in silence a little while, and then said, thought- 
 fully : 
 
 " Uncle John, you must love me a great deal ; what makes 
 you, — because I am blind ?" 
 
 " No, my daughter, I feel sorry for you because you are blind; 
 but I should not love you for that alone." 
 
 "Well, what is the reason, then ?" 
 
 *' Because you are a lovable child. You are gentle, affection- 
 ate, and obedient, and you bear your blindness cheerfully and 
 patiently." 
 
 " Is that all, Uncle John ?" 
 
 '• No, Agnes, not all," he answered thoughtfully, almost 
 sadly. 
 
 " Well, tell me the rest," she persisted. 
 
 "Suppose I tell you a tale, daughter," he said, "would 
 you like it ?" 
 
 " Yery much, sir. Mother was telling me one when you came 
 in. I like tales next to music." 
 
 He seated her in his lap, and taking her hand, said : 
 
 "A great many years ago, probably before your mother was 
 born, there lived a warm-hearted affectionate youth, full of life, 
 and hope, and happiness. He loved devotedly a young lady, who 
 had promised to be his wife, and whose sincerity and truthfulness 
 he never doubted. She had told him that she would marry him 
 as soon as he left college; and when the time was near at hand, 
 and his heart was brimful of joy, he received a letter from a 
 friend, saying that she had suddenly and most unexpectedly mar- 
 ried another man, and gone far away to a distant country. It 
 was a cruel blow, and he felt not only distressed, but bitter too. 
 
 He had trusted and believed her, and he thought that if she 
 
 4* 
 
42 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 could so deceive him, that there could be no truth or honesty in 
 anybody else, and so he grew morose and discontented. Once 
 he loved and trusted everybody, but now he hated all the world. 
 He wanted no more friends, for he was afraid that as soon as he 
 began to love them, they would deceive and disappoint him too. 
 He wanted to get as far as possible from the scene of his wretch- 
 edness, and so he went over the ocean to a far distant land. For 
 years he wandered about without any home, without any friends. 
 He would not return to his old home, because everything there 
 would remind him painfully of his former happiness ; and some- 
 times he felt so bitter that he longed for some corner of the 
 world where nobody lived, and where he might spend the rest of 
 his life all alone. He was sadly changed from what he had been 
 as a boy ; and in the wretched, embittered man, nobody could have 
 recognized the bright, cheerful, kind-hearted youth. At last, in 
 his wanderings, he went to a large city in South America, and 
 stayed there some time ; but after awhile he grew tired there and 
 wanted to go somewhere else. He was restless now, and could 
 not stay very long in one place. But he did not know where 
 else to go. He had been to Europe and did not care to go back 
 so soon ; and one day, while trying to think of some place where 
 he would like to go, he suddenly determined to go back to his 
 old home. Several years had passed since he left there ; he had 
 found that traveling about and living among strangers could not 
 make him forget his misery, and he thought that perhaps the old 
 home where he had played as a boy, and the companions of his 
 boyhood, might, after all, comfort him more than anything else. 
 At any rate, he determined to try it, and so he got on board a 
 ship to sail home. It was not a steamship, and it took a long 
 time to make the voyage. There were but few passengers, and 
 these he avoided. He used to go and sit all day long on the 
 deck and watch the waves, and think bitterly what a happy man 
 he might have been, and how wretched his life had been made by 
 one single act of another. 
 
 " There was on the ship a little child about three years old, 
 whom he first noticed playing about the deck, full of life and hap- 
 piness. He did not speak to her, but sometimes he found him- 
 self watching her instead of looking out upon the ocean ; and, 
 without knowing it, he became interested in her, and occasionally 
 forgot himself and his troubles in seeing her brightness and hap- 
 piness. She was not afraid of strangers, and, after some days, 
 she became so much accustomed to his presence in the same spot, 
 that she played around the place where he was sitting, just as 
 she would have done if he had not been there. One day, as she 
 passed by, he held out his hand to her without saying a word. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 43 
 
 She hesitated a moment, looked him full in the face, and then 
 came up fearlessly and laid her little hand in his. This was their 
 introduction, and from that moment they were friends. Every 
 day afterward she came regularly to him, and while he was try- 
 ing to entertain and amuse her, he became interested himself, and 
 at last he began really to love the little child. When he first 
 found out that he was beginning to love her, he tried hard not to 
 do it, for he had made a foolish vow that he would never again 
 love anybody in the world ; but this little child was so sweet and 
 innocent that he could not help it, and then, too, he comforted 
 himself with the thought that his little child-friend was too young 
 to deceive him. , 
 
 *' One day he asked her name, and she replied : 
 
 "'They call me Lily.' 
 
 " It was a sweet name, and suited her well, for her heart was 
 as pure as a lily, and she was as fair, and she always wore a white 
 dress. Yes, the friendless stranger loved the little Lily ; he loved 
 her more and more every day, until at last he felt glad to know 
 that he could love something, and his heart began to warm and 
 glow with kindly feelings, as it had done years before. 
 
 " One day she looked up at him, and said : 
 
 "'Uncle John' (he had taught her to call him so), 'why don't 
 you laugh and run about as I do ?' 
 
 " 'Because I don't want to do it, Lily,' he answered. 
 
 " ' But why don't you want to ?' 
 
 " He did not think that she would understand him, and he 
 said ; 
 
 " ' Because I am not happy, Lily, as you are. Nobody loves 
 me, and I don't love anybody but you.' 
 
 "'Nobody loves you !' she repeated, her large blue eyes wide 
 open with surprise ; and, shaking her head, she added : ' then, 
 Uncle John, you can't be good !' 
 
 " ' Why not, child ?' he asked. 
 
 " ' Because mamma says that when I am good everybody loves 
 me, and when I am bad nobody loves me.' 
 
 " ' Where is your mamma, Lily ?' 
 
 " ' Up there I' she answered, pointing to the bright blue sky 
 above. 
 
 " They were simple words, spoken by a little unconscious child ; 
 but they smote the man to his very heart, and that night, long 
 after she was asleep, he sat on the deck, and seemed still to hear 
 her saying: 'you can't be good.' He thought how he was 
 wasting his life, and throwing away a great deal of happiness 
 that he might enjoy, just because he had been once disappointed, 
 and he almost resolved then that he would begin at once to be 
 
44 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 cheerfal and useful. But it is hard to break bad habits, and he 
 had been too long sour and morose to change all at once. As 
 the time passed on, Lily and her friend were more constantly to- 
 ■gether. She would run to him the moment tTiat her nurse brought 
 her on deck in the morning, and would sit in his lap or by his 
 side all day until the nurse insisted upon her taking her accus- 
 tomed exercise, and then she would take Uncle John's hand, 
 saying that he must go too. When they had walked together 
 up and down the deck until she was tired and her cheeks were 
 glowing with the roses that the fresh sea air had brought out, 
 then he would lead her to the bow of the ship, and, burying him- 
 self in a sail, would wrap his blanket round her to keep her warm 
 and comfortable, and tell her stories After awliile sl»e found out 
 that he could sing, and then she gave him no rest until he sang 
 for her. He did not like to do it, for the last time he had ever 
 sung was with the lady who had so cruelly disappointed him ; 
 but she would not be refused, and as she loved music dearly, he 
 had to sing for her every day. Her next demand was that he, 
 instead of her nurse, should hear her prayer at night, and so 
 when she grew sleepy, there in the saloon, in the midst of card- 
 playing and dice-rattling, the child would sink upon her knees 
 and repeat her little prayer, and then she would climb up into 
 his lap and fall asleep in his arms, listening to his song. 
 
 " He had once played the flute, and in his days of happiness it 
 had been a great pleasure ; but he had not touched it for years. 
 But he still loved his old flute, and always carried it with him, 
 for it seemed like an old friend. One day Lily w^as in his state- 
 room and saw the case in which he kept it. Her curiosity was 
 at once awakened to know what was in it; and as soon as he 
 opened it, she exclaimed, joyfully : 
 
 " ' Oh, the flute 1 play on it. Uncle John ; I love it very much, 
 and papa always plays for me.' 
 
 " * Where is your papa, Lily ?' he asked. 
 
 " ' He is at home.' 
 
 " ' What is his name ?' 
 
 " * He is named papa : please play for me, Uncle John, won't 
 you?' 
 
 "And he did ; he took the flute out of the case where it had 
 been for so many years ; and he and Lily went to their old place 
 upon the deck. The first note fell painfully upon his ear and 
 heart, for it recalled both his past happiness and his present sor- 
 row; but by degrees it seemed to soothe and quiet his feelings, 
 and he loved to play as much as Lily loved to listen. 
 
 " He revived the old tunes that were the favorites of his boy- 
 hood, and the clear tones of Uncle John's flute sounded very 
 
CAMERON HALL. 45 
 
 sweetly, as, at the twilight hour or by moonlight, he used to play 
 for Lily, when the air was so still that the music was wafted far 
 over the quiet waters and died away in the sweetest of murmurs. 
 
 " Days and weeks passed by, and the voyage was at last almost 
 over. Other passengers began to count with pleasure the few 
 remaining days, and Uncle John alone looked forward with 
 regret to the time when they should reach the land. The society 
 of his child-friend had become almost a necessity to him ; he felt 
 himself growing to be a better man in the pure atmosphere of her 
 innocence; and he dreaded the separation, not only on account 
 of the pain, but also because he dreaded a relapse into his former 
 moodiness and discontent, out of which she had gradually drawn 
 him. He now not only loved the little Lily, but he began almost 
 to reverence her, and he felt that if he should ever recover his 
 former kindness oi heart and feeling, that he would owe it to this 
 child's unconscious influence. 
 
 " He knew nothing of her except her name, and that she had 
 been sent by her father, under the care of her nurse, to his mother 
 in the United States. They traveled together as far as Rich- 
 mond, and there they separated ; he to go to his home in another 
 part of Yirginia, and she to her grandmother in South Caro- 
 lina. 
 
 " When the nurse found out where he was going, she gave him 
 a small package, containing, she said, two miniatures, one of the 
 child and the other of her mother, which she requested him to 
 give to Mrs. Ellsworth, Lily's grandmother. The name fell like a 
 thunderbolt upon Uncle John's heart. Strange was it that the 
 child of Lucy Ellsworth should be the first to touch with healing 
 balm the wound that the mother had made I Strange that the 
 child should so sweetly comfort him whom the mother had so 
 cruelly wronged I Strange that the heart which had been denied 
 the mother's love, should thus as it were seek to compensate it- 
 self by gaining the affection of the child I 
 
 " When he gave the package to Mrs. Ellsworth, he did not ask 
 to see the mother's picture, but he begged to look at the child's. 
 It was a correct and beautiful likeness, and he had it copied and 
 wore it all the time. 
 
 " He had also been the bearer of a message to Mrs. Ellsworth, 
 that after Lily had spent some time in South Carolina, she would 
 come to visit her other grandmother in Yirginia; and Uncle John 
 looked, and hoped, and longed for her to come. Montljs passed 
 away, and still she did not come, and finally, after he had stayed 
 there a year, the old restless feeling returned, and he wanted to 
 travel again. 
 
 ** Time had somewhat healed his wounded heart, and he thought 
 
N 
 
 46 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 of his early love no longer with bitterness, but with that forgive- 
 ness which death ever exacts and receives. He thought of her 
 in her early grave in a foreign fand, and resentment dared not 
 pursue her there. He went to Europe, and this time found much 
 to interest him. He led a sort of half-roving, half-settled life — 
 sometimes sojourning weeks and sometimes months in a place, 
 as his fancy dictated ; but he no longer shut himself out from 
 society, and he formed many pleasant acquaintances and some 
 strong friendships. He did not intend to live in Europe ; but his 
 father died unexpectedly, and as he had no brothers and sisters, 
 and his mother had been long dead, he felt that the last tie had 
 been sundered that bound him to this country, and he deter- 
 mined to stay there as long as he pleased, and perhaps to live 
 there. 
 
 "Often did he think of Lily, and wondered what had become 
 of her. He did not like to think of her as growing out of child- 
 hood, but he loved to picture her still as the little child of long- 
 ago. When he went to Rome, he had her miniature copied again 
 by one of the best artists there ; and in all the celebrated picture- 
 galleries of Europe, he saw nothing which was to his eye and to 
 his heart so beautiful as the little picture, that he always wore, 
 of his child-angel. 
 
 " Many, many years passed away, and Uncle John grew old, 
 and he began again to think of his home. It may be pleasant 
 to wander about in other lands and among other scenes when 
 we are strong and full of life ; but when old age comes, and our 
 hair is gray and we begin to fail, we all want to go home to die. 
 So it was with Uncle John. He came home, but, alas I it was 
 not home to him now. The old homestead was not the same, for 
 he missed the father and mother who had made it home to him 
 in boyhood. Old friends were dead, and their children, strangers 
 to him, had taken their places. Mrs. Ellsworth was dead and 
 her family broken up and scattered in distant homes. He in- 
 quired for Lily, but none knew anything of her. The old man 
 could not stay there, so he wandered again, and at last found 
 himself in a quiet mountain-girt village. It was a sweet place 
 for a home, bat it was not his; it was full of strangers, and he 
 was lonely. He was walking one evening about twilight, when, 
 as he passed a church, he heard a strain of sweet music that stole 
 
 down to his very heart. He went into the church But, Agnes, 
 
 you know the rest of the story; you know that the old wanderer 
 has at last found a home and friends, and another sweet little 
 child-companion." 
 
 " Why, Uncle John, do you really mean that you yourself are 
 the young man and the old man of this story ?" 
 
CAMERON HALL. - 47 
 
 " Yes, Agnes. I have told you the story of my life." 
 
 "And this then is the reason that you love little children so 
 much, because they make you think of her, — is that it ?" 
 
 " Yes, my daughter, I love all children, for I feel that I owe 
 to childhood a debt that I can never repay." 
 
 " I am glad that something makes you love me, Uncle John," 
 she answered in a disappointed tone; "but I would a great deal 
 rather that you should love me for myself, than because I remind 
 you of some other child." 
 
 " I do love you for yourself, Agnes. Didn't I tell you just now 
 that I love you because you are gentle, and affectionate, and 
 cheerful ?" 
 
 " Yes, Uncle John, but don't you recollect the first time that 
 you ever saw me, you kissed me, and said that you were going to 
 love me very much ; and then you did not know whether I was 
 gentle and affectionate or not ?" 
 
 " Yes, but I know now, daughter, and I love you now for your 
 own self alone ; but surely you can have no objection to remind- 
 ing me of my other little friend, have you ?" 
 
 " No, sir ; but I cannot see how I can remind you of her — she 
 was a very little child, and she was not blind." 
 
 " But she was a musical child, Agnes ; and this was perhaps, 
 after all, the strong^est attraction that drew me toward you be- 
 fore I had learned t'o love you for yourself. She loved music so 
 much that I always think of her as a little musician ; and when- 
 ever I hear music I can see her bright face as it used to look 
 when she was listening to the flute. Yes, daughter, although 
 you are in many respects so unlike her, yet you often remind me 
 of her, and not least of all in your great love for the old Uncle 
 John, so much like her love for the young Uncle John. Sweet 
 little Lily 1" he added musingly: "how I would like to know if 
 she is still living, if she is happy, and if her womanhood has ful- 
 filled the promise of her childhood." 
 
 "If she were living, Uncle John, and you knew where to find 
 her, would you leave us and go to live with her?" 
 
 " Xo, Agnes, I expect to stay where I am the rest of my life. 
 If Lily is living, she is now a grown woman, as old or perhaps 
 older than your mother. She has formed other ties, and most 
 probably has no recollection at all of him who remembers her so 
 well. If she were to meet me now it would be as a stranger, 
 with no interest in me, no affection for me. Perhaps, after all, it 
 is better that I should never see her again. She might disap- 
 point me in appearance and character, and I would not like to 
 have the sweet image now impressed upon my memory effaced. 
 Look at it, Grace; isn't it a lovely picture?" 
 
•48 *. - CAMERON HALL. 
 
 He Opened a little gold case, looked at it a moment with a 
 half audible sigh, and then gave it to Grace. 
 
 It was a radiant little face in a setting of roseate and amethyst 
 clouds; and, bat that it had no wings, it might have been mis- 
 taken for one of those cherubs on which Raphael's genius was 
 accustomed lovingly to expend itself. 
 
 " It is very beautiful," said Grace, looking earnestly at it. 
 
 " Uncle John, I want to see it too," said Agnes. 
 
 He tried patiently to describe the form and features, but he 
 well knew that words could not paint the picture upon her mind. 
 She, however, was satisfied, as she always was, and if her idea of 
 it was faint and imperfect, she was at least happily unconscious 
 how very far it fell short of the perception of those who are 
 blessed with sight. 
 
 ** Is she in a white dress, Uncle John V 
 
 " There is no dress in the picture, Agnes. There is nothing 
 but her little face, with soft clouds all around it, and her white, 
 beautiful neck, and her round, dimpled arms, on one of which her 
 cheek rests." 
 
 " She looks, indeed," said Grace, "like a child-angel." 
 
 "Yes, Grace, so I designed it to be, for she had truly been a 
 child-angel to me, in taking the bitterness out of my poisoned 
 life and in drawing the sting from my wounded heart. She 
 could not make me altogether a happy man, yet ever since I 
 knew her, I seem to have regained the kindlier feelings of my 
 youth, have been much less soured, and distrustful, and sus- 
 picious, and have loved children with an affection amounting 
 almost to reverence. I feel that I owe to my brief intercourse 
 with her a change in the whole tone and current of my thoughts. 
 I actually shudder when I think what a morose, embittered, mis- 
 anthropic old man I should now be if I had gone on as I had 
 begun. By this time I should have been intolerable to myself 
 and to everybody else. As it is, I am a very bearable old Uncle 
 John, — don't you think I am, Agnes ?" 
 
 " I think you are the very best old Uncle John in the world," 
 she answered, and added feelingly: "do you know, Uncle John, 
 that I have not felt half so blind since I knew you ?" 
 
 His eyes moistened at this simple acknowledgment of the place 
 that he occupied in the child's heart, and his soul was stirred at 
 the thought of being light to her darkness, and pleasure to her 
 loneliness. 
 
 Presently he said : 
 
 "Agnes, if I were to hear now that my little child- angel was 
 still upon this earth, and had grown up to be an angel-woman, I 
 would not go to live with her now. I would stay with you." 
 
dAMERON HALL, ■ 49 
 
 "Thank you for that, Uncle John," she said earnestly. "I 
 would rather have that promise than anything that you could 
 give me ; yes, even than the great beautiful organ that you have 
 promised me." 
 
 " You shall have both," he said ; " and all that I ask in return 
 is, that you shall love me, and play for me on the organ whetl- 
 ever I ask you." 
 
 " I shall always be glad to do that. I wish I had it now, for 
 I love and thank you so much this minute, that I am sure I 
 could play for you the sweetest strain that I ever played in my 
 life. " 
 
 " No, you would not, Agnes, at this hour of the night, for I 
 would not stay to listen to it. Do you know what time it is ? It 
 is after eleven o'clock, and you ought to have been in bed and 
 fast asleep two hours ago. Good night." 
 
 " Good night, Uncle John. Thank you for your story ; above 
 all, thank you for the promise of an organ. l"'know that I shall 
 be all night playing ' thank you, kind Uncle John,' in my dreams 
 upon my great big new organ." 
 
 CHAPTER Y 
 
 It was late in November, and Agnes had been several weeks 
 before prohibited from going any more into the cold church, 
 when her heart w^as gladdened by the arrival of her own organ! 
 Its power and sweetness even exceeded her expectations, aiid it 
 had several stops with which she was unacquainted, and a rich, 
 deep pedal bass that thrilled her soul with delight. She was 
 now quite independent of society, for the organ was companion 
 enough ; and now that she had access to it at all hours, her love 
 for it was fast becoming an uncontrollable passion. 
 
 Joe was now entirely domesticated in the cottage, which had 
 become his home. The tie that bound him to Agnes had grown 
 stronger day by day, until at last he was not contented to be her 
 companion only at the organ, but he followed her constantly and 
 everywhere. He did not talk to her— for he rarely spoke to any 
 one— nor was he interested in her conversation, for he did not 
 understand anything that she talked about ; but he seemed to 
 enjoy a placid contentment when he was either sitting or stand- 
 ing by her looking into her face. The mother had learned to 
 
 6 
 
50 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 regard the poor idiot with a different feeling from that she had 
 toward him at first. It v.-as now not only compassion, bat affec- 
 tion too, that she felt for one whose nearest approach to pleasure, 
 in a dreary and monotonous life, was in the presence of her af- 
 flicted child ; and Joe's devotion to Agnes had, unconsciously 
 to himself, secured to hira, in the person of her mother, the kind- 
 est and gentlest of friends. She had finally taken him into her 
 own home to guard and shield his defenseless life, and he now 
 seemed as necessary a part of her family circle as was the child 
 herself. Agnes was sincerely attached to hira. As soon as she 
 became old enough to understand his condition, her mother told 
 her all about it, and the sympathy thus awakened only served 
 to deepen her affection for her faithful follower. "To make 
 music," as Joe termed it, seemed now indeed the business of their 
 lives, and the mother watched Agnes's passion with a feeling of 
 mingled anxiety and pleasure, ^lad that she had an unfailing 
 source of interest and amusement, and yet fearful lest both mind 
 and body might in the end be sacrificed to her one absorbing 
 passion. She pleaded, and the doctor commanded that there 
 should be less music and more exercise; but Agnes was incor- 
 rigible. Julia and Eva tried to tempt her with the attractions 
 of the Hall; but there was now* an enjoyment in her cottage 
 home which Cameron Hall, with all its comfort and luxury, could 
 not afford. For a long time, Uncle John refused to join in the 
 general remonstrance. He said : 
 
 "Let the child alone, it will not always be so. She is study- 
 ing now, and learning the use of those unfamiliar stops; but by 
 the time that she has learned to control this instrument as she 
 did the one in the church, the novelty will have worn off and she 
 will play in moderation." 
 
 But Uncle John proved no true prophet. "Week after week, 
 and month after month passed away, but she did not play with 
 the expected moderation. During the winter, when it was too 
 cold and disagreeable for her to exercise, her mother indulged 
 her; but when the spring opened, and the genial air made it 
 both pleasant and necessary for her to walk every day, Grace 
 found her incorrigible. She had now become so wedded to her 
 music, that her mother found that the only way to interest her 
 in her lessons was to attend to them all in the morning before 
 she permitted her to touch the organ. At last her maternal 
 anxieties were thoroughly aroused ; for she could not but see the 
 pale cheeks and the languid step that pleaded so strongly, but 
 in vain, for fresh air and healthful exercise. She stood one day 
 watching Agnes as she sat in her accustomed place, and hesi- 
 tated whether or not she would interrupt the beautiful strain and 
 
CAMERON HALL. 51 
 
 the child's evident enjoyment of it; but she felt it to be her duty, 
 and, going up to her, she laid her hand upon her shoulder and 
 said : 
 
 "Come, my daughter, I am going to see Mrs. Derby now, and 
 I want you to go with me. It is a long time since you were 
 there, and she asked me the other day why you had not been." 
 
 " Oh, mother," she answered, " I am so sorry that you spoke to 
 me just then. There was such a sweet strain of music in my 
 heart, and I was just going to play it ; but I have lost it now." 
 
 The mother's heart yearned toward the little blind musician ; 
 she felt that she was asking her to resign a pleasure, of which 
 she, in the possession of all her faculties, could not conceive ; and 
 while her judgment condemned her, she could not help saying : 
 
 "I am sorry, my child, that I interrupted you. Go on with 
 your music, and perhaps the beautiful strain will come back. 
 Another day will do just as well for the visit to Mrs. Derby." 
 
 The walks and the visits had been gradually given up, and at 
 last Grace felt that she must interfere, even if she were obliged 
 to resort to maternal authority ; but willing to try all other 
 means first, she determined to enlist Uncle John's influence. 
 
 She told him her difficulty; and the first evening that he came 
 afterward, he stood at the parlor door and listened some minutes 
 in silence. When the music ceased, he entered the room, and 
 Agnes recognized his first footstep, and said : 
 
 "Are you here, Uncle John ? When did you come in ?" 
 
 "A few minutes ago, just before you began that last strain." 
 
 "Wasn't it sweet, Uncle John? That music has been in my 
 heart for the last half hour, but I could not say it until this 
 minute ; but didn't the organ say it sweetly ?" 
 
 "Yes, my daughter, the strain was wonderfully sweet, but it 
 was wonderfully sad too." 
 
 "Sad, Uncle John ! why, how could that be ? It was no sad 
 feeling that was in my heart, and there was nothing sad in the 
 music to my ear." 
 
 " I don't know what you intended to say through the organ, 
 my child, but I know what it said to me. Shall I tell you ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "It said to me, 'Uncle John, you did very wrong when you 
 gave Agnes that organ.'" 
 
 Even the sightless eyes expressed amazement as she asked : 
 
 "Uncle John, what do you mean ?" 
 
 " Come here and I will tell you. I cannot talk to you 
 there." 
 
 He led her away from the organ, and, seating himself in a large 
 arm-chair, took her in his lap and said : 
 
62 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "Agnes, are you glad that I gave you that organ ?" 
 
 " Glad, Uncle John ! it makes me so happy, so very happy, 
 that I don't want anything else in the world." 
 
 " Would you be surprised if I should tell you that I am very 
 Borry that I gave it to you ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," she answered, confidently. "You love to be kind 
 to me, and you love to see me happy, and I believe you are just 
 as glad that you gave it to me as I am." 
 
 "I was at first, but now I am not." 
 
 "What makes you say that. Uncle John ?" 
 
 " Listen to me and I will tell you. I gave it to you to be an 
 amusement, a recreation, and not the business of your whole life. 
 You do nothing else now but sit there from morning until night. 
 You do not sleep enough; you do not exercise at all; you do 
 Dot visit at all ; and sometimes you do not even take time to eat 
 your meals as you ought to do. Yon cannot see how pale your 
 cheeks are ; you cannot see how frail and delicate you look ; 
 but your mother and all your friends see it, and beg you to give 
 np some of your amusement, and do what they know is so neces- 
 sary for you. Now, Agnes, if that organ makes you lose your 
 health, I shall be very sorry that I gave it to you ; but if, worse 
 than that, it makes my little obedient and docile child willful and 
 selfish, and unwilling to give up one hour of her pleasure for the 
 sake of her mother and her friends who love her so much, then, 
 my daughter, of course I shall regret that I gave it to you." 
 
 Agnes did not reply, but the great tears began to roll down 
 her cheeks, and presently she laid her head on Uncle John's 
 shoulder and cried and sobbed. 
 
 Uncle John felt distressed, but he did not comfort her. Pres- 
 ently her mother came in and looked inquiringly at him, and he 
 said : 
 
 " Let her alone now. I am only administering a little medi- 
 cine, bitter but wholesome." 
 
 Grace sat down, troubled and perplexed. Seldom during 
 Agnes's life had the patient and indulgent mother either spoken 
 harshly to her herself, or allowed others to do it, and now it 
 wrung her heart to hear those sobs and to see that childish grief. 
 
 After awhile, Agnes said : 
 
 "Uncle John, I did not mean to be selfish, I onlv " and 
 
 again she broke down utterly. 
 
 "No, my little daughter, you did not intend to be selfish; but 
 let us see if you have not really been so. You would rather play 
 the organ than to do anything else. Your mother asks you to 
 walk with her, but you tell her that you would rather play ; so 
 she walks alone and you play on. Is not that selfishly preferring 
 
•I 
 
 CAMERON HALL. 53 
 
 your own pleasure to hers ? Mr, Cameron, and Julia, and Eva 
 have always been very kind to you. They love to have you visit 
 the Hall, and when you go and want Eva to play on the piano 
 for you, she never tells you that she is too busy, or would rather 
 do sometliing else; but she will sit and play for you as long as 
 you like to listen. But now you prefer to stay at home with the 
 organ, and all their entreaties cannot persuade you to go to the 
 Hall, When your mother first came here a stranger, Mr, Derby 
 was kind to her, and has ever since been her friend. He loves 
 music, and it would give him great pleasure for you to go some- 
 times and play for him on the little organ in his parlor ; but you 
 prefer your own large one at home, and vfill not go. Is not this 
 selfish, Agnes ?" 
 
 " Oh, Uncle John !" she said, deprecatingly ; " please don't say 
 any more ; that is enough." And her mother looked at him 
 with an imploring look, which seemed to say : " Yes, that is 
 quite enough." 
 
 " Well, my daughter," he said kindly, " I only want to say 
 'enough.' I do not want to distress you unnecessarily; I only 
 wish to show you that even your love of music, elevating as it is 
 in itself, may be indulged to a selfish excess, and may make you 
 unlovely and disobliging. I am going to ask a favor of you 
 now, will you grant it?" 
 
 " Most gladly. Uncle John ; what is it ?" 
 
 " I want you to promise me that, beginning to-morrow, you 
 will never sit at the organ more than four hours a day ; that you 
 will walk every day with your mother ; and that you will go to 
 Mr, Derby's and to the Hall twice every week. Will you do 
 this, Agnes ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. There is only one part of the promise that will be 
 hard to keep; and if you could change places with me a little 
 while, I think you would be willing to alter that ; but if you 
 wish me, I will promise it all," 
 
 ** What is it that I would alter, Agnes ?" 
 
 " That part of the promise that limits me to four hours a day. 
 If you could only understand (as you never can) how lonely I am 
 in my blindness, you would not ask me to promise this ; you 
 would ask me to promise all the rest, and allow me to play on 
 the organ ail the time that I am in the house. Oh, Uncle John !" 
 she said touchingly, ''nobody knows how dreary my life is if I 
 have nothing to do. You can afford to sit with folded hands 
 and do nothing, for all the while your eyes are busy, and you are 
 seeing something ; but I can do only two things : I can talk to 
 my friends, and 1 can talk to my organ." 
 
 "Well, my daughter, I do not mean to be unreasonable, and 
 
 5* 
 
54 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 I will not ask you to sit at home idle. Promise then to walk an 
 hour in the morning with me while your mother is in school ; 
 another in the afternoon with her; visit some friend every day; 
 say your lessons, and spend the rest of the time at the organ. 
 How will that suit you ?" 
 
 " Very well, indeed, Uncle John, and I thank you for the 
 change. If you had insisted upon the first promise, it would 
 have been very hard ; but I would have kept it rather than you 
 should have thought me selfish. Do they think me selfish at the 
 Hall, TJncle John?" 
 
 " I never heard them sav that, Agnes : but I have heard Mr. 
 Cameron and his daughters regret your unwillingness to visit 
 them now. They love you very much, and it gives them pleasure 
 to have you with them, and you ought to value their friendship, 
 for it is not every child that has such friends as they are." 
 
 "I do value them, Uncle John, and love them dearly." 
 
 "Then, my daughter, you can show it by going to see them 
 when thev wish it." 
 
 "Will you take me with you. Uncle John, next time you go ?" 
 
 "Yes, I will drive you out to-morrow morning, if your mother 
 is willing." 
 
 The mother's consent was readily obtained, and, at the ap- 
 pointed time the next day. Uncle John's buggy was at the door. 
 A short drive brought them to the Hall, where, as he had pre- 
 dicted, they were gladly welcomed. The girls made every effort 
 to render Agnes contented and happy; but it was not neces- 
 sary, for at the Hall she was always cheerful. She never played 
 on the piano herself, for, to use her own expression, "the music 
 was not deep enough, it wanted soul;" but when she was away 
 from the organ, she liked to hear piano music, and so, after din- 
 ner, Eva led her into the parlor to play for her. As she left the 
 room, Eva said : 
 
 " Uncle John, if you and papa want to enjoy a cigar and 
 quiet conversation, you will find a pleasant retreat in the library, 
 out of the reach of the opera music that Agnes and I are going 
 to have ; but if you would like to hear it, we invite you to fol- 
 low us." 
 
 "I believe, Eva," he replied, "that if your father is willing, 
 we will adjourn to the library, for I want to have a private con- 
 versation with him. Come, Julia," he said, as the three were 
 leaving the room, "don't you go with those children. I want 
 you to go with us ; I want your judgment." 
 
 "Oh, Agnes!" exclaimed Eva, laughing, as she raised the lid 
 of the piano, " don't you feel glad that we are excluded from that 
 sober company ? How thankful I am that nobody ever thinks 
 
CAMERON HALL. 55 
 
 it worth while to appeal to my judgment ! I know that the 
 grave discussions of those three old people would put me to 
 sleep in ten minutes!" 
 
 Eva's kindliness of disposition was never more manifest than 
 when she was with Agnes, who, with her quiet temperament and 
 necessarily quiet pursuits, was rather a companion for the thought- 
 ful Julia than for the sprightly Eva. Confinement to the house 
 was exceedingly irksome to Eva, and she generally lived out of 
 doors; but whenever Agnes was at the Hall, she never thought 
 of going out all day. Her gayety seemed sobered by sympathy 
 whenever she was with Agnes, and her father and sister often 
 watched with pleasure her patience and unselfishness in trying 
 to amuse her little blind companion. 
 
 A few years can efi*ect great changes, especially in childhood ; 
 and those that had passed away since the commencement of our 
 story had wrought a great change in the appearance of the three 
 little girls. Agnes was growing rapidly; but she looked pale 
 and delicate. Her cheeks needed the bright color of vigorous 
 health, and the effects of her sedentary life were plainly visible 
 in her appearance. Taking her blindness into consideration, she 
 was a well-instructed child — wonderfully so, many thought; but 
 they did not know how much can be effected by years of patient 
 teaching, even when the most effectual avenue for acquiring 
 knowledge has been closed. 
 
 Julia and Eva were still as dissimilar as they had been in 
 childhood. Their characters were only the development of the 
 germs of infancy, and the peculiarities which had marked them 
 then, had grown and strengthened with years. Julia was still 
 only her father's "little woman " developed in mind and stature. 
 The quiet, undemonstrative, reflective child, was now the quiet, 
 undemonstrative, reflective girl, the head of her father's house- 
 hold, fulfilling its duties and assuming its cares and responsibil- 
 ities with an energy and determination and faithfulness quite 
 remarkable in one of her age. She had early yielded to the in- 
 fluence of Christian principles, and their effect was plainly visible 
 in her character ; but her minister met with a most unexpected 
 obstacle in her outward confession of them, — one that, had he 
 known her less thoroughly, might perhaps have discouraged him. 
 While she both loved and respected her pastor, yet her timidity 
 and reserve prevented that free intercourse so necessary between 
 the minister and those whom he is to guide. He felt that he 
 knew her well, and' yet his knowledge was gained rather by 
 watching her outer life, than by what she told him of her inner 
 feelings. These feelings she was evidently afraid to trust. She 
 had so often seen the lamentable effects of a religion purely 
 
66 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 emotional, that she had fallen into the opposite but less fatal 
 en'or of ignoring emotion altogether and exalting principle. 
 Thus in her fear lest her feelings should gain the ascendency 
 over her principles, and betray her into a premature step, she 
 stifled and kept them down, and would not give them the full, 
 free current tliat her warm, affectionate heart pleaded for. Then, 
 too, Julia's truthfulness and honesty kept her back. Scorning 
 hypocrisy, and fearing a lie, she wanted to be very sure that she 
 was a Christian before she confessed herself such ; and so the 
 very traits that form the best foundation for a Christian charac- 
 ter made her afraid to assume it; and the minister, after waiting 
 long and patiently, was at last tempted to be discouraged. But 
 good seed, sown in such a soil, must needs spring up and grow. 
 In the course of time, without persuasion and in obedience to 
 the convictions of her own conscience, she expressed her wish to 
 receive the rite of confirmation — a step whose solemnity she fully 
 realized at the time, and the sanction of whose vows and obliga- 
 tions she never afterward disregarded. She was conscientious 
 in her religion, and her Christian principles were not considered 
 as something separate from, and independent of, her daily life 
 and daily duties, but were rather regarded as specially designed 
 to control them. 
 
 Eva was still the sunbeam of the Hall, bright, glad, and joy- 
 ous. Full of health and life and animal spirits, she was the very 
 reverse of her sister. Julia was always calm and reflective ; Eva 
 was full of enthusiasm and impulse ; Julia was practical ; Eva 
 imaginative. Scarcely more than an infant when her mother 
 died, the little Eva, in her helplessness, had seemed to appeal 
 for sympathy more touchingly than the rest, and she had been 
 all her life, by common consent, the pet of the household. And 
 yet she was neither wayward nor spoiled, but was always bright 
 and happy, and all felt that if Eva were gone, the light of the 
 Hall would be gone too. She was still "the child," and seemed 
 likely to continue so all her life in the estimation of those at 
 home ; nor was this alone because she was the youngest, for 
 although now emerging from childhood, she still retained many 
 of its traits. The interval which severed the sisters so widely in 
 early childhood, was of course lessened now ; but still Julia re- 
 tained the same maternal authority and influence over Eva that 
 she had so early possessed ; and in cases where the judgment of 
 the elder and the will of the younger conflicted, the latter was 
 always obliged to yield. There was, however, no assumption of 
 power on the one hand, and no rebellion on the other ; it was a 
 sort of tacit agreement, that since Eva had no mother, Julia was 
 to occupy that relation to her. In all their other intercourse, 
 
CAMERON HALL. 57 
 
 they were sisters, perfectly on an equality ; and Eva in her child- 
 ish humors and frolics often made herself merry at the expense 
 of her grave elder sister. Julia's heart was bound up in the 
 child, and she indulged her to any extent in what she thought 
 right ; but beyond this she was as firm and unyielding as her 
 mother herself could have been. 
 
 Eva and Walter grew up companions as they had been in in- 
 fancy. There was much in Eva's joyous temperament and ani- 
 mal spirits to render her a suitable companion for her brother, 
 and as she had no sister near her own age, she had always been 
 thrown upon him for society. The consequence was that she 
 became fond of his sports ; she dearly loved a fishing excursion 
 with him, or a frolic with him and Carlo, or a nut-gathering in 
 the autumn ; and sometimes not the least part of her enjoyment 
 of these excursions was to see Julia's dismay and regret, when 
 she returned with her dress torn into shreds, or when she dis- 
 played her soft white hands hopelessly dyed with the dark wal- 
 nut stain. At such times, Julia only expostulated. There was 
 no principle involved in staining her hands or tearing her dress, 
 and so she only reminded her that she was fast growing up to be 
 a young lady, and that such amusements belonged to childhood ; 
 and the mischievous Eva would listen demurely, while her 
 thoughts were planning another frolic. 
 
 Walter had now been away a long time at school, only spend- 
 ing the summer vacations at home ; and however Julia's influ- 
 ence and example sobered Eva in the intervals, she surely forgot 
 it all just as soon as Walter returned ; and torn skirts, and 
 tanned cheeks, and tangled curls were the order of the day as 
 long as he remained at home. 
 
 With all this simplicity and freshness of character, there was 
 mingled in Eva an element of romance, that Julia watched anx- 
 iously. Intensely practical herself, she was perhaps a little too 
 much afraid that it might render her sister unfitted for the com- 
 mon duties of daily life ; and while she loved to hear the child 
 sketch her fancy pictures of the future, all glowing with the pris- 
 matic colors of her own bright imagining, yet Julia feared, per- 
 haps unnecessarily, that if the picture were not realized, Eva's 
 life might, by the painfulness of contrast, be rendered more 
 somber than it would otherwise have been. Eva delighted in 
 reading romances, and Julia gently but firmly discouraged it. 
 She loved it herself, and indulged it to a certain extent ; but she 
 controlled herself in the enjoyment. This Eva did not do ; and 
 Julia saw with apprehension that an exciting story had become 
 to her young sister's mind as great a pleasure, though not by any 
 means so healthful a one, as were the fresh air and exercise to her 
 physical frame. 
 
58 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 She came into the library one day, where Eva was sitting in 
 her father's arra-ehair with her face buried in its cushion. She 
 was very quiet, and at first Julia thoiif]^ht that she was asleep ; 
 but presently she heard a low sob. Nothing ever was done to 
 distress Eva ; nobody ever reprimanded or spoke harshly to her; 
 and to see her in tears was so unusual a sight, that Julia was 
 both surprised and grieved. She went up, and raised her head 
 gently, asking what was the matter. 
 
 " Nothing, sister," she answered, as if she were half ashamed. 
 "I could not help crying over my book." 
 
 There in her lap lay the novel, — the cause of it all. For the 
 moment Julia felt almost indignant, to think that the child, who 
 had no cause herself for tears, should be wasting them over im- 
 aginary woes; but she remembered that her own had sometimes 
 overflowed in the same way, and so she only took the book quietly 
 out of Eva's hand and closed it, saying : 
 
 " You must put it away now, Eva, and do something else. 
 Go and take a walk, or play the piano, or, better still, go and 
 seat yourself at once to your German lesson, and compel yourself 
 to learn it thoroughly before you leave it, and to-morrow you 
 can read this again." 
 
 But for once Eva would not yield. She grasped the book 
 eagerly, and said : 
 
 '' No, sister, I cannot stop now, for I am in the most interest- 
 ing part of the book. It is too hot to walk, I don't want to 
 practice, and my lesson need not be learned until to-night. Be- 
 sides, Walter is coming to-morrow, and I will want to stay with 
 him all the time; so I must finish my book to-day." 
 
 She took it from her sister, and was in a moment as deeply 
 absorbed as ever. Julia stood and looked at her, as, forgetful 
 of her sister's presence, Eva's eyes again filled, and her bosom 
 heaved with sympathy for imaginary distress. 
 
 " This will not do," murmured Julia, as she left the room. 
 " Papa must speak to Eva, and correct this, or the child will be 
 ruined." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 59 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 The next day Walter came. The novel was finished, and 
 Eva was ready to give herself solely to the enjoyment of her 
 brother's society; and it seemed unnatural that the young girl, 
 whose sensibilities had been so easily touched by a romance, 
 should, a few days afterward, find pleasure in frolicking with 
 her brother and Carlo, at the momentary risk of her white muslin 
 dress. 
 
 TThen Walter had been at home a week, one morning, at the 
 breakfast table, Mr. CameroQ said : 
 
 "Children ! what do you say to going to the White Sulphur, 
 for a little while ? We have not been there for two summers. 
 How would you like it, Julia?" 
 
 " I should like it very much, papa," she answered. " I thought 
 of proposing it myself, after Walter had been at home a little 
 while; but perhaps he will not be willing to go away so soon." 
 
 " On the contrary, sister, I would like to go, if you all go 
 with me. We need not stay more than three or four weeks, and 
 then I will have a month to spend at home." 
 
 "And I will be delighted," said Eva, joyously. " I love that 
 beautiful country all round the Springs; and Walter, and Carlo, 
 and I will have plenty of fun." 
 
 "Eva," said Julia, "you must remember one thing. You are 
 now two years older than you were when you were there before, 
 and are quite a young lady in appearance, and you will be ex- 
 pected to behave as such. You cannot be the romping, tearing 
 child that you were before." 
 
 "I declare, sister," she answered, laughing, "of all the evils in 
 the world, you have made me dread womanhood most. If I am 
 to sit up quiet and dignified, with ray curls always smooth, and 
 afraid to walk about lest I may soil or tear my dress, I would 
 rather not go at all. If I cannot enjoy myself, with Walter and 
 Carlo, just as I do at home, and be my own natural self, and be 
 a child if I feel like it, I would greatly prefer to stay at home, 
 where nobody seems to expect me ever to be a young lady." 
 
 Mr. Cameron and Walter laughed ; and Julia said : 
 
 "I don't want to restrict you in your enjoyment, Eva; and I 
 certainly would not have you to be anything but your own na- 
 tural self I would only remind you that you are no longer a 
 child, but are now a young lady." 
 
60 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " I am just as much of a child in feeling now as I was then, 
 and enjoy the same kind of pleasures. The glory of the Springs 
 is the freedom from restraint that everybody ought to feel in 
 a wild, beautiful country; and if people go there to dress np, 
 and look handsome, and play the agreeable, I think some other 
 places would be much more suitable. From my heart I used to 
 pity the young ladies there, in the parlor, who were dressed so 
 elegantly that they were afraid to move, and whose elaborately 
 braided hair could not bear the touch of flat or sun-bonnet ; and 
 never did I so appreciate the blessed freedom of childhood as 
 when, in my gingham dress and white apron, I roamed at large, 
 thinking of anything in the world but how I looked. Papa, if 
 I am to go to the Springs as a young lady, please leave me at 
 home." 
 
 "I shall do no such thing," he answered, laughing. "You 
 shall go in any capacity that you please, and enjoy yourself 
 just as you please. Sister," he said, looking at Julia, "has 
 Eva enough gingham dresses and white aprons to take to the 
 Springs?" 
 
 " I am afraid not enough of the latter, papa, since she has not 
 worn them since that summer; and I don't think it would be 
 possible to find one. But she has enough dresses to go, and 
 very nice ones, too, if we go immediately, before she and Walter 
 and Carlo have torn them up. I saw her only yesterday pl-aying 
 with the dog in one of her prettiest muslin dresses, and I expected 
 every moment to see it in tatters." 
 
 "'Never mind the dresses, Eva," said Walter. "We will have 
 a famous time at the Springs. You and I will leave the parlor 
 and the ball-room to the belles and beaux, and we will find our 
 pleasure in the woods." 
 
 It was rather too early in the season for the crowd of fashion- 
 able visitors; and Mr. Cameron and his family found no diffi- 
 culty in securing ample accommodation, and making themselves 
 comfortable. Reared as they had been in the country, and ac- 
 customed to its freedom and unrestraint, they reveled in the ex- 
 tended sphere now opened before them, — in the wild scenery, the 
 pure mountain air, and the exhilaration of mind and body in- 
 spired by this enchanting spot. Walter and Eva were wild with 
 delight, and Julia and her father enjoyed it scarcely less. They 
 rambled for hours in the morning, until the sun grew too hot, 
 and in the evening, just before sunset, they went out again, to 
 return when the twilight had settled into dark night, or when 
 the whole scene was flooded by glorious moonlight. 
 
 With the few visitors that they found at the Springs, Eva 
 soon became acquainted. There was no timidity or reserve 
 
CAMERON HALL. 61 
 
 about her. Free, unrestrained, and simple-hearted as a child, 
 the trammels of society imposed no barrier to her intercourse. 
 She could not long remain a stranger to people with whom she 
 was thrown every day, and could not learn to pass, without a 
 word or look of recognition, faces with which she was perfectly 
 familiar. At the expiration of a week she knew everybody, and 
 was alike at home with all ; but Julia was ditferent. Her reserve 
 amounted to a fault; and in her intercourse with strangers she 
 was so distant and so shy, that she denied herself the privilege of 
 many a friendship that she might have enjoyed, and passed along 
 unnoticed and unknown, without awakening a suspicion of the 
 real worth and value of a character hid beneath such impenetra- 
 ble reserve. Especially was this the case in the society of gentle- 
 men. Her delicacy of feeling, and fear lest she might be thought 
 anxious to attract admiration, made her draw closely within her- 
 self, and she never allowed them to see her real character ; conse- 
 quently, many who were at once attracted by her face, and eagerly 
 sought her acquaintance, soon struck a hasty retreat, unable to 
 decide whether her coldness resulted from a special dislike to 
 them personally, or from a repugnance to the sex in general. 
 
 Among those already at the Springs when the Cameron family 
 arrived, was a young physician from South Carolina. He had 
 been there several weeks, having come for his health, and wishing 
 to enjoy the mountain breezes, and the bracing air, and the heal- 
 ing waters, in peace and quiet. But the peace and quiet were 
 become monotonous and irksome, and he was beginning to long for 
 the society which seemed to his impatience so late in coming. 
 It was with great pleasure therefore that, he fonnd himself one 
 morning, at breakfast, opposite the two girls whose faces spoke 
 them so widely different, and yet both of whom he felt sure that 
 he would like to know. Before night he and Eva were on per- 
 fectly good terms, and she had invited him to join their morning 
 ramble next day. He went, and tried hard to make himself 
 agreeable to the elder sister; but he encountered this formidable 
 barrier of reserve which seemed to him like an icy wall. Charles 
 Beaufort professed some skill in reading faces, and before he had 
 even spoken a word to Julia, he had concluded that hers was a 
 character worth studying, and that it would require study fully 
 to understand and appreciate it; but he did not expect to meet 
 such an obstacle as he found, nor, when he encountered it, did he 
 imagine that it would be so difficult to overcome. Even in the 
 intercourse of that single day he thought that he could perceive 
 that it was timidity, not formality ; a shrinking from observation 
 rather than haughty indifference ; and his failure to elicit from 
 her one word or look that betrayed interest in anything that he 
 
62 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 safd, SO far from discouraging hira, only sharpened, the more 
 keenly, his desire to know thoroughly a woman so utterly unlike 
 those who generally frequent fashionable summer resorts. And 
 so, day after day, he sought Julia's society only to be, day after 
 day, disappointed; disappointed not only because he seemed not 
 to advance one step toward her favor, but because he had not 
 yet found evidences of that character which he imugined.she pos- 
 sessed. He was baffled and perplexed. He relied ui)on the face 
 as an index of what is within ; he studied hers carefully in every 
 line and feature, and became daily more and more convinced that 
 if there was anything in physiognomy, his first impressions must 
 be true, and yet those first impressions were not realized. Their 
 intercourse was not exactly formal, but he felt that however she 
 might regard hira, she at least treated him still as a stranger; 
 their conversation was always upon general ordinary topics; he 
 knew that he had never penetrated beneath the surface, and, de- 
 spairing of ever being permitted to do so, and feeling that he 
 was no better acquainted with her than he was the first time he 
 ever saw her, he became discouraged, and by degrees sought 
 Julia less and Eva more. They were now warm friends, and 
 were much together. Charles loved the woods as much as Eva 
 and Walter. He was something of a geologist, and Eva soon 
 became greatly interested in collecting specimens and learning 
 from him how the age of the world and of its different periods 
 was written upon the rocks. He regarded her as a child and 
 treated her accordingly, and, in her unreserve, she incidentally 
 communicated much about her sister which Charles himself had 
 not learned; indeed, from Eva he gained a clearer insight into 
 what Julia really was than he could have done by months of such 
 intercourse as he had with her. He had now a glimpse of her 
 inner home-life, and if Eva had not been the thoughtless, unsus- 
 picious child that she was, she would have wondered that Dr. 
 Beaufort so often encouraged her to talk about her sister. 
 
 And now, as the season advanced, the crowd of visitors was 
 augmented by daily accessions, and gay and brilliant daughters 
 of fashion thronged the drawing-rooms by day and the ball-room 
 by night. Julia mingled in the throng, and sometimes in the 
 dance, but always with a quiet, subdued manner, that some in- 
 terpreted as indiffe;rence and others as haughtiness; but per- 
 haps she really enjoyed the scene around her more than most of 
 them, for her placid heart was undisturbed by any feelings of 
 rivalry, envy, or jealousy. Her acquaintance was sought by 
 many of both sexes, for her father's name was honored and re- 
 spected, but very few appreciated her as she deserved, and Eva 
 was the universal favorite. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 63 
 
 It was a dark rainy morning, one of those days so trying to the 
 patience of the pleasure-lovers and pleasure-seekers who have no 
 resources within themselves, and are proportionally miserable 
 when cut off from external sources of amusement. The young 
 people had tried various means to beguile the weary hours : 
 graces on the piazza and games and cards in the drawing-room ; 
 
 and at last had scattered through the room singly or in groups, 
 
 here, four or five talking together; there, a pair of lovers who 
 had forgotten the dreariness outside in the light of their own 
 hearts; and, in another place, a person sitting alone with a book 
 or newspaper. Julia was reading by the window, and close by 
 were some of her companions, with Eva in their midst, eagerly 
 discussing the book that she was reading. Not far off sat Charles 
 Beaufort, with a newspaper, though he was acquainting himself 
 rather with the various faces around him than with the contents 
 of the pap&r. Presently he was attracted by the voices of the 
 girls near him in earnest discussion. Eva, with her accustomed 
 enthusiasm, was loud in her admiration of the exciting plot and 
 interesting characters, the touching scenes and incidents of the 
 book. 
 
 Julia was absorbed, and it was perhaps this very consciousness 
 of the powerful spell that could be thrown over her quiet, prac- 
 tical nature, that made her so much dread the influence of novel- 
 reading upon her ardent, excitable sister. 
 
 Eva pointed to her triumphantly, as she exclaimed : 
 
 " Look at sister, there ! You may know how interesting it 
 must be, for she does not approve novel-reading generally, and 
 yet you see she is completely absorbed." 
 
 " How do you like it, Julia ?*' asked one of the girls. 
 
 Julia neither heard nor answered, and Eva called out : 
 
 " Sister ! sister ! wake up I your book seems to have carried 
 you far into dream-land !" 
 
 Julia was aroused by the words and the laugh that followed, 
 and Eva asked : 
 
 " Isn't it interesting, sister ?" 
 
 " Yery, indeed," she answered. 
 
 "And don't you like the heroine, Julia?" asked another. 
 "Isn't she a beautiful character?" 
 
 "No," she replied quietly. "I do not like her character 
 at all." 
 
 " Not like her character I" echoed several voices. " What do 
 you mean ?" 
 
 "Simply," she answered, smiling, "that I do not admire her. 
 I see that I am in the minority ; but you have asked my opinion, 
 and I must give it truly." 
 
\ 
 
 t>4 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " What can you object to in the character ?" asked one. 
 
 " I think that it is deficient in truthfuhiess. There are several 
 scenes in the book, and those the most interesting too, in which 
 plain, straightforward, open-hearted candor might have prevent- 
 ed much misconception and misunderstanding." 
 
 "And marred the interest of the book !" exclaimed another. 
 - "Perhaps so," replied Julia; "but then her character would 
 not have been marred." 
 
 " Pshaw ! you are too particular, Julia ! Xobody but your- 
 self ever would have noticed such slight defects, and if they had, 
 nobody else would have called them blemishes either in the char- 
 acter or in the book." 
 
 ^ " That may be," she replied, modestly. " I don't say that I am 
 right ; I only say that this is my opinion, and that is what you 
 asked for." 
 
 "And yet you seemed to be not only interested, but ab- 
 sorbed." 
 
 " So I was. It is a fascinating book, and therein consists its 
 danger. It is well planned and well written, and in our sym- 
 pathy for the sufferings of the heroine, we are tempted to forget 
 that they are in many instances nothing but the fruit of her own 
 doings." 
 
 " Well, I would not, for all the world, read a novel with such 
 a practical eye. When I read romance, I give myself up entirely 
 to it, throw my whole heart into it, and, for the time being, live 
 and move among its characters and breathe its atmosphere. There 
 is enough of practical reality in this everyday life of ours, and 
 instead of carrying its maxims and axioms into the world of 
 romance, I leave them all behind ; only too glad now and then 
 to shake off their trammels." 
 
 " That may be very well," said Julia, "when the trammels are 
 those of fashion and custom and mere worldly sanction ; but 
 there are certain great principles which govern our daily life, 
 and as romance after all professes to be only a picture of real 
 life, these same great principles must or ought to be as binding 
 there as in the world of reality. Indeed, I think that a grave 
 responsibility rests upon romance-writers. Everybody loves fic- 
 tion, and everybody reads it, and the novel-writer should see to 
 it that he neither ignores nor disregards the great principles of 
 truth and right." 
 
 "Well, I declare!" said one of the girls, laughing; "you are 
 certainly the most practical novel-reader that 1 ever met with." 
 
 "Yes, I am practical," answered Julia, laughing in return; 
 "everybody calls me so; and Eva, there, who is herself very 
 high-strung, thinks that I am the most matter-of-fact person iu 
 the world." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 65 
 
 *'And papa," said Eva, impetuously, determined that if being 
 practical was thought to be a blemish upon her sister's char- 
 acter, she would off-set it by a virtue, " papa and Uncle John 
 say that sister has the most wonderfully good judgment that 
 they ever saw in one so young. They consult her about every- 
 thing." 
 
 " Hush, Eva !" said Julia, coloring; "you must not say that. 
 Papa and Uncle John are partial judges, you know." 
 
 She resumed her book, but not to read long. Charles Beaufort 
 had heard the conversation, and when it ceased, he came up and 
 seated himself at her side to talk to her. The way was now 
 opened to converse upon another than common topics, and he 
 pursued the same theme. Though Julia was evidently embar- 
 rassed to find that her remarks had been heard by other ears than 
 those for whom they were intended, yet she maintained her 
 ground firmly, but modestly, and expressed her views without 
 reserve. It was the first insight into her character that she her- 
 self had ever given him, and it only made him regret the more 
 that she should generally shut herself up in such impenetrable 
 reserve. Julia had been, as it were, beguiled into this conversa- 
 tion, but it proved the entering wedge to another kind of inter- 
 course with Dr. Beaufort than she had ever permitted before. 
 She had now expressed herself freely to him once, and he had 
 understood her, and ever afterward she felt under less restraint 
 with him, and treated him less as a stranger and more as a friend. 
 Every day developed something in her character to admire the 
 more, and while he could not but prefer to occupy his present 
 position rather than the one he held at first, yet this did not bj 
 any means satisfy him. Julia now talked freely with him, walked 
 with him, and did not disguise the pleasure that she had in his 
 society; but once or twice when he rather transcended the limits 
 of friendship, and showed by a look or some delicate act that he 
 would like to be regarded in another light, the timidity and shy- 
 ness all came back in a moment and threatened to break off their 
 intercourse altogether. He did not know what to think of it ; 
 sometimes he imagined that her affections belonged to another, 
 and that her truthfulness and delicacy had thus combined to 
 arrest his advances ; and at another time he thought that an in- 
 cidental word betrayed otherwise. He was perplexed to under- 
 stand her feelings toward him, but he liked her society ; indeed, 
 day by day, it was becoming more necessary to him, and so he 
 determined blindly to enjoy it while he could, and if, in the end, 
 he should be obliged to relinquish it, to bear it philosophically, 
 and try and forget her. 
 
 And so the time passed on. They were a great deal together, 
 
 6* 
 
66 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 and had Julia mingled more with the girls of her age, and had 
 her reserve not made them aff'aid to take the liberty, they would 
 have jested with her, and teased her about her South Carolina 
 friend; but as it was, fortunately for Charles's comfort, she did 
 not know that their intercourse had ever been remarked, and so 
 without interruption they enjoyed it. 
 
 It was Sunday evening ; the last Sunday that they were to 
 spend at the Springs, — one of those calm, quiet evenings that we 
 sometimes see, wiien the very air seems weighed down with solemn 
 stillness. The frivolous conversation, the meaningless laugh, the 
 blaze of fashion to which not even the holy day afforded a re- 
 spite, were in striking and painful contrast to the peace and 
 serenity around ; and i^va, coming up to her sister, as they stood 
 beside the spring in the midst of a merry crowd, whispered : 
 
 " Let us go and take a walk : it is such a beautiful evening." 
 
 They found Walter, and the three went away over a neighbor- 
 ing hill to a quiet little dell on the other side, through which 
 flowed and sparkled a little brook. They were not unfamiliar 
 with the spot, for their rambles often ended there ; and Julia 
 and Charles had spent some pleasant hours together there, 
 strolling along the banks of the stream or sitting under the trees. 
 Walter and Eva pursued their walk, and Julia seated herself 
 under a broad oak. She w^as glad to be alone in a quiet spot, 
 for new and strange thoughts and feelings had just been awakened 
 in her heart, and she wanted to understand them. It was only 
 that morning that they had determined to return home in a day 
 or two, and Julia was startled to tind that the thought of leaving 
 Charles Beaufort had been all day uppermost in her mind. She 
 felt ashamed and distressed. Quite unconscious that her own 
 timidity and shyness had prevented the acknowledgment of feel- 
 ings of whose very existence she was ignorant, she only knew 
 that he had never spoken one word to her that he might not have 
 said to any other young lady there, and she was dismayed to find 
 that her feelings had, unasked, become interested. Her cheeks 
 burned at the thought, and she asked herself what she was to do. 
 There was but one course, and that was to root out the feelings 
 with no sparing hand, and Julia determined to do it. She felt 
 sure that she could, for obstacles generally gave way before her 
 unyielding determination. 
 
 Presently a step was heard, and, looking up, she saw with pain 
 and surprise the object of her thoughts approaching her. At 
 that moment she would rather have seen anybody else in the 
 world. Her heart beat rapidly and the color mounted to her 
 temples, but the more she tried to be quiet and composed, the 
 more agitated she became ; and when he reached her, he saw at 
 
CAMERON HALL. 67 
 
 once that she was, from some cause, painfully excited. He did 
 not feel at liberty to notice it; indeed, he began to be embar- 
 rassed himself, because he felt that he had intruded upon her 
 privacy, and he tried to reassure himself and to compose her by 
 plunging at once into conversation. Julia tried hard, for her 
 own sake, to respond to his effort; but she could not, and she 
 felt that her attempt was a miserable failure. 
 
 Charles himself was exceedingly disappointed. He had unex- 
 pectedly found her in his evening stroll ; and when he saw her 
 there alone, the pleasing hope was at once awakened that he 
 might now meet with the encouragement, and find the oppor- 
 tunity for which he had patiently waited ; but instead of this, he 
 had never seen her so reserved before. ^ She either could not or 
 would not talk ; and he was as much relieved as she was, when 
 Walter and Eva rejoined them. In their walk back they all 
 went together, and Charles and Eva principally sustained the 
 conversation, thus giving Julia time to collect her thoughts and 
 summon her accustomed self-control. Before the walk was ended, 
 she so far succeeded that Charles wondered as much at her 
 speedy recovery from her embarrassment as he had wondered at 
 the embarrassment itself. They passed the spring on their way, 
 and, as they approached it, Eva and Walter hastened on, leaving 
 their companions in the rear. 
 
 Suddenly Charles stopped, and pointing to a little cluster of 
 wild flowers at his feet, said: 
 
 " Miss Cameron, will you oblige me by giving me a remem- 
 brancer (not of this evening, for I would rather forget this), but 
 of our other pleasant intercourse at the White Sulphur ?" 
 
 She blushed at the allusion to their present painful interview, 
 and as she stooped to pluck the flowers, she only answered ; 
 
 "Certainly, with pleasure." 
 
 She tied their little blossoms together with a blade of grass ; 
 and as he received them, he offered some in return, saying : 
 
 "I hope you will not refuse to accept, as well as to give a 
 memorial." 
 
 She clasped the flowers upon her bosom with her breast-pin, 
 and wore them during the evening; but although he tried several 
 times to win her back to her accustomed unreserved conversation 
 with him, he could not succeed. Some new barrier, he could 
 not imagine what, had suddenly sprung up between them. 
 
 Two days afterward they left the Springs. At their departure, 
 while Charles was exchanging adieus, Mr. Cameron, seconded 
 by Eva, cordially invited him to the Hall. He looked at Julia, 
 but could not tell from her face whether his visit would be ac- 
 ceptable or not, so he only responded to the invitation in general 
 terms of thanks and courtesy. 
 
68 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER TIL 
 
 A FEW evenings after they arrived at home, Uncle John drove 
 Agnes out to the Hall. Eva had much to tell of her enjoyment 
 at the Springs, and Agnes was interested, and Uncle John 
 amused at her descriptions of persons and things. 
 
 ** Sister was very much afraid," she said, "that I would be 
 regarded as nothing but. an overgrown child ; l)ut I believe in 
 the end she was quite satisfied with my lady-like deportment." 
 
 "Yes," said Julia, "Eva behaved very creditably. She kept 
 Carlo at a respectful distance, only tore her dress once, and I 
 never saw her in the parlor with tangled curls. Indeed, she 
 acted the young lady very well, nor did she find the character so 
 irksome and disagreeable as she imagined. Did you, Eva ?" 
 
 " No !" she answered, laughing ; " I like my method of being 
 a young lady very much indeed ; but I should oVjject as much as 
 ever to the prim, overdressed young ladyhood that I saw in the 
 parlor. I mingled the enjoyments of childhood with mine. I 
 roamed about at pleasure all day, and in the evening smoothed 
 my curls and changed my dress, and was ready for the dance ; 
 biit if I had been obliged to spend hours every afternoon ar- 
 ranging a ball-dress or in the hands of the hair-dresser, I should 
 indeed have been disgusted with being a young lady." 
 
 "If you could have seen her. Uncle John," said Walter, "in 
 the ball-room, you could not have believed that she was the same 
 girl, who, only three or four weeks ago, wanted to be always a 
 child, and dreaded the necessity of ever becoming a young lady. 
 She danced and entertained the gentlemen, and played the belle 
 generally, not only with as much ease, but apparently with as 
 much enjoyment as anybody there. Indeed, I rather thought that 
 she enjoyed it more than anybody else." 
 
 " I don't deny it," she answered. " I enjoyed myself very much 
 in every way. I enjoyed the rambles, the dance, the games, and 
 the bowling-alley, when I had an agreeable partner. The only 
 time that I ever really sighed for a good romp with Walter and 
 Carlo, was that miserable rainy morning, when we were all pent 
 up in the parlor, — some half asleep, some yawning, some com- 
 plaining of the weather, and others wondering if it was going to 
 be a rainy spell, some reading, and others again discussing the 
 merits of a novel. I'll warrant that sister remembers that morn- 
 
CAMJRON HALL. 6^ 
 
 ing; I know I do, for it was the occasion of the loss of my 
 knight ; he forsook me, and ever afterward devoted himself to her." 
 
 " How was that, Eva ?" asked Uncle John. 
 
 " Well, sir, when we arrived at the Springs, we found this 
 gentleman already there, and there were so few persons that we 
 naturally became soon acquainted. I found him very gentle- 
 manly and agreeable, and I had every reason to believe that he 
 liked me too, for he certainly was a great deal with me. We 
 took long walks together, he and Walter and I, and he taught 
 me something about geology, and we became great friends. I 
 thought that he evidently liked me a great deal better than he 
 did my sober, dignified sister. But this unfortunate morning, he 
 accidentally overheard a conversation between some young ladies, 
 sister, and myself, upon the merits of a novel that she was then 
 reading. I scarcely remember what sister said; I only know that 
 it was some of that plain, practical sense that you and papa are 
 always extolling, and that my knight seemed to approve it like- 
 wise. As soon as we had finished our discussion, he came up, 
 and, seating himself by sister's side, began to talk to her. I did 
 not hear what they talked about ; but I watched his face, and the 
 painful truth flashed upon me that my knight was gone, hope- 
 lessly, irrevocably gone I And so it proved ; I did not learn any 
 more geology ; he was engaged with another pupil, teaching her 
 either that or something else." 
 
 " Why, how is this, daughter ?" said Uncle John, laughing, 
 and looking at Julia ; " I did not think you would have been at 
 home a whole week without mentioning a word of all this to me, 
 and, worse still, that you would have left me to hear it from 
 another !" 
 
 Julia blushed, and only answered : 
 
 " If I had had anything to tell, Uncle John, you should cer- 
 tainly have heard it before now." 
 
 Eva was in her element when she was-teasing her sister; and 
 unconscious that this subject was really painful to her, she con- 
 tinued : 
 
 "Just think ! Isn't it strange. Uncle John, that I, the senti- 
 mental romantic sister, the one most fitted, it would seem, for the 
 heroine of a love affair, should have been not only overlooked 
 (that might have been tolerated), but absolutely forsaken for my 
 matter-of-fact sister, who is so practical that she even measures a 
 novel by the square and compass of practical principles ! Isn't it 
 unbearable ?" she added, laughing. 
 
 "If it is," he replied, "you endure it with wonderful cheerful- 
 ness. I am glad to see that your faithless knight has not broken 
 your heart." 
 
70 CAMERON H.A.LL. 
 
 " "No, indeed, not yet I It is made of stemer stuff' than that. 
 But won't it be grand now to have a little romance here among 
 ourselves ! with plain old Cameron Hall for our castle, a South 
 Carolina knight, our practical sister for his lady-love, papa for 
 
 the old baron, and Eva for But where," said she, looking 
 
 round, "has the heroine flown ? I know that there are no trap- 
 doors or invisible closets in this castle ; how did she get out ?" 
 
 "She got out on her feet," said Uncle John, laughing, "as a 
 sensible woman would naturally do when a silly sister is teasing 
 her to death." 
 
 "Well, Uncle John, 'turn about is fair play.' She frequently 
 amuses herself, and her friends too, as you yourself are witness, 
 with my romantic notions ; it is but fair that I should sometimes 
 enjoy a laugh at her expense." 
 
 "You have certainly done it now," he replied, "and have 
 driven her out of the room besides." 
 
 "Uncle John," she said, with a mischievous laugh, "I was 
 only jesting when I began ; but, indeed, from the looks of sis- 
 ter's cheeks, I think that there must be more in this thing than 
 I suspected. Just think how quiet she has been about it ! I 
 was with her day and night for four weeks at the Springs, and 
 she never intimated to me, by word or look, that she cared any 
 more for him than she did for any other gentleman there. Now 
 I never could have done that." 
 
 "Nobody doubts it, Eva," he replied. "Everybody at the 
 Springs would have known it at once, if your heart had been 
 interested. Indeed, I would not be surprised if some would have 
 found it out before you yourself did." 
 
 "Oh no. Uncle John ! I would not like everybody to know 
 such a thing ; but I would be certain to tell sister and all my 
 friends ; indeed, I could not help it." 
 
 "No, child, you could not; you would betray it just as cer- 
 tainly, and just as naturally as you breathe the air. But you 
 have not yet told me the name of your knight." 
 
 "Dr. Charles Beaufort, of South Carolina." 
 
 "Beaufort, of South Carolina!" he exclaimed. "Then he 
 must be a son of William Beaufort, my old college friend. How 
 time flies I" he added, thoughtfully, " and what an old man I am 
 getting to be 1 Think of William Beaufort's son, a young man 
 older than his father was when I knew him !" 
 
 " Have you never seen him. Uncle John, since he was so 
 young ?" 
 
 "Only once, Eva, since we parted at college; and that was 
 not very long afterward. He was a noble fellow, and I have all 
 my life looked forward to meeting him again as one of my greatest 
 
CAMERON HALL. 71 
 
 pleasures ; and especially the last few years, since I have felt my- 
 self growing old. I have determined every year to visit him 
 before its close. William Beaufort's son 1 Trulj, Eva, when 
 you began to tell me about your knight, I little thought that I 
 would be so much interested in him.'' 
 
 " Not my knight, Uncle John ; he is sister's now. I have 
 surrendered all claim to him." 
 
 " I wish that you or your sister, or whoever claims him and 
 controls him, had brought him home with you. I would like 
 nothing better than to see and know him myself.'* 
 
 " He treated me very cruelly," she answered, laughing ; "yet I 
 must acknowledge that I think you would find him worth know- 
 ing. I wish he would come too, and I was even magnanimous 
 enough to invite him to the Hall ; but his lady-love was not so 
 hospitable, and he did not promise to come." 
 
 "Is he still at the Springs, Eva? If so, I will write myself 
 and ask him.'^ 
 
 " We left him there; and I believe he intends remaining until 
 the close of the season." 
 
 "Then I will write to him to-morrow." 
 
 Julia now returned as quiet and serene as ever. Eva's eyes 
 were full of mischief, and she was ready for another attack ; but 
 a glance from her father arrested the words that already trem- 
 bled on her lips; and she saw that it was decreed that Julia 
 should spend the rest of the evening in peace. 
 
 When Uncle John and Agnes were returning home, he said, 
 more to himself than to her : 
 
 "I shall be very sorry to give up Julia; but it must be so in 
 the course of events. She is destined to make some man happy, 
 very happy !" 
 
 " Uncle John," said Agnes, "you say that you are an old man ; 
 do you look old ?" 
 
 " Yes, daughter, I look old ; and ever since my youth, I have 
 seemed older than I really was. Why do you ask ?" 
 
 " Does Miss Julia think that you look old ?" 
 
 "Yes, she is obliged to think so, when she looks at my wrin- 
 kled face and white head." 
 
 " Does she think that you are very old, entirely too old to have 
 a young wife ?" persisted Agnes. 
 
 " Why, child, what are you talking about? I don't understand 
 you." 
 
 " I want to know. Uncle John, if she will say yes, when you 
 ask her to marry you." 
 
 "Why, what on earth do you mean, Agnes ?" replied he, both 
 amazed and amused. "Who could have put such a notion into 
 
72 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 your head ? I am sure that it has never entered either hers or 
 my own." 
 
 " Nobody put it into my head, Uncle John. I have — I was 
 going to say — seen it ; but that I could not do ; but I have felt 
 that you loved Miss Julia better than anybody in the world ; and 
 so I thought of course you must want to marry her." 
 
 "No, child, no! Uncle John is an old bachelor, quite old 
 enough to be Julia's father. He loves her very much, it is true ; 
 but not as you imagine. Besides, Agnes, did you not hear Eva 
 say that a young gentleman at the Springs liked Julia very 
 much ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir; but Eva does not know that Miss Julia likes him; 
 and I do know that she loves you very much." 
 
 " Yes, such love as she has for her father. Agnes, I never 
 expect to marry anybody." 
 
 " Oh, Uncle John, I am so glad to hear you say that !" she 
 said, with a look and a tone of infinite relief. " I do not want 
 anybody in this world to take your heart away from me." 
 
 *'My poor, little, jealous child !" said Uncle John, putting his 
 arm around her, and drawing her up close to him ; " nobody 
 shall ever do that. I have promised to devote the rest of my 
 life to the comfort and happiness of my little blind child ; and I 
 intend to do it." 
 
 "Will you promise me never to marry anybody ?" 
 
 " There is no need to promise, Agnes. It is not at all prob- 
 able that I will ever want to marry 'anybody ; and even if I 
 should, nobody will want to marry me." 
 
 "But will you promise? Will you promise never to marry 
 anybody, at least as long as I live ?" 
 
 "I might as well make the promise unconditionally, my child ; 
 for you will probably outlive me many years." 
 
 "Perhaps so," she said, "and perhaps not. It may not be 
 right to ask you never to marry at all; but will you promise 
 never while I live ?" 
 
 " Is it right, my daughter, to wish to bind me by such a 
 promise ? Suppose that Uncle John should find somebody in 
 the world whom his old heart could love very much, — somebody 
 who would cheer his solitary, lonely life, — would you be willing 
 to condemn him to loneliness and solitude, for fear that he might 
 love somebody else better than you ? This would be selfish, my 
 daughter, and you are not generally so." 
 
 Agnes did not reply; but Uncle John read plainly in her face 
 that she still wanted the promise. His heart went out toward 
 the little helpless child, who seemed to cling to him for protec- 
 tion and love, and for an instant he was tempted to gratify her ; 
 
CAMERON HALL. 73 
 
 but afterward he thought that it was better not ; it would be 
 encouraging her to be selfish and exacting. 
 
 "I tell you w^hat I will promise, Agnes," he said. "I will 
 promise never to marry anybody unless you are willing ; and I 
 will pledge myself to love and take care of you, and be a father 
 to you so long as I live. Will that do ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," she answered, " I will be satisfied with that. Thank 
 you, Uncle John, I am very happy now ; so happy, that I can 
 almost see !" 
 
 About a week afterward, Uncle John went out to the Hall 
 with a letter. 
 
 " See here, Eva I" he said. " Here is your knight's answer 
 to my invitation." 
 
 "Is he coming?" she asked. 
 
 " Yes, he is coming ; but take it and read it for yourself." 
 
 " Oh, yes," she exclaimed, as she folded it again, "it is very 
 well to talk about the pleasure of renewing the acquaintance of 
 'the Cameron sisters;' I know well enough what that means. 
 Uncle John," she asked archly, " what is the reason that peo- 
 ple always feel obliged to throw a little thin veil of duplicity 
 over their love-matters ? Why is it, that those who would scorn 
 evasion in anything else, think it not only justifiable, but almost 
 indispensable in affairs of the heart ? Now I would have liked 
 it much better, if Dr. Beaufort had said candidly, 'Miss Julia 
 Cameron,' instead of 'the Cameron sisters ;' and he might as well 
 have done it, for we all know exactly what he meant." 
 
 "Come, come, Eva," replied Uncle John, laughing, "you have 
 no right to interpret his feelings otherwise than by his own words. 
 He says that he wants to see you both, and you ought to believe 
 him. You told me yourself that he was very fond of your so- 
 ciety, and was a great deal with you." 
 
 "Yes, that is true; but it was only before he was well ac- 
 quainted with sister. You know, Uncle John, everybody is 
 acquainted with me in five minutes after the introduction ; but it 
 takes a long time to know sister, and I only enjoyed the privilege 
 of the doctor's society while he was gradually making his way 
 to her confidence. Uncle John, as sure you live, they were a 
 sly couple 1" 
 
 "Oh, Eva!" exclaimed Julia, "what an accusation!" 
 
 "It is true, sister, for the event proved it. While I felt secure 
 in my possession, and thought that I had him fairly ensnared, I 
 suddenly found not only that my only claim to his favor was the 
 fact of being your sister, but what was more astounding still, 
 that you yourself did not regard him with indifference." 
 
 Julia blushed deeply and painfully. She had earnestly hoped 
 
 1 
 
74 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 that nobody suspected the existence of feelinprs which she herself 
 had so unexpectedly found in her heart, and which she was so 
 honestly and earnestly striving to eradicate. She was accus- 
 tomed to her sister's raillery ; but she was at a loss now to tell 
 how much she meant for jest, and how much for earnest. She 
 looked ready to burst into tears, as she said earnestly : 
 
 " Uncle John, you will believe me when I tell you that Dr. Beau- 
 fort and I are only friends, and have never exchanged a sinjrle 
 word which either of us might not have spoken to the most in- 
 different person at the Springs." 
 
 Uncle John saw that the subject was painful to her, and he 
 tried to stop Eva, but he did not succeed until she had said : 
 
 "Well, that may be true now, but it will not be so long, if ap- 
 pearances are to be relied upon. Dr. Beaufort is coming next 
 week, and his actions will speak for themselves, and Uncle John 
 will decide which is right, you or I." 
 
 During the intervening time before Charles was expected, he 
 was much talked of by Eva and Uncle John. Julia never spoke 
 of him, though she thought much more about him than she was 
 willing to do. She was striving hard to overcome feelings that 
 were strong and powerful, when she first discovered their exist- 
 ence, and she was surprised to find that they so stubbornly re- 
 sisted her efforts to subdue them. She deemed it, however, pos- 
 sible to eradicate them. She knew that it was right, and she 
 was resolved to do it. She regretted the necessity of meeting 
 him again so soon, and if she could have been consulted, she 
 would much rather that his visit to Uncle John might have been 
 deferred until she felt sure that she could meet him with indiffer- 
 ence of heart as well as of manner. 
 
 Uncle John had promised Eva to bring him out to the Hall 
 the very day of his arrival in Hopedale. Julia knew when he 
 was expected, and she spent a restless and uncomfortable day, 
 trying to school herself to meet him with proper calmness and 
 indifference; but her heart bounded and her cheeks flushed when, 
 in the afternoon, she -saw Uncle John's buggy drive through the 
 lower gate. She wa'tched it as it approached, and saw, with 
 mingled regret and satisfaction, that there was no stranger in it; 
 Uiicle John was alone. 
 
 She asked no question; but she did not have to wait long for 
 the explanation, which Eva hastily elicited. 
 
 Instead of the gentleman himself, there had come a letter re- 
 gretting his inability to fulfill his promise. He had been suddenly 
 summoned home to make immediate preparations to sail for 
 Europe ; his father wished him to complete his course of medical 
 study in Paris. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 
 
 75 
 
 "And so ends our little romance I" exclaimed Eva, discon- 
 tentedly. "I had fixed my heart upon seeing its denoue- 
 ment." 
 
 "You need not give up yet, Eva," said Uncle John. "You 
 may still have that pleasure at some future day. He says that 
 he hopes yet to pay me the promised visit." 
 
 " How long does our hero expect to be gone ?" 
 
 " Probably two years." 
 
 "Two years, Uncle John I Then, indeed, I might as well 
 
 give up !" 
 
 " Why, Eva," said Uncle John, laughing, " you are the very 
 last person from whose lips I should expect to hear such senti- 
 ments. A romantic young lady like yourself is expected to think 
 that love is undying, unchanging, eternal, etc. etc. I" 
 
 "I may be romantic, Uucle John, but I am not therefore 
 necessarily unreasonable, and I don't think it probable that feel- 
 ings, whose root is only the growth of two or three weeks, will 
 survive the separation of two years ; but whether they will or not, 
 I am very sorry that Dr. Beaufort did not come." 
 
 "And so am I. I anticipated great pleasure from seeing Wil- 
 liam Beaufort's son." 
 
 "And I," thought Julia, "will see to it, that in two years 
 every remembrance of him is rooted out of my heart. If we 
 ever meet again, it must be, as we met at first, as strangers : I 
 have found out that he and I cannot be friends 1" 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 y 
 
 Charles BEAuroRT had been gone a year, and in that interval 
 he had written two or three times to Uncle John, and through 
 him had sent kind remembrances to Mr. Cameron and his 
 daughters, just such messages as he might have sent to any 
 other indifferent acquaintances. Julia believed that she had 
 finally conquered all her interest in him, and that she had learned 
 to regard him as she did the many others whom she met at the 
 same time and whom she now scarcely ever thought of. There 
 was no change in the quiet family circle at Cameron Hall ; but 
 in the political world the cloud, which years ago statesmen had 
 seen and feared, though then "no bigger than a man's hand," 
 now loomed up dark and black above the horizon, and threatened 
 
76 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 to cover the nation with a pall of darkness. The country was 
 shaken to its very center, and the eyes of the nation were strained 
 anxiously as if to pierce the veil of the future. The Presidential 
 election was close at hand; in its uncertain balance trembled the 
 fate of the nation; and the ballot-box was to decide whether its 
 government was to be placed in the hands of a conservative 
 Executive, who would respect the rights and liberties of all, or 
 in the hands of a sectional partisan, who would deny to a portion 
 of the country the rights secured to it by the Constitution. 
 Great was the diversity of opinion with regard to the final result. 
 Southern politicians urged dismemberment, and declared that it 
 could be accomplished without bloodshed; and Northern fanati- 
 cism urged the election of a sectional President on the ground 
 that the South was too weak and cowardly to attempt resist- 
 ance ; but the thoughtful and far-seeing of both sections looked 
 on with trembling anxiety and apprehension, and their hearts 
 were failing them for fear of the terrible vortex of civil war into 
 which they believed that the nation was about to plunge. Mean- 
 while, the fourth of November sealed the nation's fate. 
 
 A few weeks passed by, and South Carolina was the first to 
 speak, through the voice of her people in convention assembled, 
 her determination to sever the bonds that bound her in the 
 Federal Union. Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi followed, and 
 Secession was an accomplished fact: whether or not it would be 
 followed by bloodshed, was yet to be proved. 
 
 It was a gloomy afternoon in January, with a fitful, howling 
 wind, driving along thick masses of cloud, which seemed hesi- 
 tating whether to fall in rain or snow. The warmth and genial 
 glow of the library at Cameron Hall, with its blazing fire, its 
 comfortable arm-chairs, and its well-stored book-cases, formed a 
 pleasing contrast to the dreariness without; and yet in the circle 
 gathered around the fire, there were grave faces and anxious 
 looks, which were more in consonance with the gloominess with- 
 out than with the cheerfulness within. 
 
 There had been a long pause, which was at last broken by 
 Uncle John, who said, rather as if in reply to something that 
 had been said before, than as if projecting a new theme of con- 
 versation : 
 
 " Yes, everything seems quiet now, but I am afraid that it is a 
 treacherocs stillness, from which we will be startled before long 
 by the firing of the gun." 
 
 "Uncle John," said Eva, "what do you mean by the firing of 
 the gun ?" 
 
 "I mean, my daughter," he replied, gravely, "the ushering in 
 of war, civil war, the most terrible calamity that can overtake a 
 
CAMERON HALL. 77 
 
 nation. I think it may come soon, even sooner than any of us 
 expect ; and I should not be surprised at any moment to hear of 
 a declaration of war." 
 
 "I sympathize with your fears of the final result," said Mr. 
 Cameron ; "but I have no idea that the catastrophe is so near at 
 hand. I believe that the statesmen on both sides will be slow to 
 engage in a war which involves an element that will make it the 
 most terrible and destructive civil war ever waged. I mean the 
 element of servile insurrection." 
 
 " This consideration might possibly affect the South if she were 
 the aggressor, but for the very reason that this element would 
 operate so disastrously against her, the Xorth will be less reluctant 
 to enter upon the contest. As far as the South is concerned, we 
 have no longer any voice in the matter. Some of the Southern 
 States have already seceded, others are evidently about to fol- 
 low ; it only remains for the Federal Grovernment to say if they 
 shall go in peace. The decision is easily foreseen." 
 
 "But," said Mr. Cameron, "Commissioners from the South 
 are going to Washington to see what can be done. Perhaps 
 now, after all, matters may be adjusted to the satisfaction of both 
 sections." 
 
 " I wish it might be so, sir ; but indeed I cannot see what 
 there is to adjust. The question now is narrowed down to a 
 single point : shall the seceded States go in peace, or shall the 
 effort be made to whip them back into the Union ? — a Union 
 which has been for years more in name than in heart and reality. 
 No, Mr. Cameron. Time was, when this question might have 
 been settled peaceably, but I am afraid that that time is passed 
 now. You yourself hav^e seen how restless the South has long 
 been growing under Northern aggression, and, considering her 
 reputation for hot blood, I Ihink she has borne with wonderful 
 forbearance the narrowing and paring down of her rights. This, 
 though done stealthily, and through the course of years, she has 
 watched with a jealous eye, and has been inore than once roused 
 to an indignant protest against her wrongs, and to threats that 
 she would sever her bonds with the Federal Union ; but her 
 wrath has been appeased from time to time, and the danger 
 averted by compromises. These she has found, by experience, 
 were all hollow, and meant nothing more, on the part of the 
 Korth, than a patient waiting for a more convenient season, 
 when she would be less on the alert or more tamely submissive. 
 At last the mask has been thrown off, and the North stands re- 
 vealed, by the Presidential election, in direct and avowed antago- 
 nism to Southern rights and institutions. Now, brought face to 
 
78 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 face with the issue, the South is compelled to speak distinctly, 
 decidedly. She has done so, and has declared her determination 
 herself to try to guard, by a constitution and government of her 
 own, the rights which the Constitution and Government of the 
 United States, in the hands of fanaticism, have proved insufficient 
 to protect. And she is right. Up to a certain poiut forbear- 
 ance is a virtue, and that point the South has already reached. 
 Tame submission to oppression and wrong is cowardice; it is 
 what she has never done and never will do." 
 
 " Nor would I have her do it," said Mr. Cameron. "I would 
 not have her concede a single right guaranteed her by the Con- 
 stitution; and yet I have always thought that this vexed question 
 was susceptible of a peaceable solution, and I believe even now, 
 when things have gone so far, it might yet be done." 
 
 "Perhaps so in any other hands than those of Northern fanat- 
 icism. You and I could settle it in five minutes, upon the prin- 
 ciple of the old Virginia planter, whose rule it was to attend to 
 his own business, and leave his neighbors to attend to theirs. If 
 the Xorth would agree to take care of its own institutions, and 
 leave us to take care of ours, there would be at once an end of 
 strife; but such is not the character of Northern fanaticism, 
 whose stealthy but sure encroachments old men like ourselves 
 have watched for years. Now it dares openly and defiantly to 
 lay its hand upon the Constitution, and either to wrest its mean- 
 ing, or, bolder still, to declare that it is defective, because it 
 does not square with that 'higher law' which it professes to have 
 found. No, sir! with this to contend against, there is no such 
 thing as a peaceable solution of this problem. Nothing but the 
 sword will ever cut this knot, and we shall soon see the same 
 busy and malignant spirit, that found employment in colonial 
 days in burning witches, equally busy in inciting, in the South- 
 ern States, that servile insurrection which will be the main lever 
 used in bringing them into subjection." 
 
 "The breaking up of this Union is a great calamity," said 
 Mr. Cameron, shaking his head thoughtfully. 
 
 " So it is, sir ; but I believe it to be the lesser of the two evils 
 now submitted to the nation. Between oppression and dismem- 
 berment there can be but one choice." 
 
 " Old Virginia has not spoken yet, Uncle John. I must wait 
 and hear what she says. Never rash, always conservative, always 
 weighing consequences before she takes a step, I know that I can 
 rely upon her judgment, and am willing to pledge myself before- 
 hand to indorse her decision." 
 
 "I cannot go quite so far, Mr. Cameron. I love and respect 
 my old mother State perhaps as much as you do, and believe 
 
CAMERON HALL. 79 
 
 that I shall find her now, as I have ever found her before, in 
 the right. I do not believe that, under existing circumstances, 
 she will stay in the Union ; but if she should, her action cannot 
 alter my sense of right. For once, I shall think that the Old 
 Dominion was lamentably wrong in her judgment. She has been 
 slower to speak than some of her sisters ; but when she does, be 
 assured that it will be in as bold and determined a voice as 
 theirs." 
 
 "It becomes her to be slow in taking such a step. Uncle John. 
 She is a frontier State ; her territory will be the battle-ground; 
 her heritage will be the first to be laid waste. Indeed, indeed, 
 sir, it behooves her to weigh well her decision." 
 
 " So it does, Mr. Cameron. She ought to think calmly and 
 deeply ; not, however, so much of the consequences, as of the 
 right. If it be right for her to separate herself from the Federal 
 Union at all, she ought to do so under any and all penalties. If 
 it were merely a question of expediency, it would not only be 
 proper, but it would be her duty to count the cost ; but in a 
 question of moral right and wrong, she has nothing to do with 
 consequences." 
 
 "Uncle John," interrupted Eva, "you and papa have talked 
 about the war with such gloomy faces and sad tones, that you 
 have almost made me dread it more than anything in the world. 
 But it has its bright side too, especially for us young people. 
 Think of the splendid officers and gay uniforms, the glittering 
 swords and waving plumes, the prancing horses and bauds of 
 music I And in a civil war, think how many real romances there 
 will be ; brothers unexpectedly finding themselves opposed to 
 each other in battle ; fathers finding their sons among the pris- 
 oners that they themselves have taken ; and girls dying of broken 
 hearts because they discover their lovers among the ranks of the 
 enemy!" 
 
 " My poor child !" said Mr. Cameron, compassionately. " God 
 grant that you may never know more of the horrors of war than 
 you have learned from reading your innocent romances. The 
 plumes, the swords, and the uniforms may all be very beautiful 
 and attractive ; but under their glittering exterior are concealed 
 desolation and ruin and bloodshed, outrage, oppression, and 
 murder, insult and brutality ! Ah ! my daughter, all the gay 
 bands of music upon earth, blending into one loud and magnifi- 
 cent orchestra, could not drown the wail of a whole nation's 
 widowed and orphaned hearts 1 Of all evils upon the face of the 
 earth, may God, in his wisdom and justice, visit us with any 
 other, if he will only save us from a civil war !" 
 
 "Amen !" said Uncle John, solemnly. 
 
80 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 ft 
 
 There was a pause, and presently Mr. Cameron said, as if 
 thinking aloud : 
 
 "At what a fearful cost must the South purchase her independ- 
 ence — if, indeed, she should ever be able to purchase it at all !" 
 
 "Fearful cost, indeed," repeated Uncle John, "not only of 
 treasure, but of blood; and that, too, the best blood of the land. 
 It will be in this respect, as well as in others, a most unequal 
 contest. Their ranks will be principally filled with the refuse 
 population of European cities; ours will be made up of the best 
 men of the country, the flower of Southern youth, the glory of 
 Southern manhood. Yes, the price of Southern independence 
 will be costly ; but I believe that it will be paid without a mur- 
 mur." 
 
 "You speak, Uncle Jolin, as if the result were beyond a per- 
 adventure. Are you quite sure that the South will be able to 
 maintain such an unequal contest ? Does it not well become the 
 people to weigh the probabilities of success before they under- 
 take it? A civil war cannot leave us as it found us. If we 
 succeed in gaining our independence, well and good ; but if not, 
 our position in the Federal Union will not be what it is now. 
 If we embark in this war, we stake our all upon the issue, and 
 must be content to accept either independence or subjugation." 
 
 "I know it, sir. I believe that I have a just estimate, not 
 only of the cost of this war, but also of its risks, its uncertainties, 
 and the doubtfulness of the final issue. I am not confident, I am 
 only hopeful. " I do not, like some of our politicians, shut my 
 eyes to the odds against us, and want our people to rush blind- 
 folded into it ; but I would have them like men, like freemen, 
 look the thing calmly and steadily in the face, and choose between 
 two evils now offered them. The choice they are obliged to 
 make. The overgrown power of one section of this Union now 
 offers to the other abject submission on the one hand, and, on 
 the other, resistance even unto blood. I, for one, can choose 
 between them ; and I believe that the majority of Southern men 
 will feel as I do. It may, as you say, become the nation to 
 weigh well the probabilities of success ; but, in my humble judg- 
 ment, it becomes it equally well to maintain its rights, and resist 
 their infringement. Were the result even more doubtful than I 
 think it to be, I would be willing to make the experiment, be- 
 cause I do not believe any other course to be consistent with 
 manly or national honor." 
 
 " But if we should fail ! " 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Cameron, that is indeed a tremendous if, fraught 
 with consequences which you and I cannot now conceive. But, 
 sir, our case is* desperate. We are somewhat in the condition 
 
CAMERON HALL. 81 
 
 of the Syrian lepers ; and, like theirs, our efforts to extricate 
 ourselves must be desperate. We must do our best, and if we 
 fail, we can but fail. ^^ 
 
 "But, Uncle John, you just now admitted that failure would 
 only make our condition worse than it is." 
 
 " So I did ; but, «ir, I believe it to be more right and manly 
 to fail in the defense of our rights, than quietly and tamely to 
 surrender them. Submission involves disgrace ; failure does not. 
 I would rather belong to the South overpowered, defeated, 
 crushed, and panting with a hard bat fruitless struggle, than to 
 the South abjectly, servilely submissive." 
 
 There was a few moments' silence, and Mr. Cameron said, 
 musingly : 
 
 " I wish that there never had been a negro upon this conti- 
 nent. They have been from the very beginning a source of 
 endless discord and jarring." ->^ 
 
 "Do you think, Mr. Cameron, that the negro is the cause of] 
 this threatened war ? I tell you, no. Neither North nor South ' 
 would rend this government for all the negroes upon the face of 
 the earth. Northern aggression has seized upon this institution 
 as a pretext for curtailing Southern rights ; and S juthern men 
 will spring to arms and gird on their swords, not in defense of 
 negro slavery, but in defense of those many rights, of which 
 slavery is one, guaranteed them by the Constitution which their 
 fathers helped to frame and seal by their own blood. If there 
 were no such thing as slavery, the North would find some other 
 right to cut short; and Southern men would be as prompt to 
 defend it. This will be no war, on the part of the South, in de- 
 fense of negro slavery ; as well say that the Revolution was a 
 war for the tea overturned in Boston harbor." 
 
 Mr. Cameron made no reply; and presently Eva interrupted 
 the silence by exclaiming : 
 
 " Uncle John, I am so glad that you and papa are too old to 
 go in the army, and Walter is too young. I won't have any- 
 body to be uneasy about." 
 
 "Walter is not too young, my daughter, for the country will 
 have need of all her sons ; and if I am not mistaken in the boy, he 
 would not be willing to let other young men fight his battles. 
 Your father and I are too old to fight, but there is no man in the 
 South so old that he cannot do something, if not personally, at 
 least with his means, and whatever a man of my age and my 
 means can do, I hope to be found willing to do." 
 
 " I suspect. Uncle John, that if we really have a war, I shall 
 be sorry lor the first time in my life that I am a woman. If I 
 belonged to the brave sex, I should be among the first to vol- 
 unteer. " 
 
82 CAMERON nALL. 
 
 m 
 
 "I don't doubt it, my enthusiastic child. But, Eva, your sex 
 need not prevent your usefahiess; for the country will need the 
 help of her daughters as well as of her sons." 
 
 " What can weak, timid women do ? I should think that they 
 would be a great clog upon the energies of the men who go out 
 to fight." 
 
 " So they may be, my daughter, but not necessarily. There 
 will be much in the way of active work that women can do. In 
 sewing and knitting for the soldiers, and in nursing the sick and 
 wounded, they may find, if they desire it, ample employment; 
 and, as in case of w>kr, the blockaded ports will throw the people 
 almost entirely upon their own resources, the army will have to 
 look to the women of the South for a large part of the material 
 for their clothing. But if none of all this should be required of 
 them, still there is something for them to do. War brings many 
 evils in its train besides sickness, wounds, and death. There are 
 many privations which will bear hard upon the Southern women, 
 reared as they generally have been in ease and luxury. Many 
 
 • articles of food now looked upon as necessaries of life will have 
 to be given up ; many articles of dress now necessary to a lady's 
 toilet will have to be surrendered ; but more than this, husbands, 
 fathers, brothers, sons, and lovers will leave behind them sad- 
 dened homes and aching hearts, and the true Southern woman 
 who would serve her country must bear up bravely and cheer- 
 fully under these privations and separations. Her complaints 
 
 • and repinings must not weaken the energies and clog the hands 
 of those who' need the whole of their unfettered manhood to do 
 their duty. When her heart is heavy, and her eyes blinded with 
 tears, she must buckle on the armor of those she loves best on 
 earth, and bid them go serve their country, without fear or anxiety 
 for those they leave behind. A woman who will do this is worthy 
 of her name, and serves her country as truly as the man who 
 
 ■ encounters the more palpable hardships and dangers of the camp 
 and the battle-field. From her sons the country demands active 
 duty ; from her daughters, patient and cheerful endurance." 
 
 "Uncle John," said Julia, who had laid down her sewing; and 
 had listened attentively to every word, " I know now what I 
 ought to do in case of war, and I thank you for it. It is a great 
 help to have our duty clearly marked out, so that there need be 
 no delay, no hesitation in action." 
 
 " There will be none in yours, my daughter," he answered. 
 " I wish I was as certain of every woman in the South being 
 found at her post and doing her duty as I am of you. But, see 
 here, girls," he added, "the whole afternoon is gone, and it is 
 time this moment to go home, and I have not mentioned one 
 
CAMERON HALL. 83. 
 
 word of the business that brought me out. I did not come this 
 afternoon to discuss politics, or to deliver a war-lecture ; ray- 
 business is solely of a personal nature." 
 
 ** Well, Uncle John," said Eva, " there is time enough yet for 
 your personal concerns, and the time that you occupied in your 
 war-lecture, as you call it, was not lost. Your business can be 
 settled after tea." 
 
 " But I did not intend to stay to tea, Eva. Old men, like my- 
 self, ought to be at home in the chimney-corner such a night as 
 this, instead of driving about the country. However, there is no 
 help for it now ; I must stay, for I cannot go home until I have 
 accomplished what I came for." 
 
 When they went back into the library, after tea, Julia drew 
 down the curtains, arranged the fire, and brought the cigar-case 
 to her father and Uncle John. Uncle John threw himself back 
 in the luxurious arm-chair, and with the blue wreath curling 
 slowly above his head, seemed, for several minutes, lost in thought. 
 Presently he said, abruptly : 
 
 "I have been thinking a great deal lately, Mr. Cameron, about 
 Agnes's blindness. I wonder if it is really beyond the reach of 
 surgical skill." 
 
 " That, Uncle John, could only be learned from the surgeon 
 himself, and it is well worth while to get an opinion on the sub- 
 ject. If she were my child, and he gave me the smallest possi- 
 ble hope of success, I should not hesitate to subject her to the 
 operation." 
 
 " Nor would I, if she were mine ; but that is the difficulty. 
 The responsibility is one that I dare not assume for another per- 
 son's child." 
 
 " What does her mother say about it ?" asked Mr. Cameron. 
 
 " I have never spoken to her on the subject ; for I thought it 
 useless to.excite her with the thought until I had some definite 
 plan in my mind. It is a project on which I have expended 
 much thought to very little purpose, and so I determined to come 
 out and talk to you and Julia on the subject, thinking that per- 
 haps we three might decide upon some feasible plan. The first 
 difficulty in the Way is to get her to the surgeon. The only one 
 that I know, to whom I am willing to intrust her, lives in Paris."" 
 
 " In Paris !" exclaimed Mr. Cameron, with two or three sig- 
 nificant puffs of his cigar ; " why, Uncle John, you must be 
 crazy !" 
 
 " Do you think it would be such a Quixotic expedition, Mr. 
 Cameron ?" 
 
 " I do not think it Quixotic, sir ; I think it simply impossible. 
 The first difficulty in your way will not be, as you imagine, to 
 
84 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 get Agnes to the surgeon ; it will rather be to gain her mother's 
 consent that you should take her to him " 
 
 " I have not been unmindful, sir, of that difficulty too " 
 
 " Never mind difficulties, Uncle John," said Julia, cheerfully. 
 " If you are right in what you propose to do, the difficulties will 
 either gradually disappear, or else be more easily overcome than 
 you now imagine. If you think that there is the least hope of 
 Agnes's recovering her sight, and are willing to bear the expense, 
 you can take her to Paris; and if I were in your place I would 
 not hesitate to do it." 
 
 "Why, my daughter," exclaimed Mr. Cameron, "you are talk- 
 ing now more like Eva than like yourself. I should have ex- 
 pected this advice from her, shutting her eyes to obstacles, as she 
 always does, and leaping headlong to results ; but it is not at all in 
 keeping with your practical view of things and sound judgment. 
 Think of Agnes's helplessness ; think what Uncle John would do 
 with her, away from her mother, during the pain of the opera- 
 tion, and the long tedious confinement in a darkened room after- 
 ward!" 
 
 " I know all that, papa. I know that it will not be a pleasure 
 trip either to Agues or Uncle John, and that there will be much 
 inconvenience, trouble, and anxiety on his part, probably much 
 suffering on hers, and perhaps disappointment on the part of 
 both. But, for all that, I think it is worth the trial ; and if it 
 rested with me to make the decision, I would not hesitate a mo- 
 ment." 
 
 " You are a true, brave woman, Julia," exclaimed Uncle John. 
 "If we all fixed our eyes more on results and less on obstacles, 
 there would be fewer failures in the world ; but I don't know 
 how it is, I never can shut my eyes to difficulties." 
 
 "I do not think it is desirable that you should, Uncle John," 
 she answered, modestly. " On the contrary, I think you ought 
 to look at them, weigh them, and try to overcome them, but not 
 be dismayed by them. In this case, however, I do not see any 
 that even at first seem insurmountable. They are grave and 
 serious, but I think you will find that you can overcome them." 
 
 " What do you think of the one that your father mentioned 
 just now, — her mother's consent? It is asking a great deal of a 
 mother to send a blind, helpless child three thousand miles away, 
 to submit to a painful operation, the result of which is doubtful 
 at the best." 
 
 " So it is, Uncle John ; but against that sacrifice the mother 
 must weigh the possibility of giving sight to that blind child. 
 She is a mother, and as such must feel keenly the pain of separa- 
 tion under such circumstances ; but, on the other hand, she must, 
 
CAMERON HALL. 85 
 
 and no doubt will, feel that she has no right to condemn \er 
 child to the certainty of a life-long night, rather than herself en- 
 dure the suspense and anxiety of a few short months. No, Uncle 
 John, I do not think that you need fear an insurmountable ob- 
 stacle in the mother. She will probably be startled at first by the 
 proposition ; but the more she thinks of it, the more she will be 
 convinced ^that she ought to accede to it. I think that you will 
 find a much greater difiiculty in gaining the consent of Agnes 
 herself, and I am quite sure that her mother will not send her 
 unless she is willing to go." 
 
 " Nor would I compel her, Julia, under the circumstances ; but 
 I believe that if I can gain Grace's hearty co-operation, she can 
 persuade Agnes. She is very easily influenced by her mother." 
 
 "Poor little Agnes I" said Eva, compassionately. "Blind, 
 helpless, suffering, and among strangers 1 Surely, IJncle John, 
 you are not going to take her alone, without even a servant !" 
 
 "Yes, Eva, if I take her at all, it must be under all these dis- 
 advantages. I cannot afford more than the expense of two, be- 
 sides the surgeon's fee, which will be a heavy one if he performs " 
 an operation. Yes, I must take Agnes alone. I shall take 
 good care of her, though," he added, cheerfully. "You have no 
 idea what a good nurse old Uncle John will prove !" 
 
 "I don't doubt it in the least, Uncle John," answered Julia. 
 "Agnes may want her mother, but I am quite sure that she will 
 not suffer for want of any attention that even her mother could 
 render. You will be the sufferer in the case, for it will be a very 
 heavy charge upon you." 
 
 " I do not regard that at all, my daughter. Any expense or 
 personal inconvenience must be accounted as the dust in the 
 balance in comparison with the advantage to be gained; and 
 even if the experiment should prove a failure, it will be a satis- 
 faction to know that we have tried every means." 
 
 " Is there no surgeon in this country that would do as well as 
 the one in Paris ?" asked Mr. Cameron. 
 
 " I do not know, sir. The one that I am going to in Paris I 
 do know both professionally and personally. He stands at the 
 head of his profession there, and inasmuch as the opinion of no 
 other man now living could entirely satisfy me, I prefer to sub- 
 mit the case to him at once. If he tells me that nothing can be 
 done for her, I shall believe it." 
 
 "Uncle John," said Eva, "don't let him operate on her eyes 
 unless he is sure of success. It would be dreadful to subject the 
 child to unnecessary suffering." 
 
 " He himself, Eva, will be the best judge of that. If I put 
 Agnes in his hands, it will be to do with her as he thinks best, 
 
 8 
 
86 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 \ifijtli this one condition ; if he thinks the resnlt very doubtfnl, I 
 will not subject her to the operation without her entire consent.- 
 I shall make this promise both to herself and her mother before I 
 take her from home." 
 
 "Uncle John," asked Eva, " what is that paper in your hand 
 that yon have been twistinf^ into a little roll for the last half hour ? 
 If it ever was worth anything, it cannot be so now." , 
 
 "Thank you, for reminding me, Eva. My thoughts are so 
 engrossed with one subject to-night, that I have forgotten all 
 else. This is a letter that I received this morning from your 
 friend, the doctor; I brought it out for you to read, and but for 
 your question I should have carried it back with me. He writes 
 from Rome, and the letter is brimful of Italy. The boy can scarcely 
 find words to express himself, and is continually entangling him- 
 self in a maze of superlatives, or tripping up and coming to a 
 dead stop, because language fails him. It is pleasant to see a 
 young life so full of keen relish and ardent enthusiasm. Charles 
 is like yon, Eva. You and he look at the barefooted monk, 
 encircled by a hempen cord, the black-eyed beggar child, with 
 her golden ornaments, and the swarming lazzaroni, as so many 
 picturesque figures in the great picture of Italy ; while your more 
 practical sister there looks deeper than the surface, and sees 
 underneath it all the ignorance, superstition, degradation, and 
 vice that cling like the plague spot of leprosy to that fair and 
 classic land. This letter is full of paintings and statues, of St. 
 Peter's and the Forum, and Colosseum and the Capitol, of the 
 Dying Gladiator and the Bronze Wolf. Oh, Era 1 you will 
 revel in it; Julia, 1 am afraid, will think it a little too high- 
 strung." 
 
 "I am a practical person myself, Uncle John," she answered, 
 without making any allusion to the letter ; "but I do not object 
 to romance in others, except," she added with a glance at Eva, 
 " when it is so excessive that it scorns those everyday duties so 
 necessary to the comfort of a family." 
 
 "Now, Uncle John," said Eva, "if you believe sister, you 
 will think that I never did a useful thing in my life, when only 
 this morning I helped to wash the tea things !" 
 
 " Why, Eva, you don't tell me so 1" said Uncle John, laugh- 
 ing. " You certainly did not come down from the clouds so low 
 as that I" 
 
 "Yes, sir, she did," said Julia; "and, more than that, she 
 actually laid aside her novel while she did it !" 
 
 " Oh, what a fall was there !" exclaimed Uncle John. " From 
 love, and romance, and sentiment, down to washing tea things 1" 
 
 " Come, come, Uncle John," said Mr. Cameron, " you and 
 
CAMERON HALL. 87 
 
 Julia must not be too severe upon the child. You will yet see 
 her one of these days a famous housewife." 
 
 " Yes," he replied, pulling one of her curls ; " who knows but 
 when I come back from Europe I may find her making preserves 
 and pickles, and attending to the dairy as industriously and as 
 successfully as her sister." 
 
 " I am afraid you must be going to stay a long time, then," 
 said Julia, quietly. 
 
 " How long are you going to stay, Uncle John ?" asked 
 Eva. 
 
 " That depends upon circumstances. If there is no war, I 
 shall return in September or October ; I wish to spend the hot 
 months in Switzerland, with Agnes : but if war is declared, I 
 shall return the very moment that it is safe to bring her." 
 
 " I believe, in that event, I would stay there until it was over ; 
 but no, you could not do that either, for you could not keep 
 Agnes so long away from her mother." 
 
 " I should not remain, under any circumstances, Eva. If the 
 country is plunged in war, every man should be at home ready to 
 do his duty. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 A FEW days afterward, Grace called Agnes away from the 
 organ, saying : 
 
 " Come here, my daughter, I have something to say to you." 
 
 There was a constraint and rigidity in her tone which the child 
 detected at once, and she asked, half frightened : 
 
 " What is it, mother ? what is the matter ?" 
 
 " There is nothing the matter," she replied, quietly. " I only 
 want to talk to you." 
 
 Agnes took her seat in the little chair by her mother's side, and 
 took hold of her hand, which was a -habit she had whenever she was 
 talking to her. 
 
 Grace turned her head aside, just in time to prevent a tear from 
 falling upon the little hand. 
 
 As Julia had predicted, Grace had been startled by Uncle John's 
 proposition, but she had carefully reflected upon it before she 
 gave an answer. At first, she felt that a separation from her 
 helpless child at such a crisis was not to be thought of for a 
 moment ; she did not believe that human skill, could give her 
 
88 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 sight, and she thought that the torture that she must necessarily 
 undergo, would be, in the event of failure, nothing less than 
 cruelty. The longer, however, that she reflected upon it, the clearer 
 her duty became, and, as Julia had said, she felt that the mother's 
 selfish feeling must give way to the best interests of the child. 
 By far the bitterest element in her grief was the thought of 
 Agnes's loneliness among strangers and foreigners ; her own sus- 
 pense and anxiety were nothing in comparison with the vain and 
 helpless longing of that childish heart for her mother's care and 
 love. But even all this she dared not weigh for an instant against 
 the bare possibility of her recovered sight. Agnes's life was 
 lonely and desolate enough now, with her mother to take care of 
 her ; what would it be if she should outlive that mother, as she 
 probably would do, and should be left without parent, brother, or 
 sister, to lighten her darkness or comfort her loneliness ? Could 
 she doom her to such a life because she had not the fortitude to 
 endure the pain of separation ? These were thoughts that she 
 had carefully weighed, and her duty was now very clear. Since 
 Providence had opened the way and provided the means for the 
 experiment, it was her part thankfully to receive what might 
 prove the greatest blessing of her life, and bravely to bear up 
 under its accompanying trials. She did not mention the subject 
 to Agnes for several days. Indeed, the very sight of the child 
 was painful, and she had talked as little as possible to her upon 
 any subject, fearing, lest by some unconscious word or tone, she 
 might betray to the quick ear that she had some unusual sorrow. 
 She had promised Uncle John to do her best to persuade Agnes, 
 but she would not consent to compel her; she would reason with 
 her calmly and truthfully, neither ignoring nor disguising the 
 probable suffering, and trying to make her realize the possible 
 benefit, and then she would leave her to decide for herself. She 
 had been trying for days to fortify herself, before talking to 
 Agnes about it, and she felt truly thankful that the child, in her 
 darkness, was all unconscious of the struggle that was going on 
 in her mother's breast, so evident to others in her haggard face 
 and tearful eyes. 
 
 She thought that she was now able to talk it over calmly ; 
 but the intuition that had caught alarm from the tone of her 
 very first words, told her how very far she had overestimated 
 her self-control. 
 
 The tears fell rapidly from her eyes, and she tried in vain to 
 keep them back; but they flowed silently, and were unsuspected by 
 the blind child, who could not understand the stillness. She waited 
 several minutes, and then said : 
 
 " Why don't you talk, mother ? You said you wanted to talk 
 
CAMERON HALL. 89 
 
 to me ? Your voice sounds strange and troubled ; are you troubled, 
 mother?" 
 
 The little hand wandered in search of the mother's face, to 
 learn by its unerring touch if it were smooth and calm, or stained 
 with tears. 
 
 Grace quickly caught it, and holding it firmly in her own, 
 summoned all her self-control, and said : 
 
 " Yes, my daughter, I have something to say to you. Your 
 mother and Uncle John and all your friends are grieved at your 
 blindness and helplessness, and if it is possible, would do anythino- 
 to give you sight like other children. Uncle John knows one 
 physician, and only one, that he would be willing to trust you 
 with, and he lives a long distance from here ; but if you will con- 
 sent, Uncle John says that he himself will take you to him, and 
 stay with you and nurse you if an operation is performed on your 
 eyes ; and, with God's blessing, he may bring you home with eyes 
 as keen and far-seeing as those of any of your little companions. 
 It may be, my daughter, that you need not wait to get to heaven 
 to learn what light and sunshine are. What do you say, 
 Agnes ?" 
 
 " Where is he going to take me, mother ?" 
 
 " To Paris, Agnes." 
 
 " To Paris ! that big city you told me was so far across the 
 water ?" 
 
 "Yes, my daughter, there." 
 
 " How far from home is it, mother ?" 
 
 "More than three thousand miles." 
 
 " You said something about an operation upon my eyes ; what 
 do you mean by that ?" 
 
 "It is to cut something out of your eyes with sharp instru- 
 ments ; or perhaps to put something into them to heal them of 
 the disease that prevents you from seeing." 
 
 "Will it hurt me much?" 
 
 " Yes, my child, I suspect that it will be very painful ; not 
 only at the time, but for weeks afterward, when you will have to 
 stay in a dark room, and suffer much from the inflammation." 
 
 " Where will you be, mother, when Uncle John is nursing me ?'^ 
 
 "I shall be at home, Agnes," she replied, with a pang, " pray- 
 ing that my Heavenly Father will give light and gladness to my 
 blind child." 
 
 "At home, mother 1" almost screamed the child. "At home ! 
 you at home, and I three thousand miles away suffering so much, 
 with a strange doctor and strange people all around me, and no 
 friend but Uncle John ! Oh, mother I what do you, what can 
 you mean ?" 
 
 8* 
 
90 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 The mother's resolution was fast giving way ; and instead of 
 persuading Agnes, the child was rapidly convincing her of tl>e 
 impracticability of the whole scheme. Nevertheless, she was 
 determined to be faithful to her promise to Uncle John, and use 
 her best efforts to persuade. 
 
 "Agnes," she said, "listen to me. You think that Uncle John 
 loves you very much, because he gave you your organ, and is 
 always doing something to make you happy; but all that he has 
 ever done for you in his life, is nothing in comparison with what 
 he proposes to do for you now. It will cost him a great deal of 
 money ; but that is not all. Uncle John is now an old man, 
 and old men who have a comfortable home do not like to leave 
 it and wander about in strange places among strange people. 
 Now he is willing not only to incur all this expense, but also to 
 endure trouble and inconvenience, to say nothing of the great 
 anxiety that he will feel in taking you away from your mother ; 
 he is willing to bear all this to try to give you sight. Now, 
 Agnes, don't you see how much Uncle John loves you ?" 
 
 " Yes, mother, I see it, and I love him for it ; but," she added 
 decidedly and peremptorily, "I shall not go with him." 
 
 "And be always blind, my daughter ?" 
 
 She thought a little while, and answered, sadly: 
 
 "Yes, mother, always blind. I cannot go away from you.'^ 
 
 "Well, Agnes, I shall not insist upon it, for I only promised 
 Uncle John to persuade you ; you must decide for yourself." 
 
 Grace could not determine whether Agnes's decision gave her 
 most pleasure or pain. She felt that it would be a great satis- 
 faction to have tried the experiment, even if it should prove un- 
 successful ; and yet it was a feeling of inQnite relief to shut out 
 from her thoughts that prospect of anxiety and sorrow which she 
 so much dreaded. 
 
 Agnes was generally easily controlled by the slightest expres- 
 sion of her mother's wishes ; and very rarely in her life had she 
 taken such a decided stand in opposition to them. Grace was 
 never accustomed to use harsher means with her than persuasion ; 
 and she was especially unwilling to do so in the present instance. 
 It was a weakness ; but one which might readily be pardoned 
 with such a subject as a blind child, and under such circumstances. 
 
 For some minutes they both sat perfectly still, Grace watching 
 Agnes's face, which plainly betrayed some internal struggle. The 
 blind face was almost rigid in its earnestness and severity of ex- 
 pression; and the lines worked convulsively around her mouth, 
 as she said : 
 
 "Mother, tell me; is it right for me to go? Is it wrong to 
 say I will not?" 
 
CAMEKON HALL. 91 
 
 "Yes, my child, I think it is. Agnes,* I will suffer more in the 
 separation than you will ; God only knows how I can bear it ; 
 but I believe that He has placed these means in your way, and 
 that*you and I ought to be willing to use them, in order to secure 
 for you, if possible, the greatest of earthly blessings." 
 
 " Will I certainly get my eyesight, if I bear all this pain and 
 suffering ?" 
 
 " No, my daughter, it is not certain ; it is only an experiment, 
 and may not be successful; but all that you or we can do is to 
 try." 
 
 **Is it possible for me to die, mother, when the doctor operates 
 on my eyes ?" 
 
 Poor Grace felt as if each successive word stabbed her with a 
 keener pang ; but she answered, quietly : 
 
 "It is possible, Agnes; bui I do not think it is probable." 
 
 "It would be hard enough," said Agnes, thoughtfully, "to suf- 
 fer so far away from mother; but it would be a great deal harder 
 to die there among strangers I I don't know that I can be willing 
 for that." She relapsed into deep thought, and presently she 
 said, suddenly: 
 
 " Mother, do you say that it is right to go, and wrong to re- 
 fuse?" 
 
 "I think so, my child." 
 
 "Then, mother," she said, with an energy that startled Grace, 
 "I will go I" 
 
 The struggle was over, the brow relaxed, and the face softened 
 down into an expression of sadness, indescribably touching, as 
 she repeated : 
 
 " I will go, mother ; not because I want to go, for, sad and 
 lonely as my life is, I would rather be blind always than to suffer 
 so much away from you ; but I will go because it is right!" 
 
 Grace was now fairly overcome. She clasped Agnes to her 
 heart and held her there ; and felt that in this triumph of right 
 and duty in that childish heart, she herself was, and Uncle John 
 too must be, fully compensated for his kindness ; even though 
 hope should end in disappointment, and experiment in failure. 
 The darkened eyes might never be lightened, nor the childish 
 heart gladdened by the blessed sunshine ; but the child herself 
 could not be wholly blind, for her soul was full of light I 
 
 Presently she said, earnestly : 
 
 " God be thanked, my darling, for this willingness to do the 
 thing that is right, even at the expense of pain and suffering I I 
 can let you go now, Agnes, satisfied that He who requires such 
 a spirit, will take care of you while you are away, and bring you 
 back to me, if not with sight restored and perfect, at least the 
 
92 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 same blind child that I sent away, dearer to me in her helpless- 
 ness than all else in the world besides, and the light of her 
 mother's life, if her own is dark." 
 
 Agnes sat perfectly still for several minutes, leaning her head 
 upon her mother's lap, her whole attitude indicating weariness. 
 
 "Mother," she said, "couldn't you possibly go with me ?" 
 
 "No, my daughter, you must not think of such a thing; for it 
 is quite impossible. Uncle John will have to take care of you ; 
 and he will do it as kindly and tenderly as your mother." 
 
 "No, mother," she answered, languidly and drearily, "he can 
 never be what you are, although he is the best Uncle John in 
 the world." 
 
 "Agnes, when Uncle John talks to you about going, you must 
 remember how kind it is for him to take you ; and you must not 
 tell him that you are not willing to go with him without your 
 mother." 
 
 "Yes, mother, I will try." 
 
 No more was said ; and Agnes, sad and tired, soon fell asleep. 
 When all restraint was removed, Grace gave way; and when 
 Uncle John came in a little while after, he found the mother's 
 tears raining fast over the sleeping child. 
 
 "How is this?" he asked, kindl}'. "Grace, what does this 
 mean ?" He had to wait for a reply ; and then she told him all 
 the conversation, and the final decision. He was touched, and 
 said, in reply : 
 
 "Poor child I she will miss her mother sadly; but God knows 
 I will do whatever an old bachelor can do, to make her comfort- 
 able and happy. But I do not think, from your account, that 
 you dwelt sufficiently upon the possibility of there being no oper- 
 ation performed." 
 
 "No; because I thought that this would be done under any 
 circumstances ; the result being the only test of its use." 
 
 "No; I think that the surgeon will know if the operation 
 promises success ; and so, after all, Agnes may have no greater 
 pain to bear than the separation from you, and the dread of 
 suffering; that will of course haunt her as long as she is in sus- 
 pense. The voyage, however, will be exceedingly beneficial to 
 her; especially the return voyage, when she will have nothing 
 to dread, and everything to anticipate with pleasure. Another 
 benefit, by no means inconsiderable, will be the mere fact of her 
 being away from the organ for several months, for she sits there 
 entirely too much. I am sure, Grace," he added, kindly, "that 
 we will neither of us have cause to regret this undertaking. 
 Should our hopes be realized, all our trouble and anxiety will be 
 
 forgotten in our pleasure; should we be disappointed but 
 
 no! I will not admit the possibility of failure." 
 
CAMERON flALL. 93 
 
 "I have bat little hope, Uncle John, that she will ever be any- 
 thing else than the same blind child that she is. I do not believe 
 that human skill can reach her case, and I often think " 
 
 She did not finish her sentence, for her thoughts outran her 
 words, and her soul went out yearningly toward Him who, in 
 the days of His humanity, gave light to the blind by a healing 
 touch which was never supplicated in vain. 
 
 "Then, Grace," he asked, in a tone of disappointment, "would 
 you rather that she should not go ?" 
 
 "By no means. Uncle John. I would not for the world let 
 my selfishness interpose an obstacle in the way of so great a 
 blessing; and besides, when I know that everything has been 
 tried without success, there will be a quiet resignation in the 
 certainty that God has decreed her to be blind. No, I want her 
 to go ; but, as it is to be, I only wish that the parting was over." 
 
 " Your separation will not be a very long one, Grace. I do 
 not propose to be gone longer than six or seven months." 
 
 "That is a long time of anxiety and suspense. Uncle John." 
 
 "But you will not be in anxiety and suspense half that time. 
 If an operation is to be performed, I will have it done as soon 
 as it is practicable ; so that when the warm weather comes, 
 Agnes will be ready to go to Switzerland. I expect that pure 
 air to do much toward giving to her system that tone and 
 strength that it so much needs. Indeed, Grace, you must try 
 and bear up cheerfully, for Agnes's sake as well as for your own. 
 You must not think of her only as enduring a painful exile. There 
 will be much that even she can enjoy; and you may rest assured 
 that whatever pleasure she is capable of, I will see to it that she 
 has. Her love of music alone will afford her great enjoyment, 
 and she shall be gratified to the extent of her wishes." 
 
 " I know it. Uncle John, and I have no words to express my 
 gratitude for your kindness to her. It is not that I fail to ap- 
 preciate it ; it is only that every other thought is swallowed up in 
 the single one of separation from a blind and helpless child at 
 such a time." 
 
 Uncle John appreciated the mother's feelings, and made no 
 reply. They sat in silence ; one pondering the months of sorrow 
 before her, and the other the responsibility that he had assumed, 
 and the months of anxiety before him. 
 
 After awhile Agnes awoke with a start and a smile, which 
 quickly subsided into an expression of pain, as dreary recollection 
 returned. Uncle John kept quiet, and he listened in sadness, as 
 the child, now thoroughly awake, said, musingly : 
 
 " Mother says that it will not be right to let Uncle John see 
 that I don't want to leave her, and that I must talk cheerfully 
 
 ;r> 
 
94 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 about going to Paris. Yes, I will try for his sake, for it may be 
 as great a trial for him to go away as it is for me, and he is doing 
 it all for me. Let me go to the organ, mother ; I will feel better 
 when I get there. I could not talk to Uncle John now cheerfully 
 as I ought to do, but I can talk to it." 
 
 Her mother led her to the organ, and Uncle John thought 
 that she was literally pouring out all the sadness of her heart in 
 music, and he had never in his life been so deeply touched as he 
 now was by that wail, interpreted by her own words, of which he 
 had been the unsuspected listener. 
 
 But for once the organ failed to comfort her, and after a little 
 while she stopped with a sigh, and her hands fell listlessly and 
 wearily into her lap. Uncle John could not bear this, and he 
 sprang up and went to her, not knowing what he was going to 
 say, but only determined in some way to cumfort her. He felt 
 almost tempted to tell her that he would not take her away at all, 
 especially when he was greeted by the cheerful words, so painfully 
 contrasting with the sad face and the sad tone with which, in 
 spite of all her efforts, she spoke. 
 
 " Uncle John, I am glad that you have come, for I want you to 
 talk to me about Paris, and tell me when we are going, and how 
 long we will stay, and all about it." 
 
 " My daughter, I do not intend to take you to Paris at all, 
 unless you are willing to go. If it is possible to give you sight, 
 I would be very glad to do so with your consent, but not without. 
 I would like to leave home early in March, and be gone about 
 six months. It may be, Agnes, that you will have to suffer a 
 great deal, but even that shall not be without your consent. If 
 I find that the success of an operation is doubtful, I will leave it 
 entirely to yourself whether or not you will undergo the pain, 
 and even if the result should be certain, I will not compel you 
 to it." 
 
 "I have made up my mind. Uncle John, to be willing to do 
 whatever you think best. I hope that I would not be so foolish, 
 after all your trouble and expense, as to refuse to let the doctor 
 cure me because I am afraid of the pain." 
 
 " Perhaps, Agnes, the doctor may say that he cannot do any- 
 thing for you, and then I will bring you home to your mother 
 just as I took you away, except that w^e will have the satisfaction 
 of knowing that we have done all that we could to give you sight. 
 I know, my little daughter, that it will be hard for you to leave 
 your mother, and I wish very much that she could- go, but, as this 
 cannot be, I will try to fill her place, and I think we will have, 
 after all, a right pleasant time," he added, cheerfully. 
 
 " Did you say that perhaps, after all, the doctor might not do 
 
CAMERON HALL. 95 
 
 anything to my eyes ?" she asked, grasping at the possible re- 
 prieve from the pain that she so ranch dreaded. "I thought that 
 I would have to bear that any way." 
 
 "No, Agnes, I think not. I do not believe that the doctor 
 will undertake it unless he feels reasonably sure of the result." 
 
 "I am very glad to hear that," she said; for even the bless- 
 edness of sight had seemed to her dearly purchased by the suf- 
 fering from which childhood shrinks. " I am very fflad to hear 
 that." 
 
 "And even if I should have to bring you home the same blind 
 child that I took away, I hope that the voyage and travel will 
 benefit you, and that you will find many pleasures that you can 
 enjoy without eyes. I will try and make mine do double duty, 
 and tell you what! see; and I will take you to the great cathe- 
 drals, where you can hear magnificent organ-music and fine sing- 
 ing ; and when the weather becomes warm in Paris, we will go to 
 Switzerland, a country full of high mountains, whose tops are 
 always covered with snow, and where the air is pure and bracing, 
 and every breath is a pleasure." 
 
 Agnes's face brightened, especially when he spoke of music, 
 and she replied : 
 
 " I think I will like it very much, Uncle John." 
 
 "And then, too, you will like to sail upon the ocean; and I 
 will tell you what I am going to do. I am going to take my old 
 flute that I used to play, such a long, long time ago, for my little 
 child-angel, and whenever it is warm and pleasant, we will sit in 
 the same part of the ship where I used to sit with her, and I will 
 play for you the same old tunes that she loved so much." 
 
 Agnes was a grateful child, and she could not but realize the 
 pains that Uncle John would take to make her happy, and she 
 said, earnestly : 
 
 " Uncle John, I will try to be just as good and give you as 
 little trouble as I can, and when we get to Paris, I will try very 
 hard to bear my pain patiently, for I feel very grateful to you 
 for being so kind to me." 
 
 Uncle John laid his hand upon her head, as he replied: "My 
 child, I don't want you to try and be good, and give me no 
 trouble. I don't want you to feel under restraint with me, and 
 suffer in silence for fear of giving me pain and anxiety. I want 
 you to feel and act with me as you would do with your mother ; 
 telling me your wants, and complaining to me as you would to 
 her, when you are suffering." 
 
 " If she behaves with you, Uncle John, as she does with her 
 mother," said Grace, "she will not complain often, for that is not 
 • her habit. She is generally gentle and patient at home, and she 
 will probably be so with you." 
 
96 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " I shall certainly not object to it, if that is her character ; but 
 I only mean to say that I want her to be with me the same Agnes 
 that she is at home every day, and then I shall be perfectly 
 satisfied." 
 
 It was now finally agreed npon that they should sail early in 
 March. Agnes's heart was lightened by IJncle John's cheerful- 
 ness, while her mother was proportionably depressed, and dis- 
 covered for the first time the latent hope that had been lurking 
 in her heart, that something might occur to prevent the accom- 
 plishment of plans which she dared not herself take the responsi- 
 bility of overthrowing. The cheerful conversation had fallen like 
 a knell upon her heart, and slie heard their arrangements and the 
 time appointed for their departure with a pang, which she re- 
 proached herself for feeling, but which she could not crush. 
 
 Uncle John talked so pleasantly about what they would do, and 
 where they would go, that Agnes, with the elastic temper of child- 
 hood, began to look forward with pleasure to the voyage ; and 
 when, as he was going away, he said : 
 
 " So, my little daughter, you must keep up a brave heart, for, 
 after all, we will have a pleasant time," she answered, cheer- 
 fully : 
 
 " Yes, I am sure we will ; and if I could only take mother, and 
 my organ, and two or three friends, I would rather go than 
 not." 
 
 " Yes, Agnes, that would be more pleasant when you leave 
 home, but not half so pleasant when you return. There would 
 be no pleasure in coming back, if you had no friends to meet and 
 to welcome you home." 
 
 Uncle John departed, satisfied with the result of his visit; and 
 Grace went off by herself to weep away some of the burden of 
 her heart ; and Agnes played on, and the music was full of serene 
 hope and contentment. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The weeks had rolled rapidly by, too rapidly for Grace, who 
 dreaded more and more the approaching separation. 
 
 It was now the night before the departure, a wild, stormy 
 night in March, and Uncle John and the family were seated 
 around the fire in the library at Cameron Hall. He had come 
 out in the afternoon to say good-by, and the girls had, in spite of 
 wind and weather, kept him until after tea. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 97 
 
 The little family party, usually so gay and cheerful, were uow 
 silent and sad. In ordinary circurabtanees, there would have 
 been scarcely enough to have occasioned this; but now the girls 
 thought sadly of the probable suffering of Agnes, and Uncle 
 John and Mr. Cameron, of the possible change that might come 
 over their peaceful and prosperous country before they should 
 meet again. 
 
 These had formed the themes of conversation for the greater 
 part of the evening, until a cloud was upon every heart, when 
 suddenly Uncle John said, cheerfully : 
 
 " Come, girls, this will never do ; our last evening must not 
 be so doleful. My rule is always to look at the bright side : 
 until Agnes has been pronounced hopelessly blind, we must ex- 
 pect her to receive her sight; and until there is a positive de- 
 claration of war, we must hope for a continuation of peace. 
 Never let possible future evils take away the pleasure from 
 present blessings." 
 
 " That is precisely my doctrine. Uncle John !" exclaimed the 
 buoyant Eva. "I believe that there is a bright side to every 
 picture, even to war. I still think that I will like to see the 
 handsome officers and gay uniforms, and listen to the fine bands 
 of music." 
 
 " There is one young fellow in Europe, Eva, who will have to 
 come home in case of war. You will disown your knight if he 
 does not, won't you ?" 
 
 "You will persist, Uncle John, in calling him my knight, 
 while I assure you that I have no part nor lot in him. But, in- 
 deed, he ought to come home ; he would make a splendid-look- 
 ing officer." 
 
 " I must look him up and bring him back," said Uncle John. 
 " What shall I tell him, Eva ?" 
 
 "No message from me, sir, would influence his movements; 
 but one from sister might." 
 
 "Why, Eva," said Uncle John, laughing, "I am afraid that 
 you underrate your influence ; you certainly are one of ' the Cam- 
 eron sisters' whom he always mentions together." 
 
 " Yes, sir, and a very useful one too ; even he himself would 
 have to acknowledge that. A blind is sometimes invaluable. 
 Come, sister," she added, "you can send the only available mes- 
 sage from 'the Cameron sisters ;' what shall it be ?" 
 
 Julia was sewing quietly when the conversation began, but as 
 it went on, her fingers moved more rapidly and nervously. Eva 
 still delighted to tease her, and had never suspected that it was 
 any more painful to her than to be teased about any other ac- 
 
 9 
 
98 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 qnaintance. Had Jnlia even once expressed a wish that she 
 should desist, she would have done so, for she was a kind-hearted 
 child, and devoted to her sister; but Julia was unwilling for Eva 
 or any one else to suspect the feelings that she was struggling 
 against, and which she honestly believed that she was over- 
 coming ; and so she bore in silence, and tried to submit with in- 
 difference to Eva's raillery. But she could not become accus- 
 tomed to it; it was not only disagreeable, but it was positively 
 painful, and sometimes her patience and equanimity could not 
 bear the test, and she would reply with a sharpness that startled 
 Eva. She did not make any reply to the question now asked, 
 but sewed on. But Eva repeated it. 
 
 "You must not pretend, sister, that you are so absorbed in 
 that work that you do not hear. Hemming a pocket handker- 
 chief is not such intricate work that it requires undivided atten- 
 tion. Say, what message are you going to send ?" 
 
 "A message to whom, and about what, Eva ?" 
 
 "Now, Uncle John!" she exclaimed, "did you ever know 
 such affectation ? who would have expected it from my straight- 
 forward sister ? The message, sister, is to Dr. Beaufort, whom 
 Uncle John expects to meet in Europe ; about what, I really can- 
 not tell, as you are the best judge of that." 
 
 " I suspect, Eva, that if I were to send a message to Dr. Beau- 
 fort he would be as much surprised to receive it as I should be to 
 find ravself sendingf it." 
 
 " Well, indeed, I do not see anything very extraordinary in it. 
 I know that I should not hesitate' to send one, and should never 
 dream that there was any impropriery in it." 
 
 "I did not say that there was, Eva; that is your own infer- 
 ence. I only said that he and I would be alike astonished if I 
 did. You always talk as if he and I were old friends, and never 
 seeni to remember that we are strangers, and that the whole of 
 our intercourse in the past, and most probably in the future too, 
 was comprised within three or four weeks." 
 
 " Not such very great strangers after all !" she answered ; "if 
 you were, you both seemed at the time quite as forgetful of the 
 fact as I have been since. But even if it were so, that is no reason 
 why you should not send him a message." 
 
 Julia was annoyed, but she could not help smiling at Eva's 
 persistency, and she answered : 
 
 " Perhaps not, if I had one to send ; but inasmuch as I have 
 nothing in the world to communicate, a message becomes simply 
 impossible. If one is absolutely necessary, I leave you to send 
 it, and shall await with some curiosity to know what it can be 
 about." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 99 
 
 " It will certainly be about you," she replied, while her eyes 
 sparkled mischievously. 
 
 "Then," said Julia, with energy and decision, "you certainly 
 will not send it." 
 
 " Yes I will, and Uncle John will take it too, — won't you, Uncle 
 John ?" 
 
 "No," said Julia, "not if I particularly request, as I do now, 
 that my name shall never be mentioned to him." 
 
 "But, sister, suppose that he should ask Uncle John about 
 you, as he certainly will do ? He will be obliged to answer his 
 questions." 
 
 " If he speaks of us at all, Eva, he will probably inquire of us 
 together, as he mentions us in his letters." 
 
 " Well, if he does, sister, the same answers will not do for 
 both. We are two entirely distinct individuals, as unlike in char- 
 acter as we are in appearance, and each of us is, I think, worth 
 a separate answer." 
 
 " Dr. Beaufort will probably not mention us to Uncle John at 
 all, Eva ; there is no reason why he should." 
 
 "Oh, sister 1 what a ! You don't often sin that way, 
 
 but this time you were certainly overcome. Now you know 
 Tery well that he will not only ask in general terms, but he will 
 inquire particularly about us ; about me, because I am your sister, 
 and about you, because but he knows best why." 
 
 "You are the most provoking child, Eva!" said Julia, more 
 annoyed than she cared to show, and yet afraid positively to 
 forbid the raillery; and so Eva went on, and Uncle John listened, 
 amused. 
 
 " Suppose that Dr. Beaufort should ask Uncle John if Miss 
 Cameron is married yet, and instead of answering the question, 
 Uncle John should say that he had been forbidden by Miss Cam- 
 eron to mention her name to him ; how would that do ?" 
 
 "That question, it would be easy enough to answer." 
 
 " Then comes question second ; is she engaged to be married ? — 
 what then ?" 
 
 " He will say that he does not kiaow." 
 
 "Oh, sister!" exclaimed Eva, "tell a falsehood I surely you 
 don't mean that ?" 
 
 " By no means, Eva. Uncle John cannot know whether I am 
 to be married or not, for I never said a word to him upon the 
 subject in my life." 
 
 " But don't Uncle John know that if you were engaged I would 
 have told him long ago, even if you had not ?" 
 
 '' That is proof positive," said Mr. Cameron, laughing, in which 
 
100 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 he was joined by Uncle John, and even by Julia herself, who 
 presently, however, answered gravely: 
 
 "Eva, Dr. Beaufort will never ask Uncle John that ques- 
 tion." 
 
 " Why not, sister ?" 
 
 " Because he is a gentleman, Eva, and a gentleman will not 
 ask that question of any other than the lady herself. If he is 
 interested in her, he has no right to seek to know from others his 
 probable success ; if he is indifferent to her, it is no business of 
 his, and he will have too much delicacy to pry into what concerns 
 him not." 
 
 "But, sister, a gentleman likes to save himself the pain of re- 
 fusal. It is not trying to find out from another her feelings to- 
 ward himself; it is only asking if the way is clear." 
 
 " Still, the true manly way is to find it out from herself alone. 
 Nor need he necessarily subject himself to the pain of refusal. A 
 true woman, with a true woman's heart, will never encourage 
 feelings which she designs shall end in disappointment ; and a man 
 of ordinary penetration can generally discover if his feelings are 
 likely to be responded to, and that, too, without any compromise 
 of maidenly reserve." 
 
 "Oh, sister !" exclaimed Eva, laughing, "you will never make 
 a heroine in the world. I did hope that some of these days we 
 would have a little romance at Cameron Hall ; but if we do, I 
 am afraid that I shall have to be the heroine, and then all the 
 fun will be gone. I would a great deal rather read a novel, than 
 be myself one of its characters. I see plainly that you will never 
 do for a heroine ; you are too matter-of-fact. Just think what 
 would become of a novel if the hero scorned everything except 
 a plain, straightforward course, and the heroine disdained all 
 concealments, — a single page would wind up the whole I I am 
 astonished at you, sister, to have so little poetry in your com- 
 position." 
 
 "Nature unkindly gave to my younger sister both her own 
 and my share of that desirable element," answered Julia, smil- 
 ing, "and I was left with only the prosaic. However, Eva, 
 if I do take a practical, rather than a sentimental view of a love 
 affair, I look at it simply in its bearing upon my own happiness. 
 With my disposition (and for that I am not responsible) my hap- 
 piness requires frank, ingenuous dealing ; and no man who did 
 not pursue this course in a love aflfair, as well as in anything else, 
 could gain my esteem or affection." 
 
 " Well, Julia," said Uncle John, " if nature gave you too little 
 of the poetic element, she has, by way of compensation, given 
 
CAMERON HALL. 101 
 
 you more than the usual share of truthfulness, honesty, and can- 
 dor. You admit that, Eva, don't you ?" 
 
 *' Oh yes. Uncle John, of these she has a double share. I find 
 no fault whatever in the foundation of her character, for it is the 
 solid, substantial granite. It is only in the superstructure that 
 I would like a little poetic fancy work ; like the delicate tracery 
 and carved work of the Gothic architecture, it would give grace 
 and lightness, without impairing its strength and solidity." 
 
 " Were your sister's character other than it is, Eva," said 
 Uncle John, " your description might perhaps tempt me to wish 
 to lighten it by poetic fancy ; but as it is, I would not alter it. 
 I like Julia best as she is." 
 
 "Of course you do, Uncle John. Nobody ever dreamed that 
 you could think that her character might be improved." 
 
 " I did not say so, Eva. Julia, I dare say, has her faults like 
 the rest of us; but I have learned to know and love her as she 
 is ; and while I would, in the abstract, like to have her faultless, 
 yet I should surely miss her imperfections if she were to lose 
 them ; and as to the general outlines of her character, I would 
 not for the world have them changed." 
 
 "Oh, Uncle John !" said Julia, deprecatingly, "don't talk so. 
 You talk as if my faults were few and small ; but indeed you do 
 not know me. You are not always with me ; and then, too, you 
 are a partial judge ; you are only disposed to look at me, as you 
 do at everything else, on the bright side." 
 
 " Lam disposed to look at you as you are, my daughter; and 
 I think, too, that I know you pretty well ; and if I needed any 
 help in understanding you, I should get it from the tell-tale Eva 
 here, whose thoughts and feelings flow through her lips as natu- 
 rally as water runs through a sieve.* No, Julia, I am satisfied that 
 you show yourself to me in your true character." 
 
 "As she does to everybody else," said her father. ''Julia is 
 the same in the parlor that she is everywhere else. No, I do 
 her injustice. I think that she shines less in the parlor than in 
 any other department of the house." 
 
 "I thought so," replied Uncle John, quietly. 
 
 "And in which department do I shine most, papa ?" inquired 
 Eva. 
 
 " In the romantic, my daughter, ifthere be such a department 
 in an old-fashioned Virginia country-house." 
 
 "I think," said Uncle John, "from the stress that she lays 
 upon the act, that Eva's specialty must be washing cups and 
 saucers. I heard her only a few days ago boasting of some 
 wonderful and successful efforts in that line." 
 
 9* 
 
 ♦ 
 
102 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "Now, Uncle John !" began Eva; but Jnlia intermpted her 
 by saying : 
 
 "That is right, Uncle John ; it is her time now. Let her see if 
 circumstances do not alter cases, in teasing as well as in some 
 other things. Perhaps she will find that it loses much of its 
 relish and piquancy, when the verb is conjugated in the passive 
 instead of the active voice." 
 
 " I must plead for Eva, Uncle John," said Mr. Cameron. " In- 
 deed, I am quite satisfied with both my daughters just as they 
 are. As Cameron Hall was to be lightened by the presence of 
 two, nature has wisely made them different, though not dissim- 
 ilar. Julia shall be the solid substantial architecture, and Eva 
 shall be the ornamental moulding and delicate tracery; and by 
 blending the two we shall have a beautiful specimen of the florid 
 Gothic." 
 
 "Thank you, papa," said Eva. "If it were not for you, I 
 should be entirely overwhelmed by the combined forces of my 
 antagonists." 
 
 "Eva," said Uncle John, "I hope to be somewhere in the 
 neighborhood of Cameron Hall when your love affair is progress- 
 ing. Of course so sentimental and unpractical a damsel as your- 
 self will make a romance of it ; and I want to read the novel of 
 which you are heroine, as you wanted to read the one of which 
 your sister was the heroine. There is, however, one insuperable 
 obstacle in the way of your plot." 
 
 " What is that, Uncle John ?" 
 
 " It is the frankness and openness of your character. It will 
 be so utterly opposed to your nature to involve yourself in the 
 mystery and concealment necessary for a novel, that after an 
 effort or two you will give it up in disgust, and come to papa and 
 Uncle John and sister, and tell them all about it with just as much 
 straightforward simplicity and candor as the practical sister of 
 whom you have just been complaining. You are not like Julia 
 in your temperament ; but I am sadly afraid that you will find 
 in yourself just as little material to make a heroioe." 
 
 " Perhaps so, Uncle John," she replied, laughing ; "but I never 
 intended to have any concealment from my family and from you. 
 I only designed to be more reserved to my lover, and not make 
 him happy all at once, as sister would ; but I would keep him in 
 doubt and suspense awhile, so that when he attained the goal of 
 his hopes he would the more fully appreciate it." 
 
 "All this does very well in a fancy sketch, Eva; but whenever 
 you are able to conceal your feelings, whenever you learn so to 
 control your words, looks, and actions, that neither shall betray 
 the love boiling and seething in your heart, then you will no 
 
CAMERON HALL. 103 
 
 Jonger be Eva Cameron. No, child, your lover will not be held 
 any longer in suspense than will your sister's ; if you do not make 
 him instantly happy by words, your face will betray you. Didn't 
 you tell me a long time ago that you could never imitate your 
 sister's wonderful silence and self-command ?" 
 
 " Oh, Uncle John !" she exclaimed, in pretended dismay, "what 
 did you tell for ?" 
 
 "I have told nothing at all, Eva." 
 
 " What wonderful self-command ? what silence ?" inquired 
 Julia, anxiously. 
 
 "Don't tell her. Uncle John," said Eva. "Don't you remem- 
 ber, sister, immediately after our return from the Springs last 
 year, I was telling Uncle John one day all about our visit, when, 
 for some reason best known to yourself, you suddenly disappeared 
 in YirgiPs convenient way of disposing of people — you 'vanished 
 into thin air ?' Well, it was during this absence that I told him 
 a little secret about you and the doctor." 
 
 Julia colored, and Uncle John said : 
 
 "Oh, Eva, Eva I Can't you let your sister alone for five 
 minutes ?" 
 
 "I wonder," said Julia, recovering herself, "that she does not 
 get tired teasing me. So patient and uncomplaining a subject, 
 I should think, would weary her ; and one so indifferent would 
 disgust her. Sometimes, Uncle John, when she is weaving her 
 fancy sketches about Dr. Beaufort, or some other of my imaginary 
 beaux, my head is full of thoughts of those sublunary things that 
 she scorns, and I am wondering if Mammy Nancy has fed the 
 chickens, and if Aunt Fanny has finished churning." 
 
 " How flattering to the doctor's vanity !" exclaimed Eva. 
 "Uncle John, be sure to remember this among your pleasant 
 pictures of Cameron Hall, and assure him of the high place that 
 he occupies in the thoughts of one of 'the Cameron sisters;' and 
 tell him she says that whenever his name is mentioned, it is at 
 once suggestive of the lofty themes of chickens and churning 1" 
 
 "I think that I must decline being the bearer of such a mes- 
 sage as that, Eva," he answered, laughing. "Your sister must 
 send a more acceptable one, or I will not take it." 
 
 "It was hers, not mine. Uncle John," said Julia. "I never 
 designed it for anybody's ear except your own." 
 
 "Come, girls," he said, "it is getting late, and I must go. So 
 be quick now and give me your messages to our absent friend. 
 What shall I say for you, Julia ?" 
 
 " Nothing at all. Uncle John ; I told you that some time ago. 
 There is nothing either that he will care to hear, or I to say." 
 
 "Then, Uncle John," said Eva, "tell him from me that I 
 
104 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 should be very prlad to renew our pheasant acquaintance, and that 
 I hope to see him before long at the Hall ; and tell him, more- 
 over, that sister would say so too, if she didn't have too much 
 propriety." 
 
 Julia laughed, and said quietly: 
 
 "It is well for us both, Eva, that you have so discreet a mes- 
 senger; one who knows us both too well to misunderstand us, 
 and loves us too well to misrepresent us. You may send any 
 message that you please ; I am perfectly willing to intrust it to 
 Uncle John's discretion what part to deliver, and what part to 
 withhold." 
 
 Eva looked at her, with her face and eyes beaming, and said : 
 
 "Uncle John, I'll wager that I know something that would 
 induce sister, with all her propriety, to send Dr. Beaufort a mes- 
 sage." 
 
 "That is very probable, Eva," replied Julia, quietly. "I know 
 a great many things that would." 
 
 "But I know one thing specially." 
 
 Julia sewed on and made no reply, and Uncle John, by way of 
 gratifying her, asked : 
 
 "And what is that, Eva?" 
 
 " In case of war, if Dr. Beaufort should be indifferent about 
 coming home, and sister thought he ought to come, and that a 
 message from her would influence him to do so, she would not 
 hesitate a moment. All her propriety would be forgotten then, 
 and she would send such a long one, Uncle John, that you would 
 have to write it down ; you could not remember it all." 
 
 " Indeed, Eva," said Julia, forgetting everything in her earn- 
 estness, "indeed you are greatly mistaken. If there is in Dr. 
 Beaufort so little of true manhood that he needs a woman's per- 
 suasion to induce him to fight the battles of his country, his ser- 
 vice would not be worth having. If he has no higher principles 
 of action, no clearer conceptions of duty, no stronger will than 
 to need a woman to bolster him up, then there is not soul enough 
 in him to make a soldier ; and Julia Cameron would be the last 
 woman in the South to try it I" 
 
 "Bravo, Julia!" cried Uncle John, clapping his hands. "I 
 wish I could repeat that speech, just as it was uttered, tone, man- 
 ner, words, and all, and I promise you that Charles Beaufort 
 should have the benefit of it." 
 
 " I did not make it for his benefit, Uncle John, nor with spe- 
 cial reference to liim ; what I have said applies to every man in 
 the South." 
 
 " Eva," said Uncle John, " I think that there is a lull in the 
 storm now. Go see, my child, for you are younger than I am." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 105 
 
 Eva obeyed, and returned, saying : 
 
 " It is not raining just now, Uncle John, but the wind is blow- 
 ing very hard, and the sky is as black as ink. Indeed, you will 
 be obliged to stay ; I am sure that you cannot drive such a night 
 as this." 
 
 "Nevertheless, I must try, Eva. My horse and I know the 
 road so well that we can go from here to town almost without 
 sight. Order the buggy immediately, and perhaps I can get home 
 before it rains again." 
 
 It was at the door in a few minutes, and the farewell words 
 had been spoken. . 
 
 " God bless you,' my friend, and my daughters," he said as he 
 grasped three hands in both his ; " God bless and keep you, and 
 grant that we may meet again before long in health and happi- 
 ness." 
 
 "And peace," added Mr. Cameron. 
 
 " Yes, and peace," said they all, solemnly. 
 
 The girls were sincerely grieved to part with Uncle John, for 
 they knew well how sorely they would miss his cheerful face and 
 pleasant company. Julia helped him with his overcoat and 
 gloves, and busied herself waiting upon him to the very last, 
 quiet as was her wont, while only a few silent tears, quickly 
 brushed away, bore witness to her sorrow; while the more im- 
 pulsive Eva stood by sobbing. Julia opened the hall door so 
 that the light from the lamp might guide him to his buggy; but 
 in an instant a blast swept through, and, extinguishing the lamp, 
 left them in utter darkness. 
 
 " Never mind, girls," he said, " I can find my way." 
 
 He groped his way along to the buggy, and as he drove off, 
 the wind bore back his parting words : "God bless you 1 God 
 bless you !" 
 
 A dreary ride had Uncle John in the lonely midnight, beneath 
 an inky sky, with not even the lightning flash occasionally to 
 illumine the black darkness around. Though he was naturally 
 cheerful, yet his thoughts were now sad, and the object of his 
 mission and its uncertainty weighed heavily upon his heart. He 
 was obliged to drive very slowly, and with no companions except 
 his own anxious thoughts and the howling wind, that rose and 
 fell in fitful blasts, the way seemed interminable. At last, he 
 reached town just as the rain began to pour again in torrents 
 upon the already flooded streets. Not a light was to be seen 
 anywhere. Everything was locked in profound slumber, and the 
 storm raged without, while the unconscious sleepers within knew 
 nothing of its fury. As he turned the corner of a street, he saw 
 one feeble light glimmering in the distance, and it seemed like 
 
106 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 the welcome light of the polar star to the tempest-tossed 
 mariner. 
 
 "Some lonely watcher," he thought, "perhaps beside the bed 
 of the sick or dying." 
 
 But as he drove on, even above the roar of the tempest he 
 heard a low, deep sound, which to a more poetic temperament 
 might have seemed a mighty sob of nature's great heart. But 
 Uncle John was no poet. He drew the reins and stopped there 
 in the pelting storm, listening to catch the sound again, and 
 when it came, not loud, but deep and distinct, he said to him- 
 self: 
 
 " Yes, I cannot be mistaken. It is Agnes at the organ, and 
 at this'hour of the night 1" 
 
 As he advanced the sound became more distinct, and the light 
 was plainly visible in the cottage. He stopped there and entered 
 noiselessly. His step was arrested at the threshold, and, with 
 his hand upon the knob of the door, he stood spell-bound, listen- 
 ing, how long he knew not, to the strain which he could not in- 
 terrupt. When it ceased, he went in, and, as he opened the door, 
 Grace started, but Agnes recognized his step in an instant. 
 
 "My child," he said kindly, but reproachfully, "what does 
 this mean ? To-morrow you will go upon a long journey, which 
 will require all your strength, and when you ought to have been 
 asleep hours ago, I find you, after twelve o'clock at night, ex- 
 hausting yourself in this way. Oh ! Grace, Grace," he added, 
 looking at her, " you ought not to have permitted this." 
 
 " I could not help it, Uncle John," she replied. 
 
 " Nor could you. Uncle John," said Agnes. " You never 
 could have had the heart to refuse to let me say farewell to 
 mother, when I am going to leave her to-morrow for so long a 
 time. And that is all that I have been doing ; just saying all 
 night, through the organ, ' Good-by, mother, good-by 1' " 
 
 To this, Uncle John did not reply. If he himself could not 
 interrupt this good-by strain, he could not wonder that the 
 mother did not. 
 
 Agnes asked no permission to go on, but poured out her 
 feelings, with childish unrestraint, upon the organ. She needed 
 no words to interpret her music ; it was plainly a farewell. 
 She played on without interruption from her listeners, and Uncle 
 John, like Grace, forgot the hour. At last, however, nature 
 asserted her rights, and the exhausted child could bear no more. 
 The music ceased ; and when Uncle John and Grace looked 
 up, her hands were lying idly in her lap, and her head drooped 
 upon her shoulder ; the child-musician, lulled by her own music, 
 was sleeping sweetly and profoundly. 
 
 V 
 
CAMERON HALL. 107 
 
 Uncle John arose and went quietly to the organ, where he 
 stood for a few moments, looking in silence at the little sleeper. 
 When he raised his eyes, there too stood Joe, who had left his 
 post, as he always did, whenever the music ceased. He was 
 gazing fixedly at Agnes, and there were two tears upon his 
 cheeks, the first evidence of emotion that Uncle John had ever 
 seen in him. Agnes's plaintive farewell to mother and friends 
 had mysteriously touched some chord which had never vibrated 
 before, and the idiot caught a fleeting impression of her mean- 
 ing. The blind had spoken to the blind ! 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 It was a clear bright day, and, from a cloudless sky, the sun 
 looked down upon the broad, blue expanse of the Atlantic, with 
 its foam-crested waves sparkling as if sprinkled with diamonds. 
 The air was very keen and cold, but there were two of the pas- 
 sengers who could not consent to be imprisoned below, and who, 
 muffled in shawls and furs and a buffalo robe, and buried in a 
 sail to shield them from the wind, were sitting in the bow of the 
 steamer. 
 
 A week had passed since the travelers had left home. The 
 parting was over; the farewell had been spoken; and though 
 there could be for Agnes no new sights and scenes, still there 
 were new sounds and new voices, and Uncle John devoted him- 
 self untiringly to amuse and interest her. Everybody was kind to 
 her. None of the passengers could pass her without a kind 
 word or a gentle touch, and the kind-hearted sailors looked com- 
 passionately on her as Uncle John led her in their daily walk up 
 and down the deck. She did not know that she was the special 
 object of interest on the ship. Her gentleness and thankful ac- 
 knowledgment of the smallest kindness won all hearts, and her 
 blindness awakened universal sympathy. She missed her organ 
 sorely, but she did not complain, nor was she entirely without 
 employment or amusement. For the first time in her life she re- 
 sorted to singing and to the piano. She sang the songs that she 
 had learned from Eva, and would sing on deck by the hour; one 
 after another being drawn to her side, until quite a group, of 
 which she was the unconscious center, would be gathered around 
 
108 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 her ; and when it was too cold to be on deck, and she was con- 
 fined to the saloon, she amused herself at the piano, dissatisfied, 
 it is true, with her own masic, bat the wonder and delight of 
 those who listened and remembered that it was nothing but the 
 natural language of a blind child. 
 
 There was something inspiring in the fresh westerly breeze, as 
 it swelled the sails and sped the steamer rapidly onward, and 
 Uncle John seemed to drink in hope and buoyancy with the pure 
 air and glorious sunshine. Agnes, with the elasticity of child- 
 hood, had rebounded from the sorrow of parting with her mother, 
 and satisfied with the love and the care of Uncle John, had re- 
 gained her accustomed cheerfulness. Taking a long, deep breath, 
 she said : 
 
 " Oh, Uncle John ! this air is so delicious I I can feel it 
 making me strong. What wind is it to-day?" 
 
 "The same that we had yesterday, Agnes; a westerly wind, 
 and it is sending us rapidly across the ocean." 
 
 "A westerly wind I" she repeated. " Then it comes from home ; 
 no wonder that it is so pleasant ! I wish that it could bring me 
 messages from mother and my friends." 
 
 "What messages would you like to have, Agnes?" 
 
 " I would like for the wind to tell me how much mother misses 
 me, and wants to see me, and that they will not forget me at the 
 Hall, and that Mr. Derby, when he asks Grod to bless his own 
 little children, will remember me, too." 
 
 " Those would be pleasant messages, my daughter ; but I don't 
 think that you need wait for the wind to bring them to you ; your 
 own heart will tell you that if your mother and friends could 
 speak to you this moment, they would tell you just what you 
 would like for the breeze to say." 
 
 " Yes, Uncle John, I believe they would. Everybody is kind 
 to me ; everybody loves me. This is a pleasant world even to a 
 blind child." 
 
 " I am glad, Agnes, that you have found it so. I think, how- 
 ever, that much of your happiness is derived from yourself. You 
 are cheerful and contented, thankful for your blessings instead of 
 complaining of your affliction." 
 
 " Yes, sir, I am thankful ; but, then, I have so much to be 
 thankful for. I have the best mother in the world, the best 
 Uncle John in the world, and such good kind friends, and my 
 dear organ. I should be a very ungrateful child if I were dis- 
 contented." 
 
 " You certainly ought to be grateful for these blessings, Agnes ; 
 but some children, instead of being bright and cheerful like you 
 are, would be sad and unhappy, because they could not see." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 109 
 
 " I should be very sad if I conld not hear; although, even then, 
 I would try not to complain. But oh, Uncle John I what would I 
 do if I could not hear? Xever to know what music is; never to 
 hear the sound of the organ ; never to hear mother's voice and 
 yours. — that would indeed be hard to bear ! I am so thankful 
 that God made me blind instead of deaf!" 
 
 To this conversation there had been an unnoticed listener, a 
 dark, gloomy-looking man, in the prime of life, who was sitting 
 not far off, with his back toward them, gazing abstractedly into 
 the ocean. Uncle John knew that he was there, for he saw him 
 there in the same place every day; but his presence had never im- 
 posed any restraint upon the conversation, for the stranger's 
 ' thoughts always seemed to be far away, and he was apparently 
 unconscious of their presence. Xow, however, he suddenly and 
 involuntarily turned round, and looked in wonder upon the blind 
 child, who could thus speak of her infirmity. He said not a 
 word ; he did not appear to see Uncle John at all, or if he did, 
 he did not think of him ; he only sat and surveyed the child with 
 a long, scrutinizing stare. Uncle John was annoyed. He could 
 not bear to have Agnes's infirmity the object of curious gaze, nor 
 could he talk to her without restraint when the eyes and ears of 
 a stranger were so riveted upon them. He had sought this part 
 of the steamer because here they were alone and uninterrupted 
 in their conversation, and Agnes and he could talk together as 
 freely as they were accustomed to do at home. He waited a few 
 moments, but the gaze was not removed ; then he tried to make 
 the stranger aware of his presence by returning his stare; but he 
 was entirely unconscious that anybody was there except Agnes. 
 
 At last Uncle John's patience was exhausted, and he said : 
 
 "Come, daughter, let us go down into the saloon." 
 
 "Oh no, Uncle John, I cannot bear that saloon ; it is so close. 
 Please let us stay here, where we can feel the fresh wind upon our 
 faces. I am not cold." 
 
 Her words recalled the stranger's consciousness, and murmur- 
 ing something inaudibly, he went off hurriedly, and mounting 
 upon the wheel-house, drew his shawl closely around him, and 
 sat down there to look out upon the ocean with that same ab- 
 stracted air. 
 
 "He is very polite," said Uncle John. 
 
 "Who is that. Uncle John ?" she asked, 
 
 "I do not know, Agnes; I only know that he is a very un- 
 civil man." 
 
 " Whv, Uncle John ?" 
 
 "Because he stared at you just now in a way that would have 
 been intolerable to you if you could have seen him." 
 
 10 
 
110 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "But perhaps he knew that I would not care; that I could 
 not see." 
 
 " That makes no difference, Agnes. It is not pleasant to me 
 to have you gazed at in that way, and he must have known it. 
 He is either very rude or very absent, and looks as if he might 
 be unhappy." 
 
 " Is this the first time that you have seen him, Uncle John ?" 
 
 " No, I have seen him every day since we left New York. 
 He is gloomy and unsocial, and spends all his time here on deck 
 by himself. I have never been here, day or night, that he was 
 not in that same place, puflBng away vigorously at his cigar, which 
 seems to be his only comfort and companion. As I len/1 you by 
 him every day, he raises his eyes and looks dreamily at us as we 
 pass, and then fastens them again on the ocean, which he never 
 grows tired of looking at. He gazed at you just now as he 
 does at the water, intently, fixedly. I cannot imagine what he 
 means by it." 
 
 " He does not mean anything. Uncle John. From what you 
 say, he must be lonely and unhappy. Perhaps he wants some- 
 body to talk to him. Why don't you talk to him, and ask him if 
 he is unhappy, and what makes him so ?" 
 
 "Because, Agnes," he replied, laughing, "in the first place, it 
 is none of my business; and in the second, he wouW think me 
 very impertinent if I did." 
 
 " But perhaps you could do something for him !" 
 
 "No, Agnes, I have employment enough in taking care of 
 you, and I have enough pleasant acquaintances on the steamer, 
 without seeking any more, especially one like him. I do not like 
 his appearance ; he has a bad countenance." 
 
 " If he is bad, Uncle John, I don't want to have anything to 
 do with him ; but if he is only sad, and has nobody to talk to 
 him, I would like to keep him company sometimes." 
 
 "Why, daughter, are you growing tired of Uncle John; do 
 you want some other company ? If you do, there are others here 
 who are much more suitable companions for you." 
 
 " Oh no. Uncle John I" she answered, hastily. " It is not that 
 I am tired of you, for I would rather be with you than anybody 
 else ; but I only thought that if he is lonely, and has no friends, 
 I would be one to him. Even a blind child-friend may be better 
 than none at all." 
 
 " I don't know that he would think so, Agnes. Indeed, from 
 his appearance and manner, I don't believe that he cares to have 
 any friends. So let us leave him to his own gloomy solitude, and 
 talk about something pleasanter." 
 
 And then he talked to her of the sunshine that sparkled upon 
 
CAMEKON HALL. Ill 
 
 the waters, which she knew and loved, because it beamed warm 
 and pleasant upon her face ; of the little bird, whose dimensions 
 he measured upon her own small hand, and whose unwearied wing 
 carries him so far out to sea, who sometimes rests like a speck 
 upon the top of the tall mast, or is borne like a tiny plaything 
 upon the waves, to which he unhesitatingly commits himself. 
 Agnes asked many questions about the ocean-bird. She had 
 never heard of it before, -and she liked to talk about it : so small, 
 yet so fearless ; roving so far over the trackless waste, yet never 
 lost; resting so confidingly upon the waters, treacherous to all 
 else except the trusting bird. All this awakened her interest, and 
 promised to furnish a theme of conversation whose novelty would 
 not wear out during the voyage. Then they talked of home and 
 friends ; of the music in Paris ; and then, greatest pleasure of all, 
 their welcome home. They spoke not of the probable pain and 
 suffering which might far more than counterbalance the few 
 pleasures that she could enjoy. Uncle John tried to shut out 
 the thought of these from her mind, and she preserved, with re- 
 gard to them, a silence, which he did not know whether to at- 
 tribute to childish forgetfulness or to a regard for his wishes. 
 Then there was a pause in the conversation. Talking of going 
 home had taken them back in imagination, and their hearts and 
 thoughts were busy there, while they both were silent. At last, 
 after a long time, Agnes spoke : 
 
 "Uncle John, does not this voyage remind you of that other 
 one, a long.time ago, when you had your child-angel with you ?" 
 
 " Yes, my daughter : I have been upon the ocean a great many 
 times since, and never without thinking much of her ; but this voy- 
 age has reminded me of her more than any other, because now, 
 as then, I have a little girl to keep me company. This, how- 
 ever, is much pleasauter to me than that, Agnes." 
 
 ''Why, how can that be, Uncle John? I did not know that 
 anything in the world could give you so much pleasure now as you 
 had then, when she was your little friend and companion." 
 
 "It was very pleasant to have her as such, Agnes; but I told 
 you long ago that I was a very unhappy man then. I was morose, 
 and sullen, and bitter." 
 
 "But, Uncle John, you said that you began to grow better 
 from being with her, and I should think that it would be so pleas- 
 ant to feel yourself getting better every day." 
 
 "Yes, Agnes, so it is, but not half so pleasant as to look back 
 a long, long time and see the great change that has come over 
 you. It was very little better that I grew day by day, so little 
 that I scarcely felt it then ; but now I see and feel that I am a very 
 different man from what I was then. Now I am neither sullen 
 
112 • CAMERON HALL. 
 
 nor bitter. I like to see others happy, and I particularly like to 
 help to make them so. It is only when I look back and see the 
 great difiference between my character and temper now and what 
 it was then, that I realize how much I owe to that little child." 
 
 "Uncle John," said Agnes, hesitatingly, "may I say something 
 to you ? I am almost afraid, but " 
 
 " Say what you please, Agnes. Don't you know we have agreed 
 that you are to talk to me just as you do to your mother ? So 
 speak out, my daughter; don't be afraid." 
 
 "Uncle John," she answered, timidly, "I have heard you say a 
 great many times that you were so grateful to that little girl, but 
 never once that you were grateful to any person else. If I ever 
 get my sight, I shall be very thankful to the good doctor who 
 opens my eyes, very grateful to my dear Uncle John who took 
 me to him, but a great deal more grateful to God than to both." 
 
 Uncle John was touched, and he felt glad that she could not 
 see the tear-moistened eye with which he listened to her reproof. 
 Agnes continued : 
 
 " Mother says that when anybody does me a favor I must never 
 forget to thank them for it; that I must not only feel it in my 
 heart, but I must say so. Now, Uncle John, when God gives us 
 some great blessing, don't you think it must seem very strange to 
 Him that we do not tell Him that we thank Him, and sometimes 
 do not even seem to kno^jr that He gave it?" 
 
 Uncle John did not reply, but he felt her words. It was an 
 oft-repeated truth, uttered in language as simple as childhood 
 could frame, but it touched his heart as it never had done before. 
 Agnes waited a few moments, and then said, distressed : 
 
 "You are angry, Uncle John; I ought not to have said it." 
 
 "No, my little daughter," he answered; "you cannot offend 
 me, least of all by saying what you have done now. You are 
 right, my child, you are right!" 
 
 Presently Agnes said : 
 
 "Uncle John, you don't think that I meant that you must not 
 thank the little girl at all, do you ? I did not mean that. I only 
 .meant that you must thank the child-angel for making you abet- 
 ter man, and you must thank God for giving you the child-angel. 
 That is the way." 
 
 "I understand you perfectly, my daughter," he replied, smiling 
 at her explanation ; " and I not only understand you, but I prom- 
 ise to remember what you have said. I thank you, my daughter, 
 for that good little sermon." 
 
 "Oh, Uncle John, don't call it a sermon. It would be very 
 impertinent for me to preach a sermon to you. I was only tell- 
 ing you what I would like for you to do." 
 
CAMERON HALL. . 113 
 
 "Never mind, my child; you told me what was right, and I 
 thank you for it." 
 
 That night, when he thought she was asleep, he softly opened 
 her statej-room door to see, as he always did, that she was com- 
 fortable. Agnes was upon her knees, and Uncle John heard the 
 last words of her prayer: "Make my dear Uncle John grateful 
 in his heart, and make him tell Thee so." He gently closed the 
 door and went on deck. He avoided the many who were walk- 
 ing up and down for their accustomed exercise, and went to the 
 forward deck, where he saw the moody stranger in his usual place. 
 Uncle John lit his cigar, and drawing his shawl tightly around 
 him, walked hurriedly backward and forward. His thoughts 
 were busy ; first with Agnes and her simple and earnest reproof, 
 then with her prayer, and then with the result of that experiment 
 which he so much dreaded and yet so much desired to make; and 
 then, by an easy transition, they sped homeward, and dwelt upon 
 the friends that he had left behind. Uncle John felt lonely, and 
 had felt so ever since he left home, and every day that bore him 
 'farther from it increased the feeling. He devoted himself un- 
 ceasingly to Agnes, and when she was awake he never left her. 
 Nothing could tempt him to forget for a moment his pledge to 
 her mother, and the promise that he had made to himself with re- 
 gard to her. Before he left home he had believed that he loved 
 Agnes better than anybody in the world. Ever since the even- 
 ing that he had found the little blind musician in the church, he 
 had had for her a tender feeling that he had for no other child. 
 From that moment she had, as it were, grown up day by day 
 under his eye and care, and independent of the sympathy that he 
 felt for her, he loved her for herself. He saw her every day ; to 
 do something for Agnes's amusement or comfort had become a part 
 of his daily duty, and she seemed to be ever in his thoughts. He 
 never felt lonely when she was with him, and had thought that 
 whatever might be the privations and inconveniences of his pres- 
 ent journey, he, at least, would never be lonely, for he would al- 
 ways have Agnes. But he had not found it so. He was more 
 constantly with her than he had ever been in his life before, and 
 yet he was conscious that there was avoid in his heart, which she, 
 dear as she was to him, could not fill. He did not make this dis- 
 covery to-night for the first time. He had pondered his strange 
 feelings ever since he left home, and the conviction had gradually 
 forced itself upon him that there was another dearer to him even 
 than Agnes. He loved her indeed for her own sake, but he loved 
 her also for the sake of another ; he loved to make her happy, 
 but the pleasure was greatly increased by the sight of the happi- 
 ness that through her he gave another. Uncle John walked up 
 
 10* ^ 
 
I 
 
 114 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 and down, trying honestly to search out and understand his own 
 feelings. 
 
 "And can it indeed be true," he said to himself, "that this 
 heart of mine, old as it is now, can feel again the passion, that 
 wrecked its happiness in its early youth ? Is it troe that the 
 fierceness of that blighted love left embers enough to rekindle 
 the flame even after so many years ? Can it be that the deep, 
 aching void in my heart now, the quiet, intense longing, can be 
 the same passion which, in my boyhood, leaped like molten fire 
 through my veins or lashed my soul into a tempest ? Does age, 
 indeed, make such a diflference ? My heart is not dead ; it feels 
 now as undeniably as it ever did, but its feelings no longer waste 
 and desolate it as they did before. The old man's heart is toned 
 down and subdued, but does it follow that it is therefore worth- 
 less? May it not be that the damps of sorrow and disappoint- 
 ment, softening down the fervor of youthful impulse and fiery 
 energy, may, like the lapse of centuries upon the painter's mas- 
 ter-piece, subdue the colors and soften the outlines, and so enhance 
 both its beauty and value? But even if my heart is not worth-' 
 less; if it is yet capable of an affection which might satisfy the 
 demands of a woman's heart, is it worth ofi'ering to such a woman 
 as Grace ?" 
 
 Uncle John puffed away at the stump of his cigar until it burned 
 his lip; and then, dashing it far out into the sea, said to himself: 
 
 "I can but try. It may be that she will not reject an old man's 
 love. Poor Grace I She has had so much trouble in her life 
 that I would deem it a privilege and a pleasure to do what an 
 old man could to make her happy during the rest of it ! I will 
 write to her to-night a frank, honest confession, and if my letter 
 does no other good, it will at least be a temporary relief to me." 
 
 He went below, and on his way he again passed the stranger, 
 who was still sitting there looking out upon the black and gloomy 
 waters. 
 
 When he had finished his letter, he looked again into Agnes's 
 state-room. This time she was fast asleep. Uncle John gazed 
 at her a moment, and then left her to her peaceful slumber and 
 dreams of home. 
 
 The next morning, when they were again upon the deck. Uncle 
 John took his letter from his pocket, read it over again, and with 
 a sigh of mingled dissatisfaction and disappointment, began to 
 tear it slowly in pieces. 
 
 "What is it that you are tearing, Uncle John ?" asked Agnes. 
 
 "Only a worthless piece of paper, daughter." 
 
 "Are you sad this morning. Uncle John ? You do not talk 
 much, and I am afraid that something troubles you." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 115 
 
 "No, child," he answered; and resolving that if he was, the 
 shadow should not be cast upon her spirits, he said, cheerfully : 
 
 "What shall we talk about, now — home, or Paris, or Switzer- 
 land, or what ?" 
 
 "First, Uncle John, about your child-angel." 
 
 "What more can I tell you, Agnes, about her? I thought 
 that you already knew all about her." 
 
 "No, you have never even told me her name." 
 
 "And strange to say, my daughter, I do not even know it my- 
 self." 
 
 " Why, how could that be, when you were with her for so long 
 a time ?" 
 
 " Everybody called her Lily; ajd the name suited her so well, 
 that I was satisfied with it, and asked no other." 
 
 " You have never yet played tie flute for me. Uncle John. I 
 would like so much to hear the music that you used to play for 
 her." 
 
 "Well, my daughter, I have only been waiting for you to ex- 
 press a wish to hear it. The flute is ready, and so am I, when- 
 ever you are." 
 
 "I am ready now, Uncle John." 
 
 "Then, Agnes, I must go below to my state-room to get it, 
 and you must sit here quietly while I am gone. You must not 
 move, for the deck of the ship is not like your mother's house, 
 where you can safely grope your way along. You could not 
 walk alone here ten steps without a severe fall." 
 
 "Yes, sir, I will sit perfectly still." 
 
 Uncle John walked slowly down the deck, and just before he 
 reached the wheelhcuse, he went to the side of the ship and 
 looked out upon the sea. One by one, he dropped the frag- 
 ments of the torn letter, and watched them sadly as they were 
 drawn in the current under the revolving wheels. 
 
 "It is easy enough," he thought, "to destroy this expression 
 of my feelings ; but the feelings themselves are already too 
 strong to be so easily controlled. My youth was blighted by a 
 betrayed afifection, perhaps my old age may be doomed to a 
 second disappointment ; let me in time guard against the same 
 bitter consequences. Let me be saddened, if need be, but not 
 embittered." 
 
 For the first time since he left home, Uncle John had momen- 
 tarily forgotten Agnes. He was roused from his reverie by a 
 step upon the deck, and looking up, he saw the stranger ap- 
 proaching the place that he had just left at her side. His first 
 impulse was to go back immediately, and thus put an end at 
 once to the interview; for Uncle John had an unaccountable 
 
116 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 repugnance to the thought of Agnes coming into contact with 
 this man. He probably could not himself have told what it was 
 that he dreaded; but he had an instinctive feeling that it was 
 defilement approaching purity. He had taken a step or two 
 backward, when a sudden thought arrested him. In an instant 
 the past loomed up before him with singular vividness. He re- 
 membered himself once like that stranger, a lonely voyager upon 
 the ocean, surrounded by his fellows, but sad, gloomy, solitary. 
 He remembered how he too used to sit day after day gazing upon 
 the restless sea, fit emblem of his own restless heart, and tliat his 
 first companion had been a child, his first pleasure a child's con- 
 versation. It was not in Uncle John's kind heart to deny to this 
 stranger the same comfort. 
 
 " He looks like a bad man," he thought; "but he may not be 
 so. Others might have thought the same of me ; for bitter grief 
 sometimes seams the brow and clouds the face, almost like guilt." 
 
 So Uncle John left the stranger to an uninterrupted conver- 
 sation with Agnes. He got his flute, and returning, sat down 
 upon the afterdeck, where he could see Agnes and her companion, 
 so that he might return to her as soon as she should again be left 
 alone. 
 
 As the stranger approached, Agnes knew that it was an un- 
 familiar step, and he saw her shrink from the voice, that was 
 harsh, although the words were kind. 
 
 " My little girl, are you blind?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, entirely blind." 
 
 "Where is your home ?" 
 
 "In Virginia, sir." 
 
 "And where are you going?" 
 
 "Uncle John is going to take me to Paris, to see if a physi- 
 cian there cannot give me sight." 
 
 " What is the name of the old gentleman who is with you ?" 
 
 "Uncle John." 
 
 "Yes, that is his Christian name; what is his other name ?" 
 
 "I do not know any other name, sir. Mother, and Mr. Cam- 
 eron, and Mr. Derby, and all his friends call him Uncle John." 
 
 He was silent a moment, and then asked : 
 
 "And who are Mr. Cameron and Mr. Derby?" 
 
 " My mother's best friends, sir. Mr. Derby is the minister in 
 Hopedale, and Mr. Cameron lives in the country, and his home, 
 mother says, is a sweet, beautiful-looking place. I go there very 
 often, and Miss Julia and Eva are very kind to me." 
 
 "Julia and Eva," he repeated; "are these Mr. Cameron's 
 daughters ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, the only daughters that he has." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 117 
 
 ^ " Has he any sons ?" 
 
 " " Yes, sir, one, Mr. Walter; but I do not know him so well as 
 the young ladies. He is almost all the time away from home at 
 the university." 
 
 "Has Mr. Cameron only one son ?" 
 
 "That is all, sir." 
 
 "What kind of a house does he live in? But I forgot I you 
 have never seen it." 
 
 "But I know all about it, if I have not I know every room 
 in it so well, that I can find my way about almost as well as if I 
 had eyes. It is the same one that his grandfather lived in, a 
 large brick house with a gallery all around, both up stairs and 
 down stairs. The windows are down to the floor and open upon 
 the gallery. Miss Julia and Eva say that they are too narrow, 
 and that the panes of glass are too small ; but their father is not 
 willing to alter them, because he wants the old hpuse to look just 
 as it did when he was a boy. The young ladies may be right, 
 and the windows may be too narrow to look well : I don't know 
 anything about that ; but I do know what a pleasant, comfort- 
 able home it is, and how kind Mr. Cameron and his daughters 
 are to me. I ought to love them very much, for they have done 
 a great deal to make me happy. But why do you ask so many 
 questions about Mr. Cameron ; did you ever see him ?" 
 
 "I am only asking you about your friends. You told me that 
 he was one of your mother's best friends. I want to talk to you, 
 my child," he added, kindly, " and so I naturally ask questions 
 about those persons and places that most interest you." 
 
 "What makes you want to talk to me, sir ?" she inquired. " I 
 should think that there must be a great many people on the ship 
 that you would rather talk to than a blind child. Uncle John 
 stays with me all the time, but that is because he loves me and 
 is sorry for me; but you are a stranger." 
 
 "Yes; but that does not prevent my being sorry for you too. 
 I am a stranger to you, but I cannot help feeling interested in 
 you, and I have often looked at yoii and wondered that you were 
 so patient and cheerful. Does it not make you very sad to think 
 that you cannot see any of the beautiful things in the world?" 
 
 " Sometimes it does for a little while; but I always try very 
 hard not to feel so, because it is wicked and ungrateful." 
 
 "Wicked and ungrateful!" he repeated, bitterly. "I would 
 like to know what a blind helpless child has to be grateful for I'^ 
 
 "Oh I" exclaimed Agnes, with a shudder, "please don't talk 
 that way to me. If you do, I will not talk to you at all. I have 
 a great deal to be grateful for : the best mother, and the best 
 Uncle John in the world ; the best friends, and a great big organ 
 at home that I can play on all day if I like." 
 
118 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 The stranger smiled as she mentioned her organ among her 
 blessings. 
 
 "You play on the organ, then, as well as on the piano?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. I never play on the piano if I can get to the organ. 
 It is the very best friend that a blind child could have. Every- 
 body has something else to do besides talking to me, and listen- 
 ing to me ; but my organ and I have nothing to do, and we never 
 get tired of each other. Indeed, sir, my or^an alone is a great 
 blessing, and always in my prayers I thank God for it." 
 
 " You are a singular child !" he said. " I would almost be 
 willing to change places with you for a little while, to see if in 
 your condition I too could find anything to be grateful for ; and 
 then perhaps I should not despair of finding something, even in 
 this life of mine, to awaken gratitude I" 
 
 " Haven't you anything to be thankful for ?" she asked. " Have 
 you no blessings at all ?" 
 
 "None !" he answered, bitterly. 
 
 " No friends ? no home ? no love for music ?" 
 
 " Certainly no home ; I believe, no friends ; and my love for 
 music has never given me pleasure enough to call forth any gra- 
 titude on that score." 
 
 " Poor man !" said Agnes, in the simplicity of her compassion. 
 "No home, no friends, no music ! How much darker and sadder 
 your life must be than mine, even though I am blind I How is 
 it that you have no friends ? Are they all dead ?" 
 
 "Dead to me !" he answered. 
 
 The child's sympathy was awakened in its profoundest depths, 
 and she said, earnestly : 
 
 " Then I will be your friend I I cannot do anything for you, 
 but I can feel sorry for you, and can talk to you when you are 
 lonely and want company." 
 
 The stranger was moved, and said in reply : 
 
 " I thank you, sincerely, my child, for your sympathy and offer 
 of friendship, for I have long been unaccustomed to either. And 
 since you have promised to be my friend, you must tell me your 
 name." 
 
 " My name is Agnes Merton, but everybody calls me 'Agnes,' 
 or ' little blind Agnes ;' and what must I call you ?" 
 
 " You nmst call me Mr. George. Agnes, there is something 
 else that you can do for me besides talking to me." 
 
 " What is it, sir ? I will do anything that I can." 
 
 " You can sing for me sometimes. I have listened to you 
 already with pleasure, and have often wished to ask you to sing 
 specially for me ; but I was a stranger and had no right to 
 do it." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 119 
 
 "But we are friends, now, Mr. George, and you may ask it 
 whenever you please, and I will always sing for you. Indeed, I 
 cannot do anything else to give you pleasure, for, of course, you 
 will not care to talk to a blind child." 
 
 "You are mistaken, Agnes; I shall like to talk to you very 
 much. You shall tell me all about your home, your mother, your 
 friends, Mr. Derby, and the Camerons; and you shall tell me too 
 about your other friend, the organ. Do you play difiBcult organ 
 music? you are almost too young for that, I should suppose." 
 
 " I do not know, sir," she answered, simply, " whether the 
 music is difficult or not. I only play on the organ what 1 feel in 
 my heart." 
 
 "It must be a great effort of memory for you to remember so 
 many different pieces, and play them accurately. Does your 
 mother play ?" 
 
 " No, sir. When I was a very little child, before I could play 
 for myself, she used to play for me on the piano, but she has never 
 touched the organ in her life." 
 
 " Who, then, plays your music over for you until you learn 
 it?" 
 
 " Who plays my music for me ?" she repeated, in a perplexed 
 tone. "I don't know what you mean, Mr. George." 
 
 " Why, of course, child, as you cannot see the notes yourself, 
 somebody has to play the music for you, until you become so 
 familiar with it that you can play it yourself." 
 
 " Oh, no sir ! I don't play anybody's music except my own. I 
 make it as I go along, and whatever my heart wants to say, I say 
 it on the organ, just as I tell you now by words what I want to 
 say. " 
 
 " Oh ! then you improvise altogether, Agnes, do you ?" 
 
 " I don't know, sir, what you call it ; I only know that is what 
 I do. I would not love it half so well if I played the music that 
 some other person's heart had made. No, sir ; when I sit down 
 to the organ, I talk to it ; I don't repeat what somebody else has 
 thought and felt." 
 
 " What a strange child you are ! I shall find as much pleasure 
 in talking to you, Agnes, as I shall in hearing you sing, and, 
 whenever I can, I will come and do so. But I must go now, for 
 I am afraid that your Uncle John is becoming impatient. He 
 has been sitting at the other end of the ship ever since I have 
 been talking to you, and is only waiting for me to go away so 
 that he may come back to you." 
 
 He shook her by the hand and withdrew to his accustomed 
 seat, and was soon, as usual, looking out at the ocean, seemingly 
 unconscious of everything around him. 
 
120 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 He had been mistaken, however, in thinking that at that 
 moment Uncle John was awaiting his movements with impa- 
 tience. He had determined not to interrupt his conversation 
 with Agnes; but after waiting some time, he had concluded that 
 the interview promised to be a long one, and was now busily 
 engaged with a gentleman in the discussion of political affairs. 
 He was interested and excited, and the stranger had left Agnes 
 and walked away unnoticed. 
 
 The child was not accustomed to be left alone. She was in a 
 strange place and afraid to move, and she felt desolate and 
 lonely. Her only resource now was to sing, and her song, like 
 her organ music, naturally expressed the feelings of her heart. 
 
 Uncle John was talking busily, when all at once, clear and 
 distinct, the wind wafted her voice to him, and the touching 
 words of the Blind Boy, " I'm blind I oh, I'm blind !" smote 
 him to the heart. Turning round hastily, he saw that she was 
 alone. He did not stay to finish his sentence, or to apologize to 
 his companion for his abruptness, but sprang up and hastened to 
 her. She greeted him with a smile as he seated himself by her, 
 and she took possession of his hand as if to keep him there, but 
 went on with her song. It soon reached other ears and other 
 hearts besides Uncle John's. One after another of the passengers 
 grouped themselves around her; and men, women, and children 
 listened, until the words of the song verified themselves in their 
 feelings, and "pleasure was turned into pain." The ever-recur- 
 ring plaint, " I'm blind 1 oh, I'm blind !" appealed with touching 
 pathos from the little blind songster to the hearts of her listen- 
 ers, and there was scarcely a dry eye in the group around her. 
 One there was, not with the rest, but apart by himself, who heard 
 with folded arms and bowed head, and who wondered at him- 
 self that a child's song could bring tears to his eyes. 
 
 When it was ended, the group silently dispersed, and Uncle 
 John and Agnes were again alone, and he said : 
 
 " I must ask forgiveness, my daughter, for having left you 
 alone. Every word of your song reproached me." 
 
 " I am sorry for that. Uncle John, for indeed I did not mean 
 it. I felt lonely and sad just then, and scarcely knew what I 
 was doing when I began to sing. I should be very sorry for 
 you to think that I meant to reproach you, for I am not so 
 selfish as to expect or to want you to stay all the time with me." 
 
 "But, Agnes, I prefer to stay with you. I should not be con- 
 tented or comfortable to leave you alone in a strange place, and 
 I did not intend to do it then.. I thought that the stranger was 
 with you. How long had he been gone, when you began to 
 sing?" 
 
CAMERON HALL. 121 
 
 "Only a few minutes. He thought that you were impatient 
 to come back, and was only waiting for him to go away." 
 
 ''That was true; but while I was waiting I became engaged in 
 conversation with a gentleman, and did not see when he left you. 
 You must forgive my negligence this time ; I promise that it 
 shall not occur again. I have brought my flute ; let us see if I 
 have forgotten how to play." 
 
 Uncle John's tone had not the flexibility of former years, but 
 it had not lost its sweetness ; and as the clear strain was borne by 
 the breeze far out upon the waters, where it gradually sank to 
 rest, others besides Agnes listened with pleasure. The music, 
 though sweet to all, was familiar only to himself, but it bore him 
 far back into by-gone years, and with singular power linking 
 the distant past with the present, blended both into one. Leap- 
 ing over years and distance, his early love, his child-friend, Grace 
 in her distant home, and the blind child at his side, all grouped 
 themselves together in the same present picture. If Agnes could 
 have seen his abstracted air, and the intense earnest gaze with 
 which he seemed to look at something afar off, she might have 
 thought herself forgotten again, and the lonely feeling might 
 have returned; but she could see nothing of this; she only knew 
 that Uncle John was sitting by her side, and that he was playing 
 the flute for her pleasure, and she was contented and happy. 
 After awhile he laid it down, and said : 
 
 " That will do for the present, Agnes. Tell me now what the 
 stranger was talking about all that time." 
 
 Agnes told him the substance of their conversation, and her 
 promise to be his friend. 
 
 " Did I do right. Uncle John ?" she asked. 
 
 "Yes, my daughter, I suppose so." 
 
 " You are not certain, then, Uncle John. Now if you think 
 that it is wrong for me to talk to this strange gentleman, I will 
 not do it again." 
 
 "I cannot say so, Agnes. If it gives you pleasure, I shall not 
 forbid it, for I am sure that I like for you to have as many friends 
 as possible." 
 
 " I do not think, Uncle John, that it will give me a great deal 
 of pleasure to talk to him, for his voice is har§h, and he has some- 
 times a cross, bitter way of speaking ; but I heard you say that 
 he has no companions, he says himself that he has no friends, and 
 if it will be a comfort to him to talk to me, I think that I ought 
 to be willing to do it. Uncle John, let me be his child-friend, as 
 Lily was yours." 
 
 "You are right, my daughter: be the stranger's child- 
 friend. " 
 
 11 
 
122 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 And so ever afterward Agnes welcomed the stranger kindly, 
 and tried to be his companion and friend. He seemed quite 
 satisfied with her society, for he sought no other, and Uncle 
 John remarked that when he was talking to her, his face wore a 
 different expression from its usual dark frown. He spent an hour 
 or two every day with her. Uncle John surrendering to him his 
 seat by her side, for the stranger did not care to talk to hijr in 
 the presence of another. He questioned her closely about her 
 home, her mother, her friends, and she answered him wiih the 
 frankness of childhood. She told him all she knew, and felt glad 
 that he was interested in them. She loved to talk of Hopedale 
 and Cameron Hall, and the stranger encouraged her, perhajjs 
 because he saw the pleasure that it gave her. Thus they grew 
 to be friends. Day after day, as she became more accustomed to 
 him, his voice seemed to lose somewhat of its harshness, and his 
 words somewhat of their bitterness. He always spoke gently 
 and kindly to her, and never left her without thanking her for 
 her friendship ; and so the child experienced for the first time in 
 her life the pleasure of giving pleasure to another. 
 
 When the steamer anchored at Cowes, the stranger left them, 
 after a few words of affectionate farewell to his little blind friend, 
 and an earnest wish that her journey might not be in vain, and 
 her life always dark. When he was gone, she said, with tears in 
 her eyes: 
 
 " Uncle John, I am so sorry that he is gone. I have nothing 
 to do now." 
 
 " Nothing to do, my daughter ! Have you not Uncle John to 
 entertain and make happy ?" 
 
 " No, sir," she answered, sadly. " You can make me happy, 
 but I cannot make you so, I need you, but you do not need me. 
 This stranger is the first person in the world that I ever could do 
 anything for!" 
 
 " Don't you think, Agnes, that you can do anything for your 
 mother or me?" 
 
 "No, sir; I wish I could. You and mother are always doing 
 something for me, but I never can do anything for you. That is 
 the hardest part of being blind." 
 
 " Your life is very far from useless, if you are blind. What 
 would the cottage be without you ? How much more lonely 
 would my bachelor home be, if there were no little blind child to 
 come in and gladden it ? and how sorely would you be missed at 
 the rectory and at Cameron Hall ! It is not right, it is not 
 grateful, for you to think that you are of no use to anybody. If 
 you were peevish and discontented, then, indeed, you would cause 
 your friends much sorrow; but as it is, the only regret that your 
 
CAMERON HALL. 123 
 
 blindness causes them is on your own account. As for the rest 
 of us, your life, blind as it is, makes ours brighter and pleasanter, 
 and you ought to thank God that it is so." 
 
 " I do, I do, Uncle John," she replied, earnestly, "if it is really 
 so ; I only wish that I could see how it can be." 
 
 "And so," thought he, "might the silent sunbeam wish to 
 know how it is that it dispels shadows, and lights up everything 
 with its smile ; but inasmuch as its very presence brightens and 
 gladdens, it can never know the darkness and dreariness that it 
 leaves behind when it is withdrawn." 
 
 Then he said, aloud : 
 
 "You are our sunbeam, Agnes, and you can never imagine 
 how dark our hearts and lives would be without you. So, brighten 
 up, and never let me hear any more about your being useless. 
 Come, here is the old flute, I am going to play for you once 
 more, and then put it away until we are again on the ocean going 
 home. When you wake up in the morning, the steamer will be 
 anchored at Havre, and then we will take the cars, and a few 
 hours will bring us to Paris." 
 
 Agnes shuddered, but did not reply, and Uncle John knew 
 what she was thinking of. He took up the flute and tried, by the 
 music that she loved, to make her forget the suffering that she 
 dreaded ; and when he was done playing, he talked to her of 
 Hopedale and the past, instead of Paris and the future. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Agnes enjoyed Paris; it was strange that a blind child should, 
 but she had a patient and unselfish guardian, whose only pleasure 
 was to see her happy, and who spared no pains to make her so. 
 He tried faithfully to fulfill his promise, and make his eyes do 
 double duty; but he soon found how impossible it was to give 
 her any idea of that gay and ever-shifting scene. And in a place 
 where so much is to be seen, and where the eye alone is the 
 medium of so much pleasure, he seemed to realize, as he never 
 did before, the extent of her afiaiction. They had pleasant rooms 
 in the Rue de Rivoli, opposite the palace gardens, and when 
 Uncle John looked from his window upon the bright scene, he 
 remembered sadly that for those blind eyes there was no pleasant 
 picture, but that the veil of darkness was as thick and impenetra- 
 ble in the gay capital, where she so much needed eyes, as it ever 
 
124 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 had been in the quiet village home, where there was nothing to 
 interest or amuse. 
 
 The crowded thoroughfares of the Rivoli and the Boulevards 
 afforded no safety and offered no attraction to the blind child ; but 
 every day, when the sun grew warm, Uncle John led her into the 
 palace gardens, and seating themselves beneath the trees, he tried 
 to entertain her with descriptions of what was around them. It 
 was too early for the flowers to bloom, or the fountains to play, or 
 for the bands of music, but there would have been enough to 
 entertain her if she had not been blind ; and as Uncle John's eye 
 wandered round, and he felt how vain would be the effort to 
 paint the scene upon her mind by words, he realized what blind- 
 ness was, and longed for those eyes to be opened there. He felt 
 doubly anxious that their first sight of the beauties of the world 
 might be in a place where the Eye seems to be the deity univers- 
 ally worshiped ; where science and art and nature and taste are 
 combined, to group together in endless variety everything that 
 the imagination can conceive, or the ingenuity of man devise, to 
 gratify the eye. And then, as he sat there with Agnes at his 
 side, Uncle John would full into a day-dream. The operation 
 had been successfully performed ; the pain and suffering were all 
 over ; the childish heart was brimful of ecstacy at the sight of 
 wonders and beauties of which she had never conceived ; and 
 then, she was at home, and he was looking with pleasure unut- 
 terable upon the mother's face, beaming with gratitude too pro- 
 found for words ! 
 
 Ah, Uncle John! you have thought that years and gray hairs 
 had made you old, too old for day-dreams and castles in the air, 
 and for feelings that you had laid aside years ago, as belonging 
 entirely to that youth now long past ; but you find yourself mis- 
 taken, as, with a start, you are awakened from your dream by the 
 childish voice, which says : " Tell me something else that you see, 
 Uncle John I" and with a sigh you look upon the eyes still blind, 
 and with a pang you think of uncertainty and suffering yet to 
 come. 
 
 The positions of Uncle John and Agnes seemed now reversed. 
 Hers was all the pleasure ; his the anxiety and pain. Her face 
 was always bright, while his had lost its serene expressit)n, and 
 was anxious and careworn. The suspense to which he con- 
 demned himself was painful, but he had determined that she 
 should enjoy all that she was capable of, before her doom was 
 sealed either to a life of darkness or to the protracted suffering 
 which she must endure. So he had not yet seen the surgeon, 
 although they had been more than a week in Paris, and she 
 seemed almost to have forgotten for what purpose she had come. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 125 
 
 Every day they drove ont to the Bois de Boulogne, and wherever 
 else they went in that spacious park, they never returned without 
 going to the cascade, whose glittering waters and sparkling foam 
 and mossy rocks she could not see, but whose spray she loved to 
 feel upon her face, and to whose music she was never tired of 
 listening. Every day gay parties of pleasure stopped at the same 
 place, and bright eyes took in all its beauty, but the water-fall 
 spoke to no heart as it did to that of the blind child, and she, 
 who had but the one inferior sense with which to appreciate it, 
 lingered there day after day, listening to its splashing waters, 
 long after the others had looked at and forgotten it. 
 
 But the music of Paris was Agnes's chief delight. Even al- 
 ready she had been two or three times to the French or Italian 
 opera, and not one of all the vast assemblage enjoyed it as she 
 did. The stage decorations, the scenic effect, the blaze of light, 
 the magnificent dresses of the audience, the royal box with its 
 royal occupants, — all these were great attractions to others ; but 
 she sat there in her blindness, with none of all this to distract her 
 attention. With her soul wide awake, and drinking in with thirsty 
 eagerness the music that she loved better than anything else on 
 earth, she sat with folded hands and radiant face, the very em- 
 bodiment of happiness ; and Uncle John saw nothing there so 
 beautiful as her countenance, and, lover of music as he was, he 
 heard nothing that gave him such pleasure as the half-suppressed 
 but earnest exclamation of delight with which her heart now and 
 then lightened its burden of enjoyment. On Sundays she went to 
 the churches of St. Roch, St. Eustache, and others, where they 
 have the finest music ; and so in all that brilliant capital there 
 was not a lighter or happier heart than that of the child, who 
 never failed to elicit an expression of sympathy or pity wherever 
 she went, but was, in her enjoyment, altogether unconscious of 
 needing either. 
 
 Uncle John wrote home regularly by every steamer. The sub- 
 ject of the letter, whose fragments he had buried in the ocean, 
 had never been renewed. He himself could perhaps scarcely have 
 told why he was so dissatisfied with it, and why he had destroyed 
 it ; he only knew that it did not express all that he felt, and he 
 had determined to wait until his return home to speak what he 
 found it impossible to write. The consequence was that, when- 
 ever he began a letter to her, a feeling of constraint came over 
 him, and was very evident even to himself in the letter, but while 
 he greatly deplored it he could not prevent it. To Julia and Eva, 
 he wrote with that freedom and unreserve which had ever marked 
 their intercourse ; but to Grace he could not, and his letters to her 
 were generally brief, and occupied entirely with Agnes. 
 
 11* 
 
126 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 He had made a few vain attempts to find the whereabouts of 
 Charles Beaufort, and in this alone he felt that his close confine- 
 ment with Agnes was a restraint upon his movements. He had 
 sent notes to him to several ditlerent addresses, and had received 
 no response, and but for her he would now have searched for hira 
 at the different medical schools and hospitals; but he could 
 neither take her upon such a search, nor leave her at home while 
 he went, so that he had almost relinquished the hope of seeing 
 hira at all. Uncle John not only wanted a companion, a friend, 
 but he felt that in Charles he might also find a valuable assistant 
 in his impending trouble. He began almost to shrink from the 
 undertaking, and the nearer the time approached, the more heavily 
 the responsibility weighed upon him, and the more he felt his in- 
 competency to meet it. The suspense, too, was now becoming 
 intolerable, and, determined to have her fate decided at once, he 
 said to her one day, in a cheerful tone : 
 
 " Daughter, it is almost time to look up our surgeon ; don't 
 you think so?" 
 
 The smile was gone in an instant, and the plea for delay was 
 already upon her lips, but she checked herself, and replied with a 
 shudder: 
 
 "Yes, sir; I am ready." 
 
 For an instant he would gladly have recalled the proposal, for 
 there was something very painful to him in the contrast between 
 her unconcealed dread and her woFds of patient submission; but 
 be knew that it must be the same thing, however long postponed, 
 and he thought the sooner it was over the better it would be for 
 both. 
 
 "Suppose," he said, "that I write a note to him to-day, and 
 ask him to appoint a time for you to go to his office ; are you 
 willing? If not, I will wait until you are." 
 
 "Yes, Uncle John, I am willing; I am ready." 
 
 The unresisting tone in which she said " I am ready," smote 
 him to the heart, and wishing, if possible, to divert her thoughts, 
 he said : 
 
 " Come, let us go into the garden where the children are play- 
 ing; you will feel better then." 
 
 She did not answer to this proposition as she always did, with 
 a ready assent and a cheerful smile. She said not a word ; but as 
 Uncle John was tying on her hat, the tears began to roll down, one 
 by one, and she brushed them away as they fell ; but soon they 
 flowed faster, and finally, with a deep sob, she sank upon the 
 floor by his side, and, burying her face in her hands, cried as if 
 her heart would break. Uncle John knew not what to do ; the 
 child needed her mother now, and none could supply her place. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 127 
 
 He lifted her into his lap, and leaned her head against his shoul- 
 der, but he could not comfort her, and so he said nothing, but 
 only looked at her in silent compassion. After a while she 
 stopped crying, and wiping her eyes, said, with an effort to smile : 
 
 "I feel better now^, IJnele John ; let us go." 
 
 He led her through the less frequented parts of the garden 
 until she was tired walking, and then they went to the place where 
 the children were playing. 
 
 Their voices were as merry as usual, and Uncle John tried 
 harder than ever to interest Agues by describing what was going 
 on around her, but it was a miserable failure. His heart was not 
 in his descriptions, and he saw that she listened with an effort. 
 Instead of the happy childish faces and frolicsome glee around 
 him, he only saw the tear-stained cheeks at his side, and only 
 thought of his inability to cheer and comfort his little blind com- 
 panion. They did not stay very long, and she was the first to 
 propose to go home. She went to bed much earlier that night 
 than usual, and Uncle John drew a sigh of relief as he saw her 
 locked in the blessed forgetfulness of sleep. 
 
 He then wrote to the surgeon, begging a prompt reply and an 
 early appointment, and as a last resort he wrote another note to 
 Charles Beaufort. This he sent through the Poate Bestante, and 
 as he sealed it he said to himself: 
 
 '' This is my last hope. If this does not bring him, I will give 
 up my search." 
 
 Galignani's Messenger was lying upon his table, but Uncle 
 John could not read. Even the column upon the impending 
 crisis in America could not fix his attention, and lighting his cigar, 
 he folded his arms, and leaning back in his arm-chair, yielded him- 
 self up to something between a reverie and a dream. He was sure 
 that he was not asleep, and yet the strange medley about Grace 
 and Cameron Hall, and Agnes and the doctor, and Charles Beau- 
 fort and the dark-looking stranger on the steamer, and Hopedale 
 and Paris, could not be the musings of a man thoroughly awake. 
 From this dreamy state he was aroused by an altercation in which 
 he distinctly heard his own name ; and finally, when he was thor- 
 oughly awake, he distinguished the voice of the concierge, call- 
 ing to some one ascending the stairs-: 
 
 ''Plus haut, Ilonsieurf plus haul! Premitre etage, au 
 gauche /" 
 
 Uncle John now rose, crushed the white ashes from his cigar, 
 and opened his door just as the stranger reached the landing and 
 stood hesitating at which door to knock. The light from the 
 lamp fell upon a lithe, active figure, rather tall, with a bright, 
 cheerful face and a head of curling brown hair, and Uncle John 
 exclaimed involuntarily: 
 
128 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "William Beaufort I" 
 
 "Not quite, Uncle John," he answered, grasping his hand. 
 "William Beaufort's son." 
 
 He followed Uncle John into the room, who stood looking 
 thoughtfully at him for a moment, and then said : 
 
 " The same, the very same ! William Beaufort over again 1 
 • Welcome, my dear boy, welcome !" 
 
 "I was afraid, sir, that I would not find you at home at this 
 hour. Everybody in Paris is in the street at this time." 
 
 "I never go out, Charles." 
 
 " Never go out iu Paris, sir I Well, what on earth did you 
 come for ?" 
 
 "Come here and I will show you." 
 
 He led the way into Agnes's room, and Charles followed. They 
 went to the bedside, and the light from the lamp in Uncle John's 
 hand streamed full upon her face. 
 
 Charles looked inquiringly at Uncle John, but receiving no 
 answer, he said : 
 
 " Uncle John, I always understood from my father that you were 
 an old bachelor." 
 
 " So I am," he answered, smiling. 
 
 "Well, what does it mean?" asked Charles. 
 
 Just then Agnes stirred, and Uncle John whispered : 
 
 "Come out, we must not awaken her." 
 
 "Anybody might knbw. Uncle John," he said, laughing, as he 
 closed the door after him, "that you are an old bachelor, and had 
 never been accustomed to children ; the idea of holding a lamp 
 with the blaze streaming into a child's eyes and not expect to 
 awaken her I" 
 
 "Ah, my dear boy !" he replied, sadly shaking his head, "would 
 to God it were so ! She is blind, Charles, totally blind, and this 
 is my mission to Paris. Sit down, and let me tell you all about 
 it." 
 
 Uncle John told the whole story, from the beginning of his ac- 
 quaintance with Agnes in the twilight darkness of the village 
 church, up to the time when she had gone to bed two hours be- 
 fore with the tears upon her cheeks and a heavy heart in view of 
 her approaching suffering. When he had finished, he said : 
 
 "You do not wonder now that I do not go out, do you? I 
 have taken that helpless child away from her mother; I promised 
 her to be faithful to the trust — and I will I" 
 
 " No, sir, I no longer wonder that I found you at home. Have 
 you any well-grounded hope of success ?" 
 
 "I have nothing on which to build any hope, and have come 
 now to satisfy her mother and myself, and see if Delascelles can 
 do anything for her." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 12-9 
 
 "Delascelles I" exclaimed Charles. " If anybody iu the world 
 can help her, he is the man !" 
 
 " So I believe, Charles. lie was at the head of his profession 
 when I left here several years ago, and I knew him then to be 
 not only a capable but also an honest man in his profession." 
 
 " Yes, sir, you are right. He will deal truly and frankly with 
 you, and if he tells you that nothing can be done, you may rely 
 upon it. When is he to see her?" 
 
 "I don't know. It is not more than an hour since I put ray 
 note to him in the letter-box. I requested an early appointment, 
 for I am tired of this suspense. At the same time, Cliarles, I 
 dropped a note to you, addressed to the Poste Reatante, and de- 
 termined if that did not bring you to give up the search." 
 
 "It would have brought me, sir, for I receive all my letters that 
 way now ; but it would not have reached me before to-morrow, and 
 I am very glad that accident sent me to you to-night. But I have 
 had a search for you." 
 
 "How so? I am in the very heart of the city, and I took spe- 
 cial pains to write my address distinctly." 
 
 "Oh, sir, the fault was entirely in my own stupidity. But be- 
 fore I begin my story, let me ask you how did you know that I 
 had ever lived in the Rue St. Florentin ?" 
 
 " The last letter that you wrote me before I left home was dated 
 there. I had scarcely any hope that you were still there, for I 
 know that sojourners in Paris boarding-houses are generally birds 
 of passage, but I did not know where to find you, and so I de- 
 termined to try every possible place." 
 
 "It was very well that you did, as the result proved, although 
 I removed from there two months ago." 
 
 " How, then, did you get my note ?" 
 
 "I went this evening to call upon my landlady. She is the 
 only one of all that I have lived with for whom I have any re- 
 gard ; for she is a warm hearted, honest woman, whose soul does 
 not wear the impress of a franc. We are quite good friends, and 
 I only left her house because it is so far from the hospitals, and 
 every week or so I call in to exchange a few kind words with her. 
 She gave me your note this evening, saying that it had been there 
 several days. I hurried off to find you, and putting the note into 
 my pocket, went in at 270 Rue de Rivoli and demanded your name 
 of the concierge. He shook his head, and declared that there 
 ■was no such resident in that house. But I have lived here long 
 enough to be pretty well acquainted with that profession, and his 
 assurances that you were not there failed to convince me ; so I 
 took the book and looked at the names myself, but yours was not 
 there. I turned away disappointed, and was sauntering slowly 
 
130 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 down the street, wondering if I should ever find yon, and think- 
 ing how tantalizing it was to know that I liad a friend some- 
 where in Paris, and yet that he might just as well be across the 
 ocean, when I thought of looking at your note again. Then I 
 found that I had mistaken the number, and with a blessing on my 
 stupidity I hastened here. The concierge immediately recog- 
 nized your name, and directed me to your apartment; but, mis- 
 taking, as I always do, the entresol for the first floor, I was bat- 
 tering away furiously at the door of a room that it seems had no 
 occupant, when he screamed at me from below, and cursing 'the 
 stupid Englishman,' made me understand that I must go up an- 
 other flight of steps. Accordingly, I mounted, and when I 
 reached the landing I could not find the bell, and was hesitating 
 at which one of three doors to knock, and, in view of my many 
 difiSculties, was muttering : 'per varies casus, per tot discrimina 
 rerum,^ etc., when the door opened and revealed you." 
 
 "And glad am I, my dear boy, that, after all your 'varios 
 casus,'' you have at last made your way to me. I am lonely, 
 Charles, very lonely, especially at this hour. I get along well 
 enough during the day, for Agnes occupies my thoughts and 
 attention ; but at night, when she is asleep, I cannot go out and 
 leave her, and so I spend some very solitary hours. She has 
 been several times to the opera, but hereafter I shall be obliged 
 to take her less frequently, for she is delicate, and the late hours 
 and the excitement of so much music are not good for her." 
 
 " Nor will such close confinement be good for you. Uncle John. 
 Could you not find some middle-aged French woman with whom 
 you would be willing to trust Agnes sometimes?" 
 
 " Xo, I cannot punish her so much as that. She is afraid of 
 strangers and foreigners, and besides, I promised her mother to 
 take care of her, and I prefer to do it myself" 
 
 The conversation then turned upon the family at the Hall, and 
 Charles inquired about his friends, with interest, but, as Julia had 
 predicted, he spoke of them all together. Uncle John gave him 
 Eva's message, to which he replied : 
 
 I am much obliged for her kind remembrance of me. I spent 
 many pleasant hours with her, for she was a gay, light-hearted 
 child, full of enterprise and energy, with a perfect passion for ex- 
 ploring, and she and I have had some rare expeditions over the 
 hills and through the woods." 
 
 ^ " Child, indeed 1" answered Uncle John, laughing. I must 
 give you to understand, sir, that she is now bearing the dignity, 
 and entitled to the respect due to full sixteen years !" 
 
 " I beg her pardon. Uncle John ! and yet 1 greatly fear 
 that I will be long in learning to consider her a young lady ; for 
 
CAMERON HALL. 131 
 
 unless I am greatly mistaken, there is a child-like simplicity in 
 her character that will outlive her childhood many years." 
 
 "You are right, Charles; and I have never known any one 
 who can better atFord to wear, for a long time, the graces of 
 childhood." 
 
 " Yes, sir : her impulse and ardor and childish abandon in 
 her enjoyment of life are very attractive, and she will most 
 probably win much more admiration from the world than her 
 quiet sister." 
 
 " There is scarcely a doubt of that, Charles ; and yet Julia 
 has more depth and strength of character than half-a-dozen such 
 children as Eva, — not," he added hastily, "that I would detract 
 anything from Eva, for the child is very dear to me, and is the 
 light and sparkle of the Hall, but Julia is its strength and sup- 
 port." 
 
 "So I should imagine," he replied, thoughtfully. "Even in 
 those few weeks, with all her reserve and timidity, I discovered 
 the strength and solidity of her character." 
 
 "And she has energy, too," said Uncle John ; " an energy that 
 quietly but certainly surmounts^ difificulties." 
 
 Charles did not reply, and there was a pause, which Uncle 
 John broke by saying, abruptly : 
 
 "You must go home with us, my boy, can't you ?" 
 
 "That depends upon when you are going." 
 
 "I shall return in September or October, if it is possible." 
 
 " Then, Uncle John, I am sorry to say that I cannot go with 
 you. I hope to get home in time to eat my Christmas dinner, 
 but not before." 
 
 " Christmas dinner I I thought that your term of absence would 
 expire long before that." 
 
 " So it would have done, if I had not spent those three months 
 in Italy, away from my studies. I must stay now to atone for 
 that lost time ; otherwise I should be just ready to return with 
 you. I wish that I could go, for I am tired of my life here, and 
 anxious enough to get home once more." 
 
 " Then, since you cannot gratify me in this, perhaps you can 
 in something else. Can we not arrange matters so that we may 
 be together while I stay in Paris ?" 
 
 " I should like nothing better. As we are situated at present 
 we can see but little of each other, for my rooms are quite a dis- 
 tance from here, across the river, in the Faubourg St. Germain. 
 It is possible, however, that you may find it necessary to remove 
 there yourself, as you will then be near the office and residence 
 of Delascelles." 
 
 " Well, if he thinks it advisable, I will remove there, in order 
 
132 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 to be near him, bnt I have a great objection to taking Agnes 
 into that quarter of the city. Its narrow streets and confined 
 air must render it unhealthy, and she will lose, besides, the advan- 
 tage of being near the Palace Gardens, where she can walk with- 
 out danger from carriages and omnibuses. I should particularly 
 dislike to change my location, on her account." 
 
 "I shall await your decision. Uncle John, and make my ar- 
 rangements accordingly, for I am resolved to be with you, even 
 at the expense of inconvenience. If I live in this part of the 
 city, it will make my walk every day much longer, but perhaps 
 that will not, after all, be objectionable. So if you decide to re- 
 main here, and your landlady can accommodate me, I will take 
 my lodgings here also ; and if not, I will find a place as near you 
 as possible." 
 
 " The landlady will most certainly accommodate you, my 
 boy," answered Uncle John, smiling, " since I represent that 
 personage myself. I never could have even a temporary home 
 where William Beaufort's son could not be accommodated." 
 
 " You don't really mean. Uncle John, that you have rented 
 the whole apartment, and have gone regularly to housekeep- 
 ing ?" 
 
 " I really mean that I have rented the apartment ; as to my 
 housekeeping, that is neither very elaborate nor very trouble- 
 some. I have hired a valet, who does a little of everything; 
 among the rest, brings our three meals a day from a neighboring 
 restaurant. A woman from the apartment above, comes every 
 morning and night to attend to Agnes, and act as chambermaid, 
 and so we live very quietly and comfortably. We have our meals 
 when we please, and order what we please, are not restricted and 
 fettered by boarding-house rules, and, above all, Agnes is alon^ 
 with me, and perfectly at her ease and at home. She shrinks 
 from foreigners, and it is positively amusing to see how closely 
 she nestles up to me as soon as she hears a French word. She 
 was extremely averse to her chambermaid at first, but the woman 
 is kind, so that now she begins to tolerate her." 
 
 " I sincerely hope, sir, that Delascelles will advise you to re- 
 main where you are, for, indeed, I like this arrangement exceed- 
 ingly. I have been tossed about so much, and subjected so long 
 to the whims and caprices of 'my landlady,' that it will be a real 
 pleasure to be at home with Uncle John." 
 
 " I am afraid, Charles, that you will have but little of the 
 home-feeling, for, in my long experience of Paris life, I have 
 never found it here, and least of all will you probably find it in 
 my desultory, bachelor style of housekeeping. However, it will 
 be pleasant for us to be together, and a great relief to me to 
 
CAMERON HALL. 133 
 
 have you with me. I hope that Delascelles will see her at once 
 and decide what is to be done, for her sake more than for ray own, 
 for her mind now dwells upon it so constantly that she is 
 wretched." 
 
 "Poor child!" exclaimed Charles. "I only hope that the 
 pain and suflfering will not be in vain. I would like, Uncle 
 John, to be useful to you, but if she is so averse to strangers, I 
 am afraid that she will not allow me to relieve you much." 
 
 " Your society and presence at such a time, my son, will alone 
 be invaluable, and will relieve me of much anxiety and responsi- 
 bility. I am growing restless under the delay, and heartily wish 
 that the whole thing were over and her fate decided one way or 
 the other !" 
 
 "I must bid you good-night, now, Uncle John," said Charles, 
 rising to go, "for it will be midnight long before I get home, and 
 I shall receive a blessing from my grumbling, growling old con- 
 cierge, as he opens the door. There are three or four of us 
 young fellows in the house, not very regular in our hours, and 
 every night some one or other of us comes in after midnight, thus 
 arousing his wrath and bringing down a volley of curses upon 
 * the stupid, execrable English,' who, unfortunately, have to bear 
 the sins of all who speak their language." 
 
 The next morning Uncle John said : 
 
 "Agnes, I have a new friend for you." 
 
 "You are friend enough, Uncle John. I don't want any more 
 until 1 get home." 
 
 " But I am sure that you will like this one. He is kind and 
 good, and you will soon learn to love him very much." 
 
 " What is his name, Uncle John ?" 
 
 "Dr. Charles Beaufort." 
 
 " Is he the one that I have heard Eva talk so much about ?" 
 she asked, brightening ; " and did he write that long letter about 
 Italy, that you and she liked so much ?" 
 
 "Yes, Agnes, he is the same." 
 
 " Then I will like him," was her only reply. 
 
 The cloud was upon her face and upon her heart, and she 
 could not be cheerful. Uncle John tried in vain to interest her, 
 but when he found it impossible, he said : 
 
 " Come, my child, we must not sit here in the house this beau- 
 tiful day. Where shall we go ? to the garden, or to the cas- 
 cade ? or how would you like for me to take you to the Louvre, 
 and tell you about some of the beautiful things there ?" 
 
 "W^hat is the Louvre, Uncle John ?" 
 
 " It was, a long time ago, a royal palace, but now it is full of 
 
 12 
 
134 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 pictures and statues and all kinds of curiosities I like the beau- 
 tiful pictures more than anything else." 
 
 "Oh, no, Uncle John, not there! It will make me feel so 
 very blind I There is nothing in the Louvre for the blind I" 
 
 " That is true !" he answered, sadly. " Where will you go, 
 then ? to the garden ?" 
 
 " I believe that I would rather hear the sound of the water-fall 
 this morning than anything else." 
 
 They drove out to the cascade, and got out of the carriage, 
 and Uncle John led her where she could feel the spray upon her 
 cheeks, and she was soothed by the sound of the falling waters. 
 They sat there for a long time, but she was not inclined to talk, 
 and Uncle John left her to her own thoughts, although he well 
 knew how sad they were. All that day she was languid and 
 listless ; her animation and brightness were all gone, and at 
 night, worn out in mind and body, she went to bed early, and so 
 missed seeing her new friend. 
 
 The first question that he asked, when he came, was : 
 
 " Have you heard from Delascelles ?" 
 
 "Yes, I received a note this morning, appointing Thursday, at 
 ten o'clock, for an examination." 
 
 " Does Agnes know it ? 
 
 " Not yet. She has been so much depressed all day that I 
 could not make up my mind to -tell her; but she must know it to- 
 morrow. I have been greatly disappointed to-day in not getting 
 letters. It is the first steamer since our arrival that has not 
 brought us something. I think that the disappointment had 
 something to do with Agnes's sadness." 
 
 " The steamer is behind time. Uncle John. Her arrival was 
 telegraphed from Liverpool this afternoon, and her mail will be in 
 to-morrow," 
 
 " The morrow brought the hoped-for letters, very welcome, but 
 unable to make Agnes happy. Her mother wrote cheerfully and 
 hopefully, and Uncle John trusted that the child did not detect 
 the under-current of anxiety and dread, so evident to himself, 
 beneath the surface of loving words and pleasant tidings. The 
 day passed on quietly and heavily. .Uncle John's resources for 
 entertaining Agnes were all exhausted in vain; and when he 
 stood beside her bed that night, and saw her asleep, with the 
 tears upon her cheeks, he felt sincerely thankful that the morrow 
 would end all this suspense. 
 
 Thursday morning, at the appointed hour. Uncle John, Charles 
 Beaufort, and Agnes were rattling over the rough pavement of 
 the Faubourg St. Germain. It was a silent ride, for the thoughts 
 of all were too busy for words ; and when the carriage stopped, 
 
CAMERON HALL. 135 
 
 Agnes shuddered, and turned deadly pale, and Uncle John had 
 almost to carry her up the long flight of steps to the surgeon's 
 room. 
 
 He looked compassionately upon the frail little patient before 
 him, with her sweet, gentle face, and her nervous clinging to her 
 friend and protector. He spoke kindly to her, and tried to reas- 
 sure her; but when he took her hand, he saw her shrink from his 
 touch, although she neither complained nor resisted. 
 
 He looked long and earnestly into her eyes, and pausing once 
 or twice, resumed his examination, as if determined that he would 
 not yield to his first impression. Uncle John watched his face 
 with painful anxiety, and when the surgeon turned and looked at 
 him, and with a mournful, but decided shake of the head, more 
 expressive than words, signified that the case was hopeless, he 
 sank into a chair and covered his face with his hands, and his 
 bitter disappointment told him how strong had been his hope. 
 
 Not a word was spoken, and the silence became oppressive even 
 to Agnes, who presently asked : 
 
 "Uncle John, what does the doctor think?" 
 
 With an effort, he replied, quietly, but with inexpressible sad- 
 ness : 
 
 "He will not operate, my daughter; it- is useless." 
 
 Her face for an instant beamed with its old expression, at the 
 thought of release from the dreaded suffering; but the next mo- 
 ment it was clouded with a deeper gloom than Unde John had 
 ever seen upon it before. She was a child, and could not al- 
 together realize how long and dreary would be the ray less night 
 of all her future life; but child as she was, the thought of being 
 always blind was full of profoundest sadness, and leaning her 
 cheek upon her hand, she said, in a tone that smote the hearts of 
 her listeners : 
 
 "Always blind ! always blind ! Uncle John, I feel more blind 
 than ever now !" 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A STRANGER might have thought that the mother's life, at 
 Hopedale, was quiet and monotonous in the extreme; but her 
 friends knew well that it was one long and ever-increasing anxiety. 
 As ever before, so now, also, she was patient and unobtrusive ; 
 she did not weary her friends with her trouble, or make unrea- 
 
136 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 sonable demands upon their sympathy. Her duties were as faith- 
 fully performed as ever, but the all animating motive that had 
 lightened her labor was withdrawn with Ai^nes. She had longed 
 for the first letter, to tell her not only of dangers passed, and of 
 their safe arrival at their destined haven, but also to bring her 
 those words of sympathy and encouragement and kindness that 
 she surely expected from her own and her child's best friend. 
 The letter came ; she read it again and again, and at last, with 
 dissatisfaction and disappointment, she laid it down, and wondered 
 why Uncle John should write to her so coldly and formally. It 
 was singularly unlike him, for he was not accustomed to withhold 
 sympathy even from strangers, when they needed it, and especi- 
 ally was it unlike all his former intercourse with her. The friend- 
 ship of years, and the present peculiar circumstances, she thought, 
 entitled her to more than an ordinary share of his interest and 
 kind feeling, and when she painfully contrasted the letters that 
 came to her, with those that Uncle John wrote to Julia and Eva, 
 she was more perplexed than ever. 
 
 The life at Cameron Hall flowed on in its usual quiet channel, 
 and there the regular letter from Uncle John was looked forward 
 to with eager anticipation. They had no reason to complain of 
 coldness or formality, fior they found him in his letters the same 
 warm-hearted Uncle John that he had ever been at home. 
 
 Eva's gayety of disposition and light heart remained unaltered. 
 She could not be sobered or subdued even by the anxious cloud 
 that now generally rested upon her father's face, and when she 
 asked, as she often did: "What is the matter, papa? What 
 makes you look so anxious ?" and he replied : " I am watching 
 the signs of the times, my daughter;" she would answer with a 
 merry laugh, and declare that she did not believe there would 
 be any war at all ; and if there should be, it would not be half so 
 terrible as papa imagined. 
 
 Julia, on the other hand, grew more thoughtful every day. 
 With her practical way of looking at things, she saw deeper than 
 the tinsel of epaulets and the waving of banners, and although 
 she really knew nothing of war except its name, still she had im- 
 plicit confidence in her father's judgment, and felt assured that 
 what he so much dreaded must be evil and only evil; and so the 
 shadow of thoughtful anxiety sometimes rested upon her browas 
 well as upon his. She thought much upon a subject little calcu- 
 lated to engross the attention of a girl of her age. She never 
 talked to Eva about it, for she well knew that from her child- 
 sister she would only receive in reply a merry laugh or a pleasant 
 jest ; but she listened with thoughtful interest to the grave dis- 
 cussions of her father and Mr. Derby, who talked much of the 
 
CAMERON HALL. 137 
 
 threatening aspect of affairs, and watched anxiously the clouding 
 horizon. 
 
 It was the close of an April day, April only in its showers, for 
 there had been no balminess or genial warmth in the fitful rains 
 and the hazy, powerless sun ; Eva was standing at the window, 
 looking wearily out at the rain as it poured in the heaviest shower 
 of the day. Suddenly, she exclaimed : 
 
 "Why, sister, who can that be coming in such a rain as this? 
 I do believe it is Mr. Derby, and he is riding furiously." 
 
 " I should think he would be," replied Julia, quietly, as she 
 joined her sister at the window. " He must be anxious to get 
 out of such a pelting rain. Yes, it is Mr. Derby." 
 
 The sisters went down together to receive him, and met him at 
 the door. 
 
 " Where is your father, girls?" he asked, hurriedly. 
 
 "He is riding over the plantation, Mr. Derby," answered Julia, 
 " but will probably be in in a few minutes. The rain will drive 
 him home." 
 
 He follow^ed the girls into the library, but he was troubled and 
 restless, and little inclined to talk. Presently Mr. Cameron came 
 in, and as soon as Mr. Derby heard his step, he went out into the 
 hall to meet him, and, when they returned to the library, they 
 seated themselves in silence. 
 
 The girls looked anxiously at them, but said nothing ; and after 
 awhile Mr. Cameron said, very gravely : 
 
 "It has come sooner than I expected, Mr. Derby." 
 
 "What has come, papa ?" exclaimed the curious Eva. 
 
 "War, my daughter, war!" 
 
 "War, papa!" exclaimed the astonished Julia. " Surely you 
 do not mean that I" 
 
 " Yes, Julia, it is even so. Uncle John was right ; we have 
 reached the crisis with startling rapidity. I did hope that it 
 might have been averted, at least until after my time." 
 
 "I have long been afraid, sir, that I would live to see it," 
 answered Mr. Derby. " Public events have been drifting that 
 way for years, and compromises, platforms, and all other ex- 
 pedients have seemed to me like trying to stem the torrent of 
 Niagara by throwing sand into the rapids." 
 
 " Have no particulars been received of the surrender of Fort 
 Sumter ?" inquired Mr. Cameron. 
 
 " None at all, sir ; we know nothing except the bare facts, 
 now, but we will hear all in a day or two, through the news- 
 papers. " 
 
 There was a long, solemn pause : the crisis was upon the nation, 
 
 12* 
 
138 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 and it appalled alike the young and the old, the reflectinj:^ and 
 the thoughtless. Eva's cheek rested upon her hand, and her 
 whole attitude was expressive of a thoughtfulness very unusual 
 for her. After awhile she said : 
 
 "Papa, I cannot see why taking possession of a single fort 
 should necessarily be the beginning of war. If everybody in the 
 country thinks like you do, that it is such a dreadful evil, the 
 Northern people will let the Charlestonians have the fort rather 
 than resent it at such a fearful cost. Besides, I don't under- 
 stand what is meant by their taking it, for I should like to know 
 if it does not already belong to them. If it is in their harbor and 
 protects their city, they certainly must have a better right to it 
 than anybody else." 
 
 Mr. Derby smiled, and her father answered : 
 
 "You are in happy ignorance, my child, of the jealousies of 
 governments, and the machinations of politicians. If I could ex- 
 plain to you the causes of this war, which have been accumulating 
 under my eyes for the last thirty years, each one would appear to 
 your unsophisticated judgment to bear the same disproportion to 
 the tremendous result, as does the taking of Fort Sumter by the 
 Charlestonians to a long civil war." 
 
 "But, papa," asked Julia, "is there no hope, even now, of 
 some adjustment or compromise ? I have heard you say that 
 many of the politicians who have most strongly urged secession 
 thought that it could be peaceably effected ; and may it not be 
 that when they find themselves mistaken, and see the nation 
 upon the very eve of war, they will be willing to compro- 
 mise ?" 
 
 " It is too late now. Politicians and fanatics sometimes set 
 machinery in motion whose tremendous power defies their feeble 
 attempts to stop it, and for that reason they ought to be very 
 sure that the energies which they seek to arouse will work for 
 good and not for evil. No, my daughter ; the day of adjust- 
 ment and compromise is over now. If this news be true, the 
 war is already begun, and no power but Omnipotence can 
 arrest it." 
 
 It was a gloomy evening at the Hall. The gentlemen talked 
 of nothing but the terrible calamity that had come upon the 
 nation, and the girls listened in silence and awe. For once, 
 Eva was thoroughly awake and interested in political affairs, and 
 as she listened, her heart was oppressed with undefined forebodings, 
 and she feared and dreaded she scarcely knew what. When Mr. 
 Derby left, there was a cloud upon that family circle which he 
 had never seen before; and after he was gone, Mr. Cameron sat 
 in silence, thinking gloomily upon the nation's doom. Eva's book 
 
CAMERON HALL. 139 
 
 was lying in her Jap with her finger between the leaves, but its 
 pages no longer interested her ; imaginary troubles and fictitious 
 characters were altogether insignificant to one who might soon 
 herself be a participator in scenes and sufferings before which the 
 highest-wrought coloring of romance would pale and fade. She 
 tried various expedients to drive away her thoughts and fears, 
 and perhaps elsewhere she might have succeeded, for she was 
 accustomed easily and quickly to shake off trouble ; but as long 
 as she saw her father and sister in their attitude of sad re- 
 flection, she could neither forget its cause nor resist its influ- 
 ence. 
 
 Julia, like her father, sat still and thought. She thought of 
 what Uncle John had told her would be the duty of Southern 
 women ; of the privations, the anxieties, the sorrows, the be- 
 reavements that they would have to bear, and she wondered if 
 she would have the strength and fortitude to do and to bear her 
 part. 
 
 The days and weeks passed by, and the trumpet-call to arms 
 sounded through the length and breadth of this once peaceful 
 country, and marshaled into battle array the brethren of a once 
 united nation. Fierce, vindictive, and flippant threats of "crush- 
 ing the rebellion in sixty days," stirred the Northern people, and 
 they flocked to the standard of the Stars and Stripes, determined 
 to chastise into submission, by one severe blow, their recreant 
 Southern brethren. Southern men, too, flocked to their standard, 
 and mothers, wives, and sisters sent ofi" with a blessing and a 
 God-speed those they loved best on earth, hiding the heartache and 
 the tears until the loved ones were out of sight. The demon of 
 war was pre-eminent in the land, and in his blighting path all 
 the arts of peace and prosperity were at once consumed. The 
 whole nation was, by a sudden metamorphosis, transformed into 
 an army. The bugle and the drum were heard instead of the 
 busy, restless hum of the manufactory; the drill and the camp 
 became at once familiar to those who before had been utter 
 strangers to both ; the plow-share was exchanged for the sword, 
 and the pruning-hook for the spear, and war, only war, was 
 thought of and talked of throughout the land. The old, whose 
 experience had taught them somewhat of its horrors, saw, with 
 agony, the upheaving nation ; the young, full of the ardor and 
 impulse belonging to their years, entered the ranks, buoyant with 
 hope and reckless of danger; and while fathers encouraged their 
 sons to go, they watched them with a pang as they left their 
 homes so brave and joyous and full of life, and so unconscious of 
 the weary march, the bleeding feet, the fainting thirst, the wasting 
 fever, the bloody battle-field I 
 
140 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 Mr. Cameron had promised to himself to keep his private de- 
 cision in abeyance until the State had spoken ; but while Virginia 
 still hesitated, he, among many other of her sons, became daily 
 stronger in his conviction of what she ought to do, and trembled 
 lest the fear of suffering should warp her judgment and determine 
 her action. 
 
 Reluctant to sunder the ties which had been cemented by the 
 blood of the best and noblest of her sons ; loth to pull down with 
 her hand one single stone of that fabric whose foundation her own 
 Washington had laid ; yet equally unwilling to surrender a single . 
 one of those rights which he himself had taught her to value more 
 than life, the Old Dominion determined to make one more effort, 
 and the last, to secure her rights as a Southern State in the 
 Union. The delegation to Washington was a failure, for fanati- 
 cism ruled in the halls of justice, and despotism had usurped the 
 throne of liberty. Then Virginia spoke out nobly and indig- 
 nantly, and without a regret severed the tie that bound her to a 
 government which had proved recreant to its trust and duty. 
 
 From the first, Walter Cameron had begged permission to 
 enter the army, and Julia read with pride and pleasure his earn- 
 est appeals to his father. She wondered that her father could 
 resist them, but she said not a word, for she felt that the respon- 
 sibility rested not with her. Mr. Cameron felt for his native 
 State such a degree of reverence that, although his convictions 
 were now fixed, still he waited for the public formal act of seces- 
 sion by the State, before he threw himself, heart and soul, into 
 the war. As soon, however, as this was done, he wrote to his 
 son, not only giving his consent, but making a special request 
 that he would join the army at once, and bidding him come home 
 for that purpose. The delighted youth needed no urging, but 
 obeyed the summons instantly. Julia welcomed him with a min- 
 gled feeling of pleasure, pride, and sadness ; and as she looked at 
 the tall, athletic youth, so full of life and promise, she felt proud 
 of the offering that she was about to make to her country, and 
 yet trembled lest his blood too should be required. Not so with 
 Eva. She had now become accustomed to the name and thought 
 of war, and as yet had only seen its bright and glitiering ex- 
 terior. She and her sister frequently rode into town in the after- 
 noon to see the company drill, and the bright faces, the fresh, 
 new uniforms, and the stalwart forms full of health and strength 
 appealed to her fancy, and she thought, with delight, of adding 
 a brave, handsome soldier boy to its ranks. Besides, Walter 
 was at home, and this alone was happiness enough for Eva. 
 She thought not of the long separation, of the danger and hard- 
 ship on his part, and the loneliness and anxiety on her own ; all 
 
CAMERON HALL. 141 
 
 this she left for that future to which it belonged, and with all 
 her heart and soul she now gave herself up to the enjoyment of 
 her brother's society. Meanwhile, Julia, with a mother's fore- 
 thought, provided for Walter everything necessary to his health 
 and comfort in camp, and collected for him many little conve- 
 niences which, months afterward, when he was far away from 
 home and family, brought a tear to the young soldier's eye as ho 
 recognized in them the proofs of her thoughtful love. 
 
 Neither Walter nor his father had any undue ambition, and 
 both were quite willing that he should enter the ranks as a 
 private, and rise as his services and merits demanded. 
 
 In all her conversations with him, Julia sought to impress him 
 with the idea that he must enter the army and do his duty there 
 from conscientious motives ; she begged him to realize in the 
 beginning that it was not pastime and adventure, lest when the 
 novelty should wear off and privation begin, his spirit should fail 
 and his energies relax; and she urged him to remember that so 
 long as his country had need of him he was bound to serve her, 
 and to keep firmly at his post, not asking a furlough until long 
 service had entitled him to a respite, and he could be well 
 spared. 
 
 The night before Walter's departure, a few minutes after he 
 had gone to his room, he heard a gentle tap at the door. It was 
 Julia, and she said, as he opened it : 
 
 "Come, Walter, just for a moment." 
 
 He followed her into her own room, where she unlocked an 
 old-fashioned writing-desk and took out a small and much worn 
 prayer-book. She put it in his hand, and said : 
 
 " Wear it, Walter, always about your person ; it was our 
 mother's, and God bless it to you, Walter dear !" 
 
 The next day a company of volunteers, comprising all the 
 youthful promise of the town, departed from Hopedale, leaving 
 in many a home-circle an empty chair, and hearts more empty 
 still. Bright banners and martial music, the smiles of the young 
 and fair, and beautiful bouquets, made outwardly a gay pageant; 
 but in the crowd there were not wanting those who looked with 
 apprehension a little way into the future and saw another proces- 
 sion, but, alas! how different! — with arms reversed, and wailing 
 music, bringing some comrade back indeed to his home, but only 
 to be laid away in that quiet resting-place whose silence the thun- 
 ders of war can never break. 
 
 Walter Cameron cared nothing for the music, or the flowers, or 
 the throng. With his cap pulled over his brow, his lips com- 
 pressed, and his face rigid, he marched along mechanically, for 
 his heart was at home with the sobbing Eva and the elder sister, 
 
142 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 who had, with one stifled cry, and her eyes swimming in tears, 
 strained him to her heart, bid him be faithful to his country, 
 blessed him, and sent him away. 
 
 Very quiet and very sad was the next week at tlie Hall. In 
 the agony of parting with her brother, Eva had first tasted the 
 suffering of war. Hers was a warm, loving heart, and it clung 
 tenaciously to Walter, her brother and companion. " Her soul 
 was knit with his," and, in her sorrow, she was convinced that 
 this, her first trial, was the hardest of all; that the war could 
 bring her no sorer one than to give up Walter. It was not her 
 habit to anticipate evil; she thought not of danger, wounds, or 
 death; all that she thought of was the present separation, and 
 even this, the first cloud that had ever darkened her life of sunshine, 
 seemed intolerable. Her father and sister watched her in silence 
 as she gave way to all the impetuosity of cliildish grief, and they 
 only hoped and prayed that the war might bring to that bright 
 young heart no severer discipline or more bitter experience than 
 this, its first sorrow. Julia was outwardly the same. Not one 
 of her duties was neglected or forgotten ; the only difference was, 
 that while generally this was her pleasure, now it was an effort; 
 her heart and thoughts were evidently far away in a distant camp, 
 with a soldier boy, for whom she felt a mother's rather than a 
 sister's love. 
 
 Walter had been gone a week. They were lingering one morn- 
 ing at the breakfast-table after everything had been removed, the 
 girls talking of their brother, and Mr. Cameron looking over the 
 newspaper which the servant had just brought. Suddenly the 
 girls were startled by a muttered ejaculation that sounded like a 
 curse, and looking up in surprise and terror at something so un- 
 usual from their father, their dismay was not lessened when they 
 saw his face. Julia sprang up and went to him, and asked trem- 
 bling : 
 
 "What is it, father?" 
 
 "Disgrace! disgrace!" he answered, almost fiercely, and, dash- 
 ing the paper down upon the table, he left the room. 
 - Julia took it up, and was not long in finding the cause of her 
 father's strange excitement, and with a groan she covered her face 
 with her hands. By this time, Eva's suspense and astonishment 
 had become intolerable, and she said, in a beseeching toner 
 
 "Oh, sister, tell me, what is the matter?" 
 
 Julia silently pointed to the paragraph, and Eva read. 
 
 It was an extract from a Northern newspaper, a compliment- 
 ary notice of Captain George Cameron, who, though himself a 
 native Yirginian, and his father an influential citizen of that 
 State, and a warm secessionist, was, nevertheless, so conscientious 
 
CAMERON HALL. 143 
 
 a patriot, and so loyal to the Union, that he had accepted a cap- 
 tain's commission in the Federal array. 
 
 Eva was astounded. She knew nothing of George that was 
 good, but she knew that he was her father's son, and, therefore, 
 she believed him incapable of such a deed. Dashing the paper 
 down, she exclaimed indignantly ; 
 
 "It is false, every word of it I George may not be good, but 
 he is a Cameron, and a Cameron cannot be a traitoT !" 
 
 Poor Julia groaned aloud. To her proud spirit and uncom- 
 promising principle this was, indeed, a heavy blow. She thought 
 of her other brother's departure for the same war ; of her loving 
 words of advice; of his solemn promise to be faithful; and she 
 remembered, too, the sad farewell ; the heartache when he was 
 gone ; the fear lest he might never return. All this, however, 
 seemed as nothing, as less than nothing, in comparison with this 
 great trouble. Sorrow may be borne, but to a high, noble spirit, 
 there is no agony like the sense of shame and dishonor. 
 
 Eva looked at her sister in surprise, for she had never seen her 
 overpowered before. Her own grief had never before made her 
 forgetful of the comfort of others, but now, when she went to her 
 own room and locked herself in, forgetful of father, sister, house- 
 hold duties, and the whole world, Eva learned more from its ef- 
 fect upon her sister than from her own feelings, the extent of the 
 calamity that had fallen upon their household. She herself had 
 never regarded George as a brother. The idea of his bearing 
 the same relationship to her as her darling Walter, had never oc- 
 curred to her; and while her heart rebelled at the thousrht of a 
 Cameron being a traitor, it was rather because he bore their name 
 than because she felt bound to him by the ties of blood, or real- 
 ized that his infamy could cast a shade upon the family name. 
 Therefore it was that she could not enter wholly into her father's 
 and sister's feelings. She only felt indignant, while they were 
 mortified and wounded in their inmost soul. 
 
 Mr. Cameron received the blow in bitterness of spirit. He 
 thought of the child who had marred the peace of the household 
 by his turbulent and .unruly spirit ; of the son, whose undutiful 
 conduct had broken his mother's heart ; of the boy, who, in 
 anger, had left his father and his home, and whose hard heart had 
 not, even in the lapse of years, been sufficiently softened to send 
 back to that father one word of regret or affection. He could 
 not wonder that such a son should prove a traitor to his country; 
 he could only regret in bitterness and sorrow that that son should 
 be his own. He had dreaded war; he thought that he had enu- 
 merated its evils, and fortified his mind for its hardships; but 
 among all its dire calamities he had not reckoned this, the direst 
 
144 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 of them all. He had feared to lose Walter, bis pride and hope, 
 and yet he might, with a Spartan heart, have laid his son upon 
 his country's altar; but to give one to his country's enemies ; to 
 see his own son's arm raised against the land tliat gave him birth, 
 his own, his father's home, — no wonder that Mr. Cameron groaned 
 in anguish of spirit whenever bethought of George! 
 
 The aspect of the hall was changed. Instead of its social at- 
 mosphere, there was silence, constraint. In bereavement, we love 
 to hear the name of the lost one, and cannot feel that he is wholly 
 gone so long as we can speak of him ; but the trouble of the Cam- 
 eron family admitted of no such splace. Each heart bore its sor- 
 row in silence and loneliness, and George, though the burden of 
 the thoughts of all, was a forbidden name. Even Mr. Derby, the 
 friend and pastor, found himself, for the first time in his life, pow- 
 erless to console, and his visits to the hall were neither the social 
 ones of old nor the sympathizing ones that he would now have 
 liked to make them. 
 
 A fortnight had now passed away, a long, dreary fortnight, 
 which, to Eva especially, had seemed interminable. She had not 
 been able to persnade her sister even to ride into town, for Julia 
 seemed to shrink from observation, and Eva wondered if she in- 
 tended hereafter to make a recluse of herself. They had not 
 heard a word from Grace for several days, when, one morning, to 
 their great surprise, she walked out to the Hall. In all the years 
 of her residence in Hopedale she had never crossed the threshold 
 of Cameron Hall until Agnes was gone. Their invitations had 
 always been so gently, but persistently, refused, that they had 
 long ago ceas'ed to ask her ; but one day, not long after Agnes had 
 left, they found her so depressed and lonely that they once more 
 invited her to go home with them, and were both pleased 'and 
 surprised when she at once accepted the proposal. Since then 
 they had frequently sent for her, and she had never refused to 
 come. She seemed to feel that now, in Agnes's absence, she had 
 a claim upon her friends which she did not have when the child 
 was at home ; and, either because she loved to be with those whom 
 Agnes loved, or from some other unexplained reason, she was now 
 always willing to go to Cameron Hall. She had, however, never 
 before attempted to walk, and when Julia heard Eva exclaim: 
 "Why, sister, there is Grace Merton coming up the lawn, and she 
 is actually walking," she hurried to meet her, afraid that she might 
 have bad news from Agnes, and assured that she must have had 
 some. powerful motive to induce her thus to come. 
 
 She was very tired and very sad, and when Julia asked about 
 Agnes her eyes filled, and she silently gave her a letter. The 
 first few lines told all. The doctor had pronounced Agnes hope- 
 
CAMERON HALL. 145 
 
 lessly blind. The girls insisted that she should remain a day or 
 two at the Hall, to which she consented, for she felt that there, if 
 anywhere on earth, among her child's best friends, she might ex- 
 pect sympathy and kindness at such a time. Agnes's friends 
 were disappointed as well as her mother; the result had proved 
 how much hope they had all unconsciously built upon the experi- 
 ment, 
 
 Grace could not be ignorant of what the newspapers had her- 
 alded, and what everybody was now talking about, and she well 
 knew how Mr. Cameron and Julia would suffer under such a blow. 
 "Without a word or look that betrayed her knowledge, she con- 
 trived to make her presence and her company a comfort rather 
 than a restraint, and when she went away they told her how much 
 they should miss her, and she believed them. When Cameron 
 Hall was gay and happy, and full of sunshine, she felt that her 
 sad face and sadder heart were out of place there, but now they, 
 too, had their trouble. Agnes's friends had need of her, and she 
 was glad to be able to do something for those who had done so 
 much for her child. From henceforth she was no stranger at 
 Cameron Hall, and if, in their intimate intercourse with her, they 
 saw that she was growing sadder every day, and that even her 
 quiet smile was now seldom seen, they thought that separation 
 from Agnes and disappointed hope sufiQciently accounted for the 
 change. 
 
 The next letter that came from Uncle John was to Eva, and in 
 his letters to her he always mentioned her friend, Dr. Beaufort, 
 and generally sent some message from him. He now spoke of 
 his disappointment in not being able to persuade him to return 
 home with him. Eva regretted it very much, but Julia heard it 
 with quiet satisfaction. She sincerely hoped never to see him 
 again, for she felt that there was now a wide interval between 
 Charles Beaufort and the sister of George Cameron, the traitor. 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 Uncle John and Charles Beaufort never alluded, in Agnes's 
 presence, to their visit to the surgeon. They hoped that she 
 would forget her disappointment, and soon regain her accustomed 
 cheerfulness ; but for days it was evident that she thought of no- 
 thing else, although she too was careful not to speak of it. It 
 
 13 
 
146 CAMERON HALL. ♦ 
 
 was several nights afterward, when they thou^jht she was asleep, 
 that their conversation was interrupted by the plaintive voice, 
 which sang, "I'm blind! oh, I'm blind!" and often in the day- 
 time they heard her unconsciously singing the air without tiie 
 words. She longed for home, her mother, and her organ, and 
 she wanted these comforters now more than ever; but she did not 
 tell Uncle John so. Her mother had said that she must wait 
 patiently for him to decide upon the time of their return, and she 
 did so. He had no intention of returning home at present. It 
 was too early by two months to enjoy Switzerland, raid in his 
 vain efforts to interest and amuse Agnes he began to realize how 
 wearily the time would henceforth drag on with her. It was now 
 late in April, the weather was delicious, and the garden of the 
 Tuileries wore its sweetest spring aspect. Groups of merry 
 children sported and shouted amid its leafy shades, and as they 
 flitted about in their gay, bright dresses, they looked like ani- 
 mated flowers. Nurses in their trim dresses and snowy muslin 
 caps mingled in the throng, chatting gayly in French ; here and 
 there a turbaned zouave, in his picturesque costume, formed a 
 striking feature in the scene ; and quiet old women, sewing or 
 knitting under the trees, looked up from their work with a dreamy 
 glance at the frolicsome children around them, as if they wondered 
 if they too ever could have been so young and so happy. But 
 the garden with its pleasant air and cheerful sounds had lost its 
 charm for Agnes. She did not refuse, when Uncle John pro- 
 posed to go, but she did not assent with the cheerfulness that she 
 used to do, nor did she enjoy it so much while she was there. 
 Neither did she love the cascade as she had done. Agnes was 
 home-sick ; she wanted her mother ; and Uncle John could see 
 it, even if she did not say so. The music alone retained its power 
 to charm, and this pleasure Uncle John allowed her to enjoy as 
 much as possible. 
 
 The three wore sitting together one Sunday night around their 
 center-table. Uncle John and Charles talking of their plans, and 
 Agnes apparently listening, but evidently thinking much more of 
 a book that she had in her hand than she was of the conversa- 
 tion. She had traced its outlines with her fingers, and made 
 herself acquainted with all the inequalities of its morocco binding, 
 and at last she said : 
 
 "Uncle John, what book is this? It has never been on the 
 table before." 
 
 "It is my prayer-book, Agnes," answered Charles; "an Eng- 
 lish prayer-book." 
 
 "What makes you call it an English prayer-book. Dr. Charles ? 
 Isn't it just like mother's, in America?" 
 
9 CAMERON HALL. 147 
 
 "Almost like it, Agnes; but ours has some slight alterations.'' 
 
 "Do you attend the English chapel here, Charles?" asked 
 Uncle John. 
 
 " Yes, sir, I always go there ; and before I used the English 
 prayer-book, I imagined that the alterations in ours were purely 
 such as were rendered necessary by our different institutions ; but 
 I find that the language is sometimes altered unnecessarily, and 
 according to my untutored taste not always for the better. For 
 instance, in the English prayer-book one of the evening collects 
 begins, 'Lighten our darkness, Lord!' Now I think that, as 
 we stand upon the threshold of night, whose gathering shadows 
 are so fitly emblematic of the darkness of our moral nature, there 
 is something singularly beautiful and appropriate in thus begin- 
 ning our prayer for aid against its perils ; and it is incompre- 
 hensible that in our version it should have been omitted." 
 
 Uncle John was about to reply, but Agnes, with her face full 
 of interest, repeated: 
 
 '''Lighten our darkness, LordP That prayer suits me, 
 for I am blind I Uncle John, will you buy an English prayer- 
 book for me to-morrow?" 
 
 " What for, my daughter ?" 
 
 "To carry home to mother. She will like it, for it has a 
 prayer in it for her blind child." 
 
 "Agnes," said Charles, " wont you let me buy it for you? I 
 would like to do so." 
 
 "Yes, sir," she answered, "I would be very much obliged to 
 you if you would." 
 
 "Very well, you shall have it; a handsome one, too." 
 
 "I don't care about that, Dr. Charles, for I cannot see it; but 
 I can feel that prayer." 
 
 The next day the book was bought and given to Agnes. She 
 soon learned to distinguish it from all others, and it was often in 
 her hands, and its beautiful words of supplication were frequently 
 on her lips and in her heart. The song of the Blind Boy was 
 now heard no more, but, in its stead. Uncle John and Charles 
 often caught the murmured words : ''Lighten our darkness, 
 LordP' 
 
 Uncle John now began to be perplexed. Agnes had not only 
 lost her spirits, but he was afraid was beginning to lose her 
 health too. It had been a favorite part of his plan to take her 
 to Switzerland, and he was very reluctant to give it up; but he 
 now began seriously to consider whether, since her heart was at 
 home with her organ and her mother, her health would not be 
 better there than it would be even in the mountain air of Switer- 
 land. He had thought of it some days, and had determined to* 
 
148 CAMEROX HALL. 
 
 talk to Charles Beaufort on the subject, when the question was 
 suddenly and most unexpectedly settled. 
 
 One night, late in April, when Charles came to dinner, he 
 brought a letter for Agnes, and several newspapers. Uncle 
 John commenced reading the letter to Agnes, and Charles busied 
 himself with the papers, when a sudden exclamation arrested 
 Uncle John in the middle of a sentence, and caused Agnes to ask, 
 in alarm, what was the matter. 
 
 It was the news of the fall of Fort Sumter and the beginning 
 of war. 
 
 Uncle John laid aside the letter, and listened while Charles 
 read ; and then said : 
 
 '* That decides my movements. I shall go home now." 
 
 "And I will go with you, Uncle John. My duty now is at 
 home." 
 
 " Yes, Charles, you are right. Every Southern man must now 
 be in his place and do his duty." 
 
 "When shall you go, sir, immediately ?" 
 
 " In about three weeks. Meanwhile, there is one place in 
 Europe that I must visit, if Agnes will consent to go with me." 
 
 " What place is that, Uncle John ?" asked Charles. 
 
 "It is the town of Fribourg; an old-fashioned, quaint-looking 
 Swiss town, with seemingly nothing to interest the traveler ex- 
 cept its antiquated and picturesque appearance." 
 
 " What on earth, sir, do you want to go there for ? I thought 
 that you would of course say Rome, Florence, or Xaples, and 
 then I would have envied you your pleasure ; but your visit to 
 Fribourg will not tempt me to break the commandment." 
 
 "Never mind, Charles, Fribourg is my destination, if Agues 
 will go with me." 
 
 "I will go anywhere with yon, Uncle John," she said. 
 
 "Well, my daughter, if you will go with me to this Swiss 
 town, as soon as we return I will take you home ; is that a 
 bargain, Agnes ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes. Uncle John !" she answered, joyfully. " I will go 
 anywhere, and do anything for you, if you will only take me 
 home." 
 
 " Is my little daughter so very home-sick ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, very home-sick." 
 
 "Why, then, have you not told me so, Agnes?" 
 
 "Because, Uncle John, you knew best what to do, and I did 
 not want you to go back because I was tired. I never intended 
 to tell you that I wanted to go home ; but I can tell you now 
 how glad I am that you are going." 
 
 "Well, my daughter, you shall go home. Four weeks from 
 
CAMERON HALL. 149 
 
 to-night we will probably be sailing upon the ocean, going back 
 to Hopedale, to see once more mother, organ, friends." 
 
 Her face was beaming now, and its happiness was reproduced 
 on Uncle John's too strikingly to be altogether a reflection. 
 His own heart, too, was happy at the thought of his return, and 
 for an instant his face was bright with the anticipated pleasure ; 
 but the next moment, heart and face were alike clouded by the 
 recollection of his country and the woe overhanging it. The 
 conversation ceased, and they were silent. Agnes's reverie was 
 the only pleasant one. She knew nothing, cared nothing for 
 war, she only knew that she was going to her mother, and she 
 was contented. Uncle John was aroused by her voice, as she 
 said : 
 
 " Good night. Uncle John. I am so happy !" 
 
 "When she was gone, the gentlemen discussed until a late hour 
 the tidings that they had just received, and afterward the change 
 in their plans consequent thereupon. 
 
 " Have you ever been into Switzerland, Charles ?" asked Uncle 
 John. 
 
 "Xo, sir." 
 
 " Then it would be quite worth while for you to go with us. 
 It is probably the last opportunity that you will ever have of 
 seeing that wonderful country, and if I were in your place, I 
 would dislike to return home without having gone there. 
 
 " I would be very glad to go, sir, if you can offer me a suffi- 
 cient inducement; but to encounter that keen mountain air at 
 this season, merely for the sake of going to an old-fashioned 
 town, will not pay for the inconvenience and exposure. I can- 
 not, for my life, Uncle John, imagine what can be the attraction 
 there." 
 
 "I will tell you, Charles, and would have told you before, but 
 I don't want Agnes to know what she is going for, since surprise 
 will add to her pleasure. In that quiet old town there is a 
 cathedral, containing an organ, which has but one superior in 
 Europe, and an organist whose marvelous execution is quite as 
 wonderful. It is the only pleasure that I know on the Conti- 
 nent that can be enjoyed by the blind as much as by those who 
 can see ; and I am specially anxious that the child, who has been 
 •disappointed in all else, should at least enjoy that. Were it not 
 for this, I would go home in the next steamer. It is not, how- 
 ever, to hear organ-music that I wish you to go to Fribourg ; it 
 is the grand and wonderful scenery on the road that will be the 
 attraction to you. If you will go with us, I will alter my route. 
 I had intended to go from,here to Geneva by rail, and there take 
 
 13* 
 
150 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 a steamer across the Lake, to Yevay, thus sparing^ onrselves all 
 fatigue ; but if you go, we will take a traveliug carriage at 
 Geneva, and go round through Chamouni, giving you the benefit 
 of an excursion to the mer de glace. You shall see Mont Blanc, 
 shall cross the Alps, and, if you choose, visit the Hospice of the 
 Great St. Bernard, while we wait for you at Martigny or 
 Yevay. " 
 
 " That will, indeed, be splendid, Uncle John 1" he exclaimed. 
 Yes, indeed, I will go ; but," he added, " there is one grave ob- 
 jection. This route, you say, is fatiguing, and I am not willing 
 to subject you and Agnes to it just for my pleasure, when your 
 object could be so much more easily accomplished. IIow are we 
 to cross the Alps ?" 
 
 " On mu^es : there is no other way." 
 
 " Then I cannot consent to it. Neither you nor Agnes could 
 bear that." 
 
 " You are greatly mistaken. There is a good deal of muscle 
 and sinew yet left in these old limbs of mine, and they can bear 
 much fatigue if there is any occasion for it; and as to Agnes, I 
 am so well acquainted with the Swiss modes of traveling, that I 
 can make her perfectly comfortable. So, now, just say that you 
 will go, and the question of route is not only settled, but it is 
 settled much more to my satisfaction than it was before, when I 
 had determined to go without the fatigue and without your com- 
 pany. I only wish, for your sake, that it was July instead of 
 May. We may have a bright sun, which is, after all, the only 
 thing necessary as far as the scenery is concerned, but it will be 
 very cold." 
 
 "I shall not regard that for myself, sir, though I shall regret 
 it on account of you and Agnes. I should be no man, and cer- 
 tainly not a young one, if the excitement and exercise and adven- 
 ture of such a journey could not keep me warm. No, sir, the 
 cold will, in no degree, abate my enjoyment; if the sun will only 
 shine, I ask no more." 
 
 " I am sure that you will enjoy it, Charles, and so will I, 
 although you will have the advantage over me in one respect ; 
 novelty will add a keener relish to your enjoyment. I am per- 
 fectly familiar with all that scenery, and perhaps my greatest 
 pleasure will be in the recollections that it will awaken. Many, 
 many years ago, when your father and I were young, and had 
 not seen each other since we parted at college, we unexpectedly 
 met at Chamouni, and the very pleasantest recollections that I 
 have of European travel are those of our excursions in that 
 neighborhood. It will be no small enjoyment to recall those 
 scenes and adventures of my youth, in the company of his son. I 
 
CAMERON HALL. 151 
 
 wish, for your sake, that we had more time ; a whole summer 
 there would scarcely satisfy you." 
 
 " Yes, Uncle John, I should like nothing better than to spend 
 the entire summer among those wild mountain passes ; but a 
 glimpse and a taste are better than nothing ; and since I am 
 obliged to go home at once, and will probably never be in Europe 
 again, I will most thankfully enjoy this little excursion without 
 complaining that it cannot be longer or more satisfying. When 
 shall we go ?" 
 
 " The sooner the better, Charles. Day after to-morrow, if 
 you can make your arrangements. I think that we ought, by 
 all means, to go home the last of this month ; and if we go off 
 immediately, we can allow ourselves three weeks for our ex- 
 cursion." 
 
 "I will be ready, sir, by day after to-morrow." 
 
 At the appointed time they left Paris, Agnes acquiescing in 
 their movements with quiet indifference. The only question that 
 she asked about their journey was, how long they would be gone. 
 Her hopes and anticipations were centered upon the departure 
 for home, and she cared very little where she spent the interval. 
 Uncle John had not told her why she was going to Fribourg, 
 and she thought that she was only going to gratify him. 
 
 Two days were all that they could spare at Geneva, and on 
 the morning of the third they left for Chamouni, in their traveling 
 carriage. It was a magnificent day in May; the air was cold, 
 but pure and bracing, and the sky was cloudless; it was just such 
 a day as in the sunny South the month of October brings us. 
 The country was beautiful, even though not yet clothed in its 
 summer verdure. The vine-clad hills of Savoy wanted the rich 
 drapery of foliage and the purple clusters which, later in the 
 season, would adorn their rugged sides up to the very rock- 
 crowned summits; but to the eye unused to the sight, there was 
 something of interest, if not of beauty, in the gnarled and twisted 
 vines which struggled and clambered up the rocky steeps, and 
 awakened a feeling of commiseration for the arduous and dan- 
 gerous toil that was necessary to their cultivation. The scene 
 was one of varying interest, and Charles Beaufort's enjoyment 
 fully realized both his own and Uncle John's expectations. He 
 rode with the driver, and was constantly calling attention either 
 to the smiling landscape, or to the peasantry in their parti-colored 
 costume and large straw flats, their gay bright clothing giving to 
 the whole scene the appearance of a picture. Later in the day 
 the scenery grew wilder : the mountains were taller and stood in 
 closer proximity; the road ran sometimes on a narrow ledge, 
 with a frowning precipice of rock on one side and the river on 
 
152 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 the other, and then, after awhile, turning away from the stream, 
 it pursued its course through a little valley, whose guardian 
 mountains were so near that it seemed as if a stone could be 
 thrown from one summit to the other. The mountain sides 
 were dotted up to the very top with little spots which the travel- 
 ers could see were accustomed to cultivation, while here and 
 there on the steep slope was perched a cottage, which seemed in- 
 accessible to anything except the sure-footed and fearless chamois. 
 Now and then, a cascade made a graceful leap down some tall 
 rocky cliff, and before it reached the deep abyss below was dis- 
 solved into a soft wreath of mist; on every bold mountain top 
 around, the pure snow rested like a crown of pearl; and at last a 
 sudden turn of the road revealed a majestic mountain with its 
 snow-covered sides and its tall summit enveloped in clouds. 
 The driver drew up his horses, and, pointing with his whip, 
 said, with something almost of reverence in his tone : ^ Mont 
 Blanc !" 
 
 It was almost sunset when the travelers reached the little vil- 
 lage of St. Martin's, where they were to spend the night. As 
 soon as they got out of the carriage, Uncle John said ; 
 
 " We have no time to go into the hotel, Charles. We must 
 hasten to the bridge, and if we are fortunate, we shall have a 
 sunset view of Mont Blanc, exceeding in magnificence anything 
 that you have ever seen." 
 
 They walked down to a bridge, spanning the turbulent Arve, 
 and there, at a distance of twelve miles, they stood looking at the 
 monarch of mountains. The summit was still covered with 
 clouds, so that not even the outline was visible ; but the pure soft 
 light of the declining sun rested upon its snow-covered sides, in- 
 vesting it with a beauty that is absolutely indescribable. The 
 travelers gazed in silent wonder : the old man, to whom it was 
 perfectly familiar, realized that there are some scenes in nature 
 so far overreaching the grasp of memory, that they can never be 
 recalled, and every time they are looked upon, it is with new 
 admiration and wonder ; the young traveler was overpowered 
 with the mingled sublimity and beauty so far exceeding his 
 powers of conception ; and the blind child, utterly unconscious 
 of the vision of glory before her, clung to Uncle John's hand, 
 and wondered if the sight was so beautiful that they should 
 enjoy it so quietly. 
 
 Mont Blanc towered before them : not the cold, bald, bleak 
 mountain that Charles's imagination had pictured it ; pure but 
 icy, grand but passionless, beautiful but dead. No ; there was a 
 softness, a warmth, a living beauty, imparted to it which, while 
 it did not diminish its grandeur, so mellowed and subdued 
 
CAMERON HALL. 153 
 
 it, that the heart borrowed warmth from the mountain of eternal 
 snows. Language cannot picture the peculiar beauty of the tint 
 with which the sunlight clothes Mont Blanc. It is not the cold, 
 dead white of the snow as we see it; there is a luminousness 
 about it which perhaps, more nearly than any other earthly object, 
 resembles "the sea of glass mingled with fire," in the Apoca- 
 lypse. 
 
 The travelers waited for the clouds to leave the summit of the 
 mountain, and they were not disappointed. Gradually they were 
 lifted up and dispelled, and at last, clearly defined against the 
 back-ground of the sky, the peak of Mont Blanc stood revealed, 
 climbing far up toward the zenith. How suggestive of strength 
 is the quiet repose of the grand, silent mountain ! What a thought 
 does it awaken of the power of Him who "weighs the mountains 
 in a balance !" 
 
 The silence continued unbroken, for language was not needed 
 there. At last Agnes asked: 
 
 "Are you disappointed, Dr. Charles?" 
 
 "Disappointed at what, Agnes?" 
 
 "At the appearance of the mountain." 
 
 "Oh no, child I that is impossible I" 
 
 " Then why don't you talk ?" 
 
 " I don't want to talk now, Agnes. I only want to see ; eves 
 are all that anybody wants here !" 
 
 How gladly would he have recalled the thoughtless words, as 
 he saw the cloud gather upon the little blind face, and heard the 
 mournful but vain wish : 
 
 "How I wish that I could see !" 
 
 The words went to Uncle John's heart, and he forgot the ma- 
 jestic glory of the scene before him, in his compassion for the 
 sealed eyes and the soul that were shut out from it. It was the 
 first time in his life that he had ever heard Agnes wish for sight, 
 and he thought, sadly: 
 
 "Yes, here, indeed, you are blind, more blind than anywhere 
 else on earth. Here, with the mountain of light full in view, 
 your darkness seems doubly dark." 
 
 The sun had now gone down, the air was keenly cold, and 
 Agnes was tired, so she and Uncle John returned to the house, 
 leaving Charles still standing on the bridge, with his eyes riveted 
 upon the mountain, now growing dim and gray in the twilight. 
 There was a comfortable fire in the hotel, and Uncle John drew 
 Agnes close up to it, and, seating himself beside her, tried to tell 
 her about Mont Blanc. She was interested, but he found that 
 words could not picture such a scene, and though he did not say 
 so, still his heart echoed painfully the childish wish — that she 
 could see. 
 
154 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 Early the next morning, the travelers exchanged their heavy 
 carriage for a light barouche and strong mountain horses, and 
 left St. Martin's for Chamouni, twelve miles distant. The road 
 was a splendid one, but in many places so precipitous that they 
 progressed very slowly. The scenery throughout the whole dis- 
 tance was wildly romantic. Tall, wild mountains stood all around, 
 and the road wound up and around them, revealing, every now 
 and then, through a break in the chain, the pure white summit of 
 Mont Blanc. The nearer they approached it, the better they 
 could estimate its height and grandeur; but they missed the sun- 
 set glow of the evening before, and had no view all that day that 
 was comparable to the one from the bridge of St. Martin's. 
 
 The travelers did not find the lonely and solemn road that they 
 might have expected through such a region. Every little while 
 the ear was arrested by the merry jingle of the little bells with 
 which the horses are always decked for these Alpine excursions, 
 and a carriage came in sight, filled with gay and happy pleasure- 
 seekers. Every few miles, a large wooden cross, with no inscrip- 
 tion except the date, stood like a solemn sentinel beside the road, 
 and if there was something funereal in its blackness, it at least 
 assured the travelers that they were not on a lonely and unknown 
 road. 
 
 During that day's journey, Dr. Beaufort's attention was some- 
 times recalled from the majestic grandeur of the scenery by ob- 
 jects to which his professional eye was attracted by a strange sort 
 of fascination. They were now in the goitre region. Uncle 
 John could not look at the wretched deformity. His heart sick- 
 ened at the sight of the revolting, idiotic stare with which he was 
 regarded, and he turned away in disgust from those huge, fleshy 
 excrescences, sometimes divided into distinct compartments, which 
 hung like a bag from the neck down upon the chest ; but the 
 physician looked with curious interest upon the deformity of 
 which his books had told him, but which he now saw for the first 
 time in all its hideousness. 
 
 Strange, indeed, is it, that such nature should be mingled with 
 such humanity. Here, in the laud where nature has blended with 
 marvelous prodigality the sublime and the beautiful, the grand 
 and the picturesque, strange, indeed, does it seem that she has 
 no child to appreciate and admire her wonders ! Instead of the 
 poetic fancy, the exuberant imagination, the strong intellect that 
 we would expect to be cradled amid such scenes, we find the hid- 
 eous deformity of Cretin idiocy ! The stranger and the foreigner 
 come to gaze and wonder, and foreign tongues exhaust their 
 wealth of epithets in striving to describe the scenery of this en- 
 chanting country, while Switzerland's own children look with 
 
CAMEEON HALL. 155 
 
 unmeaning stare upon the majestic grandeur of their native 
 land 1 
 
 When the travelers arrived at Chamouni, they settled them- 
 selves quietly for several days' sojourn, for Uncle John was de- 
 termined that Charles should have time enough to make the dif- 
 ferent excursions of which this little town is the radiating point. 
 He himself intended to stay with Agnes, only going where she 
 was able to accompany him. 
 
 The morning after their arrival, when they met at the break- 
 fast-table, Charles announced himself ready for the mer de glace. 
 He had procured his guide, and provided himself with an Alpine 
 staff, and declared that he was now equal to any danger or fa- 
 tigue. 
 
 "You will be tired enough, Charles, before you get back. 
 Suppose that I send a mule to meet you this afternoon." 
 
 " No, indeed, sir ! An Alpine traveler can certainly walk a 
 few miles." 
 
 "And yet," replied Uncle John, smiling, "the American Alpine 
 traveler might be glad enough to get upon a mule before he re- 
 turns from the mer de glace. If you take my advice, you will let 
 me send one to meet you, this afternoon, at the Chajjeau.^^ 
 
 "No, sir; it is not necessary. I am sure that it cannot be a 
 very fatiguing expedition, for when the guide asked the two En- 
 glishmen who are going along if they would ride or walk, they 
 laughed at the idea of riding." 
 
 "I suppose so ; but you must not measure your endurance by 
 theirs. You know that they are great pedestrians, and in Swit- 
 zerland you will see as many Englishmen, and women, too, walk- 
 ing, as you see riding." 
 
 Charles, however, insisted that he preferred to walk, and Uncle 
 John watched the party with a quiet smile, as he saw them leave 
 the hotel, so full of expectation and adventure. He knew what 
 was before them, and was satisfied that if his English companions 
 should return unfatigued, Charles, at least, would be tired enough. 
 
 It was a splendid day, cold, and perfectly clear. They found 
 Montauvert very steep, but their slow ascent was not toilsome, as 
 it was relieved by frequent pauses to look at the view spread out 
 beneath their feet. They rested for half an hour at the house on 
 the summit, where they provided themselves with woolen socks 
 over their boots, to enable them to walk securely over the ice, and 
 then commenced the descent to the 7ner de glace. This was 
 speedily accomplished, for it was short and precipitous, and a few 
 slides and jumps brought them down upon the ice. It is not 
 wide at this point, and up and down, as far as the eye can reach, 
 it rests only upon what seems, indeed, a sea of ice. In it are 
 
156 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 crevices and fissures hundreds of feet deep, and upon the brink 
 of the first one of these the party stopped and looked far down 
 into the narrow abyss, whose walls of ice were more exquisitely 
 blue than the clearest October sky. As they listened to the tor- 
 rent that roared and thundered beneath their feet, they felt a mo- 
 mentary insecurity, when they remembered that the frail and 
 treacherous ice formed the only barrier to this rushing stream ; 
 but strong, and seemingly as unyielding as the granite, was the 
 channel through which the waters poured, and upon whose icy 
 sides they made no more impression than if they had been of 
 solid rock. Without tliought of risk or danger, they crossed the 
 sea^^of ice. Oa the other side, the walk was rough, but not other- 
 wise uncomfortaV)le. Later in the season, a thousand little 
 streams are released by the summer sun from their glacier prisons 
 in the Alps, and flowing down the mountain side, intersect the 
 path at short intervals, without either bridge or stepping-stones, 
 and the traveler must walk bravely through them ; but, as yet, 
 they were still locked in their wintry sleep, far away in the 
 mountains, and the pedestrians pursued their way over the dry 
 and rocky ground, looking at and talking of the wonders that 
 were around them. 
 
 After awhile, the path grew narrower, and they walked along 
 singly, and, presently, Charles, who was behind, heard the guide 
 call out : 
 
 ^'Prenez garde !'''' 
 
 They had reached the mauvais pas, a narrow ledge upon the 
 side of a sheer precipice, overhanging an abyss seemingly with- 
 out a bottom. The path was just wide enough to plant the foot 
 securely on; sometimes straight, sometimes winding round the 
 corner of a rock, and sometimes descending by little steps cut in 
 the side of the perpendicular stone. It is just here that the 
 traveler enjoys the finest view of this wonderful scene ; and al- 
 though a false step, or a dizzy brain, would have plunged him into 
 a depth that seemed fathomless, yet Charles could not resist the 
 temptation to look around him. The ice was thrown together 
 in huge, irregular masses, such as the imagination pictures the 
 hummocks of the polar seas; as if the waves, while roaring, and 
 tossing wildly to and fro, had suddenly been arrested and con- 
 gealed, and left forevermore motionless and voiceless. It was a 
 silent sea; no breeze awakened a low, murmuring response from 
 its billows ; the only sound that broke the awful stillness was the 
 occasional crash with which a dismembered fragment left the 
 mighty mass, and the sullen, distant plunge with which it seemed 
 to fall into the very depths of the earth. 
 
 Along this precarious pathway they walked about three hun- 
 
CAMERON HALL. 157 
 
 dred yards, their only support being a frail rope, secured by iron 
 stanchions in the rock. Our travelers were not averse to a suffi- 
 cient amount of danger to give zest to their excursion, neither 
 did they fear their strength of head and nerve, yet it was with a 
 feeling of relief that each one planted his foot once more upon 
 terra firma. 
 
 When they were fairly over, one of the Englishmen drew a long 
 breath, and said, grurablingly: 
 
 " 'Mauvais Pas,^ indeed ! Just like a delicate, mincing French- 
 man, to call a four-inch path along a sheer precipice, hundreds 
 of feet high, a bad step/ If an Englishman had had the 
 naming of that place, he would have called it in plain, down- 
 right terms, 'the dangerous path,' or 'the ledge of the precipice,' 
 or something else that would have given the traveler an idea of 
 what he would have to encounter ; the Frenchman tells him in 
 delicate terms of the uncomfortable, the bad step, and lo ! when 
 he comes to it, he finds a place where any step, for three hundred 
 yards, may easily be a fatal instead of a bad one 1" 
 
 They were still a long distance from the Chapeau, and when 
 they at last reached the house, they were not unwilling to par- 
 take of its refreshment and rest. They stopped here an hour, 
 and not long after they began the descent of the mountain ; 
 Charles regretted that he had not permitted Uncle John to send 
 a mule to meet him here as he had proposed. The rest had com- 
 pletely refreshed his companions, but he was very much fatigued, 
 and found it difficult to keep pace with their rapid step. Long 
 before they reached the foot of the mountain, as Uncle John had 
 prophesied, he was too tired to enjoy the ever- varying prospect 
 which the winding road unfolded. Night had closed in when they 
 arrived at Chamouni, and, thoroughly wearied, Charles went to 
 bed without stopping to give Uncle John the particulars of his 
 excursion. 
 
 The two following days he undertook the other more difficult 
 and dangerous expeditions in the neighborhood. Meanwhile, 
 Uncle John and Agnes took short walks about the village, talk- 
 ing of the objects around them, but most generally calling up 
 a smile by a word about home, or an allusion to their departure 
 from Europe. Swiss air and Swiss travel, even at this early sea- 
 son, seemed to have realized Uncle John's hopes. The roses 
 were beginning to show themselves upon Agnes's pale cheeks, her 
 step was more elastic, and, since the promise of a return home, her 
 spirits had rebounded, and she was always cheerful, and sometimes 
 even gay. All this Uncle John noted with pleasure ; and since the 
 special object of his mission had failed, he was now contented 
 
 14 
 
158 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 with the small compensation of restoring her to her mother, 
 strong and robust. 
 
 They had been in Chamouni three days, when Uncle John 
 said to Charles: 
 
 " There is but one more excursion for you to make from here, 
 unless you intend to ascend Mont Blanc." 
 
 "No, sir, I have no desire to do that at any season, but especi- 
 ally at this time of the year. I like adventure well enough, when 
 there is anything to be gained by it; but the ascent of Mont 
 Blanc, I am sure, would not repay me for the suffering and danger. 
 I would much rathcFv, look upon the grand old mountain from 
 below, than to climb it, and look upon a view which, if not ob- 
 scured by clouds, must be indistinct from distance." 
 
 " Then to-morrow is the last day that we need stay here. 
 While you are gone to the Flegere, I will make the arrange- 
 ments for our departure. There are two mountain passes by 
 which we can reach Martigny, and I leave you to choose be- 
 tween them." 
 
 "A privilege of which I shall not avail myself, sir, since you 
 are much more competent than I am to decide. I shall find 
 enou<2:h to enjoy on either route." 
 
 " Then if I am to choose, I will say the Tete Noire ; and if the 
 weather is good, we will leave here day after to-morrow morning." 
 
 " Very well, sir, I will be ready. You will not go, I suppose, 
 unless it is a clear day." 
 
 " By no means. There is no more forlorn and dreary discom- 
 fort imaginable, than a rainy day in the Alps. Besides, Agnes 
 could not bear such exposure. No, if it is at all threatening we 
 must wait. 
 
 The morning of the departure was clear and bright, and 
 Uncle John left Agnes hovering over the fire, while he went to 
 superintend the arrangements. At ten o'clock they were ready 
 to go. Uncle John, Charles, and the guide were each mounted 
 on a mule, and Agnes, carefully wrapped in her traveling shawl 
 and a blanket, was carried by the guide. She did not object by 
 words to this arrangement, but it was very evident that she did 
 not like it ; she acquiesced, however, when Uncle John told her 
 that she was much safer with the guide than she would be with 
 him. There was of course, little pleasure for her that day, al- 
 though Uncle John rode as near to her as possible, and when- 
 ever it was practicable talked to her. Four hours' riding brought 
 them to the summit of the pass, and they stopped at the little 
 hotel for dinner and rest. Here Uncle John had determined to 
 spend the night, if Agnes should be tired; but her ride, though 
 a lonely one, was not fatiguing, for her guide, interested in 
 
CAMERON HALL. 159 
 
 the blind child, whose weariness he could not even relieve by 
 conversation, had done all that he could to make her comfortable. 
 
 After an hour's rest they mounted their mules again, and soon 
 found themselves following a narrow path, which only admitted 
 one horseman at a time ; and they were in the midst of mountain 
 scenery which, for grandeur and sublimity, is perhaps not ex- 
 celled in the world. Far in the depths below, a roaring torrent 
 boiled and raged ; the precipice of rock frowned above, while in 
 every direction huge rocks were thrown about and heaped up in 
 the wildest chaos, and covered with moss and vegetation, as if the 
 mighty convulsion which had rent them asunder had occurred 
 centuries ago. The whole aspect of nature was that of silent, 
 solemn grandeur. The noise of the torrent, that chafed and 
 thundered below, was so subdued and mellowed by distance that 
 it rather deepened than disturbed the oppressive silence. Some- 
 times the path wound along the ledge of a precipice, from whose 
 abyss below it was protected only by a frail railing that quaked 
 in the mountain breeze, while on the other side, seemingly withia 
 a stone's throw, rose just such a mountain as the one that the 
 travelers were ascending. 
 
 Later in the day, as they emerged from these somber forests, 
 the scenery again assumed the features of the picturesque, and 
 bounding cascades, sparkling glaciers, chalets, and the chamois 
 moving fearlessly along the edge of the precipices, gave life and 
 animation to the scene. About sunset the party reached Martigny. 
 Agnes was very glad to be told that she was at the end of her 
 journey, and when she parted from her guide she thanked him 
 kindly, through Uncle John, who acted as interpreter, for his 
 gentle care, while Uncle John, by some extra francs, gave him a 
 substantial proof of his own appreciation of his kindness. 
 
 The next morning, Charles went to visit the hospice of the 
 Great St. Bernard, where he would spend the night, and rejoin 
 his companions at Yevay, whither they were to go during the 
 day. 
 
 There was nothing at this beautiful Swiss town that Agnes 
 could enjoy. The lovely blue waters of Lake Geneva ; pictur- 
 esque cottages along the road between the town and the Castle of 
 Cbillon, a few miles distant ; the gloomy castle itself, with that 
 dark prison-vault, linked by the poet's genius to immortal verse; 
 the magnificent dahlias of such luxuriant growth and richness of 
 coloring, — all these combine to make Yevay a most interesting 
 and attractive spot to the ordinary traveler, but it could have no 
 charms for a blind child. After dinner, she and Uncle John 
 went out into the yard, and sat down upon a rustic seat under a 
 tree. The fresh breeze and warm sunshine were pleasantly com- 
 
160 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 mingled, and she enjoyed thera as they talked together, while his 
 eyes rested upon a picture of surpassing loveliness. The lake 
 slept in quiet beauty, and, on the opposite side, mountain rose 
 upon mountain in the distance, some covered with snow, and 
 some glowing in the mellow sunlight, while over tlie whole land- 
 scape there rested a soft purple haze, which subdued each rugged 
 outline without obscuring a single feature of the scene. In all 
 his wanderings, Uncle John had never looked upon a lovelier 
 picture, and he fell into a quiet contemplation of it, from which 
 he was aroused by the question : 
 
 ** What are you thinking about, Uncle John ?'" 
 
 He would not tell her that he was enjoying a pleasure which 
 she could not understand ; and so, instead of answering her ques- 
 tion, he asked another : 
 
 "Agnes, the lake is very smooth ; how would you like a sail 
 upon it ?" 
 
 "Very much, indeed. Uncle John." 
 
 " Then come, and we will go at once." 
 
 " How far is it to the lake?" 
 
 " We are on the shore of the lake now. A flight of stone 
 steps leads from this yard, where we are sitting, into the water. 
 At the foot of these steps nicely cushioned boats are moored, 
 whose scarlet flags with white crosses in the center are waving 
 at the stern. We will get into one and have a pleasant sail." 
 
 They rowed over the water until sunset, Agnes enjoying the 
 fresh air, and the pleasure of leaning over the side of the' boat 
 and dipping her hand in the cold waters. When they returned 
 to the hotel they learned that Dr. Beaufort had arrived some time 
 before, and had gone to visit the Castle of Chillon. He did not 
 get back until after nightfall, and was full of the enjoyment of his 
 excursion to St. Bernard, and Agnes fell asleep upon the sofa 
 while he was talking enthusiastically of pleasures which were to 
 her vague and dark unrealities. 
 
 The next morning, they left Yevay in a traveling carriage, 
 drawn by four stout horses, whose little bells jingled merrily as 
 they climbed the mountain. ^Notwithstanding the bracing air 
 and the exhilaration of their mode of traveling, Agnes was to- 
 day weak and languid. She insisted that she was not sick, that 
 she was only tired ; but Uncle John was afraid that, in spite of 
 all his efforts to render the journey easy for her, her strength had 
 been too severely taxed. They reached Fribourg early in the 
 afternoon, and Uncle John was rejoiced that they had at last ar- 
 rived at their destination, and he determined to remain there 
 until Agnes should be thoroughly rested. He felt no anxiety 
 now about her being interested and entertained ; no fear lest the 
 
CAMERON HALL. 161 
 
 time might hang heavily, or the days pass wearily by; he knew 
 that there was for her there an unfailing source of happiness, and 
 that his only difficulty now would be to persuade her to leave 
 when it should be necessary to do so. 
 
 As they drove rapidly through the streets, Charles saw enough 
 to excite his curiosity and make him anxious to study in detail 
 the features of this singular looking place. Its situation is most 
 romantic, the town being divided by immense ravines, spanned 
 by bridges, two of which are suspension bridges, the only link to 
 bind this quaint old town to the present. Everything else seems 
 to belong to the far-distant past, and is black with the smoke and 
 dust and mould of age. Upon one of these bridges, Charles 
 stood and looked with wonder into the ravine below, where men 
 looked almost as small as children. The bridge is said to be as 
 high above the street underneath it as the precipice of Niagara, 
 and it certainly seemed to our traveler to be a dizzy height. He 
 was so absorbed that the gathering clouds failed to attract his 
 attention, when all at once he was aroused by the large heavy 
 drops of rain. The storm came as suddenly and violently as only 
 it can come in mountain countries, and by the time he reached 
 the hotel it was pouring in torrents, with severe thunder and 
 lightning. 
 
 He found Agnes asleep upon the sofa, and Uncle John watch- 
 ing her anxiously. 
 
 ** I am uneasy about her, Charles," he said. 
 
 "There is no occasion for anxiety. Uncle John; it is only 
 fatigue." 
 
 " She was so bright and well at Chamouni. I thought that 
 the Swiss air was going to work wonders for her; but to-day 
 she has been more languid than I have seen her since she left 
 home." 
 
 " That is nothing. Uncle John. The child is tired, and a few 
 days' rest will make her as strong as ever." 
 
 "Everything is adverse to my plans to-night, Charles," said 
 Uncle John, going to the window and looking out at the pouring 
 rain and the flooded streets. '* The rain and her indisposition 
 combine to upset a favorite project of mine." 
 
 "What is that, sir?" 
 
 " It is an old man's whim, which I know will excite a smile, 
 even if it does not awaken a doubt with regard to my sanity. 
 For days I have been indulging a pleasant sort of dream, about 
 taking her asleep to the cathedral, and having her awakened by 
 that wonderful organ music. It would be such a delightful sur- 
 prise to the child. You don't know how much I dislike to give 
 up the idea." 
 
 14* 
 
162 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " The plan is rather impracticable, sir," answered Charles, 
 smiling, "especially on such a night as this." 
 
 " Her condition, Charles, alone renders it impracticable. If I 
 were certain that she was only tired, and not sick, I would not 
 hesitate to try it, for I know that I could protect her from the 
 rain." 
 
 " Why not wait until to-morrow night, as we are to stay here 
 some days ?" 
 
 " Because the organist will not play again, either to-morrow 
 or the next night. He is a professor of music in Berne, and 
 only comes here on certain nights in the week to play for the 
 beuefit of travelers, for many lovers of music come to Fribourg 
 especially to hear his wonderful performance. Besides, I want 
 Agnes to hear the music before she knows what I brought her 
 here for." 
 
 " How is she to get to the cathedral ?" 
 
 " In my arms." 
 
 Charles now laughed outright, and said : 
 
 " Indeed, Uncle John, I must feel your pulse and examine 
 your brain, for you must be either delirious or deranged." 
 
 " No, sir, I am neither, as I will prove to you if you will only 
 give me a professional assurance that Agnes is not sick. My 
 only disease is an old man's desire (perhaps an undue one) to 
 give to a blind child an unexpected pleasure, of whose intensity 
 you can form no idea until you have seen for yourself her great 
 enjoyment. So tell me, first of all, if Agnes has a fever, and if 
 not, then tell me if you will help me to carry out ray plan." 
 
 " She has no fever, I assure you," he replied, feeling her pulse ; 
 "and if I can do anything to help you I will most gladly do it, 
 but I do not believe that it will be possible to carry Agnes to the 
 cathedral without awakening her." 
 
 "I could do it, if it would only stop raining, or if it would 
 even rain in moderation ; but if this storm continues, I do not my- 
 self think that it could be done." 
 
 " You must let me take her, Uncle John ; you are not strong 
 enough." 
 
 " Indeed, J am. I could carry a much heavier burden than 
 her slight weight, and besides the cathedral is a very short dis- 
 tance from here. As to your taking her, you would awaken her 
 in five minutes ; but, old bachelor as I am, I know how to take 
 care of her, for she has gone to sleep in my arms many, many 
 times in her life. So let us make our arrangements to go, and 
 if there should be a lull in the storm we will be ready to take ad- 
 vantage of it. Go down and buy our tickets, which you can do 
 here in the hotel, and see if you can get a lantern." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 163 
 
 The rain still poured, the thunder shook the house, and every 
 now and then a broad bright sheet of lightning lighted up the 
 room. Uncle John walked up and down, thinking of Grace and 
 her disappointment when he should give Agnes back to her, still 
 blind. Presently the servant came with the lamp, and as Uncle 
 John passed by the sofa, he stopped and looked at the sleeping 
 child. Weariness had prostrated her completely, and she lay 
 with her long hair shrouding her face, and her arm thrown over 
 her eyes as if to shade them from the light. 
 
 " No need," he said, " to shade those blind eyes ; would to God 
 there were I" 
 
 After awhile Charles returned, and said that the rain had tem- 
 porarily ceased, and perhaps if they would go at once they could 
 reach the cathedral before it began again. 
 
 Their preparations were soon completed; and when Charles 
 saw the gentleness and dexterity with which Uncle John handled 
 Agnes, he was convinced that, as he himself had said, he knew 
 how to take care of her. 
 
 It was very dark when they went into the street, and the feeble 
 light of the lantern was almost quenched in the surrounding gloom. 
 "When they reached the cathedral they found the doors not yet 
 opened, and they were compelled to stand and wait. As one and 
 another were added to the waiting group, they looked with 
 wonder and curiosity upon the foreigner with his singular burden ; 
 but unconscious that he was the object of interest or remark, 
 he leaned against the heavily carved portal, and in his anxiety 
 to keep Agnes from being awakened he forgot all else. Presently 
 the crowd gave way to a man who approached with a lantern, 
 and motioning Uncle John aside, he swung open the heavy doors. 
 All was black darkness within, except that in the dim distance 
 Uncle John and Charles saw one feeble ray, which they followed, 
 until they found it was the sexton's lantern, by the light of which 
 he was seating persons in the other end of the church. By de- 
 grees, their eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and look- 
 ing around and above them, where two or three glimmering lights 
 betrayed the position of the organ, they selected a seat at a proper 
 distance. 
 
 It was a strange audience that was assembled in the Fribourg 
 cathedral on that stormy night ; men and women and one blind 
 child, some from a distant continent beyond the sea, some from 
 Britannia's Isle, and others who were born and reared in the 
 same old town which had singularly enough produced the sweet- 
 est of organs and the most gifted of musicians. There they all 
 sat in the stillness and darkness of midnight. Scarcely a whisper 
 was heard, and a reverent silence pervaded the assembly. 
 
164 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 Presently the deep trembling tones of the organ broke the 
 stillness, and deeper and louder and more tremulous they grew, 
 until it was difficult to believe that the rushing wind,, of which it 
 was so wonderful an imitation, was not sweeping wildly through 
 the cathedral aisles. 
 
 Uncle John felt a thrill pass through Agnes's frame as she 
 sprang up, and called aloud : 
 
 " Uncle John I" 
 
 He clasped her hand tightly, and whispered : 
 
 "Here I am, Agnes." 
 
 She was satisfied. She knew not, cared not where she was or 
 how she had come there ; she knew that Uncle John was with 
 her, and that she was listening to her own dear organ, and she 
 was happy. 
 
 The strange performance went on. Thunder, lightning, wind, 
 and storm exhausted themselves in wild unearthly music, and 
 then died away in a strain so sweet and low that it might almost 
 have been mistaken for an angel's whisper. Quieker and quicker 
 grew the throb of the childish heart, and tighter was the grasp 
 with which she clung to Uncle John, but she did not speak. It 
 was a double spell that bound him, for he heard the music through 
 Agnes's ears and felt it through her soul. Sometimes its crush- 
 ing power made the stone walls tremble, and then gradually the 
 strain wandered farther and farther away, until all that was left 
 was a soft, sweet echo, so pure and so distant that it might have 
 been awakened in the snowy bosom of the far-away Mont Blanc. 
 
 At length there was a long pause : artist and instrument seemed 
 alike to have exhausted their wealth of harmony. Uncle John's 
 hand had grasped Agnes's shawl, when there stole through the 
 gloom such a strain of heavenly sweetness that his outstretched 
 arm was arrested, and though he was not unfamiliar with this 
 strange music, still he listened in breathless wonder as he had 
 done the first time that he ever heard it. 
 
 Sweeter than the softest flute it floated through the air, and 
 presently another strain was interwoven with it, — a low, subdued, 
 liquid tone of the human voice, that blended with each organ note 
 the most exquisite harmony. It did not strike the ear; the 
 listener knew not that it reached the heart through the medium 
 of a bodily organ ; it seemed to melt and flow at once into the 
 Yery soul. 
 
 Agnes was very still ; she clung closely to Uncle John, and 
 scarcely dared to breathe. 
 
 At length it was all over ; the last note died away, and they 
 waited, but in vain, for another awakening. Presently a soft 
 whisper said : 
 
CAMERON HALL. 165 
 
 "Uncle John, come close." 
 
 He leaned down, and she asked, softly : 
 
 " Uncle John, is it heaven ?" 
 
 He did not reply, but the tears sprang to his eyes, tears of 
 pleasure at the thought that he should have given her so much 
 happiness. 
 
 The audience quietly dispersed. The storm was over ; the 
 elements had ceased their strife, as if to listen, and the spirit of 
 sweet peace had been wafted upon the wings of that music until it 
 seemed to rest upon earth, and air, and sky. 
 
 Agnes did not speak until the fresh air upon her face told her 
 that they were out of doors, and then she only asked : 
 
 "Where have we been, Uncle John ?" 
 
 "In the church, my daughter." 
 
 This was all ; on their way to the hotel she did not say another 
 word. 
 
 When Uncle John left the cathedral, he looked in vain for 
 Charles. He knew that they went in together, and that he had 
 taken a seat near him, but he had not thought of him since. He 
 waited a few minutes at the door, but he did not come, and sup- 
 posing that he must have gone on, he returned with Agnes to the 
 hotel. After seating her upon the sofa. Uncle John waited some 
 minutes for her to tell him how she liked the music, but she was 
 not disposed to talk, and at last he asked : 
 
 "What are you thinking about now, daughter ?" 
 
 " I was thinking that I did not want any eyes to-night." 
 
 "Why not, Agnes ?" 
 
 " Because, Uncle John, ears and soul were enough for me to- 
 night." 
 
 " Would you like to know, Agnes, what I was thinking about 
 while I was listening to that beautiful music ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " I was thanking God that there was one pleasure in this world 
 that my little blind Agnes could enjoy just as much as anybody 
 else. That was what the music said to me all the time." 
 
 "And it said to me, Uncle John, 'Agnes, you do not need any 
 eyes to-night;' and my heart said back, 'No, I do not.' But, 
 oh ! Uncle John, while I listened to that last strain, I forgot that 
 I was blind. I did not think about myself at all. I thought it 
 must be heaven, and that I was listening to the angel's song. I 
 was never, never so happy before !" 
 
 Just then Charles Beaufort burst into the room, saying : 
 
 " I like old cathedrals well enough in the daytime, but I would 
 not care to spend the night in one, as I thought I would have to 
 do to-night." 
 
166 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "How so, Charles?" inquired Uncle John. 
 
 " Well, sir, when I awoke from the trance into which the music 
 had thrown me, I was leaning against a column far away from 
 everybody else, and the people were leaving the church. How I 
 got there, I do not know; but I do know that when I found out 
 that there was a probability of my spending the night in that 
 dark, lonely old church, I stumbled along toward the door with 
 more haste than reverence. I was not far from it when it closed, 
 with a bang, to which I responded with a shout. My cries 
 reached the sexton, who opened it again, and called out some- 
 thing in German, to which I eagerly replied in English, and 
 rushing toward the light cleared the door with a bound, and left 
 him muttering something, which I interpreted as curses upon 
 that same unfortunate 'stupid Englishman' who gets so many 
 maledictions in Paris." 
 
 " I congratulate you upon your escape from prison, Charles," 
 said Uncle John, laughing. "Next time, you must keep your 
 senses about you and be wide awake." 
 
 " I can do so, sir, ordinarily ; but a man is excusable for being 
 somewhat bewildered under such circumstances. Uncle John, I 
 am fully repaid for coming to Fribourg." 
 
 "And I, Charles," he answered, with a glance at Agnes's happy 
 face, "am repaid a thousandfold for whatever fatigue or incon- 
 venience I have encountered in getting here. You see that, 
 after all, the old man's whim proved neither foolish nor imprac- 
 ticable." 
 
 "No, sir, it was a complete success. What did you think, 
 Agnes, when that music woke you ?" 
 
 "I did not think anything, Dr. Charles, I was too happy to 
 think." 
 
 " What did you think of the music ?" 
 
 " I did not think about it at all, sir, I only felt it." 
 
 " That is true, Agnes, and is, perhaps, the very best description 
 that can be given of it." 
 
 Agnes was now thoroughly awake and refreshed, and Uncle 
 John could not persuade her to go to bed. He thought that it was 
 only excitement, but she insisted that the music, to use her own 
 expression, "had rested her." Uncle John and Charles discussed, 
 until a late hour, the instrument and the performer, and their won- 
 derful adaptation to each other ; but Agnes did not talk, nor did 
 she seem to be thinking ; perhaps she was still *'feeling^^ the 
 music. 
 
 When she knelt down that night, she did not know that any 
 other ear save that of her Heavenly Father heard her thank Him 
 for having given her ears instead of eyes ; but Uncle John looked 
 
CAMERON HALL. 167 
 
 with reverence upon that little kneeling figure, and listened with 
 awe to that strange thanksgiving. 
 
 They had been more than a week in Fribourg, and had heard 
 the organ three times. One morning, Uncle John said: 
 
 "Agnes, it is time to leave Fribourg; are you ready ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, if you want to go," she answered, her tone contra- 
 dicting her words. 
 
 "We ought to go, my daughter, if we hope to reach Paris in 
 time for the steamer. You want to go home, don't you ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, I want to go home; but I wish either that my home 
 was in Fribours^, or that the organ and organist were in Hope- 
 dale." 
 
 "I wish, indeed, my daughter, that you could always have ac- 
 cess to such a pleasure, and I am truly glad that I have been 
 able to let you enjoy it once in your life. You know now why 
 I wanted you to come with me to Fribourg, don't you ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; you wanted to hear this organ, and you wanted me 
 to hear it, too." 
 
 " I wanted you to hear it, Agnes, that is all." 
 
 "Don't you like it yourself, TJncle John?" she asked, amazed. 
 
 "Yes, my daughter, few persons could enjoy it more, for you 
 know how dearly I love music; but I have heard it several times 
 before, and should never have undertaken such a journey at my 
 age just to hear it again. No, Agnes, I came here solely for 
 your pleasure, and intended to do so when I left home." 
 
 "Then why didn't you tell me, Uncle John ?" 
 
 "Because I thought that the surprise would make it the more 
 pleasant, and so it did, didn't it ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir. I cannot tell you what a happy feeling it was to be 
 awakened by such music." 
 
 " I am sorry, Agnes, that we must leave this pleasant old mu- 
 sical town, but we will be obliged to go." 
 
 "When, Uncle John?" 
 
 "We ought to go to-morrow."' 
 
 " Then may I go to the cathedral again to-night?" 
 
 "The organist will not play again until to-morrow night. '^ 
 
 "Just once more. Uncle John," she pleaded. "Only stay long 
 enough to let me hear that music once more, and I will not ask 
 again." 
 
 "If we wait, Agnes, until the day after to-morrow, we will 
 have to travel night and day in order to get to Paris in time for 
 the steamer, and I am afraid that you cannot bear the fatigue." 
 
 " Oh, yes, Uncle John, I can bear anything ; and I will not 
 complain once, or say that I am tired, if you will only let me 
 stay." 
 
168 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 He could not resist the childish pleading and the earnest face, 
 and he could not refuse the pleasure to one who had so few. 
 
 The next night, when the last strain of the music had died 
 away forever, it was painfully echoed by the low sob of a child- 
 ish heart, which clung to this one great pleasure of her blind life 
 as she would have done to a dear human friend. 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 "Almost at home, Agnes I" said Uncle John, as from the win- 
 dow of the railway car he caught a glimpse of the spire of Hope- 
 dale Church. "Almost at home, my daughter !" 
 
 They were whirled along through woods and fields all familiar 
 enough to him, but she sat in her blindness, a stranger to scenes 
 among which she had dwelt from her infancy. There was no 
 darkness, however, in her heart or upon her face ; all was the 
 sunshine of joy there, for the thought of home had lifted every 
 cloud from her spirit. 
 
 To the mother the meeting was one of painful pleasure. She 
 had tried hard from the beginning not to hope, and she believed 
 that she had now become accustomed to the thought that hope 
 was vain and effort useless ; but when she saw Uncle John lift 
 Agnes out of the carriage and lead her to the house, just as he 
 used to do, she realized how bitterly she was disappointed ; and 
 when she clasped to her heart her little blind child, as blind as 
 ever, the joy of reunion was for the time lost in sorrow. 
 
 "Take me to the parlor, mother," she said, "where my organ 
 
 is." •«, 
 
 The mother led her into the parlor and seated her at^he organ. 
 "I don't want to play now, mother. I must talk to you first, 
 
 and to my organ next ; but I like to sit here and touch the keys. 
 
 I am so glad, so very glad," she added, with one hand grasping 
 
 her mother's, and the other resting upon the keys, "to be near 
 
 you both once more. Uncle John, mother has dressed the room 
 
 with flowers for us, hasn't she ?" 
 
 "Yes, Agnes, it is full of flowers, but how did you know it?'* 
 "The whole house is perfumed with the yellow jasmine that I 
 
 love so much. I wonder if it is as pretty as it is sweet ?" 
 
 "Yes, Agnes, it is very beautiful, and grows in long garlands, 
 
 and looks just like spring. I think with you, that it is one of 
 
 the sweetest flowers in the world." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 169 
 
 The child talked on in a joyous strain, for she was very happy, 
 and her heart must find some outpouring; but her mother said 
 very little. Uncle John did not stay long. He had met Grace 
 as he had parted from her, kindly, almost tenderly. There was 
 no need to impose any restraint either upon her words or man- 
 ner, for she was too much preoccupied with Agnes to have re- 
 marked it, if there had been more of kindness than ever before. 
 He needed no words to assure him how welcome he was, and how 
 unfeignedly glad she was to see him — her face told all that ; and 
 yet it was so natural, and so much a matter of course, that when 
 he reflected upon it, it gave him no encouragement to hope 
 either that she responded to his feelings, or even suspected what 
 they were. 
 
 When he went home he was welcomed gladly by his servants, 
 and his house wore its most inviting aspect, for Grace and Julia 
 and Eva had used their utmost efforts to make it comfortable, 
 and the choicest flowers from the Hall had been pressed into ser- 
 vice to beautify jt; yet when tJncle John went into the parlor, 
 it looked lonely; when he sought refuge in the library, he turned 
 away from those voiceless companions, and longed for a human 
 friend ; and when he finally wandered into the dining-room and 
 looked upon the tea-table, already spread out, with its solitary, 
 plate, he thought of the social meals to which he had been for 
 months accustomed, with Charles Beaufort opposite him and 
 Agnes at his side, and never since the disappointment of his 
 early life had Uncle John felt so lonely as he did during the first 
 half hour after his return home. i 
 
 He threw himself into an arm-chair by the window, and ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 "Heigh-ho I Uncle John, you will be lonely enough now, old 
 fellow 1 No Charles, no Agnes, nobody to be anxious about, no- 
 body to talk to, nobody's comfort to consult but your own I 
 Heigh-ho I heigh-ho 1 I suppose that you will get accustomed to 
 it afteY awhile, as you were before !" 
 
 "Here he is, sure enough I" exclaimed a merry voice, as two 
 arms encircled him, and a bright face was presented for a kiss. 
 "Uncle John, I am glad to have you at home once more." 
 
 "And I am just as glad to see my sunbeam," he answered. 
 "Why, child, your face has brightened the whole room." 
 
 Julia and her father followed, and Uncle John would have been 
 the most exacting old bachelor in the world if he had desired any 
 more cordial welcome than he received from them all. 
 
 "Whose work is all this, Eva?" said Uncle John, pointing to 
 the vases of flowers, the floras, and the basket hanging in the 
 
 15 
 
170 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 window, with its garlands of jasmine drooping gracefally, and 
 swaying in the breeze. His eves rested most admiringly upon 
 this last, and Eva answered : 
 
 " I knew that it would be so ! Everything that sister does you 
 think is done better than anybody else could do it. AVhen we 
 were arranging these flowers this morning, I said that you would 
 admire her basket more than all the rest.'' 
 
 " But I have not said so, Eva," he replied, laughing. " I have 
 not said that it was handsomer than either the vases or the floras, 
 neither did I know that it was her handiwork. It was vourself, 
 Eva, not Uncle John, who decided in favor of the basket." 
 
 "Ah, Uncle John, I can tell well enough what you think, even 
 without words. However, I believe I must agree with you that 
 it is the prettiest thing in the room." 
 
 " The flowers are all beautiful, Eva, and most tastefully ar- 
 ranged. It is almost a pity that you have wasted your time and 
 taste upon the dwelling of an old^bachelor," 
 
 "They were not wasted. Uncle John. If you are an old 
 bachelor, you love and admire pretty things as much as any- 
 body; and it was just because you had nobody at home to dress 
 up your house to welcome you that we did it." 
 
 " Then, Eva, there is some compensation after all for my 
 bachelorhood, if I can enlist the sym))athies and command the 
 services of warm young hearts and skillful fingers like yours and 
 Julia's. But it is not every old bachelor who is so fortunate." 
 
 "No, sir, because you are not crabbed and crusty as.mpst of 
 them are. You are so easy to please. Uncle John, so little dis- 
 posed to find fault with and complain of the world at large, and 
 your own condition in particular, that nobody would suspect you 
 of being an old bachelor if you did not tell them so." 
 
 " Well, Eva," said her father, " Uncle John doubtless feels 
 obliged for your compliment to him, but it is given at the ex- 
 pense of the whole brotherhood to which he belongs ; and these, 
 I imagine, would not be greatly flattered by your opinion of 
 them as a class." 
 
 " Why, papa, they could not be surprised at it, for their crusti- 
 ness is proverbial, and I know that Uncle John is admitted by 
 everybody to be an exception to them generally." 
 
 "Eva," said Uncle John, "you have given me the sunny side 
 of bachelorhood ; come with me, now, and I will show you its 
 shadow." 
 
 She foHowed him, and so did the others, into the dining-room, 
 and he pointed to the single plate upon the little tea-table. 
 
 " That is what I call the very embodiment of loneliness. I 
 was accustomed to it before I went away ; but now, since I have 
 
CAMERON HALL. 171 
 
 had a little family circle around me, of which I was the center, 
 you have no idea how desolate this looks." 
 
 " It is lonely enough !" answered Eva. " I would not stay 
 here, Uncle John. Come, go home with us, and stay awhile at 
 the Hall, and accustom yourself to this by degrees." 
 
 "A fine way to accustom myself to it," he said, smiling, "to go 
 to the Hall and be for awhile one of your happy, social circle ! 
 No, Eva, this is home, and I must stay here, and I might as well 
 begin at once." 
 
 "Our circle is not so happy and social. Uncle John," she 
 answered, in a low tone, " as it used to be. Papa and sister are 
 now-a-days very often silent and sad." 
 
 Uncle John saw the deep shadow that gathered upon Mr. 
 Cameron's face, and heard Julia's half-uttered sigh. He wondered 
 what could be the cause of that silence and sadness of which 
 Eva had spoken, and which he himself had even thus early re- 
 marked ; but he hastened to chaage the conversation, and said, 
 pleasantly : 
 
 " Well, Eva, if I cannot go home with you, you can all, at 
 least, stay to tea with me to-night, and relieve me of a few 
 hours' loneliness. What do you say ?" 
 
 "With all my heart. Uncle John, if papa and sister will 
 consent." 
 
 They assented ; and when tea was announced, and they went 
 into the room. Uncle John said : 
 
 " Strange, indeed, what a difference is made in the aspect of 
 a table by the addition of two or three cups and plates! When 
 I came in here, an hour ago, I thought that it was the most 
 cheerless looking room that I had ever seen. I^ow it looks quite 
 comfortable. Julia, you must pour out the tea." 
 
 When they were seated at the table, he said : 
 
 " This reminds me of our little round-table in Paris. I played 
 the part of the lady there, and made the tea. Charles sat oppo- 
 site me, and Agnes on my right. We were famous housekeepers 
 there, I assure you." 
 
 " Poor little Agnes !" said Mr. Cameron. " So, after all your 
 trouble. Uncle John, nothing could be done for her !" 
 
 "No, sir; her blindness is total, and life-long." 
 
 " So I was afraid you would find it. I always believed that 
 your effort would be a useless one.'^ 
 
 "Not altogether useless, Mr. Cameron. It is a satisfaction to 
 rae beyond all price to know that I have done all that I could for 
 her. I was not, as you know, very sanguine of success ; and yet, 
 if I had not made the attempt, I should always have reproached 
 myself. I loved the child, and" — he added with a slight hesita- 
 
172 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 tion — " I felt interested in the mother. She was not able to incur 
 the expense of the experiment, which I could do very well. If it 
 had been merely to confer a passing pleasure upon Agnes, I 
 should not have thought it worth so much trouble and incon- 
 venience and anxiety; but to try to give her sight seemed to me 
 a duty. Now that it is done, t am satisfied ; disappointed, it is true, 
 for I hoped more than I was conscious of; but still I am satis- 
 fied, now that it is decreed that she must ever remain blind, and 
 all that we can do for her is to make her as happy as we can 
 under the circumstances." 
 
 Julia looked an earnest approval, but, as usual, said nothing; 
 but Eva spoke out, as she always did, without reserve : 
 
 " I told you so, papa I I told you that Uncle John was dif- 
 ferent from all the other bachelors that ever lived. Show me 
 another anywhere that would be so good and unselfish, especially 
 to a child in no way related to him. I don't believe that there is 
 another Uncle John in the wodd !" 
 
 The hearty sincerity of the speaker, the admiration which he 
 had so unconsciously excited, and the abruptness and unexpect- 
 edness with which she spoke out her feelings, altogether discon- 
 certed Uncle John, and in a moment the crimson flush mounted 
 to his temples. Then he said, quietly: 
 
 " I deserve no credit for what I have done, Eva. It does not 
 argue any very unusual degree of kindness and unselfishness to 
 feel sorry for a blind child, and to be willing to relieve her." 
 
 He changed the subject; and in a few minutes was talking to 
 Mr. Cameron of the condition of the country, and the disastrous 
 results to both sections, of the war just commenced ; a war whose 
 end none could foresee, whose sufferings none could compute. He 
 talked, as he always did, calmly, dispassionately, and reasonably; 
 and Mr. Cameron was impressed, as he had often been, with the 
 justness, the freedom from prejudice, the candor and good sense 
 with which he viewed things. His serenity and evenness of 
 temper were among his most engaging characteristics, and as the 
 heat of passion never obscured the clearness of' his mental per- 
 ceptions, his judgment was generally good and reliable. He 
 spoke of the probable duration of the war, of the absurdity of 
 the expectation of the Federal Government to march a victorious 
 army direct to Richmond, and in sixty days to crush a feeble and 
 powerless rebellion. Again, he foresaw the error of the Southern 
 people in believing that one unsuccessful effort would satisfy their 
 enemies, and that a single victory would drive them back to their 
 homes, never to rally again for the conquest of the South. He 
 foretold the pertinacity and success with which fanaticism would 
 go hand in hand with political ambition, and how for a time they 
 
CAMERON HALL. 173 
 
 would sway the public mind and bend a nation to their will. He 
 spoke of Old Virginia with moistened eyes, and with that love 
 for the dust of his mother State which characterizes all her 
 children, and which time, absence, exile itself, can never eradicate 
 from their hearts. He spoke, and Mr. Cameron responded with 
 a groan rather than a sigh, of her desolated homes, her soil not 
 sprinkled, but literally drenched, with the blood not only of her 
 sons, but with that of the noblest and best of the land ; of her 
 ravaged fields, her ruined farms, her homeless, wandering children, 
 her exiled fathers, her unprotected wives and daughters. Julia's 
 blood ran cold as she listened, for even she had never taken into 
 the account all these horrible evils; but Eva heard the recital 
 with a terror which at first chained her down in breathless si- 
 lence, and then expressed itself in a shiver that thrilled her whole 
 frame. Uncle John saw it, and said, kindly : 
 
 " I was not thinking, daughter. Such themes are not suitable 
 for young ears like yours and Julia's, and it was very thoughtless 
 in me to draw such gloomy pictures. Your father and I have had 
 some experience, and we know that these are the evils that gen- 
 erally follow in the train of war; let us hope, however, my 
 children," he added, with a cheerfulness that he did not feel, 
 " that a kind Providence will in this instance avert many of them, 
 and by shortening the duration of the war, spare us much of its 
 suffering." 
 
 " You need not apologize to the girls, Uncle John," said Mr. 
 Cameron, " for what you hav<e said. You have spoken only the 
 truth." 
 
 " So I have, sir; but the truth need not always be thrust upon 
 ns when it is both unwelcome and unnecessary. There was really 
 little use in rending the veil which mercifully concealed these hor- 
 rors. The revelation can do them no earthly good, but it may 
 inflict upon them, by anticipation, a degree of suffering which 
 they might have been spared at least for some time to come, if 
 not altogether." 
 
 "I shall not anticipate these evils. Uncle John," said Eva, 
 "for that is not my habit, and, moreover, I shall not believe that 
 they are coming until I actually feel them." 
 
 "And I," said Julia, " will act very differently. I shall think 
 about them, and try and familiarize myself with the thought of 
 them, so that if they do come I shall not be so overwhelmed with 
 surprise as not to know how to act." 
 
 "And, meanwhile, make yourself miserable, sister, by expecting 
 evils that may perhaps never come." 
 
 " No, Eva, not at all. I shall not necessarily expect them. I 
 
 15* 
 
 y 
 
174 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 shall onlv look npon them as probable, and by reflecting npon 
 them before they come, trying to decide What is right for me to 
 do, I shall be prepared to meet any emergency." 
 
 " There spoke my own daughter 1" said Mr. Cameron, approv- 
 ingly. 
 
 "I think, Julia," said Uncle John, "that you will find it diffi- 
 cult to decide what you are going to do, unless you really expect 
 the emergency." 
 
 "It may be difficult, Uncle John," she answered modestly, 
 "but I do not thii:k that it is impossible. I do not know what 
 is necessary for others, but for mvself I do know that reflection is 
 always needful. I never can act wisely and properly when I am 
 suddenly and unexpectedly brought face to face with a great 
 issue My judgment is sure to be influenced by surrounding cir- 
 cumstances, and I become bewildered, and sometimes cannot tell 
 right from wrong; so that I should greatly deplore the necessity 
 of deciding some great and important question suddenly, especi- 
 ally if I were in the midst of circumstances which would make 
 it more easy, or more comfortable, or safer to do the wrong than 
 the right." 
 
 "I believe, daughter, replied Uncle John, "that you are right, 
 as usual. You are not sorry, then, to have looked upon the pic- 
 ture of the realities of war ?" 
 
 " No, sir. T was at first both startled and astonished ; but I 
 would rather be so now, than to have evils, of whose existence 
 I never dreamed hurled suddenly and unexpectedly upon me. 
 I would rather know that the mountain on whose green slope I 
 had made my home was a volcano, than to learn it for the first 
 time by being awakened from a quiet sleep to see the glare of 
 the lava stream and to feel the stifling ashes of the eruption. 
 No, Uncle John, I am not sorry that you have told me this to- 
 night. Whatever may come now, I shall not be startled and 
 unprepared." 
 
 "Unprepared, sister I" exclaimed Eva. "What preparation 
 can anybody make to meet such evils as Uncle John has de- 
 scribed ?" 
 
 " I think, Eva, that it is no small advantage to have looked 
 them calmly in the face beforehand. Any calamity is greatly in- 
 creased by suddenness. It seems to me that there is a difference 
 between making one's self miserable by anticipating evil, and 
 quietly familiarizing one's self with the thought of it when it is 
 not only possible but probable. The one is a want of faith, the 
 other is a Christian duty." 
 
 " Well, sister, I hope that if it ever comes I shall be able to 
 bear it like a Christian, but I cannot help being sorry to have 
 
CAMERON HALL. 175 
 
 heard of it beforehand ; for if I allow myself to think of it, I shall 
 be all the time terrified and miserable." 
 
 " Then, child," said Uncle John, "try and forget what I have 
 said, and God grant that you may never know more of the evils 
 of war than you have felt to-night while listening to my fancy 
 sketch!" ^ 
 
 He could not bear the unusual sight of a cloud upon that bright 
 face, and he added, cheerfully : 
 
 ^ '' Never mind, daughter I "there is a bright as well as a dark 
 side to the picture, and you shall look upon that; and when papa 
 and Uncle John are captain and first lieutenant of the old men's 
 company, you and Julia shall make our uniforms. The Con- 
 federate gray will correspond with our hair, and I flatter myself 
 that we will make very respectable looking officers." 
 
 The cloud did not clear away as he expected, but it rather 
 deepened, and he saw the tears come into her eyes, as she ex- 
 claimed ; 
 
 "Oh, no, Uncle John, never I It almost broke my heart to 
 send Walter off, although he was young, and I knew tha't he ought 
 to go ; but I could not bear to see you go, old man as you are, and 
 as to papa, that is not to be thought of I I cannot give up my 
 father, even to my country !" 
 
 The father's eyes moistened as he looked at his young daugh- 
 ters and thought how desolate they would indeed be if he should 
 be compelled to leave them, but he answered : 
 
 "You will scarcely be called upon to give up your father, my 
 daughter. The country will have need of strong young men ; 
 old ones such as Uncle John and I would only serve to fill up 
 hospitals instead of ranks, and would require nursing instead of 
 doing active service. But what says my other daughter ? Julia, 
 if I go into the army, will you make my uniform ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir. I will make your uniform, and, God helping me, 
 will see you go without one remonstrance or one word of com- 
 plaint to add to your burden of anxiety at the thought of leaving 
 us unprotected. I pray, papa, that I may be spared such a trial; 
 but if the country has need of you, and it is right for you to go, I 
 trust that I shall be enabled to bear it bravely as a Christian 
 Southern woman ought to do." 
 
 The conversation had now become not only serious, it was 
 positively sad, and Uncle John exclaimed : 
 
 " Come, come, girls, this will never do ! It is entirely out of 
 the question to give me such a welcome after so long an ab- 
 sence I Come, and I will tell you what we did and saw in the 
 old countries, and of the pleasures that even a blind child found 
 there." 
 
176 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 And then he told them how they spent their time on the 
 steamer, and of Agnes's strange friend ; of their life in Paris, and 
 their journey over the Alps, and Charles's keen enjoyment of it; 
 and of Agnes's delight in listening to the Fribourg organ. 
 
 Uncle Jolm talked well, and the girls listened with pleasure 
 to what Eva called his " traveler's tales." She asked many ques- 
 tions about his friend, the doctor, and Uncle John soon saw the 
 cloud all dispelled and her face as sunny as ever. 
 
 "By the way, Eva," he said, "this is the very first question 
 that you have asked about your knight. I am afraid that yoa 
 have lost your interest in him. You have not even asked if I 
 brought him home with me." 
 
 " No, sir, because you said in one of your letters that he would 
 not return before the end of the year." 
 
 "Yes, but that letter was written before we heard of Ihe dec- 
 laration of war. Do you suppose that he would have remained 
 in Europe after that ?" 
 
 " I don't think that he ought to have done it, Uncle John, but 
 I do not know how he would feel and act." 
 
 "What do you think, Julia ?" he asked. 
 
 She colored, but there was no evading the question, and she 
 answered, truthfully: 
 
 " If I have read his character aright. Uncle John, I should 
 think that he would certainly have returned home." 
 
 "And you are not mistaken, Julia. I parted with him at Rich- 
 mond." 
 
 " Oh !" exclaimed Eva, " I am so glad that he has come I I 
 shall be really delighted to see him once more." 
 
 " Which you will probably do before long, Eva, as he is 
 coming to say good-by to me on his way to the army. He has 
 gone to spend a week or so at home, and will then join the troops 
 in Virginia. The very night that he received the news of the fall 
 of Sumter, he wrote to his brother to raise a company for him by 
 the time he returned, the expense of whose equipment he and I 
 are jointly to bear." 
 
 " When is he coming. Uncle John?" 
 
 " I do not know exactly when, but just as soon as possible. 
 He is very much in earnest, and will not delay unnecessarily." 
 
 The rest of the evening passed pleasantly enough, and the 
 elastic-hearted child forgot all the shadows that had so clouded 
 her spirit an hour before. When she bade Uncle John good- 
 night, she said: 
 
 " Will you come to the Hall to-morrow. Uncle John ? We 
 need you more than ever, for it is lonely now." 
 
 " Yes, daughter, I will come to-morrow. I expect to be 
 
CAMERON HALL. 17T 
 
 oftener at the Hall than ever, at least for some time to come, 
 until the aspect of my bachelor home becomes again familiar and 
 more tolerable." 
 
 After they were gone he went back into the parlor and looked 
 round upon its empty chairs. The porch and the moonlight 
 seemed less lonely than this, so he wheeled his arm-chair into 
 the porch, and drawing a match, he said, as he lighted a cigar : 
 
 "This friend, at least, I have access to at all times and under 
 all circumstances. I wish that Charles would come along : this 
 sudden relapse into solitary bachelorhood is intolerable !" 
 
 Uncle John puffed, and dreamed, and hoped, and feared all 
 alone in the quiet moonlight; and could his two young friends 
 have looked into his heart and have seen the tumult that was 
 hidden under his calm exterior, they would have been greatly 
 amazed, and their astonishment would not have been lessened 
 to have known that the quiet Grace Merton was the cause of 
 it all. 
 
 Uncle John had been in early life impulsive almost to rash- 
 ness ; but the discipline of circumstances and his own studied 
 efforts at self-control had taught him to govern himself, so that 
 he could generally rely upon his ability to curb and restrain his 
 feelings. It did not occur to him that the task would be a harder 
 one at this time than it had been since his youth, and he thought 
 that now, as ever, he bad but to determine, and his feelings would 
 at once yield to his will. But for once he had over-estimated 
 his powers of self-control ; and when he resolved that for the 
 present he would lock up his feelings in his own breast, and that 
 neither word, look, nor act should betray them to Grace or to 
 any one else, he little dreamed that he was imposing upon him- 
 self an impossible task. Had any one predicted that he would 
 have been overcome and carried away by his feelings, he would 
 have spurned the idea as being an impossible weakness for an 
 old man like himself, although natural and probable for a boy 
 like Charles Beaufort. Ah, Uncle John I there are some things 
 in which, despite your gray hairs and experience, you are still a 
 boy, and those who love you best would not have it otherwise. 
 
 The next morning, after breakfast, he went to the cottage to 
 see Grace and Agnes. There was no unusual throb of his heart; 
 no, he had reasoned that down last night, and now he could talk 
 to Grace and listen to her as quietly and calmly as he had done 
 before he suspected that Agnes was not the only tie which drew 
 him there daily. 
 
 In the excitement of arrival, and during the few minutes that 
 he was there the evening before, he had not observed the wan, 
 careworn, wearied expression that was so evident this morning, 
 
178 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 t 
 
 and which it pained him to see. Grace Was sadly changed since 
 he had parted from her, — a change, too, which he thought could 
 not altogether be accounted for by her anxiety and disappoint- 
 ment. He was afraid that there was some new cause of sorrow, 
 for which even the pleasure of her child's return could not afford 
 compensation. 
 
 The first inquiry was for Agnes. She was still asleep, and her 
 mother said that she was not sick, but she was exhausted with the 
 excitement of pleasure. 
 
 Grace felt as she had ever done, free and unreserved with Uncle 
 John. To the affection which had first been awakened by kind- 
 ness to and interest in her afflicted child, was now added the tie 
 of gratitude which only a mother could feel for a kindness such 
 as he had shown. Like Uncle John, she, too, believed that Agnes 
 was the strong tie that bound him to her, and that the unselfish 
 friendship which she had enjoyed for years, and which she so 
 much valued, belonged to her rather as Agnes's mother than to 
 herself individually. Altogether unconscious of the existence of 
 any other feelings toward her, she greeted Uncle John this morn- 
 ing gladly and kindly. They talked just as they had done for 
 years; and however much she had wondered at the unaccountable 
 reserve of his letters, the moment that she met him she saw and 
 felt that he was the same Uncle John of old, and every feeling of 
 restraint was at once swept away. She told him frankly how 
 very glad she was to have him at home once more, how much 
 she had missed his daily visits, and how frequently she had felt 
 the need of his kind and judicious advice. Then she spoke of her 
 disappointment; and as in that instant the recollection rushed 
 upon her that her whole life had been one long sorrow, and that 
 disappointment in every form and with every aggravation had 
 been her constant discipline, she did wh%t she had never done 
 before; she said, with a wearied though patient expression: 
 
 " But, Uncle John, there ought to be no such feeling as disap- 
 pointment to me. I have known nothing else in my life, and 
 ought to have learned by this time never to expect anything that 
 I greatly desire." 
 
 It was the uncomplaining submission of her tone and manner, 
 rather than what she said, that swept away all Uncle John's self- 
 imposed restraint like a barrier of sand before a rushing stream. 
 Before he thought what he was doing, he had said: 
 
 *' We have both known disappointment, Grace; but, God help- 
 ing me, if you will but give me the right, I will see to it that you 
 never know more of it, if the love and protection and care of an 
 old man can shield you from it I Grace," he added, hurriedly, 
 " my heart is not so old but that it can feel a fervent love for you j 
 
CAMERON HALL. 179 
 
 and to shield you, gnard you, love you, will be all the happiness 
 that I will ask in my old age I" 
 
 He was answered by a low cry, as with clasped hands and sup- 
 plicating look, she exclaimed : 
 
 "Oh, Uncle John, have mercy upon me, and speak not such 
 another word I Indeed, indeed you know not what you ask. Oh, 
 God I oh, God !" she said, almost wildly, " has it come to this ? 
 Is there still another disappointment in store for me, and must I 
 thus lose the best friend that my child and I have ever had ?" 
 
 Uncle John was startled and amazed. All this was so dif- 
 ferent from anything that he had ever seen in her before ; the 
 wild words and wilder manner were such a singular contrast to 
 her accustomed patient and gentle serenity, that he looked at 
 her for some minutes in speechless surprise. Then, taking her 
 hand kindly, he said : 
 
 " No, Grace, while I live you shall not lose your best friend. 
 If I may not be anything nearer to you, I will still be the same 
 Uncle John; and if I may not enjoy the happiness that I crave, 
 I will try and content myself with the lesser one, and my life's 
 pleasure shall still be to do what I can to make you and Agnes 
 happy. I can do this," he added, with inexpressible sadness, 
 "for the discipline of my life, like yours, has taught me to bear 
 disappointment." 
 
 His words and tone smote her to the heart, and it required all 
 her efforts to answer : 
 
 "I am not ungrateful. Uncle John, nor do I carelessly spurn 
 the love that you have offered me. I cannot tell you why I may 
 not listen to such words; I can only implore you never again to 
 speak them, and at the same time beg you still to be to me the 
 friend that you have ever been. God \nows that I value your 
 friendship more than any earthly blessing, and if that were taken 
 away, I should be desolate indeed 1" 
 
 " It shall not be taken away, Grace. We may not forget the 
 words that I have spoken this morning, for that is impossible, 
 but we may at least agree that they shall not affect our future in- 
 tercourse ; that you will regard me in the same light that you did 
 before they were spoken, and will come to me, as you have long 
 done, for counsel and sympathy in all your perplexities and 
 troubles." 
 
 "God bless you for that, Uncle John !" she exclaimed ; "best 
 and most unselfish of men ! and may He reward you for all your 
 kindness to a desolate mother and a blind child ! I cannot talk 
 to you any more now. Go, and come again some time fo-day to 
 see Agnes. When next I meet you, you will find me as calm and 
 quiet and sad as you have ever known me, and as I must alwavs 
 be." ^ 
 
180 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 Uncle John walked home dreamily and absently. He had not 
 yet sufficiently recovered from his Surprise to think, nor could he 
 yet realize how many hopes of happiness he had based upon 
 those few words which it required but a moment to speak, a 
 moment to answer ! He thought of himself for the first time as 
 he entered his quiet home, where the eclio of his own footsteps 
 was the only sound that broke the stillness ; and throwing him- 
 self into a chair, he drew a long, deep sigh, as he thought that 
 his hopes had yanished with the breath that gave them utterance. 
 He sat for a long time in a gloomy reverie. A shadow was upon 
 the face that was generally lighted up by the cheerful spirit and 
 the kind, unselfish heart within. He thought of the blight upon 
 his early life, and its repetition now, and was for a little while 
 almost inclined to find fault with the decree that had inexorably 
 condemned a heart so warm and afi'ectionate as he knew his to 
 be to a life utterly devoid of those objects most calculated to 
 draw out its affections and engage its sympathies. He felt more 
 lonely than ever, for now he knew that there was no end to it this 
 side of the grave, and life seemed to him as long and dreary in the 
 prospect as if he were standing on its threshold instead of ap- 
 proaching its close. 
 
 The time passed by, but he took no note of it until he was 
 aroused by his servant, who came to say that the horse which he 
 had ordered to ride out to the Hall had been standing at the 
 gate two hours. 
 
 He intended to ride rapidly through the streets, for he did not 
 want to see anybody; and he even regretted the promise to Eva, 
 which obliged him to go to the Hall ; but Uncle John could never, 
 at any time, pass rapidly through the streets of Hopedale, much 
 less could he hope to do so now, when he had only the day before 
 returned after several months absence. He was stopped almost 
 every minute to receive the welcome of the men, women, and 
 children, who were sincerely glad to see him once more among 
 them, and he had a kind word and a cordial greeting for them 
 all, and none suspected that Uncle John, who was the same out- 
 wardly that he used to be, now carried such a heavy heart. After 
 he had passed the suburbs, he plied his whip, and riding rapidly 
 forward, soon entered into the pleasant shade of a beautiful 
 grove not far from the Hall. Its quiet shadow and cool breeze, 
 so refreshing in a hot June day, were favorable to reverie, and 
 letting the reins fall upon his horse's neck, he was soon again 
 musing sadly upon his fate. This time, however, it did not last 
 long. With a start and an efi'ort he aroused himself, saying : 
 
 *' This will never do 1 I am old Uncle John now, and surely 
 ought not to shrink under disappointment, as I did thirty years 
 
CAMERON HALL. 181 
 
 ago, when I first learned what it was ! I have wasted time 
 enough in useless repining and quarreling with my destiny. I 
 am older and wiser now, and if I am denied the pleasures of life 
 tnyself, I must learn to be contented to afford them to others !" 
 
 He put spurs to his horse, and a few minutes brought him to 
 the old familiar Hall, with its young faces and warm hearts and 
 cordial welcome ; and as he walked in, a prisoner between the 
 girls, holding one by each hand, he felt already that he had been 
 ungrateful in thinking his life a joyless one, when he had such an 
 asylum as this, where he might find aS*ection and sympathy in any 
 measure that the most exacting heart could demand. 
 
 Eva rallied him upon his fashionable hours, but he quietly and 
 good-humoredly parried her questions as to the cause of his de- 
 lay ; and if he was a shade more thoughtful than usual, and less 
 disposed to teaze her, she did not observe it. 
 
 The shadow upon that family circle, which they could not alto- 
 gether conceal the night before, was very evident now to Uncle 
 John. There were lines of care about Mr. Cameron's mouth, 
 and a cloud upon his brow, which he had never seen there be- 
 fore, and there was in Julia's manner a sad listlessness altogether 
 unnatural. Eva only was the same; light-hearted, frolicsome, 
 and happy, delighted to have dear old Uncle John back again, 
 and expressing her pleasure in every look, act, and word. 
 
 Uncle John was not too much engrossed with his own trouble 
 to be indifferent to that of his friends ; and as he looked upon 
 Julia's sad face, he determined to find out before he went home 
 what it was, and relieve it if he could. She little dreamed that 
 he had already discovered what she so faithfully endeavored to 
 conceal. Not an inconsiderable part of her trial was that she 
 was shut out from sympathy; that she must lock up her feelings 
 in her own breast and seal her lips ; and not to father, sister, or 
 friend could she consent to speak of the traitor brother of whom 
 she thought by day and by night. It was the first barrier of 
 reserve that had ever arisen between herself and Uncle John ; and 
 while she had painfully thought of it before, she had never realized 
 it until she met him again and felt that even he, her own and her 
 father's best friend, must hear of their trouble from stranger lips, 
 but never from themselves. And since she might not tell him, 
 she did not want him to suspect how deeply she was wounded, 
 and she tried hard in his presence to be her usual self; but he 
 knew her too well to be deceived for a moment, and he saw 
 plainly that something was wrong, even while he was at a loss to 
 conjecture what it was. 
 
 In the evening, just before sunset, Eva said : 
 
 16 
 
182 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "Sister, I have ordered the horses for us to take a ride. I 
 want to show Uncle John our large, beautiful wheat fields, and 
 how many acres papa has planted in corn." 
 
 " That ride, Eva," he replied, " I must take another day. You 
 may mount Dixie and go where you please, but Julia must go 
 with me to walk in the grove. I have something to say to her." 
 
 "Now, Uncle John," she answered, laughing, "it is intolerable 
 for you to begin to show your partiality so early. I did hope 
 that absence would have taught you to appreciate me properly; 
 but if it did not, and if sister should still be the favorite, you 
 would, at least, have learned not to show it so plainly." 
 
 "I needed no absence to teach me to value you, daughter," he 
 said ; " nor do I design to show any great partiality to your sister 
 now. Some of these days I may have a little private conversa- 
 tion for you, too." 
 
 " Never mind," she answered, as she sprang lightly upon her 
 horse, "you may tell sister just as many secrets as you please, 
 and I will know them all before I go to sleep to-night, and Dixie 
 and I will have a nice ride besides." 
 
 So saying, she touched the horse with her whip, and, with 
 Carlo following, dashed down the lawn and through the gate be- 
 fore her father had mounted. 
 
 " Full of life and health and happiness," said Uncle John to 
 Julia, as they watched her, with her curls flying in the breeze and 
 her cheeks glowing like roses. " May her heart never be heavier 
 than it is this moment!" 
 
 They walked down to the grove, whose lengthened shadows had 
 anticipated the quiet repose of twilight. Neither talked much; 
 and, after awhile, coming to a fallen log near the path, he led her 
 to it, and seating her upon it, took his place beside her. 
 
 " My daughter," he said, as he looked into her eyes, " some- 
 thing troubles you, and has troubled you all day; may I not know 
 it, and comfort you if I can, and sympathise with you if I cannot 
 comfort ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," she answered, truthfully, "something troubles me, 
 and has done so, not only to-day, but many days and weeks ; but 
 don't ask me what it is. I cannot tell you, Uncle John. It is a 
 sorrow which I must bear all alone, one which shuts me out alike 
 from comfort and sympathy." 
 
 " No, Julia, that cannot be. Give me the privilege, and see if 
 you are not wholly wrong." 
 
 "No, Uncle John, I cannot tell you." 
 
 She paused a moment ; the long pent-up feelings struggled 
 for utterance, but she kept them back, and only said, with bit- 
 terness : 
 
CAMERON HALL. 183 
 
 "You will learn it soon enough. Everybody can and will tell 
 you, except her who feels it most, whom most it galls." 
 
 "Why, my daughter, what can you mean ? This is more than 
 sorrow, Julia ; it has a keener sting than mere grief. Everybody 
 knows it, yet nobody can sympathize ; everybody is talking about 
 it, yet you cannot tell me I I confess that I do not understand 
 you." 
 
 There was a few minutes' painful silence. Julia bit her lips in 
 the vain effort to crush her feehngs, but it would not do. Pres- 
 ently she sprang up and stood erect before him. Her cheeks 
 burned, and she trembled from head to foot, as she said : 
 
 " Uncle John, you shall not hear it first from indifferent and 
 careless tongues, who will discuss it as they would any other 
 piece of idle gossip. From a Cameron's lips you shall first hear 
 of a Cameron's disgrace ! Read this." 
 
 So saying, she drew from her bosom a scrap of newspaper, 
 wrinkled and worn, and as she gave it to him, she said : 
 
 "It is the brand of our disgrace ! Our name is now no longer 
 stainless !" 
 
 Uncle John read in surprise and sorrow. If he had been a 
 stranger to her, there was that in her attitude and manner which 
 would have betrayed the keenness of the pang; but, knowing her 
 as he did, he fully realized that she had been touched where she 
 was most sensitive. 
 
 He drew her down to her seat again, and giving her back the 
 paper, held her hand in silence. Presently she drew it away, and 
 said, hurriedly : 
 
 "I told you so; I told you that I could have neither sympathy 
 nor comfort I Even you, the kindest and best of men, have no- 
 thing of either to offer me. We are severed, now, even from 
 you." 
 
 "My dear daughter," he answered, earnestly, "you ought to 
 know me better than that. For your brother I have the most 
 profound pity, and for you the most sincere sympathy, and it 
 would take much, very much more than this, to sever me from 
 you. But, indeed, Julia, I think that your feelings and notions 
 about this matter, while they are natural and proper to a certain 
 degree, are, nevertheless, in this particular instance, morbid and 
 exaggerated. Your brother has done wrong, grossly wrong, and 
 I tell you frankly that I think he has disgraced himself; but the 
 disgrace does not and cannot extend to any other member of the 
 family." 
 
 "Ah !" she answered, shaking her head, " he is son and brother, 
 bone of our bone and flesh of our flesh, and his conduct must 
 act not only upon himself, but also reflectively upon us. It is 
 
184 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 true that he has always seemed to me more like a stranger than 
 a brother, but my feelings do not alter the facts. He is my bro- 
 ther still, my father's son !" 
 
 " He is not identified with your family, Julia. Few have known 
 you more intimately than myself, and yet the name of George is 
 never associated in my mind with the rest of you. At the age 
 when he most needed restraint and control, he voluntarily severed 
 all the ties of home and family, and has chosen to continue an 
 exile ever since. You, at home, cannot be held responsible for 
 the views that he may entertain or the principles by which he is 
 governed, nor can his actions possibly reflect upon you. Another 
 thing, Julia ; his conduct will not be regarded by everybody as 
 you look upon it. There are many people who will sustain and 
 laud him for his loyalty to the United States; and the fact that 
 he is by birth a Southerner, so far from branding him with shame, 
 will, in their eyes, render him only the more deserving of ap- 
 plause. It will not be looked upon in the same light as if in a 
 war with England he should enrol himself with the enemy." 
 
 "How the world will regard it, Uncle John, is a secondary 
 consideration, although I would, of course, greatly prefer that he 
 and all the rest of us should stand fair and unblemished in the 
 eyes of men.; but I am speaking now of the right, the moral right 
 of the action. If it is treason to co-operate with oue enemy 
 against your country, it is with another. I cannot see that it 
 makes the least difference whether the enemy is an Englishman 
 or a Yankee, and so I think it must be viewed by all right-minded 
 people. And since, however unjust it may be, it is nevertheless 
 true, that the conduct of one member of a family affects the char- 
 acter of the whole, it follows that the stain of George's treason 
 must cling to the rest of us. His name is ours; his father is our 
 father ; the mother, whose heart was broken by her undutiful son, 
 was our mother too. Ah, that mother ! how often I have needed 
 her, how often I have longed to have her back I 'Sow I thank 
 God that she sleeps too quietly to suffer as we do ! Better, far 
 better, that we, her children, should always have needed her, al- 
 ways have longed for her, than that she should have lived to see 
 her first-born son a traitor I" 
 
 There was another pause. Uncle John saw that she was right, 
 that she could not be comforted ; and, however morbid he con- 
 sidered her views and feelings, he found that thus far, at least, they 
 had proved too strong to be reached by his arguments. Pres- 
 ently he said, abruptly: 
 
 " My daughter, will you allow me the privilege of very plain 
 speech ? Will you forgive me if I find fault with you in this 
 matter ?" 
 
CAMERON HALL. 185 
 
 " I can never have anything to forgive you, Uncle John ; and as 
 to being found fault with, it is not pleasant, but it is sometimes 
 necessary; and if I had had more of it in my childhood, I would 
 have been the better for it now." 
 
 " Then, Julia, I will say frankly that I think you are doing 
 wrong, very wrong, just now. If you will look into your heart, 
 you will find that you are nursing these morbid feelings. I 
 would not undervalue your trial, for I know that it must be a 
 hard one for such a proud spirit as yours to bear; but at the 
 same time, my child, you certainly exaggerate it. The case 
 would be very different if it were your father or Walter; then I 
 grant you that in bitterness and keenness no sorrow could equal 
 it; but it is an unnatural sensitiveness for you to feel as you do 
 with reference to George, who, if a brother, is likewise a stranger, 
 and made so by his own voluntary act. And as to your wearing 
 that little scrap of paper about your person, I did not think that 
 you, with your sound judgment and correct notions, would do 
 such a thing. Tell me what makes you do it?" 
 
 " I wear it that I may never forget that the name which has 
 always been my pride is now linked to dishonor. Oh, Uncle 
 John, you do not, you cannot know with what pride and pleas- 
 ure I have always thought of my stainless name ! how I have 
 clung to it, and valued it more than I would acres rich with Cal- 
 ifornia gold ! I loved the very sound of Cameron. To others 
 there may be nothing musical in it, but to me it has always been 
 associated with everythicg that was noble and generous, and far 
 removed from everything that was mean and ignoble and contempt- 
 ible. Papa has taught me to value it, for he has often told me 
 of his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, honest, noble, 
 high-souled men. He loved to talk of them, and I loved to lis- 
 ten, and to feel that my name was theirs. God only knows the 
 bitterness of the thought that henceforth I must despise it ! In- 
 deed, indeed, my pride must have been a grievous sin to have 
 needed such a punishment I" 
 
 " Exaggerated notions, all, my daughter ! While there is a 
 living man to know and understand and appreciate your father 
 and his children, the name of Cameron is not and cannot be 
 allied to shame and contempt. And I think that you are mis- 
 taken, too, in imagining that you are being punished for excessive 
 pride. Thoroughly to appreciate, enjoy, and rejoice in the bless- 
 ings of life, whatever they may be, cannot be a sin ; it must rather 
 be a Christian duty. Pride in an unsullied name and family honor 
 cannot be wrong, for the Bible itself teaches its priceless value ; 
 but if it were, are you doing anything to eradicate it when you 
 wear that torturing piece of paper in your bosom? It seems to 
 
 IG* 
 
186 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 me more like thrusting the barb in deeper, than healing the 
 wound. Now, my child, throw that paper away. Be distressed 
 and mortified, if you will, at your brother's course, for that is 
 natural and proper ; but do not think that father, Julia, Walter, 
 and Eva are disgraced, for that never will, never can be !" 
 
 " Father I she repeated. Ah, Uncle John, that is the most 
 intolerable thought of all 1 It was a crushing blow to him ; he 
 could have borne anything else better. Never, never while I live 
 can I forget the tone of mingled sorrow and bitterness with which, 
 as he threw the fatal newspaper to me, he repeated the word 
 ' disgrace I disgrace I' " 
 
 "Yes, Julia, he is like yon, and this thing will prey upon him 
 more than it ought to do. Daughter," he added, suddenly, "do 
 you regret having spoken to me upon this subject ? Do you 
 think that it was overstepping the bounds of friendship for me to 
 have, as it were, extorted this confidence ?" 
 
 "By no means. Uncle John. On the contrary, I thank you 
 for having done so, for indeed I have sorely felt the need of 
 sympathy. I never could have persuaded myself to speak to 
 you voluntarily upon such a subject, and yet I thank you more 
 than I can tell for your words of kindness and advice." 
 
 "Well, my daughter, if it has been acceptable to you, perhaps 
 it might be to your father also. Suppose that I talk to him 
 freely as I have done to you, and give him the opportunity which, 
 like you, he will never seek himself, of unburdening his heart to 
 his old friend." • 
 
 "No, Uncle John," she answered, sadly, "it is best not. 
 Papa's is a proud spirit; and while he would appreciate and 
 value your sympathy, it would yet be more than counterbalanced 
 by the galling thought of its cause. If anybody could speak to 
 papa, I could; and yet, although I have carefully watched my op- 
 portunity, I have never yet seen him when I thought that an 
 allusion to our common sorrow would be anything but an aggra- 
 vation of its bitterness. Poor papa I It is a grievous burden, 
 but he prefers to bear it alone." 
 
 They now returned home ; and as they walked along. Uncle 
 John saw Julia quietly withdraw the piece of newspaper from 
 her bosom and tear it into fragments, which she dropped at 
 intervals along the path. She made no allusion to the act, but 
 said : 
 
 " I will try, Uncle John, and get rid of these notions and feel- 
 ings if they are wrong, but I am afraid that it will take me some 
 time to do it, for you know that when feelings or principles once 
 get a firm foothold in my heart they are very difficult to eradi- 
 cate. It is this which makes me think earnestly before adopting 
 
CAMERON HALL. 18T 
 
 an opinion, for if I do not succeed in getting the right one at 
 first, it is a hard matter to root it out and supplant it with 
 another." 
 
 " It is this thoughtfulness and anxiety to find out the right 
 which make not only a beautiful, but a most important compen- 
 sation in your character, Julia. If your judgments were as rash 
 and headlong as your notions and feelings are strongly rooted, 
 the result would be a self-opiniated obstinacy as ruinous as it is 
 unlovely; but as it is, your thoughtfulness makes your decisions 
 generally correct, and when they are not, your anxiety to do right 
 makes you willing at any cost to alter them." 
 
 "When they reached the gate, Eva came running down the lawn 
 to meet them. 
 
 " What a long secret you must have had to tell, Uncle John !" 
 she exclaimed. " I did not know that an old man like you had 
 any secrets. I thought that you had long ago left them to the 
 young and romantic." 
 
 "Not by any means, Eva. "When I make you my confidante, 
 you will find that even old Uncle John can have secrets as 
 well as any sentimental lassie or boy-beau of your acquaint- 
 ance." 
 
 " I am afraid, sir, that I can never aspire to the honor of being 
 your confidante, for I am neither thoughtful nor prudent nor 
 womanly enough; you require sister for that." 
 
 " I have required her this time, Eva, but it does not follow 
 that next time I will not demand you. But see, it is almost dark; 
 go quickly and order my horse. I ought to have been at home 
 by this time." 
 
 " No, Uncle John, not yet; not until after tea. We cannot let 
 you go yet." 
 
 Julia warmly echoed the negative, and Uncle John conseated 
 to stay. 
 
 "I must go soon after tea, girls," he said, "for I promised to 
 see Agnes to-day. She was asleep when I was there this morn- 
 ing, and I cannot go all day without seeing her." 
 
 Julia was more like her former self than she had been all day, 
 and Uncle John hoped that his words of advice and reproof had 
 already produced some effect. When he was going away, he 
 found opportunity to say : 
 
 " Think, daughter, of what I have said to you. I do not ask 
 you to accept it unconditionally as right, but to think of it, and 
 see if your own judgment does not indorse it." 
 
 On his way home he stopped at the cottage. Agnes was playr 
 ing as usual, but there was no light in the parlor. Her mother 
 was sitting by the window,'in the moonlight, with her head lean- 
 
188 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 ing upon her hand. She quickly detected his step upon the 
 pavement, and as he reached the door he heard the quiet foot- 
 fall, and saw the flutter of her dress as she hastily left the parlor. 
 He went in, but before he had time to speak, the glad arms were 
 stretched out to welcome him, and Agnes said : 
 
 " I am so glad to see you, Uncle John I It is so strange to be 
 all day long without having seen you. I have missed you very 
 much, even though I have been with mother." 
 
 "I did not expect, Agnes, that you would think of me once 
 to-day. I thought that mother, organ, home, would quite 611 up 
 your heart at present, and that there would be no room just now 
 for me." 
 
 " There will always be room for you, Uncle John, and your 
 place there nobody else shall ever fill." 
 
 "Are you glad to be at home, daughter ? Is it the same old 
 home to you ?" 
 
 " Oh, yes, sir ! the same dear old home, and the same dear old 
 organ, but " 
 
 " But what, Agnes ?" 
 
 " But I cannot make it sound like the Fribourg organ. I have 
 been thinking all the way home how beautifully I could play now, 
 for now I know what real organ music is ; but, Uncle John, it is 
 no use to try; I cannot do it." 
 
 "I should think not," he answered, laughing. "Why, Agnes, 
 you are the most ambitious young performer that I ever knew. 
 You really did not expect, child, to equal that performance, in 
 which both organ and organist are the wonder and admiration 
 of a continent, did you ?" 
 
 " I don't know that I expected it. Uncle John ; I only hoped 
 that I would be able to make such music as he did, for then I 
 should be so very, very happy." 
 
 She was sitting in the shadow, so that he could not see her 
 face, but he detected disappointment in her voice, and he said : 
 
 "Agnes, this will not do ; it is wrong. I took you to Fri- 
 bourg to give you pleasure, and that I thought you would both 
 enjoy at the time and remember gratefully all your life. If, on 
 the contrary, it makes you dissatisfied with your own organ and 
 your own music, I shall always regret that you went there. Turn 
 round now upon your seat and play for me ; I want to see if you 
 have forgotten how to make the sweet music that I used to love 
 before we went away." 
 
 She played for him, and afterward he thanked her, saying : 
 
 "I am more easily satisfied and more grateful than you are, 
 Agnes, nor has the wonderful mus[c of the Fribourg organ 
 spoiled me. To my ear and heart you play just as sweetly as 
 
CAMERON HALL. 189 
 
 ever, and from you and your organ I expect to derive much 
 pleasure and comfort in my lonely life." 
 
 "Are you lonely, Uncle John ?" she inquired. 
 
 "Yes, my daughter, very ! You don't know how much I miss 
 you, especially at the table. It looks very solitary without you 
 and Dr. Charles." 
 
 "You miss me, Uncle John, and I miss you. Wouldn't it be 
 better for us all to live together ? Why can't we do it ?" she 
 asked, innocently. 
 
 Uncle John heaved a sigh, and answered : 
 
 "That cannot be, my daughter. We must be contented to live 
 as we are, only I expect to come every day, and perhaps oftener 
 if I am very lonely, to listen to your music. You will always be 
 willing to play for me, my daughter, won't you ?" 
 
 " Not willing only, but glad, very glad, Uncle John, to do 
 something for you. I wish, though, that it could be something 
 else besides playing the organ, for that seems only like pleasing 
 myself." 
 
 " So much the better, Agnes, for if it pleases both it will be a 
 double pleasure." 
 
 Then he talked to her about the Hall, and her friends, and 
 their anxiety to see her. He lingered a little while after he rose 
 to go, hoping, though he scarcely knew why, that Grace would 
 come back, but she did not, and after awhile he kissed Agnes 
 and went away. 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 The days passed by, and everybody, men, women, and children, 
 talked and thought only of war. The first week in July was gone, 
 and Uncle John was sitting in his library late one afternoon, 
 writing to Charles Beaufort, when a young soldier, in Confede- 
 rate gray, traveling-bag in hand, opened the gate and walked 
 up to the house. Through the open window he caught a glimpse 
 of the figure sitting at the table, and he paused a moment and 
 looked at it attentively. A light, quick step upon the threshold, 
 followed instantly by a familiar voice, caused the writer to look 
 up, and Uncle John saw Charles Beaufort standing before 
 him. 
 
 " Welcome, my dear boy !" he exclaimed, " a thousand times 
 welcome ! I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you. My 
 
190 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 thonghts were full of you this moment, and I was pleading, with 
 all the eloquence that I could muster, that you would hasten 
 your arrangements and give me as much time as possible before 
 joining the army." 
 
 "A very unnecessary pleading, Uncle John. You might have 
 known that it was what I would certainly do, without the ask- 
 ing." 
 
 "I am afraid, Charles," he said, still holding his hand, "that 
 I am growing selfish and exacting in my old age. I confess that 
 since I parted with you I have often thought of William Beau- 
 fort's home, with its large family circle, and coveted one of the 
 number, and felt not only that he ought to be spared to me, but 
 that I had the best right to him. I have thought, grudgingly, 
 my boy, of your three weeks at home, your few days with me. 
 And now tell me, before you sit down, how long I may have you 
 with me. I don't want to drift quietly along for two or three 
 days, and all at once have you say : ' Uncle John, this is the 
 last dinner or the last tea that we will enjoy together ; to-morrow 
 I must go.'" 
 
 *' I will probably stay — but see. Uncle John, there are ladies 
 coming in I I am covered with dust; which way must I " 
 
 The question and the answer were alike cut short by Eva, 
 who came bounding in, as she always did. She ran into the room, 
 exclaiming : 
 
 " Oh, Uncle John, what do you think I sister is going " 
 
 She had almost reached Charles Beaufort before she discovered 
 that there was anybody in the room except Uncle John ; then, 
 perceiving a stranger there, she stopped short in the middle of 
 her sentence, and stood confused and silent. 
 
 Uncle John at once came to the rescue, and taking her hand, 
 said, smiling : 
 
 "Before I think what sister is going to do, let me tell you 
 something. This is Dr. Beaufort, your old acquaintance of the 
 Springs; and this, Charles, is Miss Eva Cameron, your former 
 partner at the bowling-alley, and companion in your mountain 
 rambles. " 
 
 On the part of the young man there was a quiet and easy re- 
 cognition; but Eva had been so suddenly and entirely thrown off 
 her guard that she could not readily recover herself, and she shyly 
 and blushingly offered her hand. By this time, Julia, who was 
 following quietly and sOberly behind, came in. She was no less 
 astonished than her sister to find herself in the presence of a 
 stranger ; but a hasty glance satisfied her that he was indeed a 
 stranger, and so, without looking at him, she walked up to Uncle 
 John and greeted him as usual. It was now Charles's turn to 
 
CAMERON HALL. 191 
 
 « 
 
 be embarrassed. One of his pleasant anticipations in coming to 
 Hopedale was the renewal of his acquaintance with her, and the 
 scarcely acknowledged hope, that even through her reserved and 
 undemonstrative manner he might still find something to con- 
 strue into the belief that she was not altogether indifferent to 
 him. In this, their first meeting, there was certainly little to 
 encourage such a hope, for she met him as a stranger. As she 
 came into the room he sprang forward to meet her; but the in- 
 different glance with which she passed him to speak to Uncle 
 John, checked the advancing footstep and the extended hand, 
 and he stood hesitating and confused. Uncle John took it in 
 at a glance, and hastened to say, as he led Julia up to him; 
 
 "Julia, this is Dr. Beaufort." 
 
 A slight flush mantled her cheek as she gave him her hand, 
 and said, timidly: 
 
 "I owe you an apology, Dr. Beaufort. I did not recognize 
 you when I first came in." 
 
 "Am I so much changed in two years. Miss Cameron ?" 
 ^ "No, sir. I should have recognized you at once under other 
 circumstances. The unexpectedness of our meeting and your 
 altered dress must plead my excuse." 
 
 The conversation was an effort, for they all felt embarrassed, 
 and the attempt to conceal it was wholly unsuccessful. After a 
 few commonplace remarks, there was an awkward silence, which 
 Uncle John broke by saying, abruptly : 
 
 ^ "I must have the answer to my question, Charles, which these 
 girls interrupted. How long are you going to stay with me ?" 
 
 "I have allowed myself until Monday, sir; but I am almost 
 afraid to linger even so long on the way. All the signs of the 
 times foretell an early engagement, and my duty now is in 
 camp." 
 
 "Until Monday !" repeated Uncle John. " This is Thursday 
 evening ; that gives me only three days,— a short time, Charles, 
 on the eve of what may be a long separation." 
 
 " Yes, sir, so it is, and I would gladly make it longer if I could ; 
 but I have been very restless for ten days, and anxious to get on, 
 for I think that every man now ought to be in camp." 
 
 "I have nothing to say, Charles, except regret that thus it 
 must be. You are right; your duty now is elsewhere. Where 
 is your company? gone on toward Manassas Junction ?" 
 
 " My brother has, sir ; it went ten days ago. I have no com- 
 
 pany " 
 
 " You have no company I" he exclaimed, in surprise. " I 
 thought that the bargain was that you and I were to equip a 
 company, of which you were to be captain." 
 
192 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "I have relinquished my comraission in favor of my brother, 
 and I took the liberty of transferring to him the offer that you 
 made me. You have no objection, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Xone in the world ; but I must confess that I feel curious to 
 know the cause of this sudden and complete change in your 
 plans. When I parted with you, I thought that your head was 
 full of dreams of military success and promotion. Your uniform 
 is not that of a private ; what are you, and why are you not 
 captain ?" 
 
 " I have accepted the post of regimental surgeon, Uncle 
 John." 
 
 " Wliy did you do it, Charles ?" 
 
 He hesitated a little, and then answered : 
 
 " When I went home, I discussed the matter with my father 
 and mother, and we decided that I would be more useful in the 
 capacity of surgeon than in that of captain. My recent oppor-- 
 tunities in Paris have probably fitted me better for that post than 
 many who will occupy it, and it was agreed that there would be 
 a greater dearth of efficient surgeons than of efficient cap- 
 tains." 
 
 "But, Charles, I know that you will not be satisfied with this 
 alteration." 
 
 " Yes, sir, I will be satisfied, though, if my inclinations alone 
 were to be consulted, it is not what I would prefer. In the first 
 place, I have a natural repugnance to surgery, and my study of 
 it in Paris was rather with the view of having a complete medi- 
 cal education, than with the expectation of practicing that branch 
 of the profession. Cutting and sawing human flesh and bones is 
 extremely repulsive to me, and the skill and beauty of an opera- 
 tion could never compensate me for the wear and tear of feeling 
 necessary to perform it. But, besides this, I had another objec- 
 tion ; my present position shuts me out from the gratification of 
 all military ambition. The country-maid, with her milk-pail," 
 he added, smiling, "may have her counterpart even in an army 
 of patriots ; and I confess that, before I was even a captain, I had 
 the brightest visions of the stars of a brigadier, nay, even of a 
 major-general. Now I will surrender all such dreams, and be 
 content to be plain surgeon, with no hope of promotion, and no 
 record of gallant deeds and superhuman courage to startle ray 
 friends and to gratify myself. However, if I can save the limb 
 of one gallant fellow, or relieve the sufferings of one mangled 
 soldier, perhaps I will feel repaid for the loss of the brigadier's 
 stars. My mother thought I would." 
 
 Julia looked up in silence at him, with her face beaming ap- 
 proval in every feature. She was quite unconscious that she did 
 
CAMERON HALL. 193 
 
 t 
 
 SO, and she blushed crimson as her eye met his. He needed no 
 words to interpret that look of approbation, and the thrill of 
 pleasure with which he read it was already no small compensation 
 for the loss of the coveted stars. 
 
 She herself was so confused that the only thing that suggested 
 itself was to effect a speedy retreat, and so she arose to go. 
 Uncle John, seconded by Dr. Beaufort, urged them to stay, and 
 promised to drive them home by moonlight, but Julia would not 
 consent. 
 
 As they went out to the carriage. Uncle John drew Eva's arm 
 within his, and whispered : 
 
 " What has become of your tongue, Eva ? I never knew it to 
 be so long silent before." 
 
 " The truth is, Uncle John," she replied, laughing, " that I was 
 struck dumb with amazement when I walked in so unexpectedly 
 upon that nice suit of gray buttoned up to the throat with the 
 brass buttons. I have not recovered from the stupefying effects 
 yet." 
 
 "I hope. Miss Cameron," said Dr. Beaufort to Julia, "that 
 you will allow me the privilege of renewing our acquaintance, 
 begun at the Springs. A renewal of those happy days of pleas- 
 ant society and luxurious idleness will be a pleasant memory to 
 take with me into my life of privation and toil." 
 
 She only replied : 
 
 "It will give me pleasure to do so. Dr. Beaufort." 
 
 " Then you will allow me to come and see you. It will be 
 pleasant for us — pleasant for me, I mean, to recall with you the 
 days of happiness." 
 
 She answered truthfully and involuntarily : 
 
 "It will be pleasant to both, sir." 
 
 A moment afterward, how gladly she would have recalled her 
 words, as the thought of her brother rushed upon her mind. 
 She could not speak another word. Her face and neck were in- 
 stantly dyed with a deep blush, and he could only wonder in 
 silence what there was in his words or her own to embarrass her 
 so painfully. 
 
 He thanked her for the permission which she had implied 
 rather than given, and promised to avail himself of it the next 
 day. 
 
 They got into the carriage, and as soon as they had driven off, 
 Julia was aroused by Eva's exclamation : 
 
 "I declare, sister, that you are the most provoking person that 
 I ever saw in my life I Why on earth didn't you stay to tea, as 
 you were asked to do ? I was just getting over my confusion 
 and becoming myself again, and we could have had a nice even- 
 
 rr 
 
194 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 in^ with our old acquaintance of the Springs, and a Confederate 
 officer besides. Why didn't you stay ?" 
 
 " Papa would not have known where we were, Eva, and might 
 have been anxious about us," she answered, evasively. 
 
 " That excuse won't do ; it is manufactured for the occasion. 
 Papa might perhaps be anxious about me, the hair-brained 
 scapegrace of the family, but he knows full well that if I am in 
 your keeping, I am both safe and in a proper place. So try 
 again, sister ; why wouldn't you stay ?" 
 
 "Because I thought it would be better to come away." 
 
 "Which means that you thought it would be more proper. 
 Your propriety will be the death of me yet, sister," she said, 
 laughing. 
 
 Julia could not help laughing too, as she answered : 
 
 "And yet, Eva, my propriety is generally with you an infer- 
 ence rather than the result of ray words and actions. I have 
 not said that I thought it was proper to come away, and would 
 have been improper to stay, have I ?" 
 
 "No, not in so many words, but I know well enough that this 
 is what you meant. For my part, I cannot see that there would 
 have been the slightest objecti()n to our having remained. I am 
 very sure that if papa had been tliere he would have stayed." 
 
 " That would have altered the case, Eva. I think that we did 
 right, and that if you ask papa he will say so." 
 
 " Of course he will, for you know that he and Uncle John are 
 leagued together to indorse your decision in everything." 
 
 "No, not when that decision is wrong. You would do them 
 great injustice if you really thought so, but you do not believe 
 any such thing. You are only talking now." 
 
 "I am only wishing," she said, wearily, "that I could have 
 spent a cheerful, pleasant evening with Uncle John and Dr. 
 Beaufort. It is so lonely at the Hall now. Papa is sad, and 
 Walter is gone, and you are more sober than you used to be. 
 Only Carlo and Dixie and I are unchanged. Even Rebel has 
 lost his spirits. You keep him shut up so much now, and never 
 ride him, so that, like yourself, he too begins to look depressed.'^ 
 
 "Yes," answered Julia, sadly, "it is not so bright and cheerful 
 as it once was; but for all that, Eva, it is home still. I only wish 
 that we may always have it." 
 
 "A very unnecessary wish, sister. Of course we will always 
 have it, until we choose to take another. Some of these days, 
 when we are married and gone, won't the old Hall be lonely 
 then ?" 
 
 " Whenever that catastrophe happens to you, Eva," slie re- 
 plied, with a sad smile, " it will be lonely enough for papa and 
 
CAMERON HALL. 195 
 
 me, for we shall sorely miss your ringing laugh and cheerful 
 voice ; but as far as regards myself, I never expect to have any 
 other home. I expect to live and die at the old Hall." 
 
 " You would expect, then, to reverse the usual order of things. 
 Gentlemen generally take their wives to their homes, instead of 
 allowing themselves to be taken to those of their wives." 
 
 " But suppose that I am not any wife at all, Eva ? Suppose 
 that I live aid die at the Hall as plain Julia Cameron ?" 
 
 " Oh, sister," she exclaimed, ** anything else but that ! What- 
 ever else you may be, don't be an old maid. You are a very tol- 
 erable sister just now, and papa and Walter and I cannot get 
 along at all without you; but, indeed, I do think that old Came- 
 ron Hall, made quieter than ever by having, for its presiding 
 genius, prim, stiff, starched Miss Julia Cameron, aged fifty, would 
 be absolutely unbearable. Oh no, sister, I cannot stand that !" 
 
 "You have drawn a melancholy picture, Eva," answered Julia, 
 smiling ; " but, distasteful as it is, I am afraid that it will be your 
 doom to endure the reality." 
 
 " You are surely not in earnest, sister ?" 
 
 " Yes, Eva, quite in earnest. I expect to be an old maid, but 
 I shall try very hard not to be the dried-up hideous skeleton that 
 your fancy has pictured. I am going to try to be genial and 
 pleasant and unselfish, making myself useful and necessary to the 
 comfort of others, and striving to keep out of everybody's way." 
 
 "But, sister, what made you resolve to be an old maid ?" 
 
 " I have made no resolution upon the subject, for I think this 
 is unwise, and such resolutions are more frequently broken than 
 kept. I only think it probable." 
 
 " But why do you think it probable, sister ?" persisted Eva. 
 "I know one thing, and that is, that if you never marry, some- 
 body will lose one of the best wives in the world." 
 
 Julia smiled a sad smile, and sighed. The old morbid feeling 
 was still there. Uncle John's reasoning, although it might be in- 
 dorsed by her own sober judgment, had not yet been able to erad- 
 icate these torturing fancies ; and Eva's conversation, which she 
 designed for amusement, was in reality anything else to Julia. 
 She thought of the kind of man who could make her happy, who 
 could s'vvay with entire control the deepest affections of her heart. 
 She thought of her ideal, noble, high-toned, the soul of honor, a 
 true man, and the sigh was drawn forth by the thought that such 
 a one could never consent to link his destiny with George Came- 
 ron's sister. 
 
 Again the pertinacious " Why ?" was repeated, and again she 
 sighed and thought, but answered nothing. Presently, with an 
 effort, she aroused herself, and said with forced cheerfulness : 
 
196 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "Never mind, Eva. This may be only an idle fancy of mine, 
 after all. Perhaps you may yet see me one of these days a 
 plump, practical, good-natured Mrs. Somebody, who has the 
 freshest butter, and the fattest chickens, and the earliest vege- 
 tables in all the conntry, and who, when her romantic sister visits 
 her, will take it for granted that she needs something more sub- 
 stantial than moonlight and sentiment to sustain her, and will ac- 
 cordingly feed her upon the richest dainties." 
 
 "I declare," said Eva, " it would be too bad for yon to persist 
 in being an old maid. You are already a good housekeeper; 
 think what a splendid one you will be when you get to be forty 
 years old I" 
 
 " Why, Eva, surely that is not you who are talking now ! 
 That is being more matter-of-fact than even myself Even I, 
 practical as I am, do not think that, to be a good wife, a woman 
 needs only to be a good housekeeper." 
 
 "No, not exactly, sister; and yet I am only echoing the sen- 
 timent of my teacher. You yourself have taught me, and papa 
 and Uncle John have asserted, that sentiment and romance and 
 high-strung fancies will not make home happy; but it needs, as 
 well, tidy rooms, comfortable fires, warm slippers, and, above 
 all, that nameless air of peace and serenity which belongs alike 
 to the word and the reality of home, and without which it never 
 can be home at all." 
 
 "You are right, now, Eva; you have drawn now a true pic- 
 ture of home ; and while I think that the housekeeping depart- 
 ment is neither the whole nor the most important part of home, 
 yet I believe that it is a necessary element, without which it is 
 radically and hopelessly defective. Loving words and protesta- 
 tions of aflfection, which cost nothing more than the breath which 
 utters them, can never be considered by a husband an equivalent 
 for that thoughtful care which provides for his comfort in little 
 things, which never loses sight of his wishes and tastes, and shows 
 afifection by making his home a pleasant, sheltering refuge from 
 the cares and perplexities and wearing friction of his contest 
 with the world." 
 
 When they reached home, Eva told her father of their unex- 
 pected meeting with their former acquaintance, his handsome ap- 
 pearance and soldierly bearing, and concluded with a general 
 eulogium upon the Confederate uniform. 
 
 Time was when he would have shown himself interested, and 
 would have asked many questions; but of late he had generally 
 listened to her gay chatting in silence, and she was now growing 
 accustomed to it. When she had quite finished, and paused, as 
 if for a reply, or for some recognition that she had been talking, 
 
CAMERON HALL. 197 
 
 Mr.» Cameron felt constrained to say something, and merely 
 asked : 
 
 " How long will Dr. Beaufort stay with Uncle John, Eva ?" 
 
 " Until Monday, papa. Won't you be glad to see him ? You 
 used to like him so much at the Springs." 
 
 ''Yes — no — " he replied, and added, sadly and moodily, "I 
 don't care to see anybody now." 
 
 To his younger daughter this was inexplicable, but Julia un- 
 derstood it all. From the stand-point of her youth and inexpe- 
 rience, and with the buoyant temperament which readily re- 
 bounded from every kind of sorrow, Eva had, from the first, 
 heard of her brother's disgrace as she would of a stranger's. 
 She did not recollect him, had never regarded him as a brother, 
 indeed, had very rarely ever thought of him at all ; and after the 
 first surprise that any man could so dishonor the name of Cam- 
 eron, she had dismissed the subject from her thoughts as a mat- 
 ter with which she had, personally, no concern. She saw that 
 her father was unhappy, and wondered that he should allow him- 
 self to be made so by the conduct of a son who was such only in 
 name ; at times she fancied that she saw in her sister a wearied, 
 careworn expression that she did not have before, but she could 
 not believe that her happiness could be so marred by the thought 
 of a brother who was a stranger to her, and she wondered what 
 could be the matter with her. The name of George had never 
 been mentioned since that morning, and she would again by this 
 time have quite forgotten his existence, if the sight of her father's 
 depression had not constantly reminded her of its cause. 
 
 She looked up at him now in surprise, for she could not under- 
 stand his indifference, nay, more, his repugnance to meeting one 
 whom he had always liked, and whose society he had once so 
 much enjoyed. With that accustomed freedom which was her 
 acknowledged prerogative, she was just about to remark upon 
 the change which had come over him, but there was something 
 in his expression which seemed to forbid it, and the conversation 
 ceased. 
 
 As Uncle John and Charles returned to the house after the 
 girls had driven off, the latter remarked : 
 
 " It was more than I bargained for, Uncle John, to see so 
 much company so soon. I had forgotten what a favorite you 
 were among the young ladies, and how unceremoniously they 
 visited you, or I never should have presented myself in your 
 house in this plight. I was taken completely at disadvan- 
 tage." 
 
 " You were not alone in that, Charles ; indeed, I don't think 
 I ever saw a more embarrassed trio. I watched you all in quiet 
 
 17* 
 
198 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 amusement. Eva was confused at her abrupt entree, you at 
 Julia's non-recognition, and she at what she thought would be 
 construed into incivility, at least, if not positive rudeness. None 
 of you recovered your ease and self-possession during the visit.'* 
 
 " I cannot speak for the others, sir, but I know that I did 
 not." 
 
 " Then, since you were all so embarrassed, perhaps it is not 
 fair to ask what you thought of the girls ; are they much 
 changed?" 
 
 " The elder one not at all ; the younger has grown somewhat, 
 and is in figure more mature and better developed, but her face is 
 very little altered." 
 
 " You find Julia as quiet and undemonstrative as ever, I sup- 
 pose ?" 
 
 " Quiet, yes, sir ; but undemonstrative, by Jove, no ! The 
 moment she entered the room I recognized her; but when I saw 
 her walk up to you and receive a kiss so naturally and so much 
 as a matter of course, I positively rubbed my eyes and looked 
 again, satisfied that it was, and yet that it could not be Julia 
 Cameron. It was what I would have expected from her sister, 
 but from herself, never !" 
 
 " So much for being a sober, staid, confirmed old bachelor, 
 my* boy! With "Uncle John, she is as free and unreserved as 
 with her father ; and because she is undemonstrative to the world 
 at large, the few whom she does admit into the depths of her 
 affection can find out what it is fully worth. Uncle John is one 
 of those privileged few; don't you envy him, Charles ?" 
 
 " Come, Uncle John," he replied, laughing, "don't try to make 
 me discontented and envious the moment that I come under your 
 roof. Let me be as happy as possible during the brief time that 
 I am with you ; and by way of taking the first step toward making 
 me comfortable, do take me somewhere to get rid of this super- 
 fluous dust before I amkjaught again." 
 
 " That is the disadvantage and discomfort, Charles, of visiting 
 an Q]d bachelor. Now the forethought of woman would have 
 had all that provided for long ago, and immediately upon your 
 arrival you would have been ushered into a room where water in 
 any quantity, toilet soap, and plenty of towels would have fur- 
 nished the means of relieving yourself of any amount of dust. 
 As it is, I have never thought of it until this minute, and should 
 not have done so then, if you had not reminded me. Hallo, 
 Tom 1" he shouted, as he saw the servant crossing the yard. 
 "Come here !" 
 
 Tom obeyed, and received his master's orders, and as he turned . 
 to go away, Uncle John called out : 
 
CAMERON HALL. 199 
 
 "Be sure to have plenty of water, Tom I The doctor says 
 that he is very dusty! Now, Charles," he added, "let me tell 
 you, iu the begiDuing, that you must make yourself at home and 
 provide for your own comfort. Don't depend upon me. I am 
 so accustomed to think only of myself that I am afraid you will 
 be neglected. A solitary life has made me selfish." 
 
 " That, Uncle John, I positively deny, upon the evidence of 
 my own senses. A habitually selfish man could never have so 
 forgotten himself and merged his own wishes in those of another, 
 as I saw you do in Paris. No, sir, selfishness is not one of your 
 faults." 
 
 " That case was peculiar, Charles, and would have overcome, 
 for the time being, the most confirmed selfishness." 
 
 " How is Agnes, sir ?" 
 
 " Not quite so strong and rosy as when you parted from her. 
 She sits at the organ too much." 
 
 "Absence, then, did not wean her from it." 
 
 " On the contrary, she is, if possible, more devoted to it than 
 ever. I used to think that it was the pleasure of her life ; now 
 it seems to be her very life itself. But here is Tom, come to say 
 that your room is ready. Go along and get rid of your trouble- 
 some dust. Meanwhile I will go and bring Agnes, and you shall 
 see her for yourself, and we three will have one of our Paris meals 
 together." 
 
 Agnes and her mother were sitting upon the porch enjoying 
 the cool breeze of approaching twilight. The child had a bouquet 
 in her hands, and was tracing the form, and feeling the texture 
 of the flowers, as her mother told her the name of each. It was 
 an unsatisfactory task to both, and at last Agnes laid them down, 
 wearily, saying : 
 
 " It is no use, mother. I cannot, without eyes, know what a 
 flower is." ^ 
 
 Just then Uncle John reached the pavement in front of the 
 gate. She heard his step, and exclaimed, gladly : 
 
 " But I can hear, if I cannot see, and I know that Uncle John 
 is coming I" 
 
 "Not coming, Agnes, but already here," he replied, stepping 
 upon the porch. 
 
 Grace received him as usual. Their intercourse of late had 
 not been quite what it had always been, for neither could alto- 
 gether conceal the recollection of their painful interview ; but with 
 wonderful self-control neither had ever made the slightest allusion 
 to it. 
 
 "You have come to stay. Uncle John, haven't you?" she 
 asked, seeing that he did not sit down as usual. 
 
200 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "No, Grace, not this evening. I have come to borrow Agnes 
 for a little while. I want her to take tea with me, and will pro- 
 mise to bring her home safely and in good season. Will yoa 
 go, Agnes?" 
 
 " I would like to go very much, Uncle John, but then, if I do, 
 mother will be left by herself." 
 
 "Never mind that, Agnes," said her mother. "I stayed so 
 much by myself while you were gone, that I became quite ac- 
 customed to it. I would much rather that you should go. I 
 will get your bonnet." 
 
 She went into the house to get the bonnet, and Uncle John 
 followed her. 
 
 "Charles Beaufort came most unexpectedly this afternoon," he 
 said, "the Dr. Charles that you have heard her talk so much 
 about, and I want him to see her. I would not tell her, because 
 I want to enjoy her surprise when she hears his voice." 
 
 " Oh, then, Uncle John, you must wait a few minutes until I 
 change her dress. I did not know that you had company." 
 
 "Mother's vanity, Grace," said Uncle John, smiling; "but 
 have your own way, I will wait," 
 
 A few minutes were sufficient to complete the child's simple 
 toilet, and yet it was as carefully arranged as if she herself could 
 have been gratified by the result. As her mother led her back 
 and she stood before Uncle John, her white muslin dress falling 
 in soft folds about her slight figure, her brown hair parted smoothly 
 from her forehead, and her face lighted up with the pleasure of 
 going home with him, he thought that he had rarely seen a 
 sweeter picture of childish loveliness. 
 
 So, too, thought Charles Beaufort, as he saw them approaching 
 the house, and walked toward the gate to meet them. A significant 
 gesture from Uncle John was readily interpreted ; and, approach- 
 ing unannounced, he said, in a low tone, as h^reached her side; 
 
 "Agnes 1" 
 
 "Oh, Dr. Charles I" she exclaimed, joyfully, "how glad I am 
 to see you ! When -did you come ? Uncle John, why didn't you 
 tell me that I was going to see him ?" 
 
 "Because I wanted to give you a pleasant surprise, Agnes. 
 It seems like old times, for us three to be together, doesn't it ?" 
 
 '"Yes, sir; only it is a great deal pleasanter to be together 
 here than so far away from home. Will you stay a long time 
 with us. Dr. Charles ?" 
 
 "Not very long, Agnes; not more than three days." 
 
 " Why not ?" she asked, in a disappointed tone. 
 
 "Because I cannot now do what I would like to do. I belong 
 to the army, now, and my place and business are there. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 201 
 
 "How I wish that there wasn't any war !" she exclaimed. "It 
 interferes with everybody's pleasure. Uncle John, what made 
 the people have a war ?" 
 
 "That, my daughter, is beyond the comprehension of older and 
 wiser heads than yours." 
 
 " I can tell you, Agnes," said Charles, " why the people have a 
 war, but I don't know that you will understand it. It is simply 
 because a Yankee can never be contented to let well enough alone, 
 and there is nothing in heaven, on earth, or under the earth, with 
 which he can be entirely satisfied unless he has had a finger in 
 the arrangement." 
 
 "I don't think, Charles," said Uncle John, laughing, "that 
 she is much wiser now than she was before." 
 
 She held Charles's hand, and touched the buttons upon his 
 sleeve. 
 
 " What makes you wear buttons upon your sleeve, Dr. Charles ?" 
 she asked. " Was that the fashion in Paris ? I don't think that 
 you wore them there." 
 
 "No, Agnes, it is not the Paris, but the military fashion." 
 
 "Are you a general ?" 
 
 "Xo, only a doctor, — plain Dr. Charles, as I have always 
 been." 
 
 " I am so glad to hear that. All that you will have to do will 
 be to attend to the sick and wounded soldiers ; you won't have to 
 fight, and be shot, and perhaps killed." 
 
 "No, I will not have to fight ; but it does not follow that I may 
 not die of disease, or even be killed. Do you know that disease 
 kills more soldiers than cannon balls do ?" 
 
 " No, sir ; I thought the only danger was of being shot. You 
 won't have to be shot, will you ?" 
 
 " No," he answered, smiling, " not necessarily, although a stray 
 ball might perhaps reach me." 
 
 " But if I were you I would stay out of the reach of all balls 
 and shots. If you don't have to go into the fight, you can find a 
 safe place to stay until it is over." 
 
 " I cannot choose my place, Agnes. I must go where I can 
 be most useful to the wounded soldiers as they are brought from 
 the field, and there is no place near a battle-field that can be con- 
 sidered perfectly safe. Besides, you would not want me to be 
 thinking only of myself, would you ? If that is what I am going 
 to do, I ought to have stayed at home. I know that you would 
 want me to do my duty." 
 
 "Yes, sir ; but I would rather that you should do it in a safe 
 place." 
 
 " So would we all," he answered, laughing ; " but soldiers must 
 
202 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 learn not to think about that. With them, duty mast be first, and 
 safety afterwards." 
 
 " I am very sorry, Dr. Charles, that you, too, have been obliged 
 to join the army. Now I shall have two to be anxious about: 
 you and Mr. Walter." 
 
 " I was not obliged to do it, Agnes, I did it voluntarily. Would 
 you be vs^illing for me to stay at home and let other young men 
 fight my battles ?" 
 
 "No, sir," she answered, sadly, and with hesitation; "but I 
 wish that nobody had any battles to fight. I wish that there 
 wasn't any war." 
 
 "We all wish that, child," said Charles, musingly; " and we 
 will wish it more profoundly than we do now befcrre we get through 
 with it." 
 
 " Come, Charles," exclaimed Uncle John, "how upon earth did 
 you and Agnes fall into so dolorous a strain of conversation ? 
 This will not do. We three travelers, at this, our first reunion, 
 ought to have pleasanter themes than these. But coipe, tea is 
 ready ; I see Alfred coming to announce it." 
 
 It seemed, indeed, like old times, the three at the little round 
 table, with Uncle John pouring out tea, Agnes at his right, and 
 Charles opposite. 
 
 " This seems like Paris, doesn't it, my daughter ?" said Uncle 
 John. 
 
 " No, sir. There is a home-feeling here which there never was 
 in Paris." 
 
 "That is true, child. That one word fully describes the differ- 
 
 ence." 
 
 The conversation now took a pleasant turn. The war was for- 
 gotten by the child, and avoided by her companions, and they 
 dwelt upon the pleasures that they had enjoyed together in the 
 Old World. The Fribourg organ was mentioned, and at the 
 magic word the last lingering shade was dispelled from the child- 
 ish face and heart, and next to hearing it again was the pleasure 
 of talking about it with those who had enjoyed it with her. 
 
 The evening was quite too short for Agnes, and her friends 
 enjoyed it not less than herself Theirs was not merely a reflected 
 pleasure, a compensation, in her evident enjoyment; for, whatever 
 pains they might have taken to adapt their conversation to her 
 understanding, in her both Uncle John and Charles had al- 
 ways found an interesting companion. There was no unnatural 
 precocity about her. She was a thorough child, and, because of 
 her iuSi-mity, knew less than most children of her age, and yet 
 there was a maturity of thought and feeling about her, conse- 
 quent upon her association always with older persons, which made 
 
CAMERON HALL. 203 
 
 her appear mncb older than she really was, and disposed her 
 friends to regard her rather as a companion than a child. And 
 so it was to-night. The evening slipped away as pleasantly to 
 them as it did to her, and when Uncle John after awhile remem- 
 bered to look at his watch, he exclaimed : 
 
 "Nearly eleven o'clock I I have not kept my promise to your 
 mother, Agnes. I told her that I would bring you home at your 
 usual bedtime. Come, you must go this very minute." 
 
 " Not yet, Uncle John f please let me stay a little longer!" 
 
 "Not another moment. You ought to have been inched an 
 hour ago; so bid Dr. Charles good-night, and let us go." 
 
 " Dr. Charles," she said, " please come along and walk with us • 
 you are not too tired, are you ?" * 
 
 "By no means, Agnes. A soldier must not confess that he is 
 tired from traveling a day and two nights in a railroad car. I 
 will go with you with pleasure." 
 
 When they reached the gate, she said : 
 
 "Dr. Charles, I want you to come in for a little while. I want 
 you to hear my beautiful organ." 
 
 She never wanted any one to hear her play, for she was quite 
 unconscious that any remarkable skill of her own had auo-ht to 
 do with the result which so delighted her; she rather reg°arded 
 the music as a peculiar favor which the instrument conferred upon 
 her in consideration of her blindness. 
 
 "Positively, no," answered Uncle John; "it is too late, alto- 
 gether too late I Go to bed now, Agnes, and he shall come to- 
 morrow, and you shall play for him then." 
 
 "But I want him now," she persisted, for she was not accus- 
 tomed to denial. 
 
 Charles seconded her request. 
 
 "Only for a little while, Uncle John. It is night, and music 
 sounds so much sweeter at night, and, above all, it is glorious 
 moonlight. Let her play, Uncle John, please do." 
 
 Overcome, as usual, he said pleasantly, as he opened the 
 gate : 
 
 " Come along, you two willful children, and have your -own 
 way ; but old Uncle John knows that it is not rig-ht. She ous-ht 
 to be in bed." ^ 
 
 "Dr. Charles," said Agnes, "did you say that music always 
 sounds sweeter at night ?" 
 
 "Yes, I think so." 
 
 "Then," she said, thoughtfully, "that is the reason why it 
 sounds sweeter to me than to anybody else." 
 
 " How so, Agnes ?" 
 
 " It is always night to me, Dr. Charles I" 
 
204 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 Grace was sitting in the porch awaiting Agnes's return. She 
 welcomed cordially the friend to whom her child was so much at- 
 tached. He apologized for the lateness of the hour, but pleaded 
 his anxiety to hear Agnes play. Grace arose to bring candles, as 
 she said, into the parlor, but Uncle John and Charles both ob- 
 jected. They said that Agnes needed no light, and that they 
 preferred the moonlight. 
 
 "Dr. Charles," said Agnes, "do you love the moonlight very 
 much ?" 
 
 " Yes, Agnes ; there are few things in this world so beautiful 
 as a moonlight night; and a man who can stand and look upon a 
 landscape softened and subdued by the moonlight,^ and not feel 
 its influence upon his soul, is no man at all." 
 
 " Which do you love best, moonlight or sunlight ?" 
 
 " Moonlight is most beautiful, Agnes ; sunlight most neces- 
 sary. Moonlight is soft, subdued, quiet ; sunlight is bright, 
 sparkling, restless." 
 
 "I don't understand you, Dr. Charles, she said, shaking her 
 head sadly. " You say that moonlight is soft, — I know what 
 that is, for I have touched soft things; but subdued, — I don't 
 know what that means. Mother, you tell me what moonlight is. 
 Dr. Charles loves it so much that I want to know what it is, and 
 then perhaps I can play it for him on my organ, just like the 
 musician in Fribourg played the storm, the thunder, the lightning, 
 and the wind." 
 
 Grace drew the child toward her, and taking her hand, said : 
 
 "Agnes, did you feel very glad to-night, when you saw Dr. 
 Charles ?" 
 
 " Oh, mother, just as glad as I could be 1 If I had only had 
 •eyes, I should have run and shouted and capered all over Uncle 
 John's yard." 
 
 " That, my daughter, was sunlight : bright and glad and 
 happy 1" 
 
 " Now, when I read to you this morning about heaven, — no 
 night, no tears, no death, but eternal life, eternal bliss, eternal 
 song, — did you feel like shouting in mirth and glee then, my 
 daughter ?" 
 
 " Oh, no, mother I" she replied, earnestly and solemnly, 
 " not that 1 I felt very glad, but very still ; very happy, but 
 very quiet." 
 
 " That, Agnes, is moonlight : serene, peaceful, beautiful !" 
 
 "Oh, mother I" she exclaimed, with delight, "now I know all 
 about it ! Now I can play sunlight and moonlight too !" 
 
 In her anxiety to convey her ideas clearly to her little listener, 
 the mother had forgotten the presence of others, who, unac- 
 
CAMERON HALL. 205 
 
 customed to such methods of instruction, had heard in silent 
 surprise. 
 
 They were aroused from their reverie by the bright, glad music 
 which rippled and sparkled beneath her touch, and lighted up 
 the heart with its glad exhilaration, as the sunshine does the 
 world. Presently it died away ; and then a soft and subdued 
 strain trembled upon the air, and lingered upon the ear. Pure 
 and silvery in its tones, as the moonlight in its beauty, it left 
 upon the heart, as the moonlight does upon the landscape, a 
 peaceful, quiet serenity, almost heavenly in its repose. 
 
 Uncle John, accustomed as he was to her music, was scarcely 
 less amazed than his companion. Neither moved nor spoke, 
 until the childish voice at their side said : 
 
 *' Dr. Charles, did you know what I was playing ?" 
 
 " I could not mistake it, Agnes ; only your music was sweeter 
 than moonlight, brighter than sunshine. Wonderful, wonderful !" 
 he murmured. 
 
 When they arose to go. Uncle John said : 
 
 "Grace, I have an odd sort of whim, which I would like for 
 you and Agnes to gratify. I want Agnes at all our meals while 
 Charles stays with me ; it seems so natural for us three to be at 
 the table together. I will come for her, and bring her back. 
 What do you say ? Will you lend her to us at meal-time for the 
 next three days?" 
 
 " With pleasure. Uncle John ?" 
 
 "And what do you say, Agnes ?" 
 
 "Oh, Uncle John, I shall be so glad to go I" 
 
 "Very well, it is a bargain. I will come for you in the morn- 
 ing, before breakfast." 
 
 Accordingly, the next day, she breakfasted and dined with her 
 friends; and when they drove out to the Hall, in the afternoon, 
 Uncle John placed a little stool in the bottom of the buggy for 
 her, and she accompanied them. 
 
 To this promised visit Eva had looked forward all day with 
 the greatest pleasure. There was still about her much of that 
 childish abandon which Dr. Beaufort had thought so attractive 
 two years before, and which had led him to believe that she was 
 even then more of a child than she really was. She still looked 
 upon him as greatly her superior in age, not realizing that in 
 those two years she had made abound toward womanhood which 
 made her very much nearer his equal now than she was then. 
 She was quite unconscious that a degree of reserve, such as she 
 had never thought of before, would now be becoming in her in- 
 tercourse with him, and she did not dream that anybody could 
 find fault with her, when, seeing the buggy far up the road, she 
 
 18 
 
206 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 bounded out of the house and ran down the lawn to open the 
 gate. Uncle John drew up his horse and stopped to speak to 
 her, and when she welcomed the stranger with the same unaf- 
 fected pleasure that she did himself, there was such a childlike 
 ease and naturalness about it all, that her guests, like herself, 
 quite forgot that there was anything in her conduct of which the 
 most rigid propriety could complain. 
 
 Charles sprang from the buggy, and insisted that she should 
 take his seat ; but she shook her head, and said, laughing : 
 
 " No, indeed, I cannot think of going back at that gait ! I'll 
 wager that I can get there now sooner than any of you who go 
 behind Uncle John's old horse, even at his briskest trot !" 
 
 "See here, children," said Uncle John, "Agnes and I are 
 quietly awaiting your decision. Which of you is to ride with us 
 to the house ?" 
 
 " Neither, sir," replied Charles. " Miss Eva positively refuses, 
 and I am sure you will not quarrel with me for preferring her 
 company to yours, as far as the house." 
 
 "All right, my boy I" 
 
 With the tap of the whip they drove off, and Uncle John and 
 Agnes had been seated in the parlor several minutes, when 
 Charles and Eva slowly sauntered in, the former with a hand- 
 ful of flowers, which, together, they had plucked as they strolled 
 along. 
 
 Julia had, by no means, looked forward to this visit with the 
 same pleasure as Eva. On the contrary, she had dreaded it, and 
 wished that she might be spared the trial. Under other circum- 
 stances, she would gladly have met her old acquaintance; and 
 even now, if she could have met him as a friend, she would not 
 have objected, but her own heart had told her long ago that this 
 was impossible. She had then determined that if they ever met 
 again, it should be as strangers ; but a single eflfort had proved 
 that this could not be, for it was very evident that he himself 
 would not allow it. After she parted with him at Uncle John's, 
 she had thought long and earnestly of their present relation to 
 each other. Even in their short interview, formal and embar- 
 rassed though it was, there had been something in his tone and 
 look which she could not but feel and understand ; and the thrill 
 of pleasure with which she saw it had involuntarily betrayed it- 
 self in the few words that she had spoken, simple enough them- 
 selves, and scarcely as much as the occasion required, and yet 
 she would not have spoken them if she could have thought a 
 moment. And as she reflected upon it, she decided that all that 
 was now left her to do was to repair her error as best she could. 
 She had tried to meet him as a stranger, and had failed ; she 
 
CAMERON HALL. 207 
 
 would try now and meet him as a friend. She knew that it 
 would be a very great effort, and she was afraid it would be im- 
 possible, but she was determined to try. She would treat him so 
 unmistakably as a friend, that he should see that she so regarded 
 him now, and that this was all that he could ever be. But Julia 
 had over-estimated her self-control. She felt it the moment that 
 he entered the room and took her hand, and she knew that she 
 must at ODce decide between absolute frigidity and the cordiality 
 which, under the circumstances, it was not right to show. And 
 therefore she met him coldly, so coldly that he was chilled to the 
 heart, especially after Eva's unaffectedly cordial welcome. He 
 felt that it was more than her usually cold, quiet manner ; it was 
 more than embarrassment; and between her reception of him 
 to-day at her own house, and her unexpected meeting with him 
 the day before, there was an inconsistency which he could not 
 explain. She had been evidently embarrassed then, unaccountably 
 so ; but at the same time, through it all, he had detected a pleasure 
 at meeting him again which she could not conceal, and which had 
 made him look forward to this visit with hope and eagerness ; but 
 now this was all gone. His presence seemed not only a restraint, 
 but a painful one. 
 
 If anything, however, could have compensated him for Julia's 
 cold reception, he would have found it in his welcome from the 
 other members of the family. There was neither coldness nor 
 reserve with Eva; and as to Mr. Cameron, he had not been, for 
 months, so like his former self. He and Charles had been, not- 
 withstanding the difference in their ages, much together at the 
 Springs. Their tastes were congenial : they loved the woods 
 and the pleasures of hunting and fishing, and as they found 
 themselves there early in the season, when there were but few 
 visitors, they had formed a friendship which satisfied both, after 
 they each had access to companions nearer their own age. And 
 although in the morbidness of his feelings Mr. Cameron had 
 expressed to Eva an indifference, if not a positive reluctance to 
 renewing his acquaintance with his young friend, yet, now that he 
 had met him again, frank, cordial, and genial as ever, his moodi- 
 ness and sadness were dispelled, and he was, for the time being, 
 almost his former self 
 
 The conversation was so general and animated, that Julia 
 hoped that her silence would pass unnoticed, but in this she was 
 mistaken. One guest felt it, and the other saw it, for Uncle 
 John knew too well every expression of her face to be deceived 
 when anything weighed upon her spirits. 
 
 Charles waited in vain for her to mingle in the conversation, 
 and finally determined, by a direct effort, either to dispel the 
 
208 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 shadow or to deepen it. Taking a vacant chair by her side, he 
 
 said : 
 
 " Miss Cameron, will you oblige me by arranging these flow- 
 ers into a bouquet ? They are individually beautiful, but I have 
 mixed them up in such confusion that their beauty is compara- 
 tively lost." 
 
 She took the flowers and began to arrange them. As one 
 after another was added according as her taste directed, and the 
 bouquet grew into beautiful symmetry, Charles looked admiringly 
 at it, and said : 
 
 " Isn't it strange. Uncle John, that the very same elements of 
 beauty should present, under ditferent combinations, such differ- 
 ent results ? These flowers were just now literally a bunch, their 
 beauty almost entirely lost in the want of arrangement; now 
 they are growing into a beautiful bouquet of fair proportions, 
 and with colors harmoniously blended." 
 
 " Yes, Charles," he answered ; " our sex may love and admire 
 flowers, but we do not often know how to arrange them. I 
 know," he added, laughing, " that if Julia could see the vases 
 that you dressed this morning, she would have pity alike upon 
 you and upon my parlor, and do it over for us." 
 
 "No she .wouldn't, Uncle John I" exclaimed Eva, her eyes 
 full of mischief. " She would not pity him at all, nor would she 
 arrange his vases for him ; for I asked her this morning to help 
 me dress the parlor, and reminded her that Dr. Beaufort was a 
 great lover of flowers, but she would not, and I had it to do all 
 alone. I cannot account for it, for she is not generally so unac- 
 commodating." 
 
 Julia blushed deeply, and Charles saw it, but he turned away, 
 and replied to Eva : 
 
 " Well, Miss Eva, if I want my vases dressed, I can engage 
 your services." 
 
 "Yes, sir, you can command mine at any time. It may be," 
 she added, quite unconscious of the pain she was inflicting, and 
 intent only upon indulging her love of teasing, " that if you 
 make personal application, she may oblige you, as she has done 
 about the bouquet. She may do it for you, when she would not 
 for me." 
 
 Poor Julia was painfully embarrassed by Eva's raillery. She 
 tried to hide her confusion over her bouquet, but the more that 
 she felt her crimson face to be the object of remark and wonder, 
 the deeper grew the flush. She bore it as long as she could, and 
 then, murmuring something about getting a ribbon to tie the 
 flowers, she left the room. When she returned, she was quiet 
 and composed as usual, and the conversation had again become 
 
CAMERON HALL. 209 
 
 general ; and Charles, at a loss to conjecture what it meant, and 
 yet unwilling to do anything to annoy her, did not address him- 
 self particularly to her again. When they were going away, Mr. 
 Cameron said : 
 
 " Uncle John, I wish that you and the Doctor would come to- 
 morrow and spend a day in the country — an old Virginia day, 
 which means to come early in the morning, and stay until bed- 
 time. I would scar^jely think it fair to ask you to surrender him 
 entirely for one whole day, when he has only three to give you ; 
 but, inasmuch as you will come along, it will be no great gene- 
 rosity on your part to share his company with us." 
 
 ** I will very cheerfully do so, sir, and will take the liberty of 
 replying for him, that he will consent as willingly as myself. Is 
 it not so, Charles ?" 
 
 He could not do otherwise than accept an invitation which in 
 the morning he would have received with great pleasure, but 
 which now he would not unwillingly have declined. He could 
 not refuse, however, and so it was arranged. 
 
 "You must bring Agnes, too, Uncle John," said Mr. Came- 
 ron, as he led her to the door. 
 
 "Certainly, sir," he answered, smiling; "I shall bring all of 
 my family, and she makes one of it while Charles is here. You 
 cannot imagine how completely the addition of two to my house- 
 hold has altered the aspect of my house. It really looks inhab- 
 ited now. And as to myself, sir, I am quite oppressed with the 
 dignity and responsibility of being at the head of a family." 
 
 Julia saw the preparations for departure with relief, and hoped 
 that this day's trial at least was over ; but she was both surprised 
 and annoyed when she heard her father say: 
 
 "Uncle John, put Jim into your buggy, and let him drive 
 through the grove and wait for you at the other end, and the 
 girls and I will walk that far with you. It is a pleasant evening 
 for a walk." 
 
 "Agreed," replied Uncle John, " I like the arrangement." 
 
 The party walked along together through the lane, but when 
 they entered the woods, the narrowness of the path compelled 
 them to go in pairs, of which circumstance Charles took advan- 
 tage to get by the side of Julia. Disappointed in the result of 
 his visit, and annoyed, he scarcely knew wherefore, he determined 
 to find out, if possible, whether his presence had anything to do 
 with her painful embarrassment. 
 
 " The purpose of my visit is yet unaccomplished, Miss Came- 
 ron," he said. " TVe have not recalled together any of those 
 pleasant memories of which we spoke yesterday." 
 
 18* 
 
210 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "The conversation has been so general," she answered, eva- 
 sively, "that there has been no opportunity." 
 
 "And yet it has not been so general but that your father and 
 sister have both found opportunity to recall scenes and amuse- 
 ments in which we participated together. You alone have been 
 silent; you alone of that party seem to remember nothing of that 
 time with pleasure. I had hoped otherwise, and last night I be- 
 lieved otherwise, after you told me that those memories were 
 pleasant to both." 
 
 The word " Forget" trembled upon her lips, but she checked 
 it, and answered quietly: 
 
 " I spoke truly, Dr. Beaufort. Those were happy days to me, 
 and their memory may not be the less pleasant because I have 
 not said so." 
 
 " You have said so once," he answered, with a hurried tone. 
 " You admitted it yesterday, but to-day there has been neither 
 word nor look to make me believe, not only that you remembered 
 that time with pleasure, but that you even recollected it at all. 
 I wish. Miss Cameron," he added, with a perplexed air, "that I 
 could understand it." 
 
 Julia felt that they were approaching dangerous ground, and 
 she would gladly have had a moment to collect her thoughts and 
 reflect upon what she should answer. She was relieved from her 
 dilemma % a voice in front, which called out : 
 
 " Come along, Charles, Agnes and I are waiting for yon." 
 
 Julia, glad to be released, hurried forward without any reply 
 at all, and a few minutes afterward her guests were whirling rap- 
 idly along in the distance. On their return, her father and Eva 
 did all the talking. The visit had been like a sunbeam to Mr. 
 Cameron. The revival of past pleasures had, for the time being 
 at least, diverted his thoughts from his present trouble, and Julia 
 felt self-condemned at her own inability to participate in that cheer- 
 fulness which she was so truly glad to see in him. But she could 
 not rouse herself; a cloud was upon her face, and a heavy weight 
 was upon her heart, which she felt so helpless to remove that she 
 yielded to the pressure in unresisting submission. 
 
 " Uncle John," said Charles, abruptly, as they drove off, " what 
 is the matter with Miss Cameron ?" 
 
 " Is anything the matter ?" he asked in return. 
 
 " I should think, sir, that it would be very evident to you, since 
 it is so plain to me, a comparative stranger. This visit, or some- 
 thing else, was so decidedly painful to her, that it was anything 
 but a pleasure to me, and I sincerely regret the necessity of a 
 repetition of it to-morrow." 
 
 " Julia has much to bear, for one of her age, Charles. Her 
 
CAMERON HALL. 211 
 
 young brother, for whom she feels a mother's rather than a sis- 
 ter's love and anxiety, has recently gone to the army ; her father 
 
 is now depressed and care-worn, and " he thought of that 
 
 other and heaviest burden of them all, but he only shook his 
 head, saying : " There is too much, a great deal too much, upon 
 that young heart I" 
 
 " Yes," said Agnes, " Miss Julia has been troubled ever since 
 I came home." 
 
 "How do you know, Agnes ?" inquired Uncle John, in surprise. 
 
 "I know by her voice. Uncle John; it is always sad." 
 
 " Her voice never was gay and loud, like Eva's, Agnes." 
 
 " I know that, sir. It was never like Eva's, but neither was it 
 like what it is now. She is troubled about something, and I am 
 very sorry. Miss Julia is too good to be troubled." 
 
 " But, Uncle John," said Charles, " sadness and trouble will 
 not account for her appearance and manner this evening. She 
 was ill at ease for some reason, and seemed more so whenever I 
 attempted to talk to her ; and if I thought that my presence or 
 society had anything to do with her evident discomfort, I would 
 certainly spare her any repetition of it in future." 
 
 "Confess, Charles," said Uncle John, laughing, "that your 
 visit has disappointed you. You hoped to have an opportunity 
 for a tete-a-tete, but we were all in your way, and either too 
 stupid to understand your wishes, or too selfish to deny our- 
 selves for their gratification, and now in your vexation you want 
 to throw all the blame upon the lady herself. It is not fair, 
 Charles; she was not to blame." 
 
 " I would like to think so, sir, and would gladly believe that 
 she is as disappointed as I confess myself to be ; but this is not 
 so. I cannot be mistaken in the evident relief expressed in her 
 face when your summons put a sudden end to the only real con- 
 versation that I have had with her this evening." 
 
 Uncle John knew that Charles was right. He did not know 
 all, but he very well knew some of the reasons which had influ- 
 enced her thus to act ; but her conduct was susceptible of no 
 explanation to Charles, and so, wishing to divert his thoughts 
 from a subject which evidently annoyed him, Uncle John said, 
 pleasantly : 
 
 "Wait until to-morrow, and perhaps the mood will change. 
 *Varinm et mutahile,^ you know, Charles." 
 
 "I hoped and believed, sir, that Miss Cameron was one of the 
 exceptions to the poet's rule. I did not know that she was sub- 
 ject to moods." 
 
 " Xor is she, Charles. You are right there. If ever you see 
 a cloud upon her face, you may rest assured that there is suffi- 
 
212 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 cient cause for it. But, by- the- way," he added, determined now 
 to change the conversation, " before I forget it, let me say that 
 if it ever comes in your way to do anything for Walter Cameron, 
 I specially commend him to you. His regiment belongs to the 
 same brigade as yours, and it is just possible that some time or 
 other you may encounter him and be able to do something for 
 him. If you ever have an opportunity, seek him out. I ask it 
 as a personal favor; you won't forget it, Charles?" 
 
 " I will not, sir. If it is possible, I will search him out." 
 
 That night, when the rest of the household were all asleep, 
 Julia sat by her window for hours. The few words which Charles 
 had spoken to her in the grove, together with his tone and man- 
 ner, had assured her what next he would say unless she posi- 
 tively forbade it. She was herself altogether as much dissatisfied 
 with her conduct toward him to-day as he had been, and she now 
 determined to look calmly into her own feelings, bring them under 
 control, and decide how she was to meet him on the morrow. 
 But she found it no easy task. Her heart throbbed fast and 
 painfully. No reasoning with herself, no conviction that thus it 
 must not be, and no determination that thus it should not be, 
 could still its tumultuous beating. For once, her self-control 
 utterlv failed her. She sat with her face buried in her hands, 
 and, after vainly trying to think, she at last gave it up, and all 
 that she was conscious of for a long time was the thought that 
 happiness was within her reach but denied to her grasp. She 
 longed wearily and painfully for a mother. She wanted some- 
 body to whom she could unburden herself. There w^ere depths 
 in her nature which her light-hearted sister could not fathom, 
 and Julia knew that Eva would not understand her if she were 
 to lay her heart open to her now. And, besides, she needed not 
 only sympathy, but guidance and counsel as well, and never in 
 all her life before had she thought so yearningly of that mother 
 who was sleeping quietly, all unconscious of her child's necessi- 
 ties and longings. 
 
 Then Julia remembered Him who thinks no burden of the 
 human heart too insignificant for His sympathy and help, and no 
 ignorance too great for His enlightenment. She sank upon her 
 knees, and her heart found a voice for its need, and an expression 
 of its wants, in the church's prayer: 
 
 ^^ Grant that we may both perceive and know what things we 
 ought to do, and also may have grace and power faithfully to 
 fulfil the same." 
 
 Reason and argument had failed to still her heart, but these 
 few simple words of prayer were able to do it. She arose from 
 her knees, and tried once more to think and to resolve, and this 
 
CAMERON HALL. 213 
 
 time not in vain. She thonght that she saw her duty plainly 
 now, and that it but remained faithfully to do it. She believed 
 not only that it was right, but also her bounden duty, steadfastly 
 to resist all Charles Beaufort's advances. She felt that under 
 existing circumstances she could not marry him, nor did she be- 
 lieve that he would desire it if he knew all. She felt that however 
 her brother might himself have chosen to publish his infamy to 
 the world, yet, as his sister, she could have neither the right nor 
 the desire to do so, and therefore since she could not give Charles 
 a reason for a refusal, it was doubly binding upon her to prevent 
 the necessity of it. Besides, she wanted to spare him the pain 
 of one, and her desire was so to act as to do justice both to her- 
 self and him, to exonerate herself from the imputation of heart- 
 lessness and capriciousness, and yet to show him plainly that 
 they never could be any more to each other than they were 
 now. 
 
 Julia believed that her purposes had so completely failed to- 
 day because she had not had sufficient time for reflection. The 
 whole emergency had been so suddenly precipitated upon her, 
 her meeting with Dr. Beaufort had been so unexpected, and her 
 great grief coming thus into palpable collision with the thought 
 of him, and seeming to sever her from him by such an impassable 
 gulf, — all this had combined so to unnerve her that she had 
 been powerless to act out what she believed to be right. Xow, 
 however, she had had time both to think and to resolve, and also 
 to ask for help to do right; and when at last she laid herself 
 down to rest, wearied alike in mind and body with the conflict, 
 she fell asleep with the pleasing belief that to-morrow she should 
 be enabled to meet him calmly, and in all respects to treat him, 
 not as her heart, but as her conscience dictated. 
 
 The morrow came. She met Charles as of old, with a quiet 
 smile; but her purpose almost faltered when she felt the unequivo- 
 cal pressure of the hand with which he greeted her. He looked 
 at her to-day quite as much surprised as he was yesterday. Then, 
 so different from what he had ever seen her before ; now, so dif- 
 ferent from what she was then, she seemed indeed an inexplicable 
 enigma. And, however he might regret to believe that she was 
 not, as he had supposed, an exception to the poet's rule, he never- 
 theless felt a compensation in the fact that to-day the mood of 
 yesterday had passed away, and she was almost her former self. 
 Quiet, and disposed to be silent as ever, she was nevertheless 
 placid and at ease. He rejoiced in the result, but he little 
 dreamed of the effort that so calm an exterior had cost her. Few 
 others could thus have controlled themselves ; but Julia had so 
 accustomed herself to it in smaller matters, that even now, the 
 
214 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 attainment, though difficult, was not impossible. She mingled 
 pleasantly in the conversation all day. There was no abstraction, 
 no preoccupation of thought as there had been the day before. 
 She watched strictly and carefully over herself, and only once 
 was for an instant thrown off her guard. 
 
 She was talking about Walter, and had requ'ested for him, as 
 Uncle John had done before, Charles's friendship, and care if he 
 should need it. 
 
 " It has been already promised to Uncle John," he replied, 
 " but now the promise will be doubly binding ; now it will be 
 sacred," he added, in a tone so low that none heard it except 
 herself 
 
 For an instant the old embarrassment threatened to return, as 
 she suddenly remembered that she had asked a favor and thereby 
 accepted an obligation. In a few minutes, however, she re- 
 covered herself, and led the conversation into another channel. 
 
 And so the day wore away : pleasantly to Eva and her father; 
 regretfully to Uncle John and Charles, as they remembered that 
 two out of the three allotted days were gone ; and wearily with 
 Julia, who, though successful in accomplishing her purpose, was 
 nevertheless tired with the effort. She was the only one of the 
 party who saw, without regret, the lengthening shadows of even- 
 ing, and was pleased when the time of departure came. 
 
 When the visit was over, Charles found himself again disap- 
 pointed in not having enjoyed a single moment's private con- 
 versation with Julia, and yet he did not, as before, blame her. 
 She had so effectually and yet so skillfully guarded against it, 
 that while he deplored the fact, he did not dream that she had so 
 decreed and so effected it. 
 
 Uncle John was seated in the buggy ready to go. Mr. Cam- 
 eron stood by, talking to him, and Eva and Julia were on the 
 veranda, the latter leaning against a column, relieved to think 
 that this, her day of greatest trial, was over now. Charles offered 
 his hand, and said ; 
 
 " I suppose that I shall, of course, meet you ladies at church 
 to-morrow ?" 
 
 "Certainly," replied Eva, "we always go. Sister would think 
 it a grave misdemeanor, if not a crime, to be absent from church 
 without a very good excuse." 
 
 "Not the last, Eva," said Julia, smiling, "but certainly the 
 first." 
 
 She forgot herself for the first time during the day, and said, 
 absently : 
 
 " Yes, I will certainly be there. I need the church service 
 more than ever, now!" 
 
CAMERON HALL. 215 
 
 " Come along, Charles !" said Uncle John. " It matters not 
 how long you stay, you will at last have to tear yourself away, 
 and you might as well do so at once." 
 
 Charles looked earnestly in Julia's face, as if he expected there 
 to read what her words meant. His look aroused her, and she 
 turned her face away, but not before he had seen the color mount 
 to her temples. The last thing that Charles saw, as he drove off, 
 was Julia leaning wearily against the column, and he went away 
 with the same thought in his heart which had the day before 
 found utterance in the question: ""What is the matter with Miss 
 Cameron ?" 
 
 If Julia felt the need of the church service, she was not disap- 
 pointed the next morning in its adaptation to her wants and ne- 
 cessities. There was much in the special service for the day that 
 was suited to her case. In the Collect, the petition for "the 
 Spirit to think and do always such things as are right," was only 
 the expression of her heart's desire; and when Mr. Derby an- 
 nounced his text, " Take heed unto the thing that is right, for that 
 shall bring a man peace at the last," and proceeded to show how 
 an uncompromising effort to know and do the right, unswayed by 
 inclination, undeterred by difficulties, and undismayed by sacri- 
 fices, would, in the end, bring a peace which would far more than 
 compensate for the difficulties and trials in the way of its attain- 
 ment, she was almost tempted to believe that he was preaching 
 specially for her comfort and instruction. She was strengthened 
 and fortified now, and hoped much from the soothing influence 
 of the holy day, and the privacy of her own quiet home, to bring 
 her rest and peace. But the privacy and quiet she was not to 
 enjoy. 
 
 After service, nothing would satisfy Uncle John but that they 
 should all go home with him, and enjoy their last dinner with 
 their friend ; and Mr. Cameron agreed, on condition that after the 
 evening service they should all adjourn to the Hall. 
 
 It seemed that the strength of Julia's resolution was certainly 
 to be tried to the utmost; but all that she could do was patiently 
 to submit, and earnestly to struggle during this the last day. 
 
 She was as successful now as she had been before in avoiding 
 all conversation with him alone ; and when she found herself, 
 after tea, sitting upon the veranda at home, talking with all the 
 rest in a social circle, and upon common topics, she congratulated 
 herself upon the success of her efforts. But her congratulation 
 was premature, for this time there was opposed to her a determi- 
 natiou which nothing could resist. 
 
 Charles had, since the day before, been quietly awaiting an 
 opportunity to say to Julia what he had made up his mind to tell 
 
216 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 her, but the opportunity was long coming, the hours were rapidly 
 slipping away, and, at last, determined to wait no longer, he went 
 up to Julia and said, with a frankness and directness that admitted 
 of no refusal : 
 
 •' Miss Cameron, will you oblige me by walking with me a little 
 while upon the lawn ? The night is beautiful, and the lawn looks 
 very inviting for a stroll." 
 
 She was taken by surprise, but she could not refuse; and the 
 openness of the request would at once have lulled any suspicions 
 that she might have had with regard to his purpose. She com- 
 plied without an objection, and it was only when she found her- 
 self alone with him that she began to fear lest he might be tempted 
 to say something which she would rather not hear; but even then 
 she did not suspect that such was, indeed, his sole purpose and 
 design. 
 
 Without introduction or circumlocution, he spoke directly to 
 the point : 
 
 "Miss Cameron, Julia, listen to me, and hear me to the end 
 before you answer me. Had I waited for encouragement, or had 
 I been deterred by coldness, this avowal would not have been 
 made, at least not now ; but to-morrow I leave you, perhaps for- 
 ever, and I cannot consent to go until I have told you that I love 
 you, and have loved you for two years." 
 
 "Do not, please, do not," she interrupted; but he gently laid 
 his hand upon the arm that rested in his, saying : 
 
 "Not yet; hear me first. You prevented me from saying this 
 long ago, but you must listen to it now. My own heart, at least, 
 will be lighter for the confession, even if it should be unwelcome 
 to you. Julia, it is not vanity for me to believe that such love 
 as mine for you ought to and would satisfy you. It is a sincere, 
 honest, manly love, which would value the heart that you would 
 intrust to its keeping as above all price, and would study through 
 life to make you happy ; and could you but repay that love by 
 giving me yours in return, -you would make me immeasurably 
 happy. Can you, will you do it ?" 
 
 She did not answer. The arm that rested in his trembled so 
 that he grasped it firmly to support her, and anxiously, but si- 
 lently, awaited an answer; but none came. Presently, he said: 
 
 " Will you not speak, Julia ? Just now you needed to restrain 
 your words, and now you refuse them utterance. Can you not 
 tell me something ?" 
 
 "Oh, Charles — Dr. Beaufort, I mean," she stammered, "indeed, 
 indeed, this must not, this cannot be !" 
 
 He waited for something more, but it did not come, and then 
 he asked, sadly : 
 
CAMERON HALL. 21T 
 
 "Is this all ? Must I be content only to know that 'it must 
 not, cannot be ?' and will you deny me even the poor comfort of 
 a reason ? Tell me something, even if it should be that your 
 heart is not your own to give. If you have already bestowed it 
 upon another, I pray God that he may value the treasure as I 
 would, and guard it as sacredly. Speak, say something ; this si- 
 lence, this suspense is intolerable !" 
 
 "All that I can say," she answered, "is, that you must forget 
 this night ; forget all that you have said ; forget me and all that 
 concerns me." 
 
 "By Heaven, Julia I" he exclaimed, "you demand impossibili- 
 ties. I can neither forget you nor what I have said to you, nor 
 would I if I could ! What do you, what can you mean ?" 
 
 He turned round so that the moon shone full upon her face, 
 and, looking fixedly at her, he said, in a bewildered tone : 
 
 "I know not what to think. You are too true a woman to 
 jest where so much is at stake. Were you anybody else, I should 
 be tempted to think that you were trifling." 
 
 She drew her arm from his, and stood before him in the clear 
 moonlight. 
 
 "Charles," she began, "Dr. Beaufort " 
 
 "Away with formalities !" he said, impatiently. " Call me 
 Charles, call me anything, if you will, but relieve this suspense." 
 
 She still trembled so much that he again tried to take her arm ; 
 but she resisted, and, leaning for support against a tree, said with 
 effort, and with a quivering voice : 
 
 " Charles, it is now your turn to listen to me. I am still the 
 honest, truthful woman that you have ever believed me — too hon- 
 est to jest and trifle at such a time, and with too true a woman's 
 heart not to feel deeply pained by the consciousness of the pain 
 that I am obliged to inflict. Believe me, I would have spared 
 you this if I could. If I could have prevented it, you never 
 should have spoken these words to me; but, as it is, I can only 
 regret it, and tell you that for what I now say I have a reason, 
 which, if I could disclose it, your own judgment would approve. 
 It is better, far better for both, that these feelings should be 
 crashed in the bud ; they can never bring either of us anything 
 but sorrow and pain, for — " she hesitated, and even in the moon- 
 light he could see the pallor which overspread her face, — "for be- 
 tween you and me there is an insurmountable barrier. I cannot 
 remove it, nor can any other human being, nor can my lips reveal 
 it. You must be content to know that it is insurmountable, and 
 that you yourself would deem it so if you knew what it was." 
 
 " Strange ! very strange !" he murmured. " Why this barrier 
 now, Julia ? It did not exist in our former intercourse, or if it 
 
 19 
 
218 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 did, you ignored it then. Tell me, tell me," he entreated, " what 
 do you, what can you mean ?" 
 
 "Ask me no more, Charles, this is all that I can tell you ;" she 
 paused a moment, and then added, extending her hand, " will you 
 believe that I am sincere when I tell you that from my inmost 
 soul I am sorry for the pain that I inflict; will you believe that 
 I could not help it; will you forgive me, and will you seal your 
 forgiveness by granting me one favor, the last one that I will 
 probably ever ask T)f you ?" 
 
 " Name it. I can refuse you nothing." 
 
 "Will you promise me that no human being shall ever know 
 what I have said to you to-night ; neither Uncle John nor any- 
 body else ?" 
 
 " Xobody," he answered, "if you so decree it." 
 
 They walked along several minutes in silence, and then he said, 
 earnestly and sadly: 
 
 "And' have you nothing more to say, Julia ? If I may not 
 know why I am thus dismissed, may I not have the consolation 
 of knowing that if you cannot accept the love that I have offered 
 you, you at least do not spurn it ? that if I cannot occupy the 
 place in your heart that I desire, I may yet be remembered, if not 
 with affection, at least with interest ? Will not your thoughts 
 sometimes follow me with sympathy into those scenes of blood, 
 and carnage, and suflfering, which will henceforth make up ray 
 life ? Will- you not sometimes pray for me ? sometimes wonder 
 if I am still spared to fulfill my country's mission, or if I sleep in 
 a forgotten grave ?" 
 
 " Oh, Charles, Charles," she entreated, " spare me ! You little 
 know how much 1 am " 
 
 " Suffering," she was about to say, but she checked the un- 
 spoken word, although her face revealed it plainly enough. 
 
 She paused a moment, as if trying to collect her thoughts, and 
 then said, in painful perplexity : 
 
 " If I only knew what it was right to say ! Surely it cannot 
 be wrong to tell you more; to tell you that if I cannot marry 
 you, I at least can and will think of you, and pray for you every 
 day of your soldier life !" 
 
 " Thank you for that promise, Julia ! Thank you for that 
 much of comfort I And now, will you not answer me one more 
 question? will you not tell me if you refuse me because you love 
 and are promised to another ?" 
 
 She thought a moment, and then onswered: 
 
 " It cannot be wrong to afford you this poor satisfaction ! 
 No, Charles, this is not the difficulty, and, what is more, I can 
 safely promise that it never will be. I expect to live and die 
 
CAMERON HALL. 219 
 
 Julia Cameron. This is all that I can tell you ; for the rest, you 
 will have to trust my judgment and truthfulness." 
 
 "In any other matter that were easy enough to do; but in 
 something which so nearly concerns my own happiness, I would 
 very much like to have the difficulties submitted to the decision of 
 my own judgment. And now, Julia, one, only one more ques- 
 tion. You have confessed that you do not love another; is it 
 because you cannot love me that you now send me away ? May 
 I not ask this one question ?" * 
 
 Her heart throbbed violentlv, and the blood rushed to her 
 temples, but with a strong effort she answered, quietly : 
 
 *'No, Charles, you may not ask, neither may I answer, any 
 more questions." 
 
 " You do not say no !" he exclaimed, gladly. " Julia, I must, 
 I will hope ! I shall live — and it may be, alas ! die — in the hope 
 that you will still be mine, that we may remove or perhaps out- 
 live this obstacle, and our destiny may yet be the same !" 
 
 "Do not, Charles," she said, earnestly, "do not indulge any 
 such hope, for, believe me when I tell you that it can only end 
 in disappointment. I speak truthfully when I say that no hu- 
 man being can remove the obstacle that separates us, and that as 
 long as it exists I cannot marry you. And now you must never 
 renew this subject, never again allude to this night. Let us try, 
 Charles, to be friends," she added, extending her hand, "kind 
 friends, if we may not be anything more to each other !" 
 
 " This is not what I asked," he said, grasping the extended 
 hand; "but if I may not have Julia Cameron for my wife, still I 
 cannot but prize her as my friend. God bless you, Julia ! God 
 ever bless and keep you I I may not marry you, but I cannot, 
 help loving you. Julia," he added, earnestly and solemnly, "I 
 love you now, and I will love you until I die." 
 
 Respectfully and tenderly he bent down and kissed the hand 
 which he held in his own, and preventing her, as she tried to 
 extricate it from his grasp, he still held it, and said : 
 
 " You have refused r^e one request to night, the one whose 
 denial will darken my whole life ; perhaps you cannot find it in 
 your heart to deny me another. Will you give me the little 
 prayer-book that I saw in your hand at church to-day ?" 
 
 "Not that, but a better one; and I thank you for a request 
 that it gives me so much pleasure to grant." 
 
 "I do not want a better one, Julia. I want that one par- 
 ticularly." 
 
 " Whv, Charles?" 
 
 " Promise me, and I will tell you. Will you give it to me ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
220 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " I want it because, the day after your arrival at the Springs, 
 when we were strangers, we sat together at a Sunday morning 
 service in the ball-room. I saw that book in your hand, a con- 
 trast, in its worn and well-used appearance, to the velvet and 
 gilt, the embossed morocco, and clasped books, in the hands of 
 others around, and as great a contrast too in the reverent way in 
 which it was used, and in the earnestness and sincerity with which 
 its words were uttered." 
 
 " Charles," she replied, "if I had known this, I wou^d not have 
 promised you that book. Your own sense of right must tell you 
 how unwise it is, to say the least, to do anything to encourage 
 and foster these feelings. If it were possible, it would be better 
 for your happiness to forget everything that has occurred this 
 night. Take my advice: let me give you another book." 
 
 " Positively, no. You have promised me that, and I will not 
 consent to exchange it." 
 
 As they were returning to the house, he said : 
 
 "Will you write to me sometimes, Julia? I do not ask such 
 a letter as I would like to have, but I would be thankful for as 
 cold a one as you would deem it best to write. It would be 
 something to look forward to." 
 
 "I cannot do it, Charles. It would not be right." 
 
 "May I, then, occasionally write to you? I will promise, 
 upon the honor of a man, not to write one word which your 
 brother might not." 
 
 How she longed to say with her lips the "yes," for which her 
 heart pleaded ; but she only replied, quietly : 
 
 " 'No, Charles, it is better not." 
 
 " Then may I not send you a message sometimes, in my letters 
 to Uncle John, and receive now and then, through them, some 
 word of friendly remembrance ?" 
 
 But still the answer came, firm, but sad : 
 
 "No, it must not be." 
 
 Blessings and good wishes had been exchanged, and the last 
 farewells had been spoken. Julia stood a little apart, holding in 
 her hand the book that she had promised, and awaiting her turn 
 to speak the painful word. She heartily wished it over, for she 
 had already been taxed to the extent of her endurance, and she 
 greatly feared lest at the last her self-control might fail her. 
 
 He took the book from her hand, and said, in a low tone : 
 
 " I must not write, I must not even send a message, but I will 
 come. This you shall not, you cannot prevent. Some time, 
 when I can be spared for a day or two, I will, I must see you. 
 God bless you, Julia!" 
 
CAMERON HALL. 221 
 
 He pressed her hand, and looked earnestly into her face, as 
 she answered : 
 
 " God bless " 
 
 Her firmness all gave way, and with a sob she turned away, 
 rushed into the house, and locked herself in her own room. 
 
 Julia was not given to tears, but she had imposed upon her 
 fortitude, during the last two days, a heavier burden than it could 
 bear. She had struggled successfully until the time for strug- 
 gling was over, but though a conqueror, she was still exhausted 
 with the conflict. Worn out and helpless, she threw herself upon 
 the bed, and sobbed and cried as if her heart would break. All 
 her pent-up feelings now broke forth in a flood, which, in the 
 solitude and unrestraint of her own chamber, she allowed to 
 sweep unchecked over her soul. 
 
 *'He loves me," she thought, passionately, "and God only 
 knows how with soul and strength I love him in return, and yet 
 I have sent him away perhaps forever, without one loving word, 
 without permission to write or send a message, without promise 
 of a cheering letter, or a comforting word to refresh him when 
 he is weary and heart-sick, in the midst of danger and suffering I 
 He is gone with the assurance that we must always be to each 
 other just what we are now; gone with nothing but the meager 
 promise that I would sometimes remember, sometimes pray for 
 him ! He is gone to risk and it may be to lose his life for his 
 country, for his home, for me; he asked and was refused a kindly 
 message ! I have denied him what I would gladly give to the 
 most degraded soldier in the Confederate armyl" 
 
 In her excitement, she exclaimed aloud : 
 
 "Oh ! if I could only recall him, I would tell him all; tell him 
 that I love him better than ray life, tell him that I bear a dis- 
 honored name, and love him far too well to wish to link it to his 
 own 1 Even to see him shrink from me as from a contaminated 
 thing, would be less intolerable than this life of hypocrisy to 
 which I have condemned myself! How shall I, how can I hide 
 from him, from the world, the love with which my heart is throb- 
 bing and bursting ? And is it right to assume an indifference 
 which I do not feel, against which my whole soul rebels ? I did 
 not deal truly with him; I kept back from him what he had 
 a right to know. Rather than tell him of my brother's infamy, I 
 have sent him away without explanation, I have refused him the 
 poor consolation of knowing that if I could not marry him, at 
 least I could and did love him with heart and soul ! Oh, George, 
 George 1 how has your treachery blighted, not only the name, 
 but the hopes and the happiness of every Cameron I" 
 
 19* 
 
222 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER XYII. 
 
 It was the evening of the twenty-second of July. Along the 
 electric wires had sped to the remotest corner of the Confederacy 
 the result of the first great battle of the Southern revolution, and 
 the heart of the nation throbbed high with hope and gratitude, as 
 it drank in the tidings of the victory upon the plains of Manasses. 
 The first impulse everywhere was that of thankfulness and exulta- 
 tion ; the next, was the sickening fear of every heart lest the vic- 
 tory should have been purchased at the price of blood dearer 
 than its own, at the sacrifice of a life which it would gladly have 
 given its own to save. 
 
 The telegraph office at Hopedale had been crowded all day. 
 Anxious faces were gathered there, traced with lines of dread 
 and suspense, as one and another received the slip of paper, so 
 small, and yet laden with relief or agony, as husband, son, brother 
 was pronounced safe, wounded, or dead. Mr. Cameron and Uncle 
 John had been there since early in the morning, but as yet there 
 were no tidings either from Charles or Walter. As the day wore 
 on, their anxiety increased, though neither acknowledged it to the 
 other; but each thought that if both were safe, one or the other 
 would have telegraphed. At dark, they left the office, and went 
 to Uncle John's to tea, purposing to return immediately after 
 and await the tidings. When they passed the cottage, Grace 
 was leaning upon the gate, with Agnes at her side. 
 
 "I have waited so long and so anxiously for you," she said, 
 "hoping that you would pass this way. Any news from Walter 
 or Dr. Charles ?" 
 
 Uncle John shook his head in silence, and Agnes said : 
 
 " Do tell us. Uncle John ; we want to hear so much." 
 
 " No news yet, daughter." I am going again to the office, 
 after tea, and if I hear anything I will call and tell you." 
 
 " Don't forget, Uncle John. Mother and I will be very lonely 
 to-night, for I cannot even play the organ now. This has been 
 the longest day that I ever spent. How much longer must we 
 wait to hear ?" 
 
 " I do not know, my daughter. We must try and be patient. 
 The time seems long and weary to others as well as to you." 
 
 While Mr. Cameron and Uncle John were silently drinking 
 their tea, they were startled by a violent ring at the hall bell. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 223 
 
 Uncle John hastened to answer it himself, and as he recognized 
 the well-known envelope, he felt for an- instant as if he would 
 fall. His hands trembled so that he could scarcely break the seal, 
 and when he saw the words " Walter safe," and Charles Beau- 
 fort's signature, his eyes filled so that he could read no more. 
 He hastened with it to Mr. Cameron, relieving his suspense at 
 once by exclaiming, as he reached the door: 
 
 "Thank God I Thank God !" 
 
 Mr. Cameron read it over and over, as if almost afraid to be- 
 lieve the good tidings, and then sat for some minutes holding the 
 slip of paper in his hand in silence. Then, suddenly recollecting 
 himself, he arose hastily, saying : 
 
 " I must go at once. Poor girls 1 they have had a long, anx- 
 ious day." 
 
 He laid the paper on the table, and Uncle John took it up and 
 exclaimed, as he read it, — " Why, what is all this ?" 
 
 " Have you not read it before, sir ?" asked Mr. Cameron. 
 
 " No. My old heart and my old eyes filled up so when I saw 
 that the boys were both safe, that I could not read any more 
 just then ; but indeed I must bestir myself now. It will be 
 more than I can do in one day, I am afraid, to make prepara- 
 tions in this little village for the accommodation of so many 
 wounded." 
 
 " You may send as many out to the Hall, sir, as you please, if 
 the distance from town, and consequently from surgical attend- 
 ance, will be no objection. The house is large, and the weather 
 warm, so that they can be accommodated with cots." 
 
 They left the house together, and went on their separate 
 errands, — Mr. Cameron, with a lightened heart, to bear the wel- 
 come tidings to his daughters ; and Uncle John, first to relieve 
 Grace and Agnes, as he had promised, and then to see what 
 could be done to provide for the comfort of the expected suf- 
 ferers. 
 
 Drearily and heavily the day had passed at the Hall. Eva, 
 whose accustomed excitability and impulsiveness were now goaded 
 on by suspense, had been almost frantic all day. She had had be- 
 fore but little foreboding or anxiety on her brother's account, for 
 she was too unfamiliar with war to realize his danger; but now 
 that the fierce battle which, prospectively, had seemed to her a 
 dim and shadowy thing, was indeed a reality, an accomplished 
 fact, her excited imagination conjured up a thousand horrors, 
 with which she tortured herself until mind and body were alike 
 exhausted. She had walked for hours up and down the parlor, 
 up and down the hall, up and down the veranda, and at last, 
 reckless of the blazing July sun, she rushed down to the lawn- 
 
224 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 gate, and strained her eyes to see if in the distance she could 
 not recognize her returning father. But nothing relieved the 
 monotony of the red, dreary road, upon which the sun poured 
 down, without tree or shrub to afford a shelter from its scorch- 
 ing rays. She waited, and looked, and hoped, and finally, re- 
 gardless of everything except the relief of her torturing suspense, 
 along that burning road she ran, conscious of nothing, thinking 
 of nothing, except to hear from Walter. When she reached the 
 middle of the lane, weak with excitement, and exhausted by the 
 heat, she found it impossible to advance another step. She sat 
 down upon the roadside, with no shade to screen her throbbing 
 head, which ached intensely. Still she looked and watched for 
 her faiher, but he did not come ; then she looked all around for 
 some human figure, some servant in the adjoining fields, to whom 
 she might appeal for help, but nothing was to be seen. It 
 seemed as if the sickening desolation of her own heart was re- 
 produced upon the scene around her. She was, however, too 
 restless to sit still long, and, growing sick and faint, she de- 
 termined to try and get home. The way seemed interminable, 
 and several times she was compelled to sit down and rest, but at 
 last she reached the gate. The two enormous oaks, that stood 
 like sentinels one on each side, threw their sheltering branches 
 far and wide, and, lured by the refreshing shade, the tired child 
 threw herself down upon the grass, and in a few moments found 
 a temporary forgetfulness of her troubles and anxieties in a pro- 
 found sleep. 
 
 Her quiet but not less anxious sister had sufi'ered as severely 
 as herself; but with Julia, there had been no tears, no restless- 
 ness, no outburst of grief. On the contrary, she was unnaturally 
 calm, and there was no evidence of unwonted excitement, except 
 in the lines of quiet determination around her mouth, and the 
 almost stern resolution expressed in her eye, as if she were 
 bracing herself to receive an impending blow. Unlike Eva, this 
 had not come upon her with the suddenness and unexpectedness 
 of the lightning stroke. She had accustomed herself to reflect 
 upon the dangers to which her loved ones were exposed, and 
 while she had prayed constantly and earnestly that they might 
 be spared, yet she knew that the blow must fall somewhere, and 
 realized that she had no more right than others to expect ex- 
 emption from its crushing weight. She, too, had a heavier bur- 
 den than her sister. The fate of two rested upon her heart, one 
 of whom she loved with almost a mother's love, and the other 
 with almost a wife's. 
 
 Julia felt that she had grown much older in the past few 
 months, that she was beginning to experience the discipline of 
 
CAMERON HALL. 225 
 
 life. She had always regarded herself as prematurely old, and 
 thought that her position, as the elder sister of a motherless 
 family, had made her so, and had familiarized her, even in child- 
 hood, with those cares and anxieties which are generally not laid 
 upon us until we have reached maturity ; but she now felt as if 
 she had never before known the meaning of the words anxiety 
 and care, as if shQ were just now beginning to learn what was 
 really meant by the burden and responsibilities of life. The 
 blight upon her name, the disappointment of her affections, the 
 burden of feeling which she could not crush, and yet must for- 
 ever conceal, not only from the world, but also from him who, 
 she thought, had a right to know it ; and now, superadded to all 
 this, her suspense and anxiety about brother and lover formed, 
 indeed, a burden which would have weighed down a heart more 
 inured than hers to care and sorrow. 
 
 It seemed to her that a month had passed since the morning's 
 dawn, and the only evidence of restlessness in her manner was 
 the frequent glance at the clock, and the expression of disap- 
 pointment when she saw that it was only a few minutes later 
 than when she had looked last. The evening before, the tele- 
 graph wires had conveyed the tidings of the raging battle, and 
 at sunrise this morning her father had gone to town, promising 
 to return as soon as he heard from Walter. Hour after hour had 
 passed, and still he did not come. She sat and thought, for she 
 could not do anything else. Even her effort to read her Bible 
 lessons had been fruitless, and the painful monotony of the weary 
 time was only broken by the occasional appearance at the door 
 of Mammy Nancy's anxious face, and the same question repeated 
 every time : 
 
 " Miss Julia, you ain't heard nothin' from my boy, yet ?" 
 ''No, Mammy Nancy, not yet. Papa has not come." 
 At last three o'clock came, the usual dinner-hour. She went 
 out on the veranda and looked down the lawn, but her father 
 was not coming, and so she walked down to the gate that she 
 might look up the road. As she approached the gate, she was 
 greatly amazed to see a sleeping figure under the trees, and her 
 surprise was turned to anxiety when she found that it was Eva. 
 She went up to her, and was quite alarmed when she saw her 
 crimson face, and felt her burning forehead, and the quick pulsa- 
 tion of her throbbing temples. She found some difficulty in 
 awakening her, but at last succeeded, and assisted her to the 
 house, where, with Mammy Nancy's help, she put her to bed. 
 Julia could not find out where Eva had been, or how she came 
 under the tree, for the moment that her head touched the pillow 
 she was asleep again. 
 
226 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "Still another anxiety !" thought poor Julia, as she looked at 
 her sleeping sister and longed for her father's return. She 
 thought that the summer day would never end ; but when at last 
 it was sunset, then twilight, then quite dark, and still her father 
 came not, her suspense became intolerable. 
 
 It was nine o'clock when her listening ear caught the sound 
 of horse's hoofs. She rose quietly from Eva'^ bedside ; but as 
 soon as she was out of the room, her limbs kept pace with her 
 anxiety, as she flew down stairs and reached the steps of the 
 Teranda just as her father was dismounting. 
 
 " Safe, my daughter !" were the only words that he^uttered. 
 
 The sudden reaction was too great, and she sank upon the' 
 steps. 
 
 "What is the matter, my child ?'' inquired her father, anxiously, 
 as he lifted her up. 
 
 " Nothing, papa, except that I have been so anxious all day 
 that I could not bear any more. Did Walter telegraph ?" 
 
 "No, Charles Beaufort." 
 
 Julia was thankful for the supporting arm that still upheld her, 
 for without it she would have fallen again. 
 
 " Here is the telegram. It was sent to Uncle John, but he 
 thought that you girls would like, with your own eyes, to read 
 the good news." 
 
 In her inmost soul Julia blessed Uncle John's considerate 
 kindness, as, standing under the hall lamp, she devoured the few 
 words of the precious missive. Charles and Walter both safe I 
 How, in comparison with this great deliverance, all the other 
 mercies and blessings of her life dwindled into insignificance I 
 She spoke not a word, but her full heart went out in fervent 
 thanksgiving as the tears, which anxiety and sorrow had but 
 frozen in her heart now melted and overflowed in silent joy and 
 gratitude. 
 
 "You have spent an anxious day, my poor child," said her 
 father, kindly. 
 
 "Yes, sir; the most anxious, the most painful one of my whole 
 life." 
 
 "Thank God, it is over now 1 But, Julia, indeed you must go 
 to bed, my daughter, for you are so tired now that you can scarcely 
 stand. You look really sick." ^ 
 
 "I am not sick now, papa, though I have felt so all day. No 
 cordial was ever so strengthening as was that blessed telegram. 
 But Eva is sick, if I am not, and I have been anxious about her 
 all day. Come up stairs and see her." 
 
 "What is the matter, Julia?" 
 
 She told him where she had found her, and how profoundly 
 
CAMERON HALL. 227 
 
 she had slept all the afternoon, and Mr. Cameron hastened up to 
 see her. She still had a high fever, and her father stood looking 
 anxiously at her. 
 
 "Poor child!'' he said, compassionately. "Her light heart 
 does not bear trouble like yours, my daughter." 
 
 He laid his hand upon Julia's head, and stood and looked, first 
 at one and then at the other, and the father's heart was full, as he 
 read in both the effect of this, their first acquaintance with the 
 sorrows of war, and thought how light it might be in comparison 
 with the experience yet in store for them. He heaved a sigh, and 
 turned and went away. 
 
 The next morning, when Eva awoke, she was confused and be- 
 wildered. Her sister was moving quietly about the room, and 
 Eva watched her with a dull, listless gaze, until recollection began 
 gradually to return, and she was finally aroused to a full and per- 
 fect consciousness of where she was, and of the events of yes- 
 terday. Julia did not know that she was awake, until she was 
 startled by a quick, decided question. 
 
 "Sister, has papa come?" 
 
 "Yes, he came last night." 
 
 "And Walter?" 
 
 "Is safe, Eva." 
 
 With a single bound, and a cry of joy, the impulsive child 
 sprang from the bed, and before Julia knew what she was going 
 to do, or had time to expostulate, she had thrown on her dress 
 and rushed down stairs. She met Carlo on the way, stopped to 
 give him a hearty squeeze and tell him that his master was safe, 
 and then burst into her father's room to hear the particulars. Mr. 
 Cameron was so startled by her excited appearance, and the un- 
 expectedness of her coming, that for an instant he could not an- 
 swer the questions that she began rapidly to pour out. At last, 
 however, she was fully satisfied, and then her father tried to con- 
 vince her of her imprudence, in thus leaving her bed and giving 
 way to such excitement, and told her that she would surely induce 
 a return of fever. 
 
 "Oh, no, papa!" she answered. "I never was better in my 
 life than I am this morning. Trouble and anxiety can make me 
 sic'k, but joy never ! I thought yesterday that I would certainly 
 die, and I really do believe that two or three days of suspense 
 like that would kill anybody in the world." 
 
 "And yet, my daughter, there are many hundreds, nay, even 
 thousands, in this land to-day, who are suffering, and will continue 
 to suffer, for days, and it may be weeks, or even months, the same 
 torturing suspense that you found it so hard to bear for a single 
 day. Some poor fellows, perhaps, fell unnoticed upon the battle- 
 
228 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 field ; some are lying wounded, suffering too much to think of 
 anything except their own agony, and with no friends thoughtful 
 enough to telegraph their condition to the anxious hearts at 
 home ; some are prisoners, and their fate unknown ; and even 
 among those who escaped unhurt there are a thousand things, in 
 the confusion and bustle after a battle, to make men forget or 
 slow to perform so important a duty. This, my child," said Mr. 
 Cameron, sadly, "this is war.^^ 
 
 "Oh, papal when will it be over? Will not this one battle be 
 enough ?" 
 
 "Ah, my child, no human foresight can see the end ; this is 
 only the beginning ! It may be that before it is over we may have 
 many experiences, compared with which the suffering of yester- 
 day may be but the dust of the balance. God alone knows, Eva, 
 what is still before us." 
 
 The light-hearted child heeded not her father's sad words and 
 sadder tone. All future trouble and anxiety were merged in her 
 present happiness. Walter was safe, and she was happy, and she 
 answered gaily : 
 
 " Well, it will at least be some time, I hope, before we fight an- 
 other battle. I do trust that we have whipped the Yankees so 
 badly that they will never stop running until they land in the 
 Gulf of St. Lawrence." 
 
 " To land in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, Eva," replied her 
 father, smiling, "would be as difficult an achievement for Yankee 
 ingenuity, as to give a ball this week in Richmond via Bull-Run 
 and Manassas has proved to be for Yankee valor." 
 
 " Bull-Run I" she repeated, laughing, " I like that name ; it 
 tells the result in itself. May they run until they are thoroughly 
 tired I Tell me something about the battle, papa." 
 
 "I cannot, Eva. I only know the result, that it was a decided 
 victory for the Confederate arms. We will have to wait some 
 days before we get the full particulars in the newspapers." 
 
 "Won't you be anxious to read all about it, papa? 
 
 "Yes, my daughter, very. I am truly thankful for the result of 
 this, our first great battle. But, Eva, where is your sister? If 
 she is ready for breakfast, order it at once, for I want to go to 
 town immediately. I must help Uncle John to-day." 
 
 "I am sure, papa," she answered, laughing, "I have no idea 
 where sister is. The last time that I saw her, she was standing 
 in blank amazement and with uplifted hands in the middle of the 
 floor, at the idea of my getting up and running down stairs. I 
 would not be surprised if she were standing there yet." 
 
 At the breakfast-table, Julia said : 
 
 " What is the matter, Eva ? Doesn't your coffee suit you ?" 
 
CAMERON HALL. 229 
 
 " It is as good as usual, I suppose, sister, but I believe that I 
 would rather have a cup of tea." 
 
 The tea was tried, but with no better success. She was bal- 
 ancing her spoon listlessly upon her cup, as she said: 
 
 " Papa, please order the buggy instead of the horse, and take 
 me to town with you. I do want so much to see somebody and 
 to hear something." 
 
 "You seem to be quite able, Eva, to go to town," he replied, 
 looking at her untasted breakfast. "I rather think that the bed 
 is the proper place for you, for judging from your cheeks the 
 fever is not quite gone yet." 
 
 "I wish, papa," said Julia, "that you would order Eva posi- 
 tively to bed. You don't know how sick she was yesterday." 
 
 "That was only because I was distressed and anxious, sister." 
 
 '' Whatever might have been the cause, Eva, the result was that 
 you were very sick, and that I was very uneasy." 
 
 " Oh ! you were nervous and excited yesterday, and exaggerated 
 my case. Papa certainly will not condemn me to bed this hot 
 day, when I am perfectly well, because he thinks that I ought to 
 be sick after yesterday's achievement !" 
 
 "I will not condemn you to bed, Eva, unless you are inclined 
 to go; but I certainly must insist upon your staying in the house 
 all day. Remember," he added, smiling, "no more pleasant 
 walks up the lane under a mid-day sun." 
 
 "You might spare yourself the trouble of that command, papa, 
 since yesterday's experience of a noon-day promenade in a tree- 
 less lane, in July, will probably suffice me for some time. Next 
 time I will be more patient, since I find that so far from hearing 
 the news first by going to meet you, sister, who sat quietly in the 
 house, heard it all ten or twelve hours before I did." 
 
 " Yes, Eva, sometimes your haste and impetuosity overleap 
 themselves. You would have saved yourself some suffering, and 
 your sister much anxiety, if you had stayed at home as she did." 
 
 " Oh, papa, that would have been impossible ! If I had been 
 pent up in the house all day yesterday, I should have died. I 
 needed the fresh air." 
 
 "And the hot sun, too, I suppose, Eva." 
 
 " Yes, papa, even that — anything was better than sitting still 
 and waiting. You do not know how long and weary the hours 
 are when you are waiting." 
 
 " Yes I do, daughter, for I too was waiting yesterday ; wait- 
 ing all day at the office, just as anxious, and just as weary, as 
 you were at home. You are right, Eva. To sit with folded 
 hands and to wait is sometimes the hardest thing that we can 
 
 20 
 
230 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 be called npon to do ; and yet, my daughter, it is what, at some 
 period or other of life, we all have to learn to do." 
 
 When Mr. Cameron went to town, he found Uncle John ex- 
 tremely busy. Mind and body were alike engaged and interested; 
 and regardless of the intense heat he worked hard all day. In 
 the evening, on his way to the depot, he stopped at the cottage. 
 
 " I have not seen you all day, Uncle John,"' Agnes said. " You 
 have been so busy about the soldiers that you have forgotten 
 me." 
 
 " Xot forgotten you, my daughter, that I never do ; but very 
 busy, Agnes, too busy to come as usual to see you, and I thought 
 that you would be the last child in the Confederacy to complain 
 of having to sacrifice some of your pleasure for the sake of the 
 soldiers. I have been trying all day to do something to make 
 the poor fellows comfortable when they come. It is little enough 
 at best that we can do for those who have done so much for us !" 
 
 "I am glad that you made the arrangements, Uncle John, for 
 I know that you can do such things better than anybody else. I 
 did not mean to complain, just now, because you had not been 
 here to-day; I only meant to say that I had missed you." 
 
 "And I have missed my visit as well, Agnes ; for you may be- 
 lieve me, when I tell you that as far as mere comfort and pleasure 
 were concerned, I would much rather have been sitting in your 
 cool parlor, listening to the organ, than to have been working as 
 hard as I have been all dav." 
 
 ft' 
 
 "You look tired, Uncle John," said Grace. 
 
 "And so I am, Grace. Whenever I do any hard work or take 
 any unusual exercise, I am quickly reminded that I am not so 
 young as I was thirty years ago. But I have stayed longer than 
 I ought," he said, looking at his watch. "The train is due at 
 seven, and I will scarcely have time to get to the depot." 
 
 He hurried away, and when he arrived at the place he found, 
 as usual on such occasions, a great crowd gathered there. Vehi- 
 cles of every description had been pressed into service for the 
 transportation of the wounded, and were crowded together on 
 each side of the track. When the train arrived, the sight of 
 mangled and suffering humanity was enough to move the most 
 unfeeling heart. It was soon found that only a few could be re- 
 moved in carriages. The rest had all to be laid upon mattresses 
 in spring wagons, or carried on litters to the hospital. This 
 retarded the work very much, and it was ten o'clock before they 
 had all been removed. Among the rest Uncle John noticed, in 
 one of the cars, a gray-headed man, apparently about his own 
 age, who was not wounded, but seemed to be very sick. He 
 aroused him when his turn came, and asked him if he was able to 
 
CAMEROJS^ HALL. 231 
 
 ride in a carriage. The sick man opened his eyes languidly, and 
 said, in a feeble voice . 
 
 ''Yes. I am not wounded, I am only sick. Are all the poor 
 fellows gone ?" 
 
 "^^ot yet, sir. There are a good many yet to be removed. 
 They have to be handled so gently, that it is slow work." 
 
 "Never mind me, sir," said the sick man. "Attend to the 
 others first ; they are in great agony, but I am not in any pain. 
 I can wait very well." 
 
 He closed his eyes, and seemed to fall asleep as soon as he 
 stopped speaking, and Uncle John left him and continued his 
 work. At last he was done. All the worst cases had been con- 
 centrated at the hospital for the convenience of the surgeons, and 
 the remainder had been distributed among the private families of 
 the town. None had been found able to bear a ride of three 
 miles, so that none had been sent to the Hall. Uncle John had 
 sent two of the wounded men to his own house, and the sick man 
 was now the last one to be disposed of. With difficulty they half 
 supported and half carried him to the carriage, where he sank 
 back exhausted upon the cushions. Uncle John jumped in after 
 him, and bade the driver take them home as rapidly as possible. 
 
 The next morning, when the physician was leaving the house 
 after his visit, Uncle John followed him to the door, and said : 
 
 "What do you think of my patients, doctor?" 
 ^ "The wounded men, sir, I think, will both get well without any 
 difficulty — their wounds are painful, but not dangerous ; but the 
 sick man will die. It is a low form of typhoid fever, and he is 
 too old to stand it. He is almost worn out now. I wonder how 
 he came here ? He could not possibly have done anything worse, 
 than with this disease to have traveled, at this season, in a car 
 crowded with wounded men." 
 
 "I do not know," replied Uncle John, "how he came here, or 
 anything about him. He was apparently more dead than alive 
 when I found him last night in one of the cars ; and he is so weak 
 and exhausted this morning, that I have not troubled him with 
 any questions." 
 
 _" Yesterday's journey was enough to have killed him outright. 
 His friends, if he had any, had very little judgment even to have 
 permitted it." 
 
 Uncle John's hands were now indeed full, and so occupied and 
 interested was he in his work, that the days were quite too short 
 for the duties that he imposed upon himself. Every day he went 
 to the hospital to learn what was needed, and to see that it was 
 supplied, and to speak those few words of kindly sympathy which 
 cost the speaker so little, and are so refreshing to the homeless. 
 
232 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 friendless sufferer. He never came empty-handed, but always 
 brought either some little delicacy, prepared at his request by 
 some lady friend, or a book or newspaper with which to beguile 
 the tedious hours, or a bouquet of bright flowers, which spoke 
 sweetly of home to hearts longing for its loving faces, its sooth- 
 ing comforts, and its nursing care. 
 
 He came in one day, and going up to a cot whereon lay a robust, 
 stalwart man, perhaps a little past the meridian of life, whose leg 
 had been amputated two days before, he said : 
 
 "How are you this morning, my friend ? Are you able to read 
 a paper to-day ? I see here a long account of the battle in which 
 you participated ; perhaps, if you are not in too much pain, you 
 would like to read it." 
 
 "I can read at least a little, sir, and would like very much to do 
 so. I am not in so much pain this morning as I was yesterday." 
 
 Uncle John left the newspaper with him, and went on his usual 
 round through the hospital. As he passed the cot again, on his 
 way out, he saw the paper lying beside the man, and on his face 
 there was an expression of deep gloom. He went up to him, 
 and, taking his hand, said kindly : 
 
 "What is the matter ? Can I do anything for you ?" 
 
 "Nothing, sir," he answered, as with his large rough hand he 
 dashed the moisture hastily from his eyes. 
 
 "Look here," he said, pointing to the opening paragraph of 
 the account of the battle of Manassas, "and then look there!" 
 pointing to the sufferers all around the room. "And this suffer- 
 ing," he added, " is but a small item of the whole ! I was on the 
 battle-field; I know something of what that victory cost !" 
 
 The paragraph to which he pointed heralded the victory, and 
 bade the people rejoice that so signal a triumph was won at so 
 trifling a cost — only a few -thousand men! "Only a few thous- 
 and /'^ A few thousand souls hurried into eternity ! A few 
 thousand lives cut off in the prime and vigor of manhood I A 
 few thousand desolate homes ! A few thousand widows ! A few 
 thousand helpless orphans ! A few thousand bleeding hearts ! 
 "Only a few thousand/" Great God ! the fearful price of a sin- 
 gle victory ! The thoughtless world hears only its loud shout of 
 exultation, but Thine ears and Thy compassionate heart listen to 
 its wail of anguish ! 
 
 Uncle John read in silence, and then looked mournfullv at the 
 mangled limbs and suffering faces around him. There was, in- 
 deed, even in that single village hospital, a painful discord in the 
 glad song of victory, and Uncle John felt it not less than the suf- 
 ferer before him. After a moment's silence, he pointed sadly to 
 his useless stump, and his voice quivered as he said : 
 
CAMERON HALL. 233 
 
 "I could have borne it myself, sir; but the wife, the children 
 at home, are dependent upon my arm and mv limbs for their daily 
 bread!" 
 
 For this, Uncle John had no reply; but the wounded man 
 blessed him in his heart, for the moistened eye which met his own 
 in speechless sympathy, and for the kind pressure of the hand, 
 with which he silently turned and went away. 
 
 The next morning, on his way to the hospital, he met Julia and' 
 Eva just going in the gate at the cottage. Eva had brought a 
 magnificent bouquet for Agnes, who dearly loved fragrant flowers. 
 Oleanders, heliotrope, geraniums, and mignonette blended their 
 delicate perfume and their exquisite beauty, and Uncle John 
 looked admiringly and longingly at them. 
 
 "Give me that bunch of flowers, daughter," he said, eagerly. 
 "I want it particularly." 
 
 "I have promised it to Agnes, Uncle John; but I will come to 
 town again this evening, and bring you a larger, handsomer one 
 than this." 
 
 "But I want that, and I want it now. Tell Agnes that I 
 knew it was designed for her, and that I took it away from you. 
 I know that she will not object." 
 
 " You are welcome to it. Uncle John, if you will take the re- 
 sponsibility of her disappointment. What do you want with it?" 
 
 "I want it for a poor young fellow in the hospital; a gentle, 
 patient youth, who has enlisted my sympathies greatly." 
 
 He took the flowers, and as he approached the bed where the 
 youth was lying, the expression of suffering relaxed into a smile, 
 and the languid eye brightened as he saw the flowers. 
 
 "Are you better this morning, my son ?" inquired Uncle John, 
 cheerfully, as with a touch, gentle as that of woman, he smoothed 
 the dark hair back from his forehead. 
 
 " Yes, Uncle John, better than I was yesterday, though I suf- 
 fered greatly all night. May I smell those flowers one minute, 
 sir, if you please ?" and he stretched out his hand to take them. 
 
 " :N'ot one minute only, Willie, but until they are faded and 
 dead, and then I will bring you some more. I brought them 
 specially for you. They look like home, don't they, my son ?" 
 
 He eagerly grasped the bouquet, and carried it to his face, 
 more to hide his tears than to smell the flowers. All through 
 the weary night, when he was quivering with pain and parched 
 with fever, he had bitten his lips to keep back the groans which 
 he thought it unmanly to utter ; and his thoughts had rushed back 
 to his home in the sunny South, and he had longed for his mother's 
 band upon his forehead, for his father's look and voice of sym- 
 
 20* 
 
234 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 pathy, for his sister's gentle offices of love. And under cover of 
 the darkness, he had, quietly and unobserved, shed those tears 
 which he would not have his comrades see, and his heart had re- 
 lieved itself of its burden, and this morning he had felt himself a 
 man again. But a single word had, like a rushing flood, swept 
 away all his supposed manliness. The word home had made him 
 a child again, and choking down a sob, he turned his face away 
 and buried it in the pillow. 
 
 TJaele John stood and looked at him a moment in profound 
 compassion, and then passed on with a sigh. He could not go 
 away without another glance at Willie, and so, after he had seen 
 all the others, he passed again by his bed. Willie motioned him 
 to come to him, and taking his hand, he pressed it warmly, and 
 said, glancing at the bouquet: 
 
 " Thank you for this ! it does indeed look like " 
 
 The word would not come; but Uncle John, seeming not to 
 notice it, said, cheerfully : 
 
 " You must make haste and get better, my son. Just as soon 
 as you are able to bear a ride of three miles, you shall exchange 
 your present discomfort for pleasanter lodgings ; you shall go to 
 the place where these beautiful flowers grew, where you shall 
 have a fresh bouquet every morning, and, what is better still, 
 two sweet human flowers to keep you company; one as bright as 
 that oleander, and the other as sweet as that heliotrope. How 
 will you like that, Willie ?" 
 
 " More than I can tell you, sir," he answered, his face bright- 
 ening. Indeed, Uncle John, I do not feel as if I could ever get 
 well here. There is so much noise and confusion, and it excites 
 me so to see the sufferings, and hear the groans of the poor fel- 
 lows, that sometimes I feel as if I should lose my senses. I would 
 give the whole world, if I had it, for one day's quiet." 
 
 "And you shall have it, my poor boy," said Uncle John, 
 kindly, "just as soon as the surgeon says that you may be re- 
 moved. Try and be patient a little longer; try and be a soldier, 
 Willie, in the hospital, as you were on the field of Manassas; 
 bear up bravely a little while, and take care of yourself, and I 
 promise to take you to a place where I warrant that you shall 
 find some compensation at least for your present discomfort and 
 suffering." 
 
 " You will not forget it, Uncle John I" he said, with almost 
 childlike simplicity. 
 
 " Not I, Willie ! Some day soon, before you dream that you 
 are well enough to go, I will have a comfortable spring-wagon at 
 the door, and your mattress shall be lifted into it, with you lying 
 upon it just as you are now, and I myself will drive you out to 
 
CAMERON HALL. 235 
 
 Cameron Hall, and you shall be compelled to admit that Uncle 
 John is the gentlest driver that ever took the reins." 
 
 " Thank you, sir, a thousand times thank you !" 
 
 He looked at the bouquet, and asked : 
 
 "Did you arrange it, sir?" 
 
 " Never did such a thing in my life," he replied, laughing. " I 
 can challenge the skill of any gardener in the world in trimming 
 a hedge or cutting pea-sticks, but as for making a bouquet, my 
 fingers are too awkward, and my taste not delicate enough^ for 
 such work as that. No, I leave all my bouquets to be arranged 
 by those two human flowers that I was telling you about just 
 now, Julia and Eva Cameron." 
 
 "Who made this?" he inquired. 
 
 " Eva, I suppose ; at least I took it away from her this morn- 
 ing to bring to you." 
 
 " Would she think it presumptuous if I were to ask her to send 
 me one occasionally, while I stay here ?" 
 
 " Xo, indeed. I will engage that she will do it with pleasure. 
 You wear the Confederate gray, Willie, and thus far you have 
 worn It honorably, as your wound testifies, and that is passport 
 enough to the kind offices of Cameron Hall. I will tell Eva, 
 moreover, that you are just about the age of Walter, her young 
 soldier-brother, and you will see what a magnificent bunch of 
 flowers you will have to-morrow." 
 
 " Will you please do one thing for me before you ffo ^" 
 "Certainly." J & - 
 
 "Just bring a tumbler of water and put it on a chair by my 
 bed. I want to keep my flowers fresh." 
 
 ^ Uncle John did as he was requested, and as he left the suffer- 
 ing youth, so cheered and comforted by a little kindness and a 
 few flowers, he thought: 
 
 " How little it sometimes takes in this world to give pleasure I 
 How many opportunities of conferring happiness pass unim- 
 proved, because to our blindness they seem too insio-nificant '" 
 
 After leaving the hospital he called at the cotta|e, hoping to 
 find the girls still there. He was not disappointed ; and after 
 relating the mcident of the morning, he told Eva Willie's re- 
 quest. She assented gladly, as he had expected, and promised 
 not an occasional, but a daily bouquet, so long as he should be in 
 the hospital. 
 
 " He will probably be there a long time, Eva ; at least it will 
 be many months before he will be fit for service again, if he ever 
 is. His wound was an exceedingly dangerous one, and for several 
 days u was thought impossible for him to recover, and even now 
 It will require great skill and care to bring him safely through 
 
236 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 Poor boy ! he has evidently been delicately reared ; and often, 
 when I have stood by and seen him shrink involuntarily from the 
 rough touch of his kind-hearted but unskillful nurses, I knew that 
 he was contrasting it in his own mind with the gentle care which 
 he had left behind. I promised him this morning, Julia, to re- 
 move him to the Hall just as soon as he could bear'the ride, and 
 I bespeak for him now the very best care and attention that you 
 girls can give him." 
 
 "Which he shall certainly have, Uncle John," she replied. 
 " We will do the very best for him that we can." 
 
 " I knew it, daughter, when I told him that he should go there. 
 He is so uncomfortable at the hospital, and so worn out with its 
 noise and its scenes of suffering, that, if it were possible, I would 
 remove him at once. I have been not only interested in the 
 youth, but amused as well. He evidently thinks it unsoldierly to 
 admit that he is uncomfortable, or that he could be better off any- 
 where else. I have never been able to make him say even that 
 he wanted anything that he did not have; but this morning, 
 when I told him that I intended to remove him, in the fullness of 
 his gratitude he admitted, without thinking, how glad he would 
 be to get away, and how much suffering he might have been 
 spared if he had been in a more quiet place. You would have 
 been touched to see the eagerness with which he seized upon the 
 promise, and begged me not to forget it. I have drawn a pleasant 
 picture, girls, of the home to which I am going to take him, and 
 of the family to whose keeping I am going to intrust him. You 
 must see to it that all his anticipations are realized." 
 
 "We will do our best, Uncle John," said Eva; "but I am 
 sorry that you promised so much. What made you do it?" 
 
 " One reason was, because I did not think that I had exag- 
 gerated the picture; for you ought to know, Eva, that I think 
 the Hall a very pleasant home, and the Camerons very pleasant 
 people ; and the other reason was, because I felt so sorry for him, 
 and so anxious at the moment to do something to divert his 
 thoughts from his loneliness and suffering, that it would have 
 been a strong temptation to draw a fancy sketch if it had been 
 necessary. Fortunately, however, for my veracity, the simple 
 truth was sufficiently attractive." 
 
 "Uncle John," said Eva, abruptly, "you have never had a 
 letter from Dr. Charles since the battle. We have had two from 
 Walter, and I certainly thought that Dr. Beaufort would have 
 written to you. I was afraid that something had happened to 
 him; but in his last letter Walter mentioned that he was well, 
 but very busy." 
 
 " So I suppose, Eva, and I account for his silence in that way. 
 
CAMEKON HALL.' 237 
 
 He must have his hands full now, and not very pleasant work 
 either. Poor Charles !" 
 
 Julia glanced up quickly at Uncle John, but his face betrayed 
 no knowledge of what she feared; and Eva asked: 
 
 " What makes you say so. Uncle John ?" 
 
 " Because, Eva, he went away sad ; and I saw it and let him 
 go without asking what was the matter. I thought that if he 
 wished me to know he would have told me ; but I wish now that 
 I had asked him. Perhaps I could have done something to cheer 
 and comfort him." 
 
 " That might have been impossible. Uncle John." 
 
 " I think not, Eva. I have never known any trouble, either my 
 own or that of others, for which a gentle word, or a look of sym- 
 pathy, or an act of kindness had no soothing power. Something 
 at least of these I might have done for Charles if he needed it." 
 
 Julia had listened with seeming indifference until she could do 
 so no longer. She saw that Charles had been faithful to his 
 promise ; and that, however much relief he might have experi- 
 enced from opening his heart to Uncle John, he had still sacredly 
 regarded a request whose reasonableness he might well have 
 doubted. In her first agony, she had reproached herself that she 
 had not told him all ; but when the excitement was over, she could 
 not regret that her own lips had refused to confess the blot upon 
 her name. Now, however, she was afraid that she had thought 
 only of herself in this matter ; that she had selfishly exacted of 
 him a promise which denied him the comfort of a word of expla- 
 nation not only from herself, but also from any other human being, 
 and condemned him to bear his burden silently, unrelieved by that 
 sympathy and kindness which Uncle John had just said were so 
 soothing, and whose power she had herself felt and acknowledged. 
 
 *' I cannot bear this any longer," she thought ; and at the first 
 pause in the conversation, and at the risk of appearing abrupt, 
 she asked : 
 
 " Uncle John, how are your patients at home getting along ?" 
 
 " The wounded, very well; but the old man is slowly but surely 
 wasting away. I feel an unaccountable interest in him, Julia." 
 
 " Not unaccountable. Uncle John ; for you never yet felt any- 
 thing but interest and sympathy for the sick and suffering." 
 
 "But I feel for this old man a peculiar compassion. It may 
 be because he is an old and gray-headed soldier ; and I admire 
 in him the unselfish devotion to his country that I have not my- 
 self acted out, and which made him willing to do what he could, 
 even with the probability before him that, as the event has proved, 
 his life would be the forfeit." 
 
 "Uncle John," she answered, "you do not do yourself justice. 
 
238 'CAMERON HALL. 
 
 It is not your patriotism that is at fault, it is his judgment. He 
 has not done his country any good by going into the ranks, be- 
 cause he was physically incapable of service ; so are you, so is 
 almost any old man. Perhaps, if he had stayed quietly at home, 
 he would have found many ways of being as useful as you are 
 now; but as it is, he has needlessly thrown away his life." 
 
 " You may be right, my daughter ; but, after all, I cannot but 
 admire the old man." 
 
 "Where is his home, Uncle John ?" asked Eva. 
 
 "I do not know. I talk very little to him beyond asking how 
 he feels and what he wants. I have stayed with him too a great 
 deal, because I am afraid that he will die without anybody know- 
 ing it ; but he sleeps almost constantly, and even when he is 
 awake he is so exliausted that I cannot consent to torture him 
 with questions. But I really must ask him about his home and 
 friends, for when he dies I shall not even know where or to whom 
 to write." 
 
 " It is a pity. Uncle John," said Julia, " that you did not do so 
 at first, for by this time his wife or daughter, if he has any, might 
 have reached here from almost any part of the Confederacy, and 
 it would have been such a comfort to him." 
 
 " I wish now that I had, Julia ; but when he reached here the 
 physician thought him almost in a dying condition; and I have 
 expected from day to day since that he would die. It is truly 
 wonderful that he has lingered so long." 
 
 "Perhaps it is not too late even now; especially if his home 
 could be reached by telegraph. It may be, that his family are 
 near enough to get here in two or three days, if they could be 
 telegraphed." 
 
 "He will not live that long, Julia." 
 
 "So you have thought. Uncle John, for two weeks. I would 
 certainly make the attempt; it is worth the trial." 
 
 " Yery well, I will ask him to-day. I hope that I have not 
 been remiss about this thing ; and I can scarcely blame myself, 
 since if he had desired it I think that he would have requested it, 
 for his mind is perfectly clear, and he has no hesitation in making 
 known his wants. However, if it is to be done at all, it must be 
 at once, for there is no time to lose, and so I will go this very 
 minute and talk to him upon the subject." 
 
 He found the sick man with his eyes closed as usual ; his wan 
 features wearing that unmistakable impress with which Death 
 marks his victims even before his fatal grasp has closed upon 
 them. The slow, quiet heaving of the bosom alone betrayed that 
 the feeble spark yet lingered. Uncle John entered quietly and 
 took his seat, fearing to speak, lest he might be asleep ; but his 
 
CAMERON HALL. 239 
 
 step was heard and recognized, and, with the eyes still closed, a 
 feeble voice said : 
 
 "I am not asleep, sir." 
 
 "Are you any better to-day ?" asked Uncle John. 
 
 "Xo, sir, neither better nor worse. I suffer no pain ; it is only 
 weakness." 
 
 "I have thought, my friend," said Uncle John, taking his 
 wasted hand, " from the first moment that I saw you, that you 
 were a very sick man, but have hoped from day to day that you 
 would get better ; but as you do not think yourself that you are 
 improving, would it not be better to telegraph for some of your 
 family — wife or daughter V 
 
 He shook his head languidly, and replied: 
 
 "I have neither." 
 
 " Then have you no friend whom you would like to see, and for 
 whom I could send?" 
 
 "No, none sufficiently interested to come to see me, or to do 
 as much for me, my kind sir, as you have done." 
 
 He rested a moment, and then added : 
 
 "I have neither brother nor sister; and I laid my wife in a 
 foreign grave, when I was scarcely more than a youth." 
 
 "And you have no children ?" 
 
 The features worked convulsively, and Uncle John regretted 
 the question when he saw the pain that it caused. Presently the 
 answer came, almost with a gasp : 
 
 "One, somewhere in the world, but I know not where." 
 
 Uncle John's face expressed interest and sympathy; but he 
 greatly feared the effects of excitement upon so wearied a frame, 
 and, wishing to put a stop to the conversation, he made no 
 reply. 
 
 Presently the sick man said, languidly : 
 
 " That is the reason that I came to Hopedale. I hoped to 
 hear something of my only daughter before I died ; but now it is 
 too late. I have been too sick to talk upon so exciting a subject, 
 and have been waiting to get better ; but the opportunity is gone. 
 A few more hours are all that are left me now, and I must die as 
 I have lived, not knowing even whether she is alive or dead." 
 
 The last word was inaudible, and in its place there came a weary 
 sigh, and then he was very still. Uncle John thought for a moment 
 that he was gone ; but he found that there was still a feeble pulse, 
 and he hastily administered brandy. It was several minutes before 
 he opened his eyes again ; and when he did, and was about to 
 speak, Uncle John said : 
 
 "Not now, my friend. Don't talk any more now. "Wait until 
 to-morrow." 
 
210 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " To-morrow will never come to me. I mlist say what I have 
 to say now. Tell me, do you know the Cameron family ?" 
 
 "They are my best friends." 
 
 " Do you know the eldest son, George ?" 
 
 " I never saw him. My acquaintance with the family began 
 after he left home." 
 
 "He married my daughter." 
 
 "Whatl" exclaimed Uncle John, jumping up from his chair, 
 and forgetting in his excitement the weakness an^l exhaustion of 
 the sick man. 
 
 "Yes, sir," he answered ; "and it was from them that I hoped 
 to hear something of my child." 
 
 "You are doomed to disappointment, ray poor friend," said 
 Uncle John, kindly. "They have heard nothing from George 
 for years ; and if they ever heard that he was married, they have 
 never mentioned it to me." 
 
 " Then my last hope is gone," he said wearily, and closed his 
 eyes in disappointment and weakness. But he could not be silent. 
 The thought of his child had given him unnatural strength, and 
 it seemed that to be quiet now would be as great an effort as it 
 had heretofore been to talk. 
 
 " Does his father, sir," he said, " know that his son is a captain 
 in the Federal army ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," answered Uncle John. 
 
 "It is just what I should expect from him, sir. The man who 
 will desert his family will desert his country, too." 
 
 Uncle John saw that he was determined to talk, and he could 
 not refuse him the poor comfort of seeming interested in what 
 was, to the dying man, the sole object of thought and desire, and 
 he replied : 
 
 "Poor, miserable boy ! From his childhood he has marred the 
 happiness of every human being with whom he has been asso- 
 ciated ; it was not enough to have rendered father, mother, home 
 unhappy, it seems that he must needs wreck the peace of his wife, 
 too!" 
 
 " Yes, sir, my daughter was deserted, doubly deserted ; first by 
 her father, and then by her husband." 
 
 Uncle John was greatly surprised, and looked earnestly at the 
 sick man, whose wasted cheeks now burned and his eyes sparkled 
 with the fever's fire. His words of self-reproach were utterly 
 inconsistent with his evident parental anxiety, and Uncle John 
 began to fear lest the brain might at last have yielded to the 
 effect of disease. He did not have to wait long, however, for an 
 explanation, for the words came hurriedly : 
 
 " You are a stranger, sir ; but you have been kind to me, and 
 
CAMERON HALL. 241 
 
 I thank you for it. Do for me one more kindness, and the last: 
 listen to the story of my life, and let me relieve my heart, even in 
 dying, of some of that burden which I have borne in life alone, 
 and without sympathy." 
 
 "My friend," he answered, "I will gladly do what I can to 
 comfort and relieve you ; but indeed you little know the injury 
 that you are now doing yourself. This excitement has already 
 greatly increased your fever. Wait until another time, and you 
 shall tell me all." 
 
 " It must be now or never. Will you listen ?" 
 
 " Yes, if it will comfort you." 
 
 " I told you, just now, that I buried my young wife in a foreign 
 land, when I was scarcely more than a youth. She left me an 
 infant daughter a few months old. I was by nature a domestic 
 man. I loved my wife passionately, and felt her death most 
 keenly, and until my child was three years old, I tried to find in 
 her a solace and comfort for my loss. I was, however, in govern- 
 ment service, and business called me a great deal from home and 
 necessitated long absences. I had no one except a servant to 
 take care of my child when I was away, and although she was 
 faithful and kind, still I did not like her influence, and thought 
 that justice to the child required that I should place her where 
 she would be properly trained, and so I sent her back to the 
 United States, to my mother, in South Carolina." 
 
 He stopped to rest, and Uncle John thought that it was some- 
 thing more than exhaustion which made his breath struggle so 
 laboriously from his panting breast. In a few minutes he re- 
 sumed his story. "But the change, however beneficial it might 
 have been for her, proved a disastrous one to me. She was the 
 last link that bound me to my home ; child though slie was, she 
 had proved not only a companion, but guardian as well, for only 
 those who have been intimately associated with little children 
 can know the softening the almost holy influence that can be ex- 
 erted upon the heart even of a man by a little child." 
 
 "I know it well, for I have felt it," interposed Uncle John, 
 earnestly. 
 
 The sick man went on. 
 
 " When she was gone, I felt ashamed of the weakness that 
 made me so dependent for happiness upon an infant, and I 
 sought forgetfulness in the so-called manly pleasures and amuse- 
 ments of a gay foreign capital. I was never what the world calls 
 a dissipated man, thank God for that ! but the indurating effect 
 of such a life gradually went on, until, in the course of years, if 
 I did not exactly forget that I was a father, I at least lived and 
 acted as if I had no child who- had a right to expect and demand 
 
 21 
 
242 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 of me a father's protection and love, and for whose happiness 
 and well-being I was responsible. I heard from her through my 
 letters from home, and they told me that she was fulfilling the 
 promise of her infancy, in her beauty both of person and char- 
 acter ; and when at last she was a])le to write herself, I felt proud 
 of my daughter, and used to dream idly of an old age when I 
 should be infirm aud helpless, and should find in her all that a 
 father's heart could ask, without my ever having done anything 
 toward effecting so desirable a result. But such are not the 
 ways of Providence. Parental duties are just as binding as are 
 the obligations of children ' to honor father and mother ;' and woe 
 to that parent who voluntarily severs the sacred tie, and dele- 
 gates to others those duties and responsibilities which God has 
 expressly laid upon himself 1 
 
 "Years passed on, and I grew tired, and longed for some 
 variety in my life, for a man will grow restless and roving unless 
 his heart is safely moored by domestic ties. Though in the 
 strength and vigor of manhood, I was nevertheless too old to 
 enter the navy; but in the ever-changing scenes of such a life I 
 knew that I could alone find the adventure and variety which I 
 craved, and therefore, in obedience to my desires, I soon found 
 myself upon the broad ocean, with no home but my ship. I was 
 now not only contented, but fascinated, and never thought of be- 
 coming a landsman again. Less and less frequently came the 
 letters from home ; but I learned to do without them, for I found 
 enough of interest and pleasure in the society of my jovial com- 
 panions, and in those foreign countries where everything was 
 strange and new. One day, after a very long cruise, we sailed 
 into the Gulf of Genoa. I had not received a line from mother 
 or daughter for four long years, and there, at the consul's, I found 
 an old letter, yellow and dusty, and dated three years back. It 
 was from my daughter, telling me of her grandmother's death, 
 and her consequent desolation, without parent or relative. It 
 was a piteous letter, and there was still enough of the father left 
 in me to be stirred up by it. To come home as fast as steam 
 could bring me, to throw up my commission, and to spend the 
 rest of my life in trying to repair the errors of its earlier years, 
 and to be a true father to the child to whom I had been such 
 only in name, was the resolve of an instant, and was executed as 
 speedily as possible. I came back to my old home and found the 
 house, indeed, but nothing else. The mother whom I had left 
 there had been long dead, the young daughter whom I hoped to 
 find there was gone. I learned how she had longed and waited 
 for a reply to the several letters that she had written, imploring 
 me to come to her, and finally how she had mourned for me as 
 
CAMERON HALL. 243 
 
 dead. Beautiful and engaging, she had been sought and won by 
 a young stranger, George Cameron, whose birth and name were 
 his principal recommendations. His fascinating manners and 
 handsome appearance had attracted her, and, lonely and desolate, 
 with none to guide her in her choice, she had accepted, with all 
 her trusting heart, the promise of that love and protection which 
 she felt that she so much needed. As had been foreseen, he had 
 not heart enough to appreciate the treasure that he had won, 
 and before a year had elapsed he began to weary of the love that 
 he had sought, and his desire for the roving adventurous life that 
 he had led from his youth began to return. The coming of a 
 little daughter did not satisfy him as she had hoped, and before 
 it was six months old, lured by the golden dreams of California 
 and the excitement of pioneer life, he had left wife and child, 
 promising to make for them a comfortable home, and then return 
 and take them to it. For a little while he wrote regularly ; but 
 by degrees he grew tired of this, as he did of everything else ; 
 and after awhile his letters ceased altogether. His wife made no 
 complaint. She bore her trouble in silence and patience; but 
 the grief which asked no sympathy in words, pleaded powerfully 
 for it in the sad young face, which no smile ever lightened. 
 One morning the town was startled by the fact that Mrs. Cam- 
 eron and her child had disappeared. She was gone, none knew 
 whither, for neither to friend nor servant had she by word or act 
 betrayed her purpose, nor since that time had she ever been heaid 
 from. 
 
 " You may imagine, sir, the surprise, sorrow, and self-reproach, 
 with which I heard this story, and remembered that this deserted 
 young wife, wandering, with her infant, helplessly through the 
 world, was my daughter, to whom I owed love and protection ! 
 I determined to find her, and to repay her with interest for the 
 love that I had so long withheld. I would not, under any cir- 
 cumstances, have admitted the existence of diflBculties which my 
 strong determination of purpose could not overcome ; but I be- 
 lieved, in these days of telegraphic and railway communication, 
 that to find her and go to her would be the work of a very few 
 weeks. But I have not found it so. I have sought her for years, 
 and have used all the means in my power to find her. I have 
 written more than once to Mr. Cameron, without success. I 
 have written repeatedly to George, in California, but only re- 
 ceived a reply to the first of my letters, in which he disclaimed all 
 knowledge of his wife. Why I wanted to come here to die; why 
 I should have expected that the Cameron family now could know 
 anything of her; and why I should have felt disappointed when 
 you told me that they did not, I cannot tell, unless it is the 
 
244 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 tenacity of that hope which repeated disappointment cannot 
 entirely crush, I have believed for years that she was dead, and 
 have pursued my inquiries, not so much with the hope of seeing 
 her, as of hearing how she lived, and where she died, and of get- 
 ting some clew to her child. 
 
 "And now, sir, you see in the helpless old man, dependent 
 upon a stranger for the kindness which is to soothe his dying 
 bed, the* wreck of manhood. Ah, sir ! it is indeed a mournful 
 thing, to stand at the close of life, and, looking back, to see 
 nothing that you can remember with pleasure ! It was this 
 anxiety to repair, if possible, a wasted life ; this longing to do 
 something worth doing, before I died, that impelled me to join 
 the army. I was afraid that I was too old to do my country any 
 good, for sometimes, when the opportunities of a whole life are 
 allowed to slip away unimproved, and at the last we want to do 
 something, the privilege is denied us. So it is now with me. I 
 have not been allowed even to serve my country ! It took but a 
 few weeks of camp life to prostrate the old man's strength ; and 
 when the thunders of artillery and the shouts of battle rent the 
 air on the plains of Manassas, they fell upon an ear too heavy to 
 be disturbed by the tumult, upon a mind and body too feeble to 
 feel a quickening pulse, or a glad exultation when the cries of 
 victory were heard. 
 
 " Some of the wounded men were brought into the tent where 
 I was lying, and I heard a voice say : ' Some must be sent to 
 Hopedale.' Hopedale ! that single word roused the senses that 
 could not be stirred by the cannon's roar ; and I said, in a tone 
 of energy and decision, that startled even myself: ' Send me to 
 Hopedale, too. I must, I will go there!' They tried to reason 
 with me ; they told me that I was too sick, that the journey would 
 certainly kill me, but it was all of no avail. Hopedale I the very 
 word suggested the hope of hearing from my long-lost daughter, 
 and besides it brought vividly to my mind the recollection of that 
 daughter's mother. Yes, I would go back to Hopedale, the 
 scene of my youthful love and happiness, and would go to rest 
 where I had sought and won the wife of my youth." 
 
 " You are, then, not altogether a stranger here ?" 
 
 "A stranger, and yet not a stranger. I cannot feel altogether 
 a stranger in a place so intimately associated with the most sacred 
 memories of my whole life, although I have really never spent 
 more than a few days here, and that was long years ago. It was 
 here that I first saw Lucy Ellsworth." 
 
 ^ " Lucy Ellsworth .'"shouted Uncle John, springing fiercely from 
 his seat. "Do you tell me that you are the husband of my wife — 
 my wife in promise, and, as I believed, in heart, — my wife in all 
 
CAMERON HALL. 245 
 
 save the words of a ceremony ? Are you the man that came be- 
 tween me and happiness ? who blighted all my life ? who " 
 
 In his excitement, Uncle John's eyes glowed with unwonted 
 passion. He forgot the sickness and prostration of the wretched 
 man before him, who, in his helplessness, fairly quailed beneath 
 his burning glance. He forgot everything, except that the man 
 who had taken from him the love that he had valued more than 
 his life was before him, and in his power. But while his eyes 
 were fastened fiercely upon him, they saw a change come over 
 the wan face, which at once recalled him to his better self 
 
 "God have mercy upon me I" he murmured, as pressing his 
 hand upon his forehead he tried to collect his bewildered thoughts 
 and curb his strong passions. It was a great effort, but the 
 habit of long years came to his assistance, and he succeeded. He 
 was urged, too, to control himself by a feeling of alarm, as he 
 saw the fever-glow pass away from the cheeks, and the eyes be- 
 come glazed and stony. The pulse was nearly gone, and Uncle 
 John, now fairly overcome by his conflicting feelings, as his fin- 
 gers pressed the wasted wrist, murmured : 
 
 '*God forgive me 1 I would do nothing to hasten his end I" 
 
 Seizing some brandy, he hastily administered it, and then stood 
 and gently wiped away the cold drops from his forehead, and 
 chafed his hands, and counted his feeble pulse. Never had he 
 been so completely unmanned before. He trembled in every 
 limb, and stood in mute agony, fearing lest every breath might 
 be the last, and lest his own wild passion had quenched that life, 
 which, although now but a feeble spark, was, nevertheless, God- 
 given, and which God alone had the right to extinguish. 
 
 After awhile the sick man revived. His pulse beat quicker 
 and fuller, and opening his eyes he saw the look of profound pity 
 and sorrow which was bent upon him. 
 
 "Come close," he whispered, "and give me your hand." 
 
 Uncle John bent down, and felt his hand inclosed in a feeble 
 grasp. 
 
 "You have been deeply wronged," he said, " but you have been 
 as fully avenged. It poisoned her life ; sometimes I have thought 
 that it caused her early death. As to myself, the most malignant 
 could not wish me to have suffered more. May God help you to 
 forgive me before I die." 
 
 "Amen !" was the fervent response. 
 
 The weary eyelids closed, and the dying man seemed to sleep. 
 Uncle John sat by the bedside with his head leaning upon his 
 hand, and his heart in a wild tumult. The past, with its sad mem- 
 ories, rose vividly before him, and the fervor of his youthful love, 
 and the bitterness of its blight, rushed over his heart as it had 
 
 21* 
 
246 C^ERON HALL. 
 
 not done in long, long years. One only intensely malignant 
 feeling still lingo :'<icl in liis breast. One human being only in the 
 world his kind and gentle heart had ever hated, and now he, 
 upon whom, in the fury of his disappointment and rage, he had 
 sworn to avenge himself, was here to receive comfort and forgive- 
 ness at his hands instead of vengeance, and to have his eyes 
 gently closed by one who had become thus strangely his friend 
 instead of his enemy! No wonder that his feelings were in a 
 wild tumult ! When he listened to the feeble prayer that " God 
 would help him to forgive," he longed to say "I do," but he 
 dared not speak to the dying words which might be untrue, and 
 in the wild chaos of his heart he could not tell whether he for- 
 gave or not. 
 
 He sat very still, and thought long and deeply. Daylight 
 waned, and night found him in the same position, still thinking 
 upon the past ; but now his bitter memories had given way to 
 sweet and pleasant ones, and the form and feature of the child- 
 angel seemed to come up from the grave of distant years, and to 
 plead with those childish accents that he never could resist, and 
 with those well-remembered tones of persuasion, that he would 
 forgive her dying father. 
 
 When the quiet of deep repose rested upon all the world, the 
 dying man began gently to sink in a repose deeper still. Uncle 
 John just caught the words, "Can you forgive ?" and the child- 
 angel seemed to say, " Can you refuse ?" 
 
 Uncle John grasped the cold, clammy hand, and said, in a 
 choking voice : 
 
 " God is my witness, that I forgive you from the very bottom 
 of my heart !" 
 
 A pressure of the hand, and a whispered, but earnest, " Thank 
 you," was the only response. After a little while he spoke again, 
 but the words were slow and labored : 
 
 " My child — if you ever find her, will you be kind to her ?" 
 
 Again the picture of the child-angel came before him, bright, 
 innocent, and happy, and it needed no effort to promise : 
 
 "I will, so help me God 1" 
 
 " God bless you ! — God bless " 
 
 A long-drawn, labored sigh, a flutter of the pulse, and all was 
 still, profoundly still. 
 
 Uncle John gently closed the eyes, gazed a moment upon the 
 features quietly settling down into the repose of death, then seat- 
 ing himself beside the lifeless clay, his whole frame shook with 
 the emotions and the tears which he would have been either more 
 or less than man if he could have restrained. 
 
 The next morning, a bounding, rushing step was arrested, and 
 
CAMERON HALL. 247 
 
 a merry voice was hushed, as Eva, with a magnificent bouquet for 
 Willie, sprang into the hall and was met by Uncle John's pale and 
 haggard face. Unaccustomed to see it otherwise than lighted up 
 by a smile, she stopped short in silent amazement. 
 
 Julia followed, and seeing at once that something was sadly 
 wrong, she went up to him, and taking his hand, said, anxiously: 
 
 " Something distresses you. Uncle John." 
 
 "Come here, my daughters, both of you." 
 
 They followed him into the darkened parlor. He led them to 
 the couch, and with an arm around each, he said : 
 
 " There lies the man who blighted my early life : who took from 
 me the heart and the affection that I prized more than all else 
 on earth besides, and nearly drove me to that desperation from 
 which his own little child, the child-angel that I once told you 
 about, afterwards saved me. My children, all my life long I have 
 hated that man ; all my life I have intended to avenge myself if 
 it should ever be in my power ; but, thank God, who has changed 
 my wicked purpose, and instead of an avenger has made me 
 minister to him in sickness and suffering 1 Last night, upon his 
 dying bed, I forgave him the deep wrong that he had done me, 
 and now my heart is emptied of all its hate." 
 
 They turned and went away, and, as Uncle John closed the 
 door after them, Julia said : 
 
 "Uncle John, I never knew before that you could hate any- 
 body." 
 
 "Yes, daughter, I both could and did. It is true that I have 
 not for many years felt toward him the rancorous hatred of my 
 youth, but never have I felt that I could sincerely and heartily 
 forgive that wrong until last night. But the feeling is all gone 
 now, and, thank God ! it was all gone before he died." 
 
 Uncle John thought long and sadly of the strange destiny that 
 had linked the fate of his child-angel to George Cameron, and 
 that had decreed her heart to suffer the same blight which she 
 had so unconsciously soothed and comforted in him ; and for days 
 he found himself constantly wondering if she, too, had ever found 
 a comforter. But Uncle John never spoke of it. 
 
 " This secret," he said, " shall rest in the grave with the lips 
 that uttered it, and never through me shall father or sister learn 
 that still another crime was added to the long list of the sadly 
 fallen son and brother." 
 
248 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER XYIIL 
 
 Uncle John was right in supposing that Charles Beaufort 
 had been constantly busy since the battle of Manassas. At first 
 it was incessant toil night and day ; toil, too, of the most ex- 
 hausting kind, since it was a call not only upon his bodily ener- 
 gies, but also upon the sympathies of a nature which had not yet 
 learned to look with indifference upon human suffering. Officers 
 and soldiers were now resting, in order to repair their wasted 
 strength ; but for him it was constant anxiety, constant attention, 
 constant watching. He often thought longingly of Cameron 
 Hall, of Uncle John's quiet home, and of the blind child's sweet 
 music, and he would sometimes shut his eyes for a moment upon 
 the scenes around him, and go in spirit whither he could not go 
 in reality. His present life was a perpetual struggle between his 
 feelings and his duty, and while the antagonism could not make 
 him neglect or falter in his duty, still it made it proportionably 
 wearing and burdensome. 
 
 He was sitting under a tree, not far from his tent, one hot 
 August afternoon, carving with his knife, upon a large wooden 
 cross, the name of one of his young friends who had fallen in the 
 battle. It was by no means an unwelcome task, though the 
 thoughts awakened by it must necessarily have been sad ; and 
 Charles was so deeply absorbed, that he did not hear an ap- 
 proaching footstep, and was aroused by a voice close at hand, 
 which said : 
 
 ''Are you almost done, doctor?" and Walter threw himself, 
 with a yawn, upon the ground in the shade. 
 
 " I am glad that it is you, Walter, for, when I heard your voice, 
 I thought of course that it was a summons to the hospital, and 
 sometimes I quite despair of ever finishing my work. I have 
 been to-day called away three times while trying to cut a single 
 letter ; but I am at last nearly done. Any news in camp to day ?" 
 
 " 'No. Oh, yes 1 I did hear something, too. There is a sus- 
 picion afloat that we had a spy in camp yesterday. I think that 
 I must have seen the fellow, and I only wish that I had had a 
 suspicion of the truth. I would like no better fun than to cap- 
 ture a spy. I would as soon do it as to storm a fort." 
 
 "Do you think this last a very amusing job, Walter?" 
 
 " Oh ! I mean for the eclat of the thing. To storm fortifica- 
 tions, or to take a battery, is always recorded as an instance of 
 
CAMERON HALL. 249 
 
 great valor. I do not think it would read badly in the news- 
 papers, that * Walter Cameron, private of Company C, Vir- 
 ginia Regiment, succeeded yesterday in bringing in to head- 
 quarters a spy whom he had captured. On his person were 
 found maps of the fortifications, a plan of the encampment, etc. 
 For this distinguished service the gallant youth has received the 
 thanks of the commanding general, etc. etc' Don't you think 
 that sounds pretty well, doctor ?" 
 
 "Yes, Walter," he replied, smiling, *'it sounds well enough; 
 and if the deed only kept pace with the sound, it would be a 
 happy result. But you have not caught the spy yet. Why 
 don't you go about it, if you think it such a pastime ?" 
 
 ^ " He has disappeared ; at least nobody seems to have seen 
 him since yesterday evening." 
 
 " Then, if you have let him escape, of course you cannot expect 
 to read that account of the brilliant achievement which you 
 think sounds so well." 
 
 " But perhaps he is not really gone. He may still be lingering 
 about to gain more perfect information. I intend to keep my 
 eyes wide open and on the look-out. Zounds ! I wish that I 
 could catch him I It would be capital fun !" 
 
 " Capital fun after it is safely done, Walter, but perhaps not in 
 the doing. Spies generally carry that about them which secures 
 them against an easy capture. It requires some skill and address 
 to do the thing neatly and effectually. When did you hear from 
 Hopedale ?" 
 
 " I had a long letter to-day from Eva— just such a letter as you 
 would expect that madcap to write : half tearful in the beginning, 
 at the dangers encountered by her dear brother, and at the end 
 wildly jubilant because he has escaped unhurt. It is a famous 
 letter, just like a cordial to a fellow in camp. It is a life-like 
 picture of home; and in it she has so mixed up father and sister. 
 Mammy Nancy and Tom, Carlo, and Wild tire and Rebel, that it 
 is difficult to decide which occupies the prominent place in her 
 esteem and affections. Heigh-ho ! I would like to be back again 
 at the old Hall, hunting, with Carlo at my heels. It would be 
 much better fun shooting at birds and squirrels than at Yankees. 
 I am too tender-hearted yet, doctor, to make a soldier. Do you 
 know that every time the command was given to fire, the other 
 day in the battle, while I wanted to kill as many Yankees as I 
 could, for that was what I joined the army for, yet, whenever I 
 remembered that they were human beings, I shuddered involun- 
 tarily, and was truly thankful that if I did kill anybody I would 
 never know it?" 
 
 " You need not be ashamed of the feeling, Walter, nor need 
 
250 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 you ever desire to become less tender-hearted. It is not a brutal 
 indifiference to human suffering that constitutes a good soldier. 
 He may not shriok from his duty, and may yet look with pro- 
 found pity and regret upon the sufferings which necessarily re- 
 sult from its faithful performance. But what did Miss Eva say 
 of your father and sister ?" 
 
 " My father is in his usual health, and in his usual state of 
 anxiety about the country. She says that he has grown older in 
 appearance, even since I saw him three months ago. She gives 
 an amusing account of the manner in which they spent the day, 
 awaiting news from me, and, by-the-way, sends a special message 
 of thanks to you for wliat in her enthusiasm she chooses to call 
 your 'blessed telegram.' Poor Eva! she is not fitted for trouble 
 and anxiety." 
 
 "And what of your other sister?" inquired Charles. 
 
 "Eva says that she is always more or less depressed now, 
 though she is as unselfish as ever, and tries to be cheerful for my 
 father's sake. Eva thinks that she partakes of his anxiety about 
 the country and about me ; and as she is so mature and thought- 
 ful, I suppose that this is the true explanation. She says, how- 
 ever, that now she has both her mind and her time fully occupied 
 in attending to a young wounded soldier, who has been removed 
 from town to the Hall." 
 
 " Who is he ?" asked Charles, quickly. " Is he an old ac- 
 quaintance ?" 
 
 " No, he is a stranger. Eva supposes him to be about ray 
 age, and amuses herself greatly at the maternal care that sister 
 bestows upon him, and at the gentle but firm way in which she 
 enforces her authority. She says that she is constantly expecting 
 to hear Willie call her ' Mother Julia.' I don't know what would 
 become of that child if she could not make fun of sister I" 
 
 Charles worked away quietly and industriously at his carving, 
 relieved to hear of the maternal and filial relationship and feeling 
 existing between Julia and the object of her care. He asked 
 many questions, which Walter answered with unsuspicious frank- 
 ness, and thus he gained much information with regard to Julia 
 which he could have had in no other way. It refreshed him to 
 hear about her ; and though her life was quiet and uneventful to 
 the last degree, and though she had assured him that it was use- 
 less for him to cherish any interest iu it, still the interest was 
 there, and as he could not crush it, he would not refuse to gratify 
 it by listening to these simple home-details. 
 
 After he had exhausted the news from the Hall, Charles 
 asked : 
 
 "Did your sister mention Uncle John?" 
 
CAMERON HALL. 251 
 
 " Yes; she says that he is very busy attending to the comfort of 
 the wounded, both at the hospital and at his own house. She 
 says also that he is both surprised and anxious that he does not 
 hear from jou, and thinks that there must be some grave reason 
 for your silence." 
 
 " No graver one than the want of time, which of course neither 
 he nor any one else not actually on the ground can ever realize. 
 I have not had time since the battle to sleep, much less to write- 
 and the two brief letters that I have sent home were written 
 when I felt that I ought to be doing something else. However 
 if it is possible, I must write to Uncle John. I will try and do 
 so to-night." 
 
 "Then," said Walter, rising, "I suppose that you have no 
 message to send him in the letter that I am going now to write. 
 I cannot, like you, wait until night, for then I am so tired and 
 stupid, with the drill and camp-work, that I am fit for nothing 
 
 but — bed, I was going to say, but I beg the soldier's pardon I 
 
 mean fit for nothing but to stretch my blanket upon the ground, 
 and myself upon the blanket. It is astonishing how sweetly and 
 soundly a fellow can sleep upon the ground I So good-by, 
 doctor 1 No message, I suppose ?" 
 
 " Not for Uncle John, for I shall write to him myself; but for 
 your father and sisters," he added, with a slight hesitation, "my 
 kindest regards." 
 
 Walter strolled leisurely away, whistling "Dixie," and his com- 
 panion sat and thought how different was the message of his 
 lips from that in his heart. He had now put the finishing touches 
 to the last figure in the date, 1861. 
 
 Charles was sorry to have completed his task. It had oc- 
 cupied his every leisure moment for more than two weeks, and 
 he had become almost attached to this rude memorial, all' that 
 was left him now of a friend whom he had sincerely loved. He 
 was about to lay it aside as finished, when he suddenly thought 
 of filling a vacant space, still left, with a few words of Scripture. 
 It would be appropriate, and it would prolong his work. He 
 took Julia's prayer-book from his pocket, to select a verse from 
 the burial psalter ; it opened at the fly-leaf, the edge of which he 
 saw was neatly folded down all around. The sight of that book 
 always awakened memories both painful and perplexing ; and now, 
 while his thoughts were in an instant busy with that last night at 
 the Hall, he mechanically turned the edge back and smoothed it 
 down carefully. Two leaves now revealed themselves, and, with 
 the edges thus folded, had formed a safe receptacle for three or 
 four small and faded flowers, which now fell out upon the cross 
 which was lying beside him. They were remembrancers of Julia, 
 
252 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 and he took them up carefully to restore them to their place, 
 when, as he opened the leaves, a date in pencil-mark attracted his 
 attention. 
 
 Immediately, as at the touch of the enchanter's wand, the 
 scene around him was obliterated, and in its stead arose, with 
 the distinctness of present reality, that well-remembered Sunday 
 evening at the Springs, two years before. He looked with sincere 
 pleasure upon those withered flowers, a memento of past enjoy- 
 ment, and at the same time, as he could not but hope, a pledge 
 of future happiness, for they bore silent but unmistakable wit- 
 ness to feelings which her actions could not deny. Whatever 
 might be the motives that now actuated her, whatever might be 
 that insurmountable obstacle of which she had spoken, of this 
 at least he was now assured, that it could not be indifference to 
 him. 
 
 Young men in the vigor of their mental and physical strength 
 are prone to despise obstacles, and to regard them as only giving 
 zest to effort; and it is not to be wondered at, if Charles, in the 
 enjoyment of this unexpected discovery, should have deemed all 
 difficulties as trifles, and should have determined that, in the pur- 
 suit of this, his greatest earthly happiness, he would acknowledge 
 no such thing as failure. Her own indifference was the only thing 
 that he really feared, and to which he would have consented to 
 yield. Xow he was assured that this did not exist; and looking 
 with gratitude, nay, almost with reverence, upon those little faded 
 flowers, he resolved that nothing but death should separate him 
 from Julia. He was willing to await her time ; willing, if he 
 could not himself remove the obstacle, to wait, if she so decreed 
 it, until its removal should be effected by other hands or other 
 means ; but he now felt a strange strength, a buoyancy and deter- 
 mination of purpose, a strange expectation of final success, which 
 was altogether disproportioned to the cause that produced it. 
 
 It was a pleasant reverie, and one from which he did not care 
 to be awakened ; but his dreams of future happiness were in- 
 stantly exchanged for the waking realities of his present life, as 
 a voice at his side said : 
 
 ''You is wanted at the hospital. Master Charles." 
 
 He started, and hastily closed the book upon the flowers, afraid 
 that they might prove the tell-tale to his thoughts ; but he smiled 
 at his own confusion, as he turned and saw only the black face of 
 "HospitalJim." 
 
 Jim stood by, quietly eating a mammoth ginger-cake, quite 
 unconscious of his proximity to those withered flowers which the 
 young master so jealousy concealed, and quite incapable of appre- 
 ciating their value if he had seen them. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 253 
 
 Charles felt a strange repugnance to having any other eyes see 
 those flowers; so, holding the book tightly, he replied : 
 
 " Very well, Jim. Go on, I will be at the hospital before you 
 get there." 
 
 "No, sir," he replied, doggedly. "I was told not to come 
 back without the doctor ; so I'll jest wait here till you gits ready 
 to go " 
 
 He leaned back against the tree, busy with his cake, perfectly 
 contented with his occupation, and altogether indifl'erent whether 
 the surgeon should respond to his call in five minutes or five 
 hours. The only thing on which he seemed positively determined 
 was not to go without him. 
 
 Charles saw this, and so he said : 
 
 " Jim, take this cross and put it in my tent, and then I will go 
 with you." 
 
 Jim took an enormous mouthful of cake — enough, as he thought, 
 to last him to the doctor's tent, and, putting the rest into his 
 pocket, shouldered the cross and left it where he was told. By 
 the time that he returned, the flowers had been replaced, and 
 three others just like them, and tied by a blade of grass, had 
 been transferred from a private memorandum book and added to 
 them ; the leaves had been folded down as before, and the prayer- 
 book restored to Charles's pocket ; and now, followed leisurely by 
 Jim, he hurried oS", as ready to use the surgeon's knife as if his 
 heart were impervious to the softer feelings, as if he had never 
 lingered fondly over a withered flower, or cherished a lover's 
 dream in his life. 
 
 That night, when all the stirring sounds of the camp were 
 hushed, he wrote a long letter to Uncle John. In it there was, 
 as Julia had commanded, neither mention of her nor allusion to 
 her ; and yet Charles felt singularly near to her while he was 
 writing, and lingered over the letter to his old bachelor friend, 
 almost as he might have done if he had been writing to Julia 
 herself. Xever, since the night that he left Cameron Hall, had 
 he felt so cheerful and contented as he did now; and when he 
 laid him down to sleep, his soldier rest was made sweeter by f 
 
 dreams of Julia; and when he awoke the next morning, his first ^ 
 
 sensations w^ere so pleasurable that he stopped to wonder what 
 made them so ; and he could not repress a feeling of disappoint- 
 ment, when he remembered that his castle of hope and happiness 
 had only the slender foundation of a withered flower. But while 
 he could not but acknowledge that his hope had a most unsub- 
 stantial basis, still the hope was there ; and with a lighter heart 
 and a more elastic step than he had had since he had been in 
 
 22 
 
254 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 camp, he left his tent and went to the hospital to the performance 
 of his morning duties. 
 
 As he went along, shouts and peals of merry laughter from a 
 distance reached his ears. Charles sighed, and thought : 
 
 " It is well for the soldier that his heart can so easily rebound 
 and so readily forget. Poor fellows ! let them enjoy themselves 
 while they can ; it may not be long before some of them will ex- 
 change the laugh for the sigh, the merry jest for the groan of 
 agony !" 
 
 Again the air rang with laughter, of which Walter Cameron 
 was the cause, and in which he joined as heartily as any of the 
 rest. It was his turn to cook for the mess ; and as his whole 
 acquaintance with culinary science had been acquired solely by 
 seeing its results upon his father's luxurious table, the boys were 
 sure to enjoy themselves greatly at his expense whenever he was 
 cook. Fortunately for himself, however, Walter had soon learned 
 to take a joke good-humoredly ; and he generally enjoyed as much 
 as any of the rest the merriment occasioned by his own failures. 
 Heretofore he had always experimented on biscuits, which, after 
 his best efforts, his comrades invariably pronounced it a great pity 
 to eat, since, "in case the ammunition should fail some time, Cam- 
 eron's biscuits might save the day." And since he had been so 
 uniformly unsuccessful in this species of bread, Walter had con- 
 cluded this time to try another kind, and he had ventured upon a 
 loaf. Forgetful, or perhaps ignorant that " a little leaven leaven- 
 eth the whole lump," he had put in an extra quantity; and now, 
 when he was ready to commence baking, he found, to his dismay, 
 that his dough, disdaining to be confined to the narrow limits 
 that he had assigned, had broken through all restraints, and, in a 
 'state of vigorous fermentation, was spreading rapidly all over the 
 ground. He looked at it for a moment in blank amazement ; but 
 seeing that there was no time to be lost, he hailed one of his com- 
 rades at a little distance, and called out : 
 
 "Hallo, Xelson ! Come quick! There is a perfect eruption 
 going on here I" 
 <^ Thus summoned, young Nelson came with all speed; and when 
 
 he saw the cause of Walter's consternation, and his attitude of 
 helpless surprise, he laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks. 
 Walter, perplexed as he was, could not help joining him ; and 
 Nelson, perceiving at once what was the matter, resolved to have 
 another joke at his friend's expense. So he said nothing, but 
 laughed on ; and presently Walter asked : 
 
 "Nelson, what under the sun is the matter with the thing?" 
 
 " Thing !" exclaimed Nelson. " It is no thing, but a real live 
 animal, the like of which I never saw before ! Look at it, work- 
 
CAMERON HALL. 255 
 
 ing and squirming there all over the ground. Let's call help, 
 Cameron, to capture the varmint, or it will soon run all over the 
 camp !" 
 
 "Nelson, what under the heavens can be the matter with my 
 bread?" said Walter, fairly shouting with laughter. 
 
 "Bread, Cameron ! You don't want to make me believe that 
 that wriggling, twisting mass there is meant for bread I I would 
 as soon have a Yankee bullet through ray brain as to have such 
 active bread as that wandering about in my stomach at that 
 rate !" and Nelson went to the door and called loudly: 
 
 "Hallo, fellows 1 quick, quick!" 
 
 The summons was answered at the double quick, one of them 
 stopping to seize his musket; and when they reached the tent, 
 they were surprised to find no cause of alarm. 
 
 "What is the matter?" asked one, breathlessly. 
 
 " Nothing that your musket can remedy," answered Nelson. 
 " Part of Cameron's dough there has seceded, that is all ; so 
 put up your gun, man, for muskets and bullets won't remedy 
 secession." 
 
 " Well, Nelson, if something don't remedy it, it will soon all 
 secede at that rate," he answered, looking at the dough still 
 stealing over the sides of the bucket and along the ground. " I 
 think your breakfast bread 'has gone up the spout.' Is there no 
 way of stopping it?" 
 
 "None that I know. Perhaps Cameron can do something; 
 he set it going." 
 
 Attracted by the peals of laughter, quite a crowd was soon 
 gathered around the unconscious bread, which still worked on. 
 
 "What are you going to do with it, Cameron ?" asked one. 
 
 " If it ever gets over its present excitement, I propose to bake 
 it for breakfast." 
 
 " Well, the Lord help the soldier who eats that bread ! It will 
 save the Yankees one bullet. Government and government 
 agents seem to think that soldiers' stomachs are made of India- 
 rubber; but that bread would puzzle even their digestion !" 
 
 "Cameron, what did you do to it, man?" asked another. 
 "Where did you discover that principle of life that it seems to 
 have ?" 
 
 " If I have discovered it," answered Walter, "I must acknowl- 
 edge that it was like most other wonderful discoveries, purely 
 accidental. I cannot claim it to be the result either of profound 
 research or of great culinary skill. To tell the truth, fellows," 
 he added, laughing, "I am puzzled at my own performance, and, 
 like some dabbler in the black art, I have raised up a power that 
 I cannot control." 
 
256 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " Com*, Cameron," said Nelson, "tell us how you compounded 
 that wunderfal bread ? Give us your recipe now." 
 
 "Indeed, Nelson, I shall do no such thing," replied Walter. 
 "Who knows but that, if I keep my secret, I may yet make a 
 fortune at bread-making? Perhaps, when the Confederacy is 
 established, I will take out a patent for my recipe." 
 
 "Thar'll be one vote agin that, if I'm thar," said a rough old 
 fellow in a butternut suit. "I'll tell 'em that I was present at 
 Cameron's first bread-making, and that I can swear that the devil 
 had a finger in it 1" 
 
 " Cameron's recipe I Cameron's recipe I" was now loudly called 
 for by several voices. 
 
 "I cannot tell all my secret, gentlemen," he answered; "but 
 this much I will tell you, that I used the very same materials that 
 are used at home for bread, — flour, yeast, and water." 
 
 "Do you eat bread like that at your home, mister?" inquired 
 he of the butternut suit. "I wouldn't, on no account, eat such 
 restless food !" 
 
 Again there was a shout, and when it had subsided, Walter 
 replied : 
 
 "I cannot tell you, squire, whether or not the bread at home 
 is as restless as mine when it is in the same stage of manufacture. 
 I only know that when it comes on the table it is quiet enough ; 
 but it may be that the cooking process has something to do with 
 that." 
 
 "Give us the proportions, Cameron," said Nelson. "How 
 much flour did you take ?" 
 
 " Three quarts." 
 
 "How much leaven?" 
 
 "I had no leaven, so I put in a strong tea made from a double 
 handful of hops." 
 
 " The Lord defend us !" exclaimed the old man. "If the boy 
 didn't put enough yeast in that batch of bread to make a loaf as 
 big as the Confederacy I We needn't fight no more, boys. Just 
 let that young fellow's bread alone, and you will soon hear of an 
 invasion of Yankeedom ; and it can overrun it without any help 
 from us I" 
 
 "It would b3 better than grape and canister to kill off Yan- 
 kees, if we could only manage to feed their army on it," said 
 Nelson. " Walter, suppose that you apply for a situation as chief 
 cook at Pope's or McDowell's headquarters; you will serve your 
 country better in that way than you will by handling the musket." 
 
 Walter now began to weary of the joke, but there was no 
 escape, and for half an hour longer they kept up a merciless fire 
 of merriment at his expense. At last Nelson said : 
 
CAMERON HALL.- 25T 
 
 " Cameron, is that bread our only hope for breakfast?" 
 
 "That is all,'' replied Walter; "and if you can't help me to 
 doctor it somehow, you will have to breakfast on fried meat and 
 coffee, for it is too late to make any other bread now. By-the- 
 way, Nelson, you have had your fun at my expense : it is but 
 fair that you should help me cook breakfast to pay for it. If 
 there hadn't been all this hubbub here this morning, it would 
 have been ready now. The boys will be coming in from picket- 
 duty presently, as hungry as wolves, and you know that they 
 don't wait very patiently." 
 
 "I am very willing to help you about anything except that 
 bread. That is your own manufacture, and I will not consent 
 to rob you of any of the laurels gained thereby. I will cook the 
 meat and make the coffee, and you may manage the bread." 
 
 So saying, he went immediately to work, and the crowd, think- 
 ing that the fun was over, soon dispersed. 
 
 " Is there anything that I can do to it. Nelson ?" asked Walter, 
 shaking his head disconsolately as he removed the cover from the 
 bucket and looked in. " No human being can eat it as it is. It 
 smells as sour as vinegar, and how must it taste ?" 
 
 Nelson was not yet satisfied with the joke, and he answered, 
 demurely : 
 
 "I recollect having learned in chemistry that an alkali would 
 neutralize an acid, and I know that this principle is sometimes 
 acted on in cooking; for I have heard my mother send word to 
 the cook, when the cakes or muffins were sour, to put soda into 
 the batter. Now, as the dough is sour, perhaps soda would 
 remedy it and make it all right." 
 
 " That is the very thing, Nelson !" exclaimed Walter, eagerly 
 seizing the suggestion. " I wonder that I did not think of that 
 myself, for I have often heard sister send word to Aunt Sally 
 that the buckwheat cakes were sour, and needed a little soda, and 
 when the next came in I could not taste a particle of acid. 
 Hurrah for the soda I My bread will he eatable yet, thanks to 
 you, Nelson." 
 
 He bounded off, and soon returned with a half-pound package 
 of soda. Nelson busied himself with the meat and coffee, steal- 
 ing an occasional glance at his companion, who was now once 
 more greatly interested in his bread. The greater part had 
 made its escape from the bucket, and there was not much dough 
 left on which to experiment. 
 
 " How must I mix in the soda, Nelson, by kneading it ?" 
 
 "I should think that it would be best to dissolve it in water; 
 otherwise it will be in lumps all through the bread." 
 
 A cup-full of water was speedily brought, and Nelson could 
 
 22*" 
 
258 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 scarcely repress a shout of laughter, as, stealing a glance from 
 under his eyebrows, he saw Walter empty the half pound of soda 
 into the cup, stir it round, and toss the whole into the dough. 
 
 "Now knead it a little, Cameron," he said. 
 
 Walter rolled up his sleeves, and worked away vigorously at 
 it a few minutes, and then said : 
 
 " I cannot waste any more time on it, for I am afraid that, 
 with all possible haste, it will not be done by the time that the 
 boys come. Is the oven hot, Nelson ?" 
 
 "I should think it wasl" he answered, "drawing it out of the 
 fire, red hot. '' What on earth, man, made you bury the oven in 
 the fire that way ? Now you will have to wait at least half an 
 hour for it to cool, before you can put your bread in. It would 
 burn to a cinder in ten minutes in such an oven as that." 
 
 " I want it hot," replied Walter. " The bread must bake 
 quickly; there is no time to spare." 
 
 " Well, it is your bread, and you know best," rejoined Nelson. 
 
 " Do you think that it is really too hot, Nelson ?" asked Wal- 
 ter, pointing to the oven glowing like a furnace. "I am in a 
 terrible hurry." 
 
 "It is too hot now, Walter. I would wait a little while, if I 
 were in your place." 
 
 Walter sighed impatiently, and began to walk up and down, 
 looking one moment to see if the boys were coming, and the next 
 to see if the oven still looked red. Just so soon as the bright 
 glow had subsided, and the oven had resumed its natural color, 
 the unfortunate dough was put in, covered up, and consigned to 
 its fate. 
 
 " How long does bread require to bake ?" he asked. 
 
 " Such a loaf as that ought to be allowed from a half to three- 
 quarters of an hour, I should think." 
 
 " Oh ! but the oven is so hot that less time will do for this ; 
 don't you think so?" 
 
 " Probably it will," was the quiet response. 
 
 It did not require much time to arrange the table-service. 
 The tincups and plates were soon placed, and when the two 
 boys for whom they had been waiting arrived. Nelson said, plac- 
 ing the coffee-pot and the meat upon the table : 
 
 "Now for the bread, Walter! We are all ready." 
 
 The oven was uncovered, and revealed a charred loaf as black 
 as a similar memorial of Pompeii's fate, which the traveler sees 
 in the museum at Naples. 
 
 " What is the matter, Cameron ?" exclaimed Nelson, as he saw 
 his messmate lingering in silent dismay over the oven. 
 
 " My bread is burned to a coal," he replied, solemnly. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 259 
 
 "Never mind," said Nelson, "bring it along. Perhaps it is 
 only the outer crust that is burned." 
 
 " Hurry along with the bread, Cameron !" called out one of 
 the mess. " Never mind a little burn, man. We will not be 
 particular this morning, for we are very hungry." 
 
 The loaf was brought, as dolorous and gloomy a specimen of 
 bread as was ever placed before hungry men. Nelson laughed 
 quietly, as he said : 
 
 " Tolerably well cooked, Cameron ! Well, charcoal is said to 
 be good for dyspepsia ! How is it inside, Mat ?" he asked of a 
 young fellow who was vainly trying to make an impression upon 
 it with a knife. 
 
 "I cannot storm these fortifications with a knife," he replied. 
 " If you will go to headquarters, Nelson, and borrow a pickaxe, 
 perhaps I can show you how the inside looks ; but nothing less 
 than that will make an impression here. I give it up," he said, 
 pushing it away. 
 
 " Let me try, said Nelson, who was determined that they 
 should not only look at, but also taste the result of a mixture of 
 a quart of yeast with half a pound of soda. 
 
 He took a stone, and with a sharp blow upon the knife suc- 
 ceeded in penetrating the crust; and after having cut two or three 
 slices, he placed the plate in the center of the table, saying, with 
 quiet gravity : 
 
 " Here it is, gentlemen. In military parlance, I have stormed 
 the outer works. I leave you to attack the citadel." 
 
 If the charred crust of the loaf was uninviting, it offered a 
 tempting looking morsel compared with the black, heavy, un- 
 baked dough, which Nelson styled the citadel. But hungry 
 soldiers do not stop for appearances, and one of them, helping 
 himself to two slices, said : 
 
 "It does not look very inviting, certainly; but perhaps it 
 tastes better than it looks. At any rate I will try it." 
 
 He suited the action to the word, and a piece large enough 
 for two ordinary mouthfuls found its way into his mouth. In 
 an instant, as if touched by a galvanic battery, he sprang from 
 his seat, and furiously ejecting the intolerable mouthful, he ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 "By Heaven 1 I am poisoned I" 
 
 Nelson jumped up from the table, and clapping his hands, 
 shouted and screamed. This time Walter did not join in the 
 laugh, for he was now heartily tired of furnishing merriment for 
 the camp. 
 
 " Confess it, Cameron I" exclaimed Nelson. " Sold this time I 
 Mat," he added, turning round to the young fellow, who was 
 
260 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 rinsing his mouth, "is the bread sour, or has the soda realized 
 Cameron's expectations, and corrected the acidity ?" 
 
 " Sour !" repeated Mat. " I don't know ; but this much I can 
 tell you, that no Christian man ever before put such a villainous 
 compound into his mouth. It might have been concocted in a 
 witch's cauldron. If I had swallowed that morsel, my stomach 
 would have had no coats on it by this time. What in the thunder 
 was it meant for, Nelson, — bread?" 
 
 "Yes, it was Cameron's first attempt at bread-making. He 
 only made a slight mistake, by putting in enough yeast to make 
 about fifty loaves of the same size ; and then, by way of correcting 
 the acidity, he added soda enough to have neutralized fifty times 
 the amount of acid. I hope, however, that the next time he at- 
 tempts to make bread he will succeed better." 
 
 "Amen !" said Mat, making a wry face at the taste, which 
 still lingered in his mouth ; and then, rising from the table, he 
 proceeded with great gravity to collect every crumb of the so- 
 called bread. 
 
 As he started off with it. Nelson called out: 
 
 "Where are you going. Mat?" 
 
 " To bury Cameron's bread !" he answered, gravely. " I don't 
 intend that any living thing, man or beast, shall ever taste such 
 a morsel as I did just now. I swear, Nelson, it would kill a 
 turkey-buzzard 1" 
 
 He went off, and left Nelson laughing. Presently he said : 
 
 " Walter, you are too extravagant a cook. Our mess cannot 
 afford such lavish use of materials. Just think of the yeast and 
 soda that you have consumed for one meal ! You must learn to 
 economize before your turn comes round again." 
 
 " I hope, Nelson," answered Walter, gravely, "that before that 
 time I will have somebody to cook in my place, who will be less 
 extravagant and more successful. I shall write to my father to- 
 day and tell him to send me a servant. I can do the fighting 
 well enough, but the cooking is beyond my comprehension 1" 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 As Eva had written to her brother, Willie was already quite 
 domesticated at the Hall, and Julia was glad to find a refuge 
 from her thoughts in her busy care of him. She occupied her- 
 self with him more than his comfort positively required, and the 
 
CAMERON HALL. 261 
 
 homesick youth found, in the comfort around him, in the kindness 
 of Mr. Cameron, and the attention and companionship of the 
 sisters, something so nearly akin to home, that he deemed it no 
 great sacrifice to bear cheerfully and patiently the pain that he 
 at times still suffered. His room was always adorned with the 
 choicest and sweetest flowers ; his couch was placed by a win- 
 dow which opened down to the floor and looked out upon a pic- 
 turesque scene of cultivated fields mingled with woodland, and a 
 background of mountains, and he had access at all times either 
 to agreeable companions or to pleasant books. 
 
 "Lucky fellow!" he thought, as he glanced around and con- 
 trasted the luxurious comfort and quiet of his room with the 
 noise and discomfort of the hospital. "How shall I ever be 
 thankful enough to the old gentleman who sent me here, and to 
 those who take such good care of me 1 Such kindness is enough 
 to make a soldier of a fellow ; and if he may expect to find, in 
 sickness and suffering, a mother or sister in every woman that 
 he meets, then indeed the Southern women will find an army ready 
 to fight their battles, nerved and strung to conquer or die I I 
 know that, when I go into battle again, the thought of Cameron 
 Hall will mingle with that of home, and I will fight as much for 
 one as for the other." 
 
 "Willie," said Julia, coming in with a vase of flowers, which 
 she placed on a little table beside his couch, " what message for 
 your mother this morning ? You are doing so well that I shall 
 be able to write quite an encouraging letter, and I think I may 
 venture to tell her that the air of Cameron Hall promises to re- 
 store you to your regiment before long." 
 
 " Xot the air. Miss Julia, but the kindness and gentle nursing 
 of the Hall. Tell my mother to dismiss all anxiety about me, 
 for never was a young soldier so well cared for before. Even 
 she herself could not do it better." 
 
 " You are mistaken, there, Willie. I do not know it by ex- 
 perience, but I have always heard, and I believe, that no touch 
 can be so gentle, no look so soothing, no care so delicate, as a 
 mother's." 
 
 She paused a moment, and then added, thoughtfully : 
 
 "All my life I have wanted a mother, but never, never so much 
 as now !" 
 
 Had Willie known Julia better, he would have been surprised 
 at this involuntary confession ; but he did not know how reserved 
 she generally was with regard to all that concerned herself, nor 
 did he know that she had now spoken almost unconsciously. He 
 felt that she had voluntarily offered him the privilege of sympa- 
 thizing with her ; and that if she was in trouble, as her words 
 
262 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 seemed to indicate, a quiet indifference and unconcern on his 
 part would be but a poor return for all the kindness that he had 
 received from her ; so he said, gently : 
 
 ''Why have you felt the need of a mother so much of late, 
 Miss Julia ? Have you had any special trouble ?" 
 
 His words recalled her to herself, and she answered, evasively: 
 
 " I think, Willie, that the older a motherless daughter grows, the 
 more she must feel the need of a mother's guidance, advice, and 
 companionship ; but besides this, I have of late felt so much anx- 
 iety about Walter. If we had a mother, you know that I would 
 only have to feel for him a sister's affection and concern ; but, as 
 it is, I must be to him mother as well as sister." 
 
 " He is a lucky boy," replied Willie, earnestly, " to have a sister 
 so capable of being both I I'll warrant that he has never felt the 
 want of a mother." 
 
 " You must not say that, Willie. Fortunately for you, you do 
 not and cannot know the feeling of a motherless child ; if you 
 did, you would know that it is a want, a void, a yearning of the 
 heart which nothing can fill or satisfy." 
 
 " If I did not have exactly the feeling, I came pretty near it in 
 the hospital. No motherless boy ever felt more forlorn or or- 
 phaned than I did there. I was so desolate, that once or twice 
 I lost all my manliness and became a very baby. I am afraid 
 that Uncle John thinks me but a sorry soldier, with none of that 
 stern stuff about me to make me fit for the camp and the battle- 
 field." 
 
 " That is the error, Willie, into which boys of the age of Walter 
 and yourself are apt to fall ; and if you foster such notions, the 
 effects of the soldier's life upon your character will be lamentable 
 indeed. To be a soldier, you need not, you must not cease to be 
 a man I You must not think that you are not fit to be a soldier 
 until you have crushed all the humanity out of your heart, and 
 steeled it, if not to enjoy, at least to be indifferent to human suf- 
 fering. No, Willie 1 ever struggle against the hardening pro- 
 cess ; ever remember that, if you would be a true, good, valuable 
 soldier, one who will neither disgrace your profession by brutal- 
 ity, nor yet falter in your duty to your country, you must foster 
 and keep alive all that is gentle and tender and human in your 
 nature. I can mention now one such soldier in our army. I 
 doubt not that there are many more, but him I know personally; I 
 allude to General Robert E. Lee. Papa and Uncle John know 
 him well; and I have heard them say that there is no man in the 
 country who combines so many soldierly qualities, and that if he 
 lives, and this war lasts two or three years, he will certainly make 
 for himself an enviable name in history. Now, if you should 
 
CAMERON HALL. 263 
 
 ever know General Lee as I do, you will find out for yourself that 
 no woman ever had a kinder, gentler heart, one more overflowing 
 with those softer feelings, which, instead of being a blemish upon 
 manhood, are rather its glory and its crown. Don't covet, Willie, 
 that 'sterner stuff' which, in the ears of boys and youths, sounds 
 so manly; to be a true man, and therefore a true soldier, needs 
 the development of human characteristics instead of those that 
 belong to the brutes." 
 
 " Preaching a sermon to Willie, as I live !" exclaimed Eva, 
 who now entered the door, on the threshold of which she had 
 been standing for several minutes. " What was the text, Willie ? 
 Unfortunately I came too late for that. I only heard what papa 
 says the old-fashioned preachers used to call * the practical appli- 
 cation and improvement of the subject.'" 
 
 Willie could not help laughing, although he did not exactly 
 know how Julia would take this pleasant ridicule, but she soon 
 reassured him, by saying: 
 
 " I am perfectly accustomed to it, Willie. As I have to be a 
 mother, as I told you just now, to these children, there is scarcely a 
 day, especially when she and Walter are together, that I am not 
 obliged to administer a reproof or to give some advice, which is 
 always received with a laugh, and placed in the category of 'sis- 
 ter's sermons;' but I must do the children the justice to say that 
 it is generally remembered and acted upon afterward. So, if 
 you will follow their example in the one case, you shall have the 
 privilege of doing so in the other. You shall laugh at my ' sermon' 
 just as much as you please, if you will promise to remember it." 
 
 " I will. Miss Julia, and I thank you for the lesson. We boys 
 are always prone to be ashamed of anything that looks womanly, 
 and especially is this temptation great in the army. And Eva," 
 he added, laughing, " if your sister does preach, you must admit 
 that she has what the critics would ball 'a very agreeable manner 
 in the pulpit.'" 
 
 " I am perfectly willing to acknowledge that, Willie ; but the 
 greatest recommendation of all is that sister's sermons are al- 
 ways short. She has not adopted the old Cameronian style of 
 ' sixteenthly ' and ' seventeenthly,' but what she has to say, she 
 puts into a few words and is done with it." 
 
 "Well, Willie, said Julia, "I will leave you and Eva to criticise 
 at your leisure my powers of sermonizing. I did not intend to 
 stay a moment when I came in ; and if I do not go now and make 
 haste with my letter to your mother, I will not have it ready for 
 the mail." 
 
 After she had left the room, Willie said ; 
 
 *'Eva, you ought not to tease so good a sister." 
 
264 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " Why, bless you, Willie, she couldn't live without it ! T7ncle 
 John often tells me that if I hadn't sister to tease I would die ; 
 but I think that it is exactly the other way. She is so quiet that 
 she needs stirring up now and then ; and I really believe that if 
 she did not have me to worry her, and to give her somebody to 
 preach to and advise, the quiet of her life would amount to posi- 
 tive stagnation. Indeed, Willie," she added, laughing, "sister 
 owes me a debt of gratitude that she can never repay, and the 
 most provoking part of it is that she does not seem even con- 
 scious of the obligation ! I act as a sort of moral mustard- 
 plaster, and keep up just enough excitement and irritation in her 
 nature to produce a healthful action. You ought to see her 
 sometimes, when Carlo and I come racing into the hall together, 
 Carlo leaving his muddy tracks all over the floor which has just 
 been polished, and I, with my hair all down, my face glowing 
 like a poppy, and a rent across one whole breadth of my dress. 
 You ought to hear her sermon then, and how eloquently she dis- 
 courses upon ladylike manners, propriety, and dignity; and how 
 forcibly she illustrates it by the striking contrast of the present 
 scene. But if the words and manner of the lecturer upon such 
 occasions are remarkable, not less so is the penitent aspect of the 
 culprit, who listens demurely, but in her heart is all the while 
 longing for just such another romp. I must get up one of these 
 scenes for your special benefit, Willie ; they are decidedly rich. 
 So you must neither be shocked nor amazed ; above all, you 
 must not be so startled as to move from your position, and set 
 your wound to bleeding, if some of these days, when you and sister 
 are having a proper ladylike conversation, Carlo and I should 
 come bounding into the room with liitle ceremony and less dig- 
 nity, and I should present an appearance by no means suitable 
 for the sister of Miss Julia Cameron, and by no means creditable 
 to Cameron Hall." 
 
 "I don't think, Eva, that these frolics, and the lectures conse- 
 quent thereupon, can be of very frequent occurrence. I have 
 been here now nearly two weeks, and nothing of the kind has 
 happened during that time, or, if it has, it has not disturbed the 
 quiet of my room." 
 
 "No, indeed! I had my instructions on that point before you 
 came. Sister, as I told you, never preaches long sermons ; but 
 when she considers the subject of great practical importance, she 
 sometimes gives me the benefit of two or three at different times 
 from the same text. Now I assure you that, for days before you 
 came, I was told how I was to behave : ' that I must act in a man- 
 ner becoming my father's daughter ; that I must remember that 
 you were not Walter, but a stranger, etc. etc' I must confess 
 
CAMERON HALL. 265 
 
 that all these arguments weighed but little with me ; but when she 
 finished by saying that I must not forget that you were sick, and 
 were brought from the hospital to enjoy here the repose and 
 quiet which were necessary, and which you could not have there, 
 and that I must walk more quietly through the house, and not 
 sing at the top of my voice, and, in short, not make any unneces- 
 sary noise, that was an argument that I could appreciate ; and it 
 is to this that you owe the remarkable fact that Carlo and I have 
 not had a romp either in the house or near it since you have been 
 here. I confess, however, Willie, that it has nearly been the 
 death of me to play lady so long ! Even Carlo is surprised, and 
 looks at me in the most earnest, inquiring manner, as if to say, 
 ' What upon earth can be the matter with my young mistress ?' 
 I trnst that you will soon get well enough to bear a little noise, 
 for, indeed, I am afraid that I cannot hold out much longer." 
 
 "Pray, Eva," replied Willie, laughing, "don't try to hold out 
 any longer, for, indeed, I am quite as able to bear noises as I 
 ever was in my life ; and even when I first came here, the sounds 
 of merriment would have been by no means unwelcome. It was 
 the sounds of suffering, the groans of the })oor fellows around me, 
 that disturbed me at the hospital. So I earnestly protest against 
 being for another moment any restraint upon the freedom or 
 pleasure of either yourself or Carlo." 
 
 " Thank you, Willie ! but I am afraid to avail myself of your 
 permission quite yet. If you should have a fever, or should be in 
 any respect worse the day after, sister would always believe that the 
 noise had made you so, and, what is worse, she would convince 
 me so too, and tlien I should be very much distressed. So I will 
 try and wait a little longer for my romp ; but, indeed, I must stop 
 playing demure and dignified, Willie ; it is too great an effort." 
 
 "I am sorry that you ever attempted it, Eva, especially," he 
 added, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, "since the effort 
 was so entirely unsuccessful. If you had not told me, I should 
 never have dreamed that you had been trying to play either de- 
 mure or dignified." 
 
 "Now, Willie," she exclaimed, "that is the unkindest cut of 
 all ! There is nothing so discouraging as to be told of complete 
 failure after a great effort ; and if you thought me unsuccessful, 
 you might at least have spared me the pain of hearing it. But, 
 see here ! I had almost forgotten what I came for. Here is the 
 morning paper, with a long and interesting account of the battle. 
 The details are much fuller than any that we have had before, and I 
 thought that perhaps you would like for rae to read them to you." 
 
 "And so I would, very much, indeed !" 
 
 "Your regiment is spoken~of in terms of the highest praise, 
 
 23 
 
266 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 and its gallantry is said to have been unsurpassed. The color- 
 bearer, a young Alabamian, is especially commended for the ten- 
 acity with which he held his flag after receiving one severe wound, 
 until another, which it was feared would prove mortal, prostrated 
 him. Then, as he fell, a comrade seized the flag, and as he sur- 
 rendered it, he said : * Hold it until vou die !' That is what I 
 like, Willie," she added, her bright face glowing with enthusiastic 
 admiration ; "that is what I call being a soldier, indeed ! I hope 
 and trust that his wound will not prove mortal, and I wish that 
 they had sent him to me to take care of; it would be a privilege, 
 indeed, to nurse such a soldier! You are an Alabamian, Willie; 
 perhaps you know him, do you ?" 
 
 Willie blushed as deeply as any girl, and replied: 
 
 ''Your wish has been gratified, Eva. You have had what you 
 call the privilege of nursing the young color-bearer from Alabama, 
 and he has had the much greater privilege of receiving such care 
 and attention as seldom falls to the lot of the poor soldier. And 
 if," he added, gratefully, "his wound has not proved mortal, as 
 was expected, it is owing to the gentle and watchful care of the 
 two best nurses in the Southern Confederacy." 
 
 It was now Eva's turn to blush crimson, and she was so con- 
 fused that for several minutes there was an awkward silence. At 
 last, more to break it than from any other reason, she asked : 
 
 "Why did you not tell us this before, Willie V^ 
 
 " I had nothing to tell. I only did my duty; and if I had not, 
 I would not have been any soldier at all. I only did what any 
 other man in the regiment would have done ; only what all the 
 other regimental color-bearers did. They were so fortunate as 
 not to be shot down ; if I had escaped, as they did, I should not 
 have been mentioned either." 
 
 " Come, Willie, it is not fair and just thus to underrate your 
 actions. It must have been something above the common valor 
 of the soldier, or it would not have been thus commented upon 
 among so many acts of bravery. Tell me about it. How did 
 you do ?" 
 
 " I carried my flag, as I was bound to do, until I could carry 
 it no longer." 
 
 "Pshaw!" exclaimed Eva. "You are provokingly modest I 
 I wish that I could see an eye-witness, that I might hear from him 
 what you yourself are too bashful to tell me. It is so much 
 pleasanter, so much more like reality, to hear about these scenes 
 from those who were actors in them, than to read newspaper de- 
 scriptions. But I suppose that I mus-t, in this instance, be con- 
 tented with the latter." 
 
 " I am afraid so," replied Willie, quietly. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 267 
 
 "Provoking boy!" she exclaimed; and then, bursting into a 
 merry laugh, she said : " What would sister say, what would she 
 think, if she had heard me call you ' boy '? Indeed, Mr. Willie," 
 she continued, with mock gravity, " you must excuse my thought- 
 lessness. Hereafter I will try to remember that you are not a 
 common soldier, but the distinguished young color-bearer from 
 Alabama, worthy of mention in the public newspapers; and per- 
 haps, when my own dignity and sense of propriety are not suffi- 
 cient to induce me to treat you with becoming respect, this will 
 help me to do it. Are you ready now to hear the account of the 
 battle of Manassas ?" 
 
 Willie expressed his readiness, and Eva read the full details. 
 As she folded up the paper, she asked : 
 
 "And now, sir color-bearer, is it a faithful statement of facts 
 with regard to you ?" 
 
 "It is true," he answered, modestly but truthfully. 
 
 " Then you are a brave boy ! Excuse me, I meant to say that 
 you are a brave soldier." 
 
 Just then Julia came in, with the letter, to read to Willie, and 
 to ask if he wished anything added to it. 
 
 "Oh, sister!" exclaimed Eva, "what do vou think? Willie 
 proves to be the brave color-bearer from Alabama, spoken of Iq 
 this paper !" 
 
 Julia went up to him, her face sparkling with pleasure, and 
 taking his hand, held it, while she said : 
 
 "You were welcome, Willie, as the Confederate soldier, to the 
 hospitalities and attentions of the Hall ; you are now thrice 
 welcome, as one who has nobly and bravely done his duty 1 Surely 
 our country will be free, when her sons, scarcely more than boys, 
 can make such soldiers !" 
 
 Willie's dark-blue eyes kindled, and his face glowed, as he an- 
 swered, in a low tone of emotion : 
 
 "And she will always have such soldiers as long as she has such 
 daughters ! I have suffered much since I have been wounded, 
 but the lesson that I have learned is worth the pain. When I 
 see the women of our country, reared, as they have been, in lux- 
 ury, lay aside their ease and pleasure, and cheerfully take their 
 places beside the beds of pain and suffering, I read in this a 
 pledge of success as reliable as the strength of armies ; for a na- 
 tion of such mothers, daughters, and sisters must make an army 
 of invincible soldiers. Think you," he added, with increasing ex- 
 citement, "that I could ever falter now? that I could abandon 
 my flag, or betray any trust committed to me ? If I could, the 
 thought of Cameron Hall and its true Southern hearts would 
 burn my soul' with scorching shame I You have made a soldier 
 
268 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 of me now ; for now I know that the soldier is not uncared for ; 
 now I know that he is remembered and prayed for in danger, and 
 nursed in suffering; and this knowledge will nerve my arm with 
 strength and inspire my heart with courage." 
 
 " Hush, Willie," said Julia, laying her hand upon his forehead. 
 You must not get excited now, or you may not be able for along 
 time to bear the colors into battle again. Your cheeks are 
 flushed ; I ought not to have permitted this," she said, anxiously, 
 "ind'jed I ought not." 
 
 ''Never mind, Miss Julia, it will not hurt me. I will keep 
 very quiet now, and if I can, I will go to sleep, and when I wake 
 up I will be all right again." 
 
 "Please do, Wiilie," she answered. "Every time that the 
 doctor comes he er.joius perfect quiet as necessary for you ; and if 
 this excitement should give you fever, we would all reproach our- 
 selves very much. Will you promise now to keep perfectly still 
 for the next two hours ?" 
 
 "Yes, I will." 
 
 "Then we will go down and leave you alone. Suppose that I 
 cut this paragraph out of the paper, and inclose it in my letter 
 to your mother ; what do you say, Willie'?" 
 
 "It will gratify her very much. Miss Julia; for although she 
 will read it herself in the papers, stiil she will like to know that 
 her boy has already found, among strangers, friends who take in- 
 terest enough in him to read a notice like this with pleasure." 
 
 " Then I will send it. Come, E\"a, take that book lying there 
 on the table, and put it out of Willie's reach. And remember, 
 Willie, that the nurse's commands are imperative. Go to sleep, 
 if you can, and if not, keep perfectly still. If you want anything, 
 ring the bell; I put it on the table, here, within your reach." 
 
 She darkened the room and went down stairs, leaving her 
 patient little inclined to sleep, but very comfortable and happy, 
 and feeling (young soldier that he was) that this brief newspaper 
 encomium, sweet foretaste of the glory that he coveted, was worth 
 the pain and suffering that he had endured. 
 
 Julia went to her domestic duties with a heart heavier even 
 than was its wont. Like Uncle John, she too had thought much 
 and anxiously about Charles Beaufort's silence, and had feared 
 that there was some serious reason for it. Her thoughts were 
 now as busy with him as her hands were with her duties, when 
 all at once she was startled by Eva's voice calling through the 
 house : 
 
 " Sister ! sister I where are you ? Uncle John is here, and 
 he has a long letter from Dr. Charles !" 
 
 Julia was thankful that Eva's usual impetuosity had commu- 
 
CAMERON HALL. 269 
 
 nicated her intelligence while she was still afar off. She was 
 glad to be alone for a minute, that she might still the quickened 
 heart-throb, and let the tell-tale blood have time to regain its 
 quiet flow. She did not answer, and presently Eva burst into 
 the room. 
 
 " Haven't you finished your housekeeping at this time of day ? 
 I have searched everywhere for you, and only came to the pantry 
 as a last resort. But come along quickly. Uncle John is in a 
 hurry ; and moreover, he declares that I shall not hear one word 
 of the letter until you come." 
 
 "I am ready," was the reply, and together they started for 
 the library ; but Eva's impatience quickly outstripped her sister's 
 deliberate movements, which were in striking contrast to the 
 eagerness with which she generally went to see Uncle John. But 
 Julia had a purpose to accomplish, and she was determined to 
 gain complete control over her feelings before she listened to that 
 letter. She knew that Uncle John's eyes were quick and pen- 
 etrating, and from him, more than anybody else, she was determ- 
 ined to hide her present feelings and her past action. She well 
 knew that if he should ever suspect the suffering that she had 
 inflicted upon herself, as well as upon Charles, that he would 
 make a strong effort to induce her to alter her decision ; and she 
 was not willing to subject herself to the pain of a discussion which 
 could not change her purpose. When she reached the library, 
 Eva was sitting on the sofa beside Uncle John, turning the letter 
 impatiently in her hands, and complaining of slow people in gen- 
 eral and her sister in particular. 
 
 " You ought not to complain of her this time," he said, laugh- 
 ing. "It is not often that she is too slow. Julia is no slug- 
 gard." 
 
 "And that is the very reason why it is so provoking, Uncle 
 John. She is generally so brisk and active, that it only makes 
 it the harder to bear, especially when I am so impatient. I should 
 think, too, that she would be anxious herself to hear from Dr. 
 Charles, for she knows how uneasy you have been about him." 
 
 Julia felt uncomfortable ; and wishing to stop Eva before her 
 thoughtless words should call up the blood to her cheeks, she 
 said : 
 
 "Well, I am here now, Eva, and you are delaying the reading 
 of the letter as long, by your complaints of me, as I did by my 
 slow movements. Uncle John, please begin." 
 
 It was not what might be exactly a sad letter, for Charles had 
 tried hard not to make it so ; but it was not, and could not be a 
 very cheerful one, for the soldier has to look upon more than one 
 battle-field before he can be otherwise than painfully saddened by 
 
 23* 
 
270 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 the sight. It was, however, interesting to the girls, as well as to 
 Uncle John ; and to one of them much more so than he imagined. 
 
 "Poor fellow!" he said, as he replaced the letter in the en- 
 velope, "he has had a sad, toilsome time, during the last few 
 weeks. I wish that he could indulge in a little recreation, and 
 give me a day or two. It would do us both good." 
 
 "Write and ask him to do so, Uncle John," said Eva, "and 
 tell him how glad we would be to see him." 
 
 "I will deliver your message, my daughter, when I write. The 
 invitation will not be the less welcome because he cannot accept 
 it. But he cannot come now ; he cannot be spared." 
 
 "Only for two or three days, Uncle John. That could not 
 possibly make any difference." 
 
 "You would not think so, Eva, if Walter were dangerously 
 wounded and under his care. How would it answer for Willie's 
 surgeon to go off and spend several days ?" 
 
 "Oh, Uncle John, that would never do! His wound requires 
 daily attention, and sometimes the doctor says that he ought to 
 see it oftener, and he is afraid that Willie was taken av/ay from 
 the hospital too soon." 
 
 "Well, Eva, bad as Willie's case is, there are many under Dr. 
 Beaufort's care which are perhaps much worse ; so that you can 
 yourself see how impossible it would be for him to leave his post 
 even for a single day. Indeed " 
 
 He was interrupted by the sound of a bell rung violently, and 
 Julia, springing up, exclaimed: 
 
 " Something is the matter I he has never rung that way before." 
 
 She ran oat of the room, and in a minute or two reappeared, 
 her face pale with terror, and tremMing in every limb. 
 
 "Oh, Uncle John!" she exclaimed, breathlessly, "come quick 
 to Willie, or he will bleed to death ! Eva, send Tom for the sur- 
 geon. Tell him to take the fleetest horse, and to go like light- 
 ning !" 
 
 She rushed back up stairs, followed by Uncle John, whose 
 presence at that moment was most opportune. The moment that 
 he entered the room, he saw that it might indeed prove a serious 
 matter. Willie's wound was bleeding profusely, and his clothes 
 and bed were already saturated with blood. Uncle John was no 
 surgeon ; but in his attendance at the hospital his assistance had 
 several times been required in an emergency ; and seeing that 
 there was now no time to be lost, he immediately applied himself 
 to stop the bleeding as best he could, until the arrival of the 
 surgeon. 
 
 Julia sank into a chair, deadly pale, sick, and faint with the 
 unaccustomed sight. Uncle John knelt beside the couch, with 
 
CAMERON HALL. 271 
 
 both hands busily occupied in his bloody work. Finding that he 
 must have assistance, he said : 
 
 "Come here, my daughter. I must have help." 
 
 " I cannot, indeed, I cannot, Uncle John," she murmured. 
 
 "Julia," he said, sternly, "come here; you must come." 
 
 This time she obeyed mechanically ; and when she reached the 
 couch, he said : 
 
 "Bend down, I have something to say to you." 
 
 She bent down, and he whispered : 
 
 "The boy's life is in danger ; help me to save it I" 
 
 "The boy's life is in danger I" The effect was magical. She 
 arose from her stooping position, stood an instant to recover and 
 compose herself; and then, still deadly pale, but perfectly calm, 
 with a steady hand and unshrinking nerve, she assisted Uncle 
 John. Twice the feeling of faintness came over her, but with 
 strong effort she overcame it, and was still busy when the surgeon 
 arrived. 
 
 "We have done what we could, sir," said Uncle John; "for 
 we dared not let this thing go on until you could get here. We 
 have not done it skillfully, but we have at least stopped the 
 bleeding." 
 
 "It is well for him," he answered, "that you were able to do 
 it at all. From what I see, if the bleeding had gone on at that 
 rate until now, there would be very little use in stopping it. 
 You have done it quite well, too," he added, as he settled himself 
 to finish what was already begun. "You and your young friend 
 will have to take a diploma, and get a situation somewhere in 
 the army hospitals. I should scarcely imagine that she would 
 have nerve enough for such work as this." 
 
 Julia stood and watched the surgeon, thinking that what had 
 occurred once might happen again, and that she might some time 
 be obliged alone to try and save Willie's life. When she had 
 seen the last bandage wrapped, and the last pin put in its place, 
 she turned to leave the room. Willie's eyes followed her, and 
 when she reached the door he saw her grasp it as if to keep from 
 falling. He looked at Uncle John, and said, feebly; 
 
 "Go with her." 
 
 Uncle John hastened to follow her, and he found her tottering 
 along the passage. He just had time to clasp her with his arm 
 as she was falling, and carrying her into her own room, he laid her 
 upon the bed. 
 
 "As true and brave a woman as God ever made I" he could not 
 help saying, as she lay pale and still lifeless, while he dashed the 
 water into her face. It was some minutes Wore consciousness 
 returned, and the first words that she spoke were : 
 
272 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " Don't tell Willie ; it might make him unwilliug for me to help 
 him, if it should again be necessary." 
 
 She raised her head from the pillow, but it fell back again, and 
 she said, faintly : 
 
 "More water, Uncle John." 
 
 After a little while, she opened her eyes, and said, resolutely : 
 
 " This will not do. Help me to stand up, and it will be over 
 in a few minutes. Lead me to the window ; I want the fresh 
 air." 
 
 He tried to oppose her, but she was determined, and in a few 
 minutes she seemed indeed quite revived. 
 
 "Thank you. Uncle John!" she said. "You are an excellent 
 nurse. I only wish that I were so good a one, and not so foolish 
 as to be overcome by the sight of a little blood. However, this 
 is the last time that such a thing will happen. If there were no 
 one else to do it, I would not hesitate to go this minute and bind 
 up that wound just as you did; and I believe that I could do it 
 without moving a muscle." 
 
 "I would not like to see you try it alone, just now, Julia, either 
 on your own account or Willie's; but I would not be afraid to 
 trust you to-morrow. And remember, my daughter, what I tell 
 you. His very life depends upon having it stopped immediately. 
 Think of this, if it should be necessary for you to act, and it will 
 nerve you again, as it has done to-day." 
 
 " I know it. Uncle John. It was that alone that enabled me 
 to help you just now. When you first spoke to me, I was weak 
 and powerless; but the moment that you said 'save his life,' I 
 felt equal to anything, and I could have worked with you an 
 hour longer, if it had been necessary. It was only when the ex- 
 citement was over that I gave way; but next time I will be 
 more of a woman, and won't give way at all I" 
 
 " Why, what does all this mean ?" exclaimed Eva, coming into 
 the room, and seeing something unusual in her sister's appear- 
 ance, and Uncle John still fanning her. "Are your sick, sister ?'' 
 
 "Not now, Eva; but I was quite sick a few minutes ago." 
 
 " She fainted, Eva," said Uncle John, " after helping me to tie 
 up Willie's wound." 
 
 " I should have expected nothing else, Uncle John. What 
 made her think of trying to do such a thing?" 
 
 "Because, Eva, it was all-important that it should be done at 
 once ; I could not do it alone, and nobody else was near to help 
 me. Do you know, my child, that if there had been no one here 
 to-day capable of doing such a thing, the boy would have lost so 
 much blood before the surgeon reached here that he must have 
 died?" 
 
CAMERON HALL. 273 
 
 "Oh, Uncle John!" she exclaimed, "surely you are not in 
 earnest!" 
 
 " Yes, Eva, I am in earnest. This is a very important matter. 
 An unguarded motion, or undue excitement, might bring tins 
 thing on again; and suppose that it should happen in the night, 
 when it might require two or three hours to get the doctor, is 
 there no use in your sister, or yourself even, knowing how and 
 what to do?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," she replied, seriously; "but I don't believe that I 
 could do it, even if his life depended upon it." 
 
 " So did not your sister say. The moment that I used this 
 argument, she lost sight of everything except the necessity of 
 exertion. She forgot herself altogether as long as she could be 
 useful, and it was only when the strain was removed that she 
 found out how severe it had been." 
 
 " Well, well," exclaimed Eva, " sister is at last a heroine ! 
 Practical, matter-of-fact as she is, she has made herself a heroine 
 to-day ! Now I can write to Dr. Charles, as I promised to do ! 
 I would have done so long ago, if I could have found anything 
 in this quiet life of ours to make a letter spicy. But now I have, 
 indeed, rich materials. My heroic sister, with blanched cheek, 
 but unfaltering purpose, dressing a soldier's wound, and saving 
 his life, and then, when it was all over, swooning away in Uncle 
 John's arms ! I declare, it would be perfectly splendid, wouldn't it, 
 Uncle John ? and then, besides, it would fill up a whole page !" 
 
 The merry child laughed heartily, and her sister and Uncle 
 John could not help joining her ; and the latter said : 
 
 " I declare, Eva, you are absolutely incorrigible !" 
 
 "If you were in earnest, Eva," said Julia, "I might have 
 something to say upon the subject; but, as it is, you are quite 
 welcome to your amusement." 
 
 " Earnest, sister ! You will see presently if I am not in 
 earnest. I positively intend to write to Dr. Beaufort to-day." 
 
 " That may be ; but you don't intend to mention me, and least 
 of all to mention what has occurred this morning." 
 
 " You will see," replied the provoking Eva. " Why, Uncle 
 John, what do you suppose Dr. Beaufort would care for a letter 
 from the Hall that contained nothing about sister? Don't vou 
 believe that he would think it ' Hamlet without the character of 
 the Prince of Denmark'?" 
 
 " I don't know what he would think of the letter," he replied, 
 laughing, " but I do know that if he could see how you tease 
 your sister, and how patiently she bears it, he would think that 
 you were the most intolerable child, and that she was the meekest 
 woman, in the world." 
 
274 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " She is only amusing herself now, Uncle John," said Julia. 
 "She likes to tease me; but I must do her the justice to say, 
 that she never persists in doing anything when she finds out that 
 I specially disapprove it; and now, although you hear her talking 
 so, she will not say one word about me in her letter." 
 
 "You are not in earnest, sister?" said Eva. 
 
 " Just as much so, Eva, as you are in your intention to write." 
 
 " But why not, sister ? Of course I don't intend to make you 
 appear ridiculous, with your ' blanched cheek,' etc., as I threatened 
 to do just now ; but, seriously, I don't see any impropriety in 
 mentioning the circumstance. Do you, Uncle John ?" 
 
 "Yes, if your sister does not wish it." 
 
 "You call me provoking, Uncle John, but indeed I think that 
 she is the provoking one now. To condemn anybody to write a 
 letter with nothing in it is unreasonable enough ; but to demand 
 the letter, and refuse the materials, is very much like Pharaoh re- 
 quiring the bricks, but refusing the straw. How upon earth, 
 Uncle John, can I write a letter if I am not to tell anything 
 in it ?" 
 
 " That is your own look-out, my daughter. Nobody demands 
 the letter of you. You volunteered to write it, and are yourself 
 the best judge whether you are capable of doing it. But, indeed, 
 I must go, girls. I did not intend to stay half an hour when I 
 came, and I have spent the whole morning. I will step into 
 Willie's room and see how he is doing, and then I must hasten 
 home." 
 
 He returned immediately, saying that he was asleep, and he 
 charged the girls to keep him perfectly quiet all day. 
 
 "I am afraid, Uncle John," said Julia, "that excitement 
 brought this on;" and she told him the circumstance. 
 
 "That is it, without a doubt I" said Uncle John. Foolish 
 young boy, to get so excited over a newspaper paragraph I And 
 yet I do not wonder, either; I would have done so too at his age. 
 But, Julia, this must not happen again ; and as to you. Miss 
 Eva, I positively prohibit another newspaper in that room until 
 I give permission. Do you understand ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; and I shall be very careful to obey, since I have 
 seen the consequences of the first one that I have taken in. I can 
 safely promise that the next newspaper he gets will not be from 
 my hands." 
 
 " How are Grace and Agnes, Uncle John ?" asked Julia, " as 
 she accompanied him to the door. " I have been so occupied 
 with Willie, lately, that I have seen very little of them." 
 
 "Agoes is well, Julia; but as to her mother, it is very evident 
 that there is something unusual preying upon her spirits. I can 
 
CAMERON HALL. . 27 
 
 D 
 
 always tell, my daughter," he said, looking at her kindly and 
 significantly, " when my friends are in trouble, although my pene- 
 tration may not extend so far as to discover what the trouble is." 
 
 Julia colored, but did not reply. She stood in the door and 
 watched him as he rode away, and thought: 
 
 "Under other circumstances, there is no one to whom I would 
 so willingly confide my trouble as to you, my dear old Uncle 
 John; but now it cannot be." 
 
 She turned away, and went up stairs, and taking a chair in 
 the passage by Willie's door, she sat quietly waiting for him to 
 awake. An open book was in her hand, but her thoughts were 
 far away, and wandered between her own restless, troubled spirit, 
 and a battle-field not far off, with a true, manly heart, whose 
 affection it might have been her privilege to possess. 
 
 Uncle John rode along in deep thought, wondering how his 
 usual sagacity could be so much at fault; how he could be so 
 thoroughly convinced that Grace and Julia were both in unusual 
 trouble, and yet so unable to discover what it was. 
 
 When he called at the cottage, Grace was on the porch, train- 
 ing the viue-branches around the pillars, and Agnes was playing 
 a wailing, minor strain, which her mother said she called the 
 "Dirge of Manassas." Her thoughts had all flowed in that 
 channel since the battle. Her mother regretted it, and had tried 
 to divert them, and often asked for more cheerful music, but 
 the answer always was: 
 
 " I play just as I feel, mother. I am so sorry for the poor 
 wounded soldiers, and for so many widows and orphans that 
 Uncle John says are all over the land." 
 
 "Grace," said Uncle John, "this is all wrong, and must be 
 stopped. Agues must not be allowed to go on in that way. 
 She is but a child, and anything so unnatural as childish de- 
 pression ought to be checked." 
 
 ^ " Not much of a child !" the mother answered, sadly ; " I wish 
 that she were ! Ah, Uncle John I Agnes gives me much trou- 
 ble and anxiety, far more than you or any other human beino- can 
 imagine." ° 
 
 "How so, Grace?" he asked, eagerly, thinking that now at 
 last he had discovered the clew to her great depression lately. 
 
 "Because, Uncle John, she is prematurely, unnaturally de- 
 veloped, and I am afraid that, as a consequence, she will prema- 
 turely decay." 
 
 " Now, Grace, you are altogether mistaken there. Agnes is 
 as much a child as any other that ever lived, and whatever ma- 
 turity there is about her may be readily accounted for by the 
 peculiarity of her circumstances. She has never had access to 
 
27(3 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 the sports of childhood ; she has never had companions of her 
 own age, but has been all her life accustomed to the conversation 
 of elder people, so that she has adopted their modes of thought 
 as well as their very language. I admit that in conversation 
 Agnes rarely seems a child, but that is our fault. Did you ever 
 hear anybody talk to her as they would to another child of her 
 age ? I am sure that you never do. I have often remarked and 
 deplored it." 
 
 "No, sir, for I do not often think of her as a child; and some- 
 times, when I suddenly remember how old she is, I am really 
 startled. Perhaps it is her musical genius that makes her seem 
 mature." 
 
 "And yet that is a gift utterly separate from and independent 
 of both her mental and physical organization. It is true that 
 the latter may in the end be painfully affected by it, from the 
 fact that she confines herself so closely to the organ ; but she 
 is not necessarily any the less a child in feeling or intellect, be- 
 cause she is a musical one. No, Grace, all these are idle fears, 
 and for Agnes's sake, as well as your own, you ought not to in- 
 dulge them. She, it is true, cannot, like myself, see the anxious 
 shade upon your face, nor the troubled look in your eye, that I 
 have seen since I came home, more than ever before ; but you 
 yourself know how quick she is to detect the least sadness in 
 your tone, and how readily her feelings are affected by yours. 
 And especially now, when she has caught the contagion of the 
 universal sadness and depression all over the laud, ought we to 
 try always to be cheerful when she is with us." 
 
 " I will try, Uncle John," the mother answered; "but, indeed, 
 I cannot help holding the treasure of my little blind child in a 
 trembling grasp. It may be foolish, it may be wrong; but, 
 Uncle John, no human being knows how afraid I am of losing 
 her!" 
 
 "And so you might well be, if there were any cause of appre-. 
 hension ; but there is none, except that maturity of thought and 
 feeling in the child, which, after all, exists rather in your fancy 
 than in reality. Now, Grace, I am not Mr. Derby, but I think 
 that I can give you a little advice in this matter which he will 
 approve. Enjoy the child while you have her, and thank God for 
 the blessing, and don't poison the pleasure of present possession 
 by the fear of losing her. That is not only your privilege but 
 your Christian duty." 
 
 "You are right, Uncle John, I feel and acknowledge it; and 
 perhaps if my life had been otherwise, I would have been better 
 able to control my foolish fears and anxieties." She paused a 
 moment, and added, resignedly : " But to lose what I valued has 
 
CAMERON HALL. 277 
 
 ever been my lot, and it seems almost presumptuous to hope to 
 keep her." 
 
 " It is not presumptuous, it is simply what you are bound to do. 
 You ought both to hope for and to expect it, until you find it 
 ordered otherwise." 
 
 "Well, Uncle John, if my apprehensions are groundless, they 
 are at least natural, under any circumstances, but especially so in 
 mine. Xobody can conceive how desolate my life would be with- 
 out that child I" 
 
 "Yes, Grace," he said gently, "I can. All my life has been 
 just as lonely, just as desolate, as yours would be without 
 Agnes." 
 
 She felt that they were approaching delicate ground, and so, 
 hastening into the parlor, she summoned Agnes to see Uncle 
 John, who greeted her more cheerfully than usual, and avoided 
 all allusion to sad or painful subjects. He said nothing of the 
 scene at the Hall that morning, but talked pleasantly about the 
 girls and Willie, and promised to take her with him the next 
 time that he went. He did not ask her, as usual, to play for him ; 
 and when he was going away he said that he intended to write 
 that day to Dr. Charles, and that he would not think the letter 
 complete without a pleasant message from her. 
 
 " Tell him. Uncle John, how sorry I am for him, and for all 
 the poor soldiers who have to suffer so much themselves, and to 
 see others suffer too. Tell him, if he could hear me play he 
 might know how sorry I am, but I cannot tell him in words." 
 
 " But, Agnes, I did not ask for such a message as that. I asked 
 for a pleasant, cheerful one." 
 
 " That is all that I have to send. Uncle John," she an- 
 swered. 
 
 He went away, and in a few minutes the breeze bore to his 
 ears the same sad funereal wail. 
 
 "It must be stopped, somehow," he said to himself. "The 
 , child must not be so saddened." 
 
 As he went along, he was wondering what could be done to 
 draw her thoughts away from such themes, but he did not know 
 what to do ; and shaking his head with a dissatisfied air, he said, 
 as he entered his own gate : 
 
 " Hard, indeed, that this unnatural war should affect all ages, 
 classes, and conditions I That the life even of a blind child should 
 be made darker and sadder by it 1" 
 
 24 
 
278 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 Some months had now passed away. The wounded at Hope- 
 dale had, with few exceptions, recovered and returned to their 
 regiments. The enemy had been too much amazed and de- 
 moralized by the unexpected tide of affairs at Bull Run, to make 
 any further demonstrations upon Richmond, while the Confeder- 
 ate army had been too much exhausted by its hard-won victory, 
 to follow the retreating foe to the gates of Washington. By de- 
 grees the Federal army had been reorganized, and the two had 
 now stood for some time confronting each other on the Potomac, 
 each waitii^ for the attack that neither was willing to venture. 
 The Army of the Potomac seemed to be the converging point for 
 the greater portion of the Confederate troops, which, owing to 
 the vast inferiority of numbers, which was their special disad- 
 vantage, had to be massed at a few of the most important p'jints, 
 thus leaving many of the fairest portions of the country open to 
 invasion and occupation by the foe. Such was the condition of 
 Hopedale and the surrounding country, whose rich and abundant 
 harvests, now gathered and secured by the inhabitants, offered a 
 tempting bait to the enemy. When it first began to be whis- 
 pered that this beautiful and fertile valley was to be left outside 
 the Confederate lines, the thought was too unwelcome to be en- 
 tertained. Some thought tliat the railroad was too important to 
 the government to be thus abandoned ; and others could not believe 
 that miles of country teeming with provisions would be sacri- 
 ficed ; and a few there were, to whose narrow, contracted vision 
 the fate of the nation was as nothing in comparison with their 
 own selfish interests, and who declaimed loudly and bitterly 
 against a policy which did not protect their homesteads and • 
 farms. But, in spite of murmurs and complaints, the wheels of 
 government moved on their resistless round ; and since all could 
 not be protected, and all could not be saved, it sacrificed the few 
 ior the good of the many. Mr. Cameron, Mr. Derby, and Uncle 
 John, like all the rest, had thought and talked much of the mat- 
 ter, but not in the spirit of fault-finding and complaint. They 
 deprecated the result as much as any other men in the commu- 
 nity, but they looked at it from a stand- point elevated above 
 their own interests and wishes, and their justice and clear judg- 
 ment at once grasped the true cause, insiead of charging the 
 government with incompetence or negligence. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 279 
 
 " It is not the time, gentlemen," said Mr. Derby one day, to a 
 group in the street, who were discussing the lamentable result, 
 which some attributed to one cause and some to another, while 
 all agreed that " somebody was to blame," — " it is not the time 
 for fault-finding, carping, and distrust. It is not patriotic, it is 
 not manly, while the nation is struggling in the agonies of its 
 birth, to fix our eyes on individual interests and on single mea- 
 sures. Let us for once, if it is possible, forget ourselves, and 
 with might and main uphold, sustain, and strengthen the heaving 
 country; and when its convulsions are over, and our freedom es- 
 tablished, then we can use the privilege which belongs to us as 
 freemen ; and if we are dissatisfied with our rulers, we can re- 
 place them, by the power of the ballot-box, with others more 
 competent or more reliable." 
 
 Willie was still at the Hall. His wound, which was pro- 
 nounced at first very serious, had proved even more so than was 
 expected, and several times his recovery had seemed extremely 
 doubtful. But his youth and strength of constitution, aided by 
 surgical skill and careful nursing, had at last triumphed ; and 
 though pale and still very weak from long confinement and loss 
 of blood, he was nevertheless recovering. He was now allowed 
 to walk about the house ; but all his movements had still to be 
 gentle and cautious, and his repeated requests to be permitted to 
 go home had been thus far peremptorily refused. Willie was not 
 by any means tired of the Hall. On the contrary, he was now 
 so completely domesticated there, that he fully realized that when 
 he should leave it he would be turning his back upon one home 
 to seek another ; but yet he wanted to see the faces of father, 
 mother, and sisters, before he should return to camp, which he 
 hoped from week to week to be able to do. But recovery was 
 very slow, and he was beginning to be restless ; for, boy-like, he 
 had felt every day, since he had left his bed, that his present life 
 of inaction was not becoming a soldier. That newspaper para- 
 graph, while all else in the world save himself and the loving 
 hearts at home had forgotten it, still stirred his blood and fired 
 his young ambition ; and he wanted to be in the camp and on 
 the field again, where he could make a name for himself. He 
 could not help enjoying his present circumstances, surrounded as 
 he was by all the appliances of wealth and luxury, and he felt 
 that the society of the sisters, especially that of the younger, 
 was becoming daily more agreeable to him ; yet, at the same time, 
 he reproached and condemned himself for being so well contented, 
 and greatly feared lest the life of ease and comfort, now rendered 
 necessary by his condition, should unfit him for future hardships 
 and privation. 
 
280 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 If Willie had himself learned to feel completely at home at the 
 Hall, he was no less regarded by the family as one of themselves. 
 Mr. Cameron had become greatly interested in the boy. There 
 was in his character an innate gentleness and refinement, allied 
 to a spirit of determination and bravery, which won both his 
 affection and admiration ; while the pale face, the languid step, 
 and the fear lest he might be an invalid and a cripple for life, 
 awakened a feeling of sympathy and pity. Julia had become 
 warmly attached to the youth who had been for months the ob- 
 ject of her care and solicitude, and who had proved so docile and 
 grateful a patient; while Eva, satisfied with the present, and not 
 troubling herself about the future, had floated calmly along the 
 pleasant tide of her daily life, enjoying his society, until gradually 
 and unconsciously she had found Willie's room pleasanter than 
 the yard or the garden, a quiet conversation with him more 
 agreeable than a ride on Dixie or a romp with Carlo, and read- 
 ing aloud to him an employment preferable to a fishing excursion 
 or a stroll in the grove. Julia no longer had to complain of 
 torn dresses and tangled curls; Carlo now had nobody to romp 
 with him, and both his mistress and himself had sobered down so 
 completely, that Willie protested to her one day that he believed 
 she had slandered both herself and her dog, for he had never in 
 his life seen a more demure, well-behaved couple. 
 
 "I don't know why it is, Willie, "she answered, "but it is 
 true, that I have not romped so much of late as I used to do ; 
 but you must remember that I am getting to be a young lady 
 now." 
 
 " I am glad, Eva," said Julia, "that you are at last beginning 
 to realize that. You know that I have told you so for a long 
 time, but the fact has never as yet made much impression." 
 
 " I suppose, sister, that it is either the good or bad effect of 
 example. You and Willie are so quiet and sober, that I am 
 afraid you will make me like yourselves before long. Walter 
 will not know me when he comes back." 
 
 "I am quiet and sober perforce, now, "said Willie; "but if I 
 could only walk and leap and climb as I could six months ago, 
 you would find me not far behind your brother in noise and 
 frolic. Nobody loves active exercise more than I do, and to sit 
 still now that I am getting well is quite as hard for me as it was 
 to bear the pain. Heigh-ho ! I wonder if I will ever again be 
 as strong and active as I once was !" 
 
 "Come, Willie," said Julia, "you must not grow desponding 
 or impatient now." 
 
 "Desponding! Impatient I Indeed, Miss Julia, I think that 
 I have been a model of hope and patience." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 281 
 
 "That is the very reason why I would not have you fail just 
 at the last. Be patient and prudent and obedient still, and you 
 will come out all right in the end. Let me see how obedient you 
 will be now, when I tell you that you have been sitting up long 
 enough, and must lie down on the sofa for an hour and a half." 
 
 "I am very tired of the bed and sofa; they are altogether too 
 luxurious for the soldier." 
 
 "Come, Willie," said Eva, "we are to have no objections. See 
 how comfortably I have arranged your pillows. It is not every 
 soldier that has a young lady to do that for him I" 
 
 " That is true," he answered ; "nor woul(J any other soldier be 
 ungrateful enough to complain of any requirement from such 
 nurses as I have. But see, now," he added, going to the sofa, 
 "I will obey without a murmur, and will promise to lie here for 
 an hour and a half — for two hours, if your sister wills it." 
 
 " That is a good, obedient patient 1" said Eva. "And now is 
 there anything that I can do for you ?" 
 
 "Yes," he answered, " if you have the time and inclination." 
 
 " Of the first," she replied, laughing, " there is never any want, 
 I always have plenty of that; but of the last, I am not quite so 
 sure. Let me hear, however, what it is you want." 
 
 "I want you to read to me, talk to me, or otherwise entertain 
 me while I am condemned to lie here." 
 
 " Oh ! if that is all, my inclination will allow me to gratify 
 
 you. What must I . But see 1 there is papa coming in at 
 
 the gate. I will run and ask him if there is any war news, and 
 will be back in one minute, Willie." 
 
 She met her father half way down the lawn ; and when Julia 
 reached the hall door, she saw them talking very earnestly to- 
 gether, as Mr. Cameron rode along in a walk, with Eva by his 
 side. As they approached, Julia saw that there was something 
 very serious the matter ; and as soon as she was near enough, 
 Eva called out, in a voice half terrified and half tearful : 
 
 " Oh, sister ! we are left out of the Confederate lines, and ex- 
 posed at any moment to a raid or occupation by the enemy. 
 Indeed, some say that the Yankees are coming now !" 
 
 Julia was for a moment startled. She had heard the possibility 
 or such a thing discussed by her father and Uncle John, but she 
 did not expect it so soon. She looked at her father in silence, 
 awaiting his confirmation of what Eva had said. 
 
 "Yes, my daughter," he said, "it is even so. Hopedale is not 
 so important a point as many others; and as it is impossible to 
 guard them all, we had to be left at the mercy of the enemy." 
 
 As usual, her thoughts were speedily collected, and her first 
 words were : 
 
 24* 
 
282 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "And Willie, papa ; he is not safe here now, is he ?" 
 
 " Oh !" interrupted Eva, " what on earth would they do to 
 him ? A poor wounded boy, that could not ride a mile on horse- 
 back if his life depended on it !" 
 
 "Nevertheless," said Julia, "he is a Confederate soldier, Eva; 
 and whether wounded or not, is liable to be taken prisoner." 
 
 "They would not have the heart to do so cruel a thing, papa, 
 would they ?" 
 
 "They would certainly take him prisoner, Eva; but in his con- 
 dition would probably parole him." 
 
 "And what is that, papa ?" 
 
 " It is to make him promise upon his honor never to fight again 
 in the Confederate army until he has been exchanged. If he will 
 do that, they will, perhaps, in consideration of his wound, spare 
 him from the confinement of prison." 
 
 "He might be willing to promise not to fight for two or three 
 months, papa ; for he will not be able to do it before that 
 time. " 
 
 "But this would not suffice," said her father, smiling. "He 
 must promise unconditionally, and must keep it, too. It is con- 
 sidered very disgraceful for a soldier to violate his parole. I 
 don't believe that Willie would consent to be captured on these 
 conditions, even if he is obliged to run some risk to get away." 
 
 "I believe, papa," answered Eva, "that I would stay. I can- 
 not think that the Yankees will even take him prisoner under the 
 circumstances. I don't believe that they would be so inhuman 
 as to molest him in any way, when they see how weak and sick 
 he is." 
 
 "Trust not to Yankee humanity, my daughter; for be sure it 
 will fail you, especially in time of war. You will learn, my child, 
 before this war is over, that ' the tender mercies ' of warfare, like 
 those of the wicked, are 'cruel.' No, Eva, Willie must go. He 
 ought not, he must not stay here any longer." 
 
 " Oh, papa 1" she exclaimed, with tears in her eyes, " where 
 can he go ? who will take care of him ? He is not able to travel ; 
 the doctor told him only yesterday that it might cost him his life 
 to go home. Don't send him away, papa, please don't ! Hide 
 him in the garret. I will take his meals to him myself, and not 
 a human being shall know that he is there." 
 
 " Poor child ! how little do you know of the usages of war or 
 of human nature 1 The Federal soldiers would not be half an 
 hour in Hopedale before some one would inform them that there 
 was a Confederate soldier at Cameron Hall, and offer to guide 
 them to the place." 
 
 "But, papa, you can lock your doors and refuse to let them in. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 283 
 
 It is your house, and nobody has a right to enter it without your 
 permission." 
 
 "Permission! Right! These, my daughter, are words that 
 have no place in the vocabulary of war. A squad of armed sol- 
 diers would come here and demand admittance ; and if refused, 
 bolts and bars would not long exclude them, and neither garret, 
 cellar, nor closet would be a safe retreat from their search. And 
 if Willie should be found thus concealed, they might perhaps deal 
 very harshly with him ; and, regardless of his wound and suffer- 
 ing, send him off to a Northern prison. Rather than risk this, 
 would it not be much better to go away at once, while he can do 
 so quietly and leisurely ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, perhaps it would. But is it certain that they are 
 coming now ?" 
 
 "By no means, Eva. There are a thousand rumors, none of 
 which may be true ; and yet none are impossible. One thing, 
 however, is unmistakably true, and that is, that we are exposed, 
 and are liable at any hour to a raid. Now, this being the case, 
 and Willie's condition being such that haste and excitement would 
 be highly injurious to him, my advice would be to go away now in 
 peace and quiet. It is what I would do myself, and what I should 
 want Walter to do." 
 
 " Then, papa," she said, " if he is obliged to go, the sooner that 
 he is off the better ; so I will run and tell him." 
 
 "Indeed you will not!" exclaimed her sister, seizing her arm 
 and detaining her by a firm grasp. " Listen to me one moment. 
 Remember, Eva, the terrible scene that we had the morning that 
 Uncle John was here; and as you value Willie's life, do nothing 
 to cause a repetition of it. You must not go near him now, you 
 are entirely too much excited." * 
 
 "Well, sister," exclaimed the bewildered Eva, "what is to be 
 done ? Papa says that he must not stay, and you say that he 
 must not be told to go !" 
 
 " Xo, Eva, not that. I do not say that he must not be told; 
 but only that he must not be told in the way that you propose to 
 do it. Papa is the proper person to tell him, and to advise him, 
 and he will do it calmly." 
 
 "Then, papa," said the impatient Eva, "please to go and tell 
 him at once." 
 
 "Where shall I find him, Eva, in his room?" 
 
 "No, sir, he is in the library." 
 
 Mr. Cameron found him lying on the sofa with his eyes closed ; 
 and he thought, as he entered the door, that Julia was right in 
 not deeming him a fit subject for any startling intelligence. He 
 sat down by him, and told him quietly but frankly what he had 
 heard. 
 
284 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "What do you think of the probable truth of these rumors, 
 Mr. Cameron ?" 
 
 " Indeed, Willie, having no facts on which to base an opinion, 
 I can scarcely be said to have one at all. These rumors are not 
 improbable in themselves ; and yet I am not disposed to credit 
 them, because I know that nothing is easier than to create a 
 panic, and that then the wildest and most unfounded stories are 
 circulated and believed." 
 
 " What would you advise me to do, sir ?" 
 
 "Under the circumstances, I would advise you to go away im- 
 mediately. If you were stronger, and able to get away in a hurry, 
 you might wait until the approach of the enemy was certain ; but 
 in your condition, when so much depends upon prudence and 
 caution, I think it would be better for you to go at your leisure. I 
 am sorry to give you up, Willie, especially sorry to send you away 
 from the Hall, weak and suffering; but I advise you now as I 
 would Walter." 
 
 " Thank you, sir !" he answered. "I am very sorry, Mr. Cam- 
 eron, to leave your hospitable home, where I have received so 
 much kindness. I cannot repay it, sir ; but neither can I forget 
 it. I owe my life," he added, with moistened eyes, " to Cameron 
 Hall ; may I so use it in this war that you and your daughters 
 may not regret having saved it !" 
 
 " You must not feel under obligations to us, my son," answered 
 Mr. Cameron. " We have only done our duty ; and it was a 
 much easier and lighter one than you were called upon to per- 
 form at Manassas for us and the rest of your countrymen." 
 
 "When must I go, Mr. Cameron ?" 
 
 "As soon as possible. To-morrow morning, if you can." • 
 
 " Do you think that I might venture to go home ?" 
 
 " I should think not, Willie ; but you must ask the surgeon 
 about that. If you would like to see him, I will send for him at 
 once." 
 
 "If you please, sir," he answered. 
 
 Mr. Cameron went out to send the messenger, and as he left 
 the room, Willie said : 
 
 "Will you ask Eva, sir, if she has forgotten her promise? 
 Tell her that I have kept mine about lying quietly on the sofa, 
 but she seems to have forgotten hers." 
 
 Eva came, sober and thoughtful enough now. Willie's going 
 away had seemed something so far in the future that she had 
 never thought about it at all ; and his society, and the attention 
 that he required, had in the course of months become so much a 
 part of her daily life and thought, that she could not bear to think 
 of the painful void that his departure would create. It had come 
 
CAMERON HALL. 285 
 
 upon her, too, most suddenly and unexpectedly, and, altogether 
 unaccustomed to control or hide her feelings, her gorrownow was 
 very evident. Nor did she at all object to his seeing her distress. 
 She had never thought of looking into her heart, and did not 
 suspect that her feelings toward Willie were not altogether what 
 they were toward Walter. She had never been called upon to 
 nurse Walter in sickness or suffering ; and if she felt a tenderness 
 and sympathy for her guest that she had never felt for her 
 brother, she thought, if she took time to think about it at all, 
 that it was the natural result of his condition and circumstances. 
 Impulsive and childlike in her grief, as she was in her mirth, she 
 had already indulged in a hearty cry while her father had been 
 talking to Willie, and her eyes were red and her cheeks stained 
 with tears, when she slowly obeyed Willie's summons to the li- 
 brary. Nor was he much stronger proof against the pain of 
 separation. Like Eva, he, too, had never thought of examining 
 his feelings with regard to her. He only knew that he was not 
 only contented, but happy, when she was sitting by, talking to 
 him, reading to him, or arranging his flower-vases. *^The sight of 
 her, the thought of her had become with him a daily necessity; 
 and while he was aware of this, still it had never occurred to 
 him that his feeling for her differed in kind and degree from that 
 affectionate gratitude that he felt toward her father and sister. 
 He differed, however, from Eva in one respect. The sudden and 
 unexpected necessity of separation, while it distressed her, did not 
 enlighten her with regard to her feelings ; but as to Willie, the 
 truth flashed upon him in a moment, and he knew at once that 
 the keen pang occasioned by the thought of leaving Eva, was 
 something altogether different from the deep but more sober 
 regret with which he would bid farewell to the other members of 
 the family. Mr. Cameron had scarcely left the room before 
 Willie regretted that he had sent for Eva. He would rather 
 have had time to reflect a little while, and to decide if, at this 
 time and under these circumstances, it would be right to say all 
 that he wanted to tell her. And now, when she came in looking 
 so troubled, so different from the bright laughing child that he 
 had always seen her before, he felt that it would be impossible to 
 resist the temptation of laying his whole heart open to her. But 
 he found no time to do it. Her imagined self-control all gave 
 way the very moment that she looked at him ; and seating herself 
 beside his sofa, she buried her face in her hands and cried like a 
 very child. Willie looked at her sorrowfully, but dared not trust 
 himself to speak, and after a few minutes she wiped away the 
 tears, and, brushing back her hair, apologized to him, not for the 
 distress or the tears, these seemed to her natural enough, but for 
 having indulged them at that particular time. 
 
286 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "I must go now, Willie," she said, rising from her seat, " for I 
 find that I cannot talk to you now. I thought I could when 
 I came in. Sister would be worried if she were to see this, for 
 she says that you must be quiet. I will come back after awhile." 
 
 Willie held her hand for an instant, and looked at her, but did 
 not speak, and then she left the room. 
 
 An hour afterwards, as Julia passed Eva's door, she heard a 
 sob, and looking into the room, saw her sister sitting upon the 
 floor in the perfect abandonment of grief. Julia stood and 
 looked at her with sympathy and pity, and it may be almost with 
 a feeling of envy, too, as she thought: 
 
 " Fortunate child, who can thus relieve your burdened heart I 
 Unconscious that there is aught in your feelings which it were 
 better to conceal, you pour out your grief without restraint ; 
 while I must add to the burden of an aching heart the perpetual 
 struggle of concealment ! You are greatly distressed, none can 
 doubt it, but, oh ! how much less so than I am !" 
 
 She went up to Eva and laid her hand upon her head. Eva 
 looked up, and her tears burst out afresh. Julia waited until 
 there was another lull in the storm, and then said, gently: 
 
 "This will not do, Eva. You are not a child now, and another 
 than your sister might perhaps consider this grief unmaidenly. I 
 can understand it ; I can make allowance for your temperament, 
 w'hich others might not do." 
 
 "There is nothing to make allowance for," she answered be- 
 tween her sobs. "Willie is going away, wounded and sick. He 
 cannot get home, and he will be thrown among strangers, with 
 nobody to take care of him. I am distressed, I acknowledge it, 
 and am not ashamed of it, and I would not care if the whole 
 world knew it." 
 
 "Yes, Eva, you and I may know that your feelings are natural, 
 but others might not know it, and might misconstrue them." 
 
 "Nobody misconstrued my grief when Walter went away, and 
 I am sure that I did not try to hide it." 
 
 "Willie is not Walter, Eva. One is your brother, the other 
 was a stranger to you not many months since." 
 
 "He is not a stranger now. I love him dearly now, almost, if 
 not quite as well as I do Walter." 
 
 " That may be, child," said Julia, with a sad, quiet smile. "It 
 may be that you love him better than your brother; it must be 
 that you love him differently." 
 
 " No I don't I" exclaimed Eva, as with flashing eyes she sprang 
 up from the floor. " Is that what you mean, sister, by my sor- 
 row being misinterpreted ? If I thought that — if I thought that 
 any one could suspect me of being in love with Willie, could 
 
CAMERON HALL. 287 
 
 imagine that I would bestow my affections unasked, my very eye- 
 balls should be scorched by the hot tears that I would force back, 
 for I would not shed one to relieve my heart if it were breaking ! 
 No, indeed! I can give him unasked a sister's love, but nothing 
 else !" She paused an instant, and then said, looking mortified 
 and distressed : " You, sister, are the last person in the world 
 that I would have suspected of so misjudging me." 
 
 "I have not done it, my darling!" answered Julia, earnestly. 
 "I know and understand you thoroughly; and it is because I 
 know that you would shrink like a sensitive plant from such a 
 suspicion, that I now caution you against the indulgence of feel- 
 ings which might and probably would be misconstrued. You 
 are very young, Eva, younger even in heart than you are in 
 years, and you do not know how the world would interpret your 
 present sorrows. You have been all your life sheltered in the 
 ark of home, where, without fear of misconstruction, you could 
 speak and act freely ; but when you go out into the world you 
 will not always meet with father, sister, brother, to make allow- 
 ance and to understand you ; there you will always have to guard 
 against misunderstanding and misconception." 
 
 "Sister," said Eva, looking earnestly at her, "do you suppose 
 that Willie could possibly thus misconceive me ? He saw that I 
 was distressed, for I never thought of trying to hide it. If I 
 thought that he could, I would very speedily undeceive him." 
 
 She looked as if she were about to rush at once to the library 
 to make good her words, but her sister's grasp restrained her, as 
 she answered : 
 
 "I do not believe that he will, Eva. I think that Willie 
 understands your character and disposidon very thoroughly. He 
 knows that yours is an ardent, impulsive temperament, without 
 either restraint or concealment ; and then another thing, Eva, the 
 very thing which, with the world, might have laid you open to 
 misconstruction, will be perhaps with him your safeguard from it. 
 He will naturally conclude that if there were in your feeling for 
 him anything of a tenderer, deeper nature than there is for your 
 brother, you would surely not have so frankly confessed it." 
 
 " Well, if he does not koow it now, I will see to it that he finds 
 it out before he leaves the Hall." 
 
 "Take care, Eva, lest in your fear of being misjudged you 
 should overleap the mark. • Treat him naturally and kindly, just 
 as you have always done ; otherwise he might believe that your 
 grief was at the time beyond your control ; but inasmuch as it 
 was the result of a feeling that youj^ere desirous to conceal, you 
 had, by great effort, succeeded in mastering it. Be your own 
 natural self, and I am satisfied that Willie will understand you as I 
 
288 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 do. We must try and be cheerful to-day, and make bis last re- 
 collections of the Hall as pleasant as possible. Poor Willie ! I 
 am sorry that he is obliged to go away sick and feeble. I did 
 hope that when he left us, it would be to rejoin his regiment, the 
 same strong, robust soldier that he was when he entered it. 
 Come, now, dry your tears, brush your hair, and go and talk to 
 him cheerfully and pleasantly, as you are accustomed to do." 
 
 The surgeon came, and, as he was going away, Mr. Cameron 
 asked him what Willie was to do. 
 
 " He must leave, of course, sir. I have received orders to re- 
 move all the wounded immediately, for this place is no longer 
 safe for our soldiers." 
 
 "Have you given him permission to go home ?" 
 
 " Home ! Why, sir, he lives in Alabama, and such a journey 
 would surely kill him. No, sir I I have ordered him to stop 
 after one day's ride upon the cars. He must not even go as far 
 as Richmond, but must stop so soon as he is within Confederate 
 lines. If he is prudent and careful, he vt^ill be able in a few weeks 
 to go home, but he must not think of attempting it now." 
 
 " Your commands must be very positive, doctor, or he will not 
 obey you. His heart is fixed upon going home." 
 
 ** I see that it is, sir, and he may possibly disobey me ; but I 
 have stated the case very plainly, and have told him that if he 
 goes home now, he will do it at the risk of his life. I feel sorry 
 for the young fellow. He hates to go away from here, and he 
 wants to go home, and it will evidently be a great struggle to 
 stop between the two places. You must persuade him, Mr. Cam- 
 eron, to follow my advice ; it would be a pity for him to lose his 
 life at last through impatience and self-will," 
 
 The last dinner at the Hall was not pleasant to any of the 
 party. Eva could not talk ; Julia tried to do so, but failed ; and 
 Mr. Cameron and Willie kept up the scattering remarks, that 
 were meant for conversation. It was an effort on Willie's part, 
 and he was glad when it was over. The only thing that EVa 
 listened to at all was her father's question and Willie's reply. 
 
 " Of course you will not try to go home, after what the doctor 
 has told you ?" 
 
 " I do not know, sir. That depends upon my condition and 
 strength after the first day's travel. It seems to me that I must 
 be a better judge than any one else can be, how much fatigue 
 and jolting I can bear." 
 
 " Indeed, my son, you are not. The doctor says that it is 
 possible that you may be Me to go in a few weeks, but not 
 before." 
 
 "A few weeks, Mr. Cameron I Why by that time I expect to 
 
CAMERON HALL. 289 
 
 be with the army of the Potomac. You have no idea how rapidly 
 I am getting well now, thanks to the care of the Hall." 
 
 " I trust that you may soon be able to rejoin your regiment, 
 "Willie ; but you certainly will not be, if you take the case into 
 your own hands, I should be sorry for you to go away from the 
 Hall now, only to throw away all the advantages that you confess 
 yourself to have gained here." 
 
 "I shall be very careful not to do that, sir; for I assure you 
 that I am tired enough of being on the invalid list, and anxious 
 enough to get into service again." 
 
 The sisters seemed now to have exchanged places. Eva was 
 quiet and sad, while Julia tried to take her place and cheer and 
 entertain Willie. 
 
 "Come, my patient," she said, as they left the table, "you 
 must surrender yourself prisoner to me this afternoon, and obey 
 orders for the last time. I am afraid, Willie, that the pain of 
 leaving the Hall will be quite counterbalanced by the relief of es- 
 cape from my persecuting and endless restrictions and watching." 
 
 "Very pleasant restrictions and watching they have been, Miss 
 Julia, and I doubt not as beneficial as they were pleasant. If all 
 captivity were as agreeable as that of Cameron Hall, there would 
 be no great objection to being taken prisoner. Heigh-ho ! To- 
 morrow I shall have the old, lonely, hospital feeling again, and 
 would be glad enough for the privilege of obeying one of Miss 
 Julia's commands!" 
 
 " Since you deem it a privilege, Willie, I shall feel less reluct- 
 ance in enforcing my present orders. I condemn you now to 
 the sofa, not for an hour and a half, as usual, but for the whole 
 afternoon. You will need all your strength to-morrow. Eva 
 shall entertain you, as she promised to do this morning, and I 
 will pack your valise." 
 
 " I obey instantly, and without a murmur," he replied, as he 
 walked slowly toward the library. 
 
 Julia caught Eva's arm, and whispered : 
 
 " Rouse up, Eva, and be yourself again ! It is unnatural to 
 see you so quiet." 
 
 , "I will try, sister," she answered; "but I do not feel cheerful 
 and happy, and it is unnatural for me to seem otherwise than 
 I feel. Walter had been gone many weary days before I was 
 myself again." 
 
 The effort at conversation was wholly unsuccessful. Either 
 "Willie did not want to talk at all, or else the subjects which Eva ' 
 chose did not accord with his feelings. She thought that per- 
 haps he was tired, and would like for her to read to him until he 
 
 25 
 
290 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 fell asleep, as she freqaently did, and so she proposed to get a 
 book. 
 
 " Not now, Eva; I would rather talk to you, if you will listen 
 to me. I like human friends better than books. We are friends, 
 are we not, Eva?" 
 
 " Yes, Willie, friends, warm friends, and I trust will always 
 be so." 
 
 "But what if that does not satisfy me, Eva? What if I should 
 ask you to be something more than a friend?" 
 
 " It would not require much effort, Willie, to grant even that 
 request. Already you seem much more like brother than friend. 
 Sometimes I feel as if I really had Walter back again." 
 
 "Oh no, Eva!" he exclaimed, hastily; then checking himself, 
 he closed his eyes and compressed his lips tightly for a minute. 
 Then he said : 
 
 " If you will allow me the invalid's privilege of being whim- 
 sical, Eva, I believe that I would like for you to read to me 
 now." 
 
 " Certainly; but what has changed your mind so soon, Willie? 
 It is something new for you to be whimsical." 
 
 " Perhaps it is ; but you will bear with it this time : it is the 
 last!" he said, sadly. 
 
 She felt the words, but with an effort worthy of her sister, she 
 controlled herself, and said: 
 
 "What shall I read?" 
 
 "The same old thing, Eva, the fourth canto of Childe Harold. 
 I would like to hear you read it once more before I go." 
 
 She took Byron from the bookcase, and read as he requested. 
 He did not interrupt her, as he usually did, to comment upon his 
 favorite passages, but was perfectly quiet until she had finished. 
 Then she asked : 
 
 ." Shall I read another canto, Willie?" 
 
 "No, thank you; that is enough." 
 
 His eyes were closed, and there was an expression upon his 
 face that she could not exactly interpret. She could not tell 
 whether it was sadness, or weariness, or pain ; but thinking that 
 he wanted to be quiet, and hoping that he might fall asleep, she 
 sat very still, glad to have nothing to do but to think. 
 
 She was sitting upon a low chair beside the sofa, a little in 
 front of him, so that she could not see him without turning her 
 head. She leaned her face on her hand, and thought of this, the 
 last evening; another day and he would be far away, and she 
 would sadly miss the employment that had now become almost a 
 necessity of her life. Willie was very quiet, and she thought that 
 he was sleeping ; but he was watching her face, and reading there 
 
CAMERON HALL. 291 
 
 the pain that was in her heart, and which no effort could suc- 
 cessfally disguise. An hour before, his own heart would have 
 bounded to have seen that expression, for he would have put 
 upon it the interpretation that he so ardently desired ; but now, 
 he saw in it only a sister's regret for a brother's departure, and 
 he was now painfully conscious that it was no sister's love from 
 Eva that would satisfy him. 
 
 " Perhaps," he thought, " she looks upon me as nothing more 
 than a boy. I am scarcely more, it is true ; but I am older than 
 she is. Perhaps it is because I have done nothing yet to dis- 
 tinguish myself; but it is not too late. I may yet do something 
 to make me worthy of her, and I know that I would, if she 
 would only tell me that then she would welcome me to her heart 
 as something more than brother. Brother ! how much pain that 
 word has given me! I would give worlds if she would only 
 recall it 1 I may be satisfied to be a brother to her sister; to 
 herself I must be something nearer than that, or nothing. Per- 
 haps she will recall it, or modify it; I will see." 
 
 He took the hand on which her face was resting, and said : 
 
 " You look troubled, Eva. I would be glad to think that my 
 departure has something to do with it. I wish that I could be- 
 lieve that it gives you as much pain as it costs me." 
 
 " If it will afford you any pleasure, Willie, to know that I am 
 sorry to give you up, yon are welcome to it. I shall miss you 
 sorely, for," she added, with a faint smile, " I will no longer have 
 a wayward invalid to watch over, to find fault with, to bring 
 flowers to, and to entertain." 
 
 " Kor will you have to keep quiet any longer, Eva. There 
 will be no sick soldier, whose sleep you can disturb, so that you 
 and Carlo may have the freedom of the house, and the privilege 
 of making as much noise as you please." 
 
 *'A privilege of which we shall probably not avail ourselves. 
 We have been quiet so long now that it is no restraint. I have 
 not cared to romp lately. Perhaps sister's wishes are at last 
 about to be realized, and I am actually becoming a woman in 
 feeling as well as in years. Besides, Willie, I shall not feel like 
 a frolic for a long time after you are gone. How long before we 
 shall see you at the Hall again ?" 
 
 "Ah, Eva I I cannot tell. That depends upon two things : my 
 duty in the army, and whether I would be welcome here again." 
 
 Eva looked at him for a moment in surprise, and then, burst- 
 ing into a laugh that bad in it some of the usual merriment, 
 
 said : 
 
 " Welcome, indeed, you foolish boy ! As if you did not know 
 that you would be always welcome at the Hall I Were you not 
 
292 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 welcome as a stranger? Do you expect to be less so as a 
 friend ?" 
 
 " Perhaps I have not said exactly what I meant. It is not 
 that I am doubtful of a welcome ; bat I may be of the kind of 
 one that I must have." 
 
 " Well, exacting sir, you shall have one that will satisfy even 
 you. You shall not be received as stranger or even friend. You 
 shall have just such a warm, affectionate welcome as Walter him- 
 self shall have when he returns. Will that suffice?" 
 
 The old expression returned, whether pain or weariness, she 
 could not tell ; again he closed his eyes for a minute, and then 
 replied, sadly: 
 
 " Perhaps so; at any rate, I suppose it must." 
 
 They were silent a little while, and then Eva asked: 
 
 " Willie, are you obliged to go ?" 
 
 " 'Obliged to go,' Eva ! I do not understand you." 
 
 "I mean, would it not be possible to stay?" 
 
 " Yes, it would be possible, if I were willing to run the risk of 
 being made prisoner." 
 
 " But papa said this morning that in your condition they would 
 not send you away to prison. They would parole you, and then 
 you could stay with us, and they would not trouble you." 
 
 "But, Eva, do you know what is meant by a paroled pris- 
 oner ?" 
 
 " Yes ; papa said that you could not fight any more until you 
 were exchanged." 
 
 "Eva," said Willie, looking fixedly at her, "would you have 
 me to do this ? Would you have me, for fear of pain or trouble 
 or inconvenience, surrender myself a prisoner to the Federals, 
 promising not to fight again until I was exchanged, even if that 
 might be for two or three years, or during the war ? What would 
 you think of me, Eva, if I were to do this ?" 
 
 " I would not have you do it for anything in the world, Willie, 
 if you were well; but when you risk your life in avoiding it, that 
 is another thing." 
 
 "I do not risk my life, Eva. I can go as far as the doctor 
 orders with perfect safety. I will suff'er some pain, and a good 
 deal of fatigue from the journey, but that is all ; and you know 
 that if, for fear of this, I could stay here quietly and submit to 
 being made prisoner, you would be the very first one to feel for 
 me the hearty contempt that I would deserve. No, Eva, I will 
 have to be literally at death's door, and utterly unable to get away, 
 before I am ever taken prisoner without an effort to escape." 
 
 There was another silence, which Eva presently broke, by ask- 
 ing, suddenly: 
 
CAMERON HALL. 293 
 
 " Willie, will you do something for me ?" 
 
 "Anything that mortal man can do ; at least that mortal man 
 in my present helpless condition can do, I will do for you." 
 
 "It will not require exertion ; it is only a promise." 
 
 " Well, anything to gratify you ; what is it ?" 
 
 " Promise me that you will not try to go home until the doctor 
 tells you that it would be safe to do it." 
 
 "A hard request, Eva. 1 will promise not to go until I am 
 quite able to bear the journey." 
 
 " That will not do; I do not care to exact any promise at all 
 unless it is one that will entirely satisfy me. How long before he 
 thought you could go ?" 
 
 " Six weeks ; but anybody can see how preposterous that is. 
 If I am not well in six weeks and ready to join my regiment, I 
 shall despair of ever being able to go into service again. If I 
 am to wait any longer than that, I might as well resign at once, 
 for the fighting will be over and peace declared before I am able 
 to do any more of it. I will promise, Eva, not to do anything 
 imprudent, for I am sure that nobody can be half as anxious for 
 me to get well as I am myself." 
 
 "Anxious you may be, Willie ; but you are nevertheless im- 
 prudent, as I can testify. If you had not had such tyrannical 
 nurses, you would not have been to day as well as you are." 
 
 "If I had not had such nurses (leaving out the disagreeable 
 adjective), I am very sure that I never should have been well at 
 all ; but, thanks to their tuition, I know how to take care of my- 
 self now, and I promise you that I intend to do it." 
 
 "All this will not do, Willie. I must return to my original 
 proposition. Will you or will you not gratify me by making 
 this promise ?" 
 
 He hesitated a moment, and then asked : " Did you say that it 
 would gratify you, Eva ?" 
 
 " Yes, very much." 
 
 " Do you understand what a sacrifice it involves ? Do you re- 
 member that you are condemning me, in my present weak state, 
 to the discomfort and loneliness of a strange place, and the 
 society of strangers ?" 
 
 " Have you before found much discomfort or loneliness in the 
 society of strangers ?" 
 
 " No, Eva ; but I do not expect to find Cameron Halls all over 
 the Confederacy." 
 
 " Nevertheless, Willie, you will acknowledge that you do not 
 believe that all the kindness, sympathy, and good feeling of the 
 Confederacy are pent up within the four walls of this old Yir- 
 
 25* 
 
294 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 ginia country-house, where you happened to find a home in your 
 sufifering. On the contrary, you must rather think that if you 
 found enough of it here to make you comfortable, how much there 
 must be scattered throughout the Confederacy in its thousands 
 of homes I I am not condemning you to loneliness and priva- 
 tion ; I am only sending you away to find out that there is more 
 kindness in the world besides what you have found here. You 
 have never given me a direct answer to my question, yet ; will 
 you promise, or not?" 
 
 "You are exacting, Eva." 
 
 " Call me exacting, pertinacious, unreasonable, anything, if 
 you will only promise that you will not, for six weeks, go far- 
 ther from here than one day's travel on the railroad. Will 
 you ?" 
 
 " I will, on one condition ; and that is, if you will give me per- 
 mission to return here in three weeks if the country is free. If 
 you will give me this to look forward to, perhaps I can endure it 
 that long." 
 
 " That condition is very easily granted, since it will afford us as 
 much pleasure as it will give you. Yes, in three weeks, if it is 
 safe for you to come, you shall return to the Hall." 
 
 " Cannot I come before ?" 
 
 "No, I positively forbid it; and not even then, unless you are 
 stronger and otherwise better than you are now. You see, 
 Willie, that you cannot escape your exacting nurses even by 
 going away ; their directions and orders for the future must still 
 go along with you." 
 
 "And I have no objection to carrying them along, and obey- 
 ing them, too, provided that they are reasonable ; but you must 
 take care to make them so if you expect obedience. Now what 
 do you say to writing ? Am I to be allowed or denied that 
 privilege ?" 
 
 " You are not only allowed it, but it is positively enjoined upon 
 you; and if you do not avail yourself of it, the nurses at the Hall 
 will be both disappointed and provoked." 
 
 " How often may I write ?" 
 
 " Just as often as you feel disposed and are able to do so." 
 
 " Thank you for that gracious permission, Eva I I began to 
 think that I was not only to be driven into exile, but also fet- 
 tered down by inexorable decrees to everything that was dis- 
 agreeable, and denied everything that was pleasant." 
 
 " By no means, Willie. I want you to have every enjoyment 
 consistent with your health." 
 
 "One thing more : how often may I hear from the Hall ?" 
 
CAMERON HALL. 295 
 
 "Just as often as you wish it." 
 
 " Thauk you very much for that promise. I ask a daily letter 
 from you." 
 
 "Good gracious, Willie !" she exclaimed. "I really thought 
 that I was talking to a reasonable being, when I made the 
 promise. Surely you forget that I have Walter to write to, and 
 he is unreasonable about wanting frequent letters ; but even ho 
 has never yet made such an unheard-of demand as that." 
 
 " Nevertheless, your promise was positive and unconditional, 
 and its fulfillment requires a daily letter. Will it be such a sac- 
 rifice, Eva ?" 
 
 " It would certainly be on your part," she answered, laughing. 
 "A daily letter from me would kill anybody in the world." 
 
 " I am willing to risk it. Will you promise ?" 
 
 " Indeed, Willie, as I always like to keep a promise, I must 
 think a little while before I answer you." 
 
 "Would it be such an effort, Eva, to write to me? Would 
 you feel it so to write to that brother to whom you so constantly 
 compare me ?" 
 
 "No, indeed ! When I write to Walter, I am under no more 
 restraint than if I were talking to him. I don't care either how 
 the letter looks or what is in it, and should not be at all distressed 
 if Carlo were to jump into my lap, and, dipping his foot into the 
 inkstand, add a postscript to my letter. But with you the case 
 , would be different." 
 
 " It must not be, Eva. You have seen best in other respects 
 to place me on an equality with Walter, and if there are any 
 benefits resulting from the position, it is but fair that I should 
 enjoy them. Grant me this one favor ; write me just such free, 
 unrestrained, home-like letters as you send your brother. Will 
 you ?" he asked earnestly. 
 
 "Indeed, Willie," she answered, "you know not what you 
 ask. What would you care for a letter full of Carlo and Dixie 
 and Rebel, with whom you are not acquainted ; and the grove 
 and the brook and the old walnut-tree, where you have never 
 been ? These are the themes with which I entertain Walter." 
 
 " Is there nothing else in your letters ?" 
 
 "Yes, a little. I tell him about papa, sister, and myself; 
 what we do every day, how I think and feel, how much I miss 
 ]»m, and long for his return ; in short, I tell him everything." 
 
 " Will you promise me just such letters as these without the 
 out-door details ? Will you give me a faithful picture of the 
 home-scene, the inner life of the Hall ? You see that I can be 
 pertinacious as well as yourself. You have set me the example, 
 and in this case will find me not unwilling to follow it. I yielded 
 
296 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 to your demand, and promised to submit to the weariness and 
 loneliness of a six weeks' sojourn among strangers; let me see 
 if you are generous enough to do what you can to relieve the 
 tedium to which you yourself have condemned me. Say, Eva, 
 will you promise ?" 
 
 "Poor Willie 1" she answered, smiling, "you little dream that 
 the letters for which you are so earnestly pleading will only serve 
 to increase the monotony, instead of relieving it. But be it as 
 you wish ; you shall have a daily letter. It may be that if it 
 serves no other purpose, it may, as sister would say, teach you 
 the useful lesson that in this world we sometimes get what we 
 have most desired only to be bitterly disappointed." 
 
 "Yery well," he answered, joyfully. "If such should be my 
 lesson now, I promise to accept it without a murmur." 
 
 " You don't intend to restrict me to home details, do you, 
 Willie ?" 
 
 " I restrict you to nothing, Eva. Home details will be most 
 interesting to me, but I should be very ungrateful if I were in- 
 different to others. Uncle John and Agnes will always interest 
 me, and Agnes's mother, too, whose low voice, and gentle touch, 
 and soothing manner, I can never forget during those days and 
 nights of suffering that she and your sister nursed me. It is 
 wonderful what firmness and fortitude can be shown by such deli- 
 cately organized women as they are." 
 
 " It is no less wonderful to me, Willie. It is well for you that you. 
 were not left to my care. I can nurse and wait on the sick un- 
 tiringly ; but if your life had depended on it, I could not have 
 helped Uncle John tie up those arteries as sister did." 
 
 " It was a great effort for her," said Willie. " I saw that plainly 
 enough, and was as much relieved on her account as on my own, 
 when I saw the surgeon." 
 
 " Have you slept any this afternoon ?" inquired Julia, coming 
 into the room. 
 
 " Slept ! No, indeed, not the last day that I am to stay at the 
 Hall 1 I shall have time enough for that during the next six 
 weeks ; and expect to do enough of it, too. The forgetfulness of 
 sleep will be my chief comfort." 
 
 " Come, Willie," said Julia, " you must not go away to be sad 
 and desponding. I regret as much as you can do that you are 
 obliged to go before you are entirely recovered ; but you must b^ 
 cheerful. You will get well much faster if you are." 
 
 " Yes," said Eva, "cheerful and prudent ! Don't forget the last, 
 sister. I have spent the greater part of the evening, trying to 
 convince him that it is prudent and necessary that he should obey 
 the doctor, and not try to go home for six weeks. He has finally 
 
CAMERON HALL. 297 
 
 yielded, and it will only require a very few words from you to make 
 my lecture entirely eflfectual." 
 
 "Eva preaching prudence !"' exclaimed Julia, raising both her 
 hands. " That would indeed be a sermon worth hearing ! She 
 could illustrate her subject so forcibly from her own experience 
 and practice I" 
 
 "I don't know about that," Willie answered, laughing. "I 
 have heard that sometimes theory and practice don't go together; 
 but I must say that my fair young preacher seemed to understand 
 her subject well enough theoretically. She urged prudence in a 
 very downright practical way, and told me in plain terms what I 
 ought to do." 
 
 "Which, sister says, Willie, is the best preaching in the world. 
 And if its character is to be judged by its results, my sermon must 
 have been good ; for it was effectual, and has already changed 
 the purposes of my listener, as you yourself can testify." 
 
 "That is a privilege enjoyed by very few older and more ex- 
 perienced preachers than you are, Eva," said a voice at the door. 
 " Such visible and speedy results from a single sermon do not 
 often gladden the minister's heart." 
 
 "Where on earth did you come from, Mr. Derby?" exclaimed- 
 Eva, laughing. 
 
 "I hope that you will forgive the eaves-dropping, Eva. To 
 listen to you discussing the merits of a sermon of your own might 
 well prove an irresistible temptation to a stronger will than mine." 
 
 "Never mind, Mr. Derby, you may laugh as much as you 
 please ; but I still insist upon it that, arguing the worth of my 
 sermon from its practical results, nobody could have done it bet- 
 ter, although I say it 1" 
 
 " Hurrah, Eva," said Mr. Derby " You not only magnify your 
 office, but yourself along with it. Come, now, let me hear the 
 subject of this wonderfully successful sermon." 
 
 "Prudence!" replied Eva, demurely, and trying hard to keep 
 back the smile that lingered around the corners of her mouth. 
 
 Mr. Derby threw himself back in his chair, and laughed 
 heartily. 
 
 " Prudence VI he repeated. " Well, my child, I cannot imagine 
 why you chose that subject, unless it was because you had very 
 close at hand a lamentable illustration of the want of it. Some- 
 times the necessity of a virtue can be most strongly enforced b^ 
 the result of its absence ! But tell me how you went to work. 
 Perhaps I can gain from you a few practical hints in the way of 
 making sermons effective ; it would certainly be a secret worth 
 knowing. Your subject was Prudence. Next in order come the 
 divisions ; what were the heads ?" 
 
298 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " Divisions I Heads 1 I didn't need anything of that sort ; and 
 besides, my subject was not susceptible of division. I would like 
 to know, Mr. Derby, how you could divide Prudence I" 
 
 "Perhaps that is the reason, Eva, that none of it fell to your 
 share," he answered, laughing. "However, your headless ser- 
 mon is after all not altogether an anomaly ; for I have listened to 
 many in my life that were quite as innocent of all the rules that 
 we learned at the seminary. Let us see now if it had the third 
 requisite. Thus far, your skeleton reads : Subject, Prudence ; 
 Heads, none. Now, thirdly, for the logic. By what arguments 
 did you enfcft'ce your subjects ?" 
 
 "Arguments 1 What on earth, Mr. Derby, would I want with 
 an argument to prove that people ought to be prudent I No, in- 
 deed ! I didn't want any arguments." 
 
 " Well, Eva, what did you have, and what did you do ?" 
 
 "I just told him his duty so plainly and clearly that he could 
 not help seeing it; and I pinned him down to the subject until he 
 had promised to do it." 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Derby, "we have at last reached some of 
 the true elements of sermonizing. Plainness and directness are 
 indispensable, and sometimes effectual ; but not always so. I 
 have known them to fail. It may be, Eva, that the secret of the 
 practical power of your sermon may, after all, be found in the 
 temper and disposition of the listener. Much frequently depends 
 upon that. How wtis it, Willie ? Were you disposed to listen 
 and to receive the truth ?" 
 
 "In that respect, sir, she had very serious obstacles to over- 
 come. Her listener was not at all inclined to receive .her instruc- 
 tions, and resisted for a long time." 
 
 " Still there is something unexplained," said Mr. Derby. " She 
 used no arguments to convince the reason and judgment. She 
 only made duty clear to an unwilling heart. Now there must 
 have been something to overcome that unwillingness and make it 
 yield. What was it, Willie ?" 
 
 "She promised a reward, sir." 
 
 "Aha 1 that is the secret ! Well, the hope of reward is a legiti- 
 mate argument for the preacher ; and so her sermon had, after 
 all, some of the proper elements; though I thought, in the begin- 
 ning, that she was about to strike out an entirely new method." 
 
 " Mr. Derby,'^ said Eva, laughing, " I am entirely at your ser- 
 vice, sir. Any time that you are indisposed to write, or that 
 your ingenuity fails, just send to me and I will prepare for you a 
 sermon, so unconscious of divisions and logic, that it will amaze 
 if it does not edify your congregation." 
 
 " Thank you, for your kind offer, Eva. I will not forget it, and 
 
CAMERON HALL. 299 
 
 hope that when I apply to you for assistance, you will be careful 
 to choose a subject upon which my life and character afford as 
 remarkable a commentary as yours do upon the subject of your 
 present discourse.-' 
 
 " I will attend to that, sir. But there may still be another 
 reason why this one was preached with greater power and effect. 
 It was a farewell sermon. Perhaps you are not aware that Willie 
 leaves us in the morning." 
 
 " Yes, it is that which has brought me to the Hall this even- 
 ing. I only heard a little while ago that he would leave us to- 
 morrow. I am sorry, Willie, that you must go while you are so 
 much of an invalid." 
 
 "It is certainly much to be regretted on my part, sir, for I 
 shall sadly miss the care and attention to which I have been so 
 long accustomed here. I hope, some of these days, Mr. Derby, 
 to prove that I was not wholly unworthy of it." 
 
 " You must not wait so long as that, Willie," said Eva. " The 
 surest way of proving yourself worthy of our care is to be pru- 
 dent, and get well just as fast as you can. Then we will know 
 that our time and attention were not wasted, and (which is by no 
 means an unimportant consideration) that our sermons upon 
 Prudence, etc. were not thrown away. But who are those with 
 papa in the buggy ? Grace and Agnes, I do believe, and Uncle 
 John coming behind on horseback I Why, Willie, I declare you 
 are quite a belle I" 
 
 "Perhaps, Eva, I would not be quite so much so elsewhere. 
 Cameron Hall does not need a wounded boy to make it an attrac- 
 tive place, as Uncle John himself would cheerfully testify." 
 
 "Nevertheless, you are certainly the attraction this evening. 
 Agnes will be greatly distressed at your going away ; and the 
 organ will groan with the saddest of wails for days to come. I 
 am sorry that you have to go before you have ever heard her 
 play." 
 
 "It will give me one more pleasure, Eva," he answered, "to 
 look forward to when I return to the Hall." 
 
 The party now came in, and the evening would have passed off 
 pleasantly enough, but for a single regret that overshadowed them 
 all. Eva was rather gratified than otherwise, that there should 
 have been a large circle at the Hall on this, Willie's last evening. 
 She did not enjoy it, but it occupied her and kept her from think- 
 ing. When Julia was in trouble, she liked to be alone, until she 
 had brought both thoughts and feelings under control; while 
 Eva, on the contrary, liked an excitement that would drown her 
 thoughts altogether. So this evening, while there was nothing 
 exciting in the familiar circle gathered in the library, still there 
 
300 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 was employment enough to keep her thoughts from being pain- 
 fully fixed upon the morrow ; and the general conversation, in 
 which she tried to take part, was a relief to her. 
 
 When the last good-by had been spoken, and they were all 
 gone, Willie said : 
 
 " Eva, when you write to me, I want you never to forget Mr. 
 Derby. He has been very kind to me ever since I have been 
 here; and has just now given me a few parting words of advice 
 that I trust I will treasure up and act upon. I am glad to know 
 Mr. Derby. The life of such a man is a powerful witness to the 
 truth of religion." 
 
 The next morning everything was ready for departure. The 
 carriage was at the door for Willie, and the buggy for Julia and 
 her father. Mr. Cameron was at the carriage, arranging the 
 cushions and pillows, and Julia had gone to put on her bonnet. 
 Willie was lying on the sofa in the library, and Eva was stand- 
 ing at the window silently watching her father. Her heart was 
 full ; but her sister's lesson the day before made her strive hard 
 to keep down her feelings, even though she now felt quite secure 
 against misconstruction. Presently Willie said : 
 
 "It is time for you to get your bonnet, Eva." 
 
 " I am not going to town, Willie," she answered. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Because," she replied, evasively, "you ought to have the 
 whole carriage to yourself, and papa and sister are going in the 
 buggy, so that there is no room for me." 
 
 " I cannot possibly occupy the whole carriage, Eva, and if I 
 go alone, the ride will be a very lonely one." 
 
 " Then sister will go with you, and papa can go alone." 
 
 "Will you not go with me if I ask it?" 
 
 " I would rather not, Willie. I prefer parting with my friends 
 at my own home. I did not go to town when Walter went 
 away." 
 
 "Eva, it is my special request, and my last. You need not go 
 to the railroad; I only ask you to ride with me to town. You 
 can stop at Uncle John's. Will you go ?" 
 
 She did not reply ; but went immediately to her room, and in 
 a few minutes returned ready for the ride^. 
 
 Willie was assisted into the carriage, pillows and cushions 
 were arranged to support him, Eva took her seat opposite, and 
 the order was given to drive on slowly. He could not move his 
 body, but his eyes turned with the windings of the road, and 
 lingered upon the Hall as long as roof or chimney was visible. 
 At last, when it was completely hidden from view, he said : 
 
 " Farewell, dear old Hall, for a little while, but only for a 
 
CAMERON HALL. 301 
 
 Tery little while I In three weeks I shall certainly see you 
 again." 
 
 "Not certainly, Willie, but only conditionally. You are not 
 to come unless we are free, and you are better." 
 
 " The first condition I shall certainly observe, for it would be 
 wrong to run any risk of that sort to enjoy the pleasure of seeing 
 anybody; but the second I beg leave to use my own discretion 
 about. Whether I am better or not, if it is' safe, and I am able 
 to get here at all, I shall certainly come. Shall I have the wel- 
 come that I would desire?" 
 
 "Yes, such a one as you cannot complain of, and it maybe, 
 along with it, a hearty scolding for coming at all, if you were im- 
 prudent in doing so. I do hope, however, that by that time you 
 will be not only able to come back, but also to take some exer- 
 cise. I want you to walk with me through the grove, and along 
 the brook. Even if it is winter, you will be able to form some 
 idea of my beautiful rambles when the trees are bright and 
 green, and the woods are full of wild flowers, and the waters 
 ripple along with such a sweet, refreshing sound. I love the 
 old Hall, Willie," she added, "and every spot around it!" 
 
 "And so do I, Eva," he answered, earnestly. 
 
 They were silent for some time, and then he said, suddenly : 
 
 "Eva, I specially regret the hurried manner in which I am 
 compelled to go away now. Mr. Derby has talked to me a great 
 deal, so has your sister, and I have thought a great deal since I 
 have been lying on my bed of pain. I have never been baptized. 
 I do not want to go back into the army without it, and I particu- 
 larly want Mr. Derby to do it, and have for some weeks intended 
 that he should, just as soon as I was able to go to town." 
 
 "Oh, Willie!" she answered, "I am so glad to hear you say 
 that. I can let you go a great deal more willingly now! Mr. 
 Derby will baptize you when you come back." 
 
 " Yes, Eva, and that shall be one great inducement to come in 
 spite of obstacles. Indeed, nothing shall prevent my return ex- 
 cept impossibilities. But it may be that I cannot get here. The 
 Federals may occupy the place in three weeks, or my condition 
 may be such as to render locomotion impossible." 
 
 " Then Mr. Derby will go to you, and he will do it with the 
 greatest pleasure. But, Willie, I always hope for the best, and 
 so must you. Let us both expect that you will come back al- 
 most well, and that on a clear, bright Sunday morning, our 
 hearts will be gladdened by seeing you baptized into the fold of 
 the church. Oh, Willie, sister will be so glad !" 
 
 "And she may well be, Eva," he replied, with feeling, "since 
 
 26 
 
302 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 she herself has had no little to do with it. It may be that I 
 owe to Cameron Hall, and to Mr. Derby, more than the life of 
 the body !" 
 
 They talked no more during the drive to town. It took them 
 a long time to get there, and when they stopped at Uncle John's 
 gate, Mr. Cameron and Julia, who had been waiting a long 
 while for them, said that there was no time to spare, and that 
 they must hurry to the depot. 
 
 " Good-by, Willie !" said Eva. " I must leave you now. Good- 
 byl God bless you !" 
 
 "God bless you, Eva!" he said, grasping her hand. " God 
 bless you, my more than friend I" 
 
 He held her hand firmly, and looked earnestly at her for a mo- 
 ment, and then she sprang out of the carriage, and, rushing into 
 the house, went into Uncle John's room and bolted the door. 
 The long pent-up feelings burst forth now, and there was no 
 need to restrain them. She did not know how long they had 
 been gone, but the railroad whistle, as the train moved off, 
 startled her, and she hastily bathed her face and brushed her 
 hair, and tried to remove all traces of her grief before the party 
 should return. 
 
 " I don't know how it is," she said to herself, " that it grieves 
 me so to give up my friends. Other people either do not feel it 
 so much, or have the power to control themselves. I wish," she 
 added, as she felt herself giving way again, " I wish from the 
 bottom of my heart that I never could make another friend while 
 I live ! I thought when Walter went away that it was the 
 greatest grief that I ever could have, and was truly thankful 
 that I had not another brother to give up, and now I am almost 
 as much distressed to part with Willie as I was with Walter I 
 No, I don't want to make any more friends ; it causes too much 
 pain to give them up 1" 
 
 When she reached home, she congratulated herself that she 
 had been able to keep back her tears. She did not know that 
 her swollen eyes, and flushed cheeks, and unwonted silence had 
 told the tale as plainly as tears or words could have done. Once 
 at home, however, she no longer tried to restrain herself. A 
 glance into Willie's room, as she passed the door, was enough, 
 and she hastened to her own room, and throwing herself upon 
 the bed, gave way to another burst of grief. 
 
 " Best to let her alone," thought Julia, as she checked herself 
 upon the threshold. " She will be soonest relieved by thus empty- 
 ing her heart. Mistaken child 1 This is no sister's love, no 
 sister's grief; she herself will before long discover the differ- 
 ence!" 
 
CAMERON HALL. 303 
 
 She went quietly away, and left Eva all day by herself. She 
 took advantage of the freedom thus aflforded her, and if tears 
 could have relieved her, she would have wept her grief all away 
 in a single day. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Willie had been gone a week, and the days and hours at the 
 Hall had seemed long and quiet, even to Julia, while to Eva they 
 had been almost intolerable. The expected raid of the enemy had 
 not taken place, and apprehension had almost died out, so that 
 there was not even the excitement of alarm to vary the monotony 
 of their life. There was no stirring news from the army : letters 
 from Walter and Willie, and their answers, were the only events, 
 if such they could be called, in the calm routine of their life. The 
 daily letter came from Willie, and the daily response was as duly 
 sent, and Eva had already found in one short week that it cost, 
 indeed, no effort to write to him, that it was rather the one 
 pleasure to which she looked forward all the rest of the day. 
 
 Julia saw the regular interchange of these letters with a sad 
 longing for a similar pleasure; for this constant and unrestrained 
 intercourse contrasted painfully with the starvation of her own 
 heart. Charles Beaufort had scrupulously obeyed her command. 
 Neither letter, word, message, nor reminder of any sort had ever 
 come to her. Many months had now passed away; his letters 
 to Uncle John were neither frequent nor long, and sometimes he 
 would forget for days to mention the reception of one, and then 
 would say, casually: 
 
 "By-the-way, girls, I forgot to tell you. I had a letter from 
 ♦ Charles some days ago, and, as usual, he spoke in the kindest 
 terms of the Hall, and desired to be remembered to Mr. Cameron 
 and the young ladies." 
 
 Occasionally there would be a special message to his young 
 friend, Eva, but to Julia, nothing. The only allusion to her 
 was in connection with her father and sister, as a member of 
 the same household. And this was all : such a passing recog- 
 nition of her existence as any stranger might have made ; such a 
 cold mention of her name as he might have made of that of any 
 other woman in the world ; such a message of respectful indiffer- 
 ence as chilled her to the heart, and made her wish that he 
 would never again even allude to her in Uncle John's letters. 
 And while she felt that it was her own decree, yet at times she 
 found herself indulging a momentary dissatisfaction with his 
 
304 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 strict obedience, and a conviction that if his heart had been 
 strongly and earnestly interested, he would have found it impossible 
 thus to restrain himself. Such feelings, however, were only for a 
 moment, for Julia was neither unreasonable nor capricious. She 
 had not acted from impulse at first. What she did, she had done de- 
 liberately, and because she believed that it would be best in the end 
 for both. She had been sincere and in earnest in her prohibition of 
 all intercourse, for while the fear of indifference or forgetfulness 
 cost her a bitter pang, yet under the circumstances she knew that 
 it would be best, and she really desired to avoid everything that 
 could make him cherish her memory. But while Julia was neither 
 capricious, unreasonable, nor insiiicere, she was yet a woman, 
 with a warm, loving heart, whose afifections, in spite of herself, 
 would respond to- that manly love which she felt had been sin- 
 cerely offered to her; and it is not to be wondered at if her heart 
 would sometimes cry out and rebel against the discipline which 
 she honestly believed was right and necessary. And so when- 
 ever she felt this momentary disappointment, this longing wish 
 that he would only once break through all restraint and send her 
 personally one message or one letter, she instantly checked the 
 rising feeling, and put down with an effort all such wrong, vain 
 desires. She had never yet asked Uncle John a question about 
 him. All that she knew of him, of his health, his employments, 
 and his plans, she learned either through Uncle John's voluntary 
 communications, or from his answers to the questions of her 
 father and Eva. For a long time Eva had questioned him very 
 closely about Dr. Charles's letters, but afterward her attention 
 was so much engrossed by Willie, that although she did not 
 altogether lose her interest in her former friend, yet her inquiries 
 were neither so frequent nor so minute, and Julia consequently 
 knew much less about him. So matters now stood, and no 
 wonder that Julia scarcely ev^ saw Eva break the seal of Willie's ' 
 regular letters without a sigh, and a wish that it had been right 
 for her to enjoy the same privilege. 
 
 It was now December, cold and bleak. Rambles in the woods, 
 musings along the bank of the quiet stream, horseback rides, 
 were all over now, and Eva, shut in from all these pleasures, tried 
 to find her accustomed refuge in the library. But books were no 
 longer the same companions that they had once been, and even 
 the most exciting romance failed now to fix her attention. The 
 moment that she took a book in her hand she began to think. 
 Next to Willie's own room, there was no place about the house 
 so intimately associated with the thought of him as was the 
 library. The sofa had been his accustomed place from the time 
 that he could leave his room, and the little chair beside it was 
 
CAMERON HALL. 305 
 
 tacitly surrendered to her as specially her own. If she went to 
 the bookcase for a book, she involuntarily took down one which 
 she had read to him, and when she opened it, some familiar pas- 
 sage, with his commentary upon it, would at once set her to 
 dreaming of the pleasant past. There was something in the 
 very aspect of the room that spoke to her heart of Willie ; and 
 while for that very reason she preferred staying there to any 
 other part of the house, still she was accustomed to say that 
 ^'she ought never to go into the library, it made her lazy, for 
 while she was there she never did anything but think." 
 
 The sisters were sitting there together one cold morning, be- 
 fore a blazing fire. Of late Julia had not read so much as for- 
 merly, her experience being the same as Eva's, that as soon as 
 she took a book she began to think. So she had busied herself 
 more than ever with the active duties of housekeeping. The 
 room was very quiet. Julia was sewing rapidly, Eva was sitting 
 with a book in her hand looking dreamily into the fire, and Carlo 
 was stretched on the rug at her feet. Mr. Cameron usually rode 
 into town in the morning, and brought the letters and papers 
 with him on his return. 
 
 Eva looked up at the clock, and yawning wearily, said : "Almost 
 twelve o'clock! I wonder what can keep papa so long this morn- 
 ing I I do wish that he would come along with my letter. I can- 
 not wait much longer." 
 
 " How long have you waited, Eva ?" 
 
 "A whole hour, sister. Papa is generally at home by eleven 
 o'clock." 
 
 " Does it seem so hard, Eva," said Julia, with a sad smile, **to 
 wait one hour for an expected letter ? Suppose that it should 
 not come at all." 
 
 " That is simply impossible." 
 
 " Not by any means, Eva. Many things might happen to pre- 
 vent its being written, or its safe arrival. Suppose now that 
 papa should come without it, what would you do ?" 
 
 " I suppose, sister, that I would be silly enough to cry, for that 
 is usually the first thing that I do when I am troubled. But, in- 
 deed, if I do not get my letter, I shall be not only disappointed, 
 but anxious too, for I know that Willie will not fail to write if it 
 is possible." 
 
 " Do you always expect a daily letter from Willie, Eva ?" 
 
 '* No ; not when he goes into service again, for Walter does 
 not write oftener than once a week ; but that is in the future. 
 For the present, I expect a letter every day ; and if I don't get 
 it I shall be disappointed, distressed, and provoked." 
 
 " How do you think that you would get along for weeks and 
 
 26* '' 
 
306 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 months without ever receiving a line from him, and without ever 
 hearing from him directly ?" 
 
 "Oh, sister!" she exclaimed, "what questions you do ask! 
 Indeed, I don't know how I should get along under such circum- 
 stances, for I don't, like you, try to decide what I should do in 
 impossible emergencies." 
 
 "Not so impossible after all, Eva! If the Federals should 
 occupy this place, you may possibly not hear from Walter or 
 Willie while they stay; and even if you do, the information 
 and the letters will be both unsatisfactory and received at long 
 intervals." 
 
 "Oh, sister!" she said, "you cannot be in earnest !" 
 
 " Indeed, I am. All communication between us and our army 
 will then be cut off." 
 
 " That would be the worst trouble of all ! Never to hear from 
 Walter or Willie ! Sister, how could we bear it ? what should 
 we do ?" 
 
 " We should try and submit to it as patiently and uncomplain- 
 ingly as we could, and accept it as one of the many great priva- 
 tions that the war entails upon us." 
 
 " You, perhaps, can do this, for you are naturally quiet and 
 patient; but for me it would be quite impossible. If I love any- 
 body, I love with my whole heart; and to be separated from my 
 friends, to know that they are always in danger, that they may 
 be at any moment suffering or even dying, and yet I cannot hear 
 it, and may not know it for weeks, perhaps months afterward, 
 — indeed, sister, I could not bear this long, it would soon kill 
 me." 
 
 " No, Eva, you would probably survive it, as many have done 
 and are doing now, whose hearts are just as warm and loving as 
 yours. I am afraid that bitter experience will teach us many 
 lessons during this war, which now it seems impossible to 
 learn." 
 
 "But you know, sister, that trouble affects people differently, 
 and some much more than others. You and I for instance 
 would be differently affected by the very same trouble. You 
 would bear it quietly, patiently, and as a matter of course, while 
 I would make myself sick crying." 
 
 " I might, and most probably would, take it quietly, Eva ; but 
 by no means as a matter of course. My experience and obser- 
 vation both teach me that quiet people suffer most, for the im- 
 pulsive relieve themselves by the very violence of their grief." 
 
 " That may be, but impulsive people have generally most ties 
 to break, and therefore are more frequently called upon to suffer. 
 They, much oftener than quiet persons, form warm friendships 
 
CAMERON HALL. 307 
 
 and ardent attachments on slender foundations. Look at us. I 
 learn to love strangers, if they are lovable, a great deal sooner 
 than you do. Here is Willie, who came to us a few months ago 
 a perfect stranger. In that short time I have learned to love 
 him almost like a brother, and it distressed me almost as much 
 to give him up as it did to give up Walter, while, on the con- 
 trary, you bore his departure with the utmost composure." 
 
 " I am very much attached to Willie," answered Julia, quietly. 
 " My love for him cannot be better described than to call it sis- 
 terly." 
 
 "And yet, you are not half so much grieved to give him up as 
 I am. It was the same case too with Dr. Beaufort, who was 
 essentially much more your friend than mine. I was truly dis- 
 tressed when I saw him go off to the army, but you did not seem 
 to mind it." 
 
 Julia's lip quivered ; but she sewed on, and made no reply. 
 Eva, who was still watching for her father, now saw him coming 
 in the gate, and springing up, she ran to meet him, sure of get- 
 ting the expected letter. 
 
 A few silent tears dropped on Julia's work, as she thought : 
 " 'Did not seem to mind it !' Ah, Eva, how little do you or any- 
 body else know how a quiet heart may suffer all alone ! Little 
 do you dream what a burden I have borne for weary months, and 
 expect to bear through a weary life !" 
 
 Eva now came bounding in with an open letter, long and 
 closely written, and sat down by the sofa in her little chair, the 
 place where she always read Willie's letters. 
 
 " Xo letter from Walter, daughter," Mr. Cameron said, in an- 
 swer to Julia's inquiring look. 
 
 " Is there any news in town, papa ?" 
 
 " Nothing of interest from the army. The town is full of 
 rumors again, and the community quite excited by the reported 
 approach of a Yankee raiding party. I could not, however, hear 
 anything that seemed reliable, and so it really made very little 
 impression upon me." 
 
 "Yes," said Julia, "we have been so often unnecessarily 
 alarmed, that these rumors now do not even create anxiety. But, 
 papa, what is the object of these raiding parties ?" 
 
 " It is, my daughter, to inflict as much injury as possible in a 
 little time ; to destroy public and private property, government 
 stores, and, in short, to do as much damage generally as they 
 can." 
 
 " But what would be the object of coming to so small a place 
 as Hopedale ? There are no government stores here, and but 
 very little public property." 
 
308 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " The railroad is used in government service, and has proved 
 very useful in transporting troops and army supplies. The 
 country around is very ferule and was careful ly cultivated this 
 year, and it is known that we have gathered in most abundant 
 harvests. You have no idea, Julia, how much food for man 
 and beast is stored away in the hundreds of barns in this county 
 alone." 
 
 " But, papa, surely they cannot intend to destroy food 1 our 
 subsistence, our life !" 
 
 "That, my daughter, is their principal object, to destroy as 
 mHch of what sustains life, and to reduce the rebels, as they call 
 us, as nearly to starvation as possible. If they come, they will 
 desolate the country like the locusts of Egypt. But while the 
 destruction of food and government property is their chief aim, 
 there are other things which they will be careful not to neglect. 
 Searching and pillaging houses, and sometimes even burning 
 them; insulting and terrifying women and children, forcing the 
 surrender of money and valuables by the irresistible argument of 
 a loaded pistol, — these are some of the pleasant anticipations con- 
 nected with a raiding party. Not a very agreeable picture, is it, 
 daughter ?" 
 
 "No, indeed, sir," answered Julia, thoughtfully. " If such are 
 to be the proceedings, how glad I am that we are not in town ! 
 Don't you think it would be better for Grace and Agnes to come 
 out to the Hall for protection ?" 
 
 " On the contrary, if I were only sure that these rumors were 
 true, I would immediately send you and Eva to town, for these 
 raiders are always more lawless and outrageous in the country 
 than they are in towns. The thought of you causes me far more 
 anxiety than everything else. I could give up furniture, carriage, 
 horses, even house and " 
 
 "Oh, papa!" she exclaimed, "not our horses! not Rebel and 
 Dixie I our beautiful horses !" 
 
 " Yes, my daughter, not only your beautiful riding horses to 
 which you are so much attached, but every valuable horse and 
 mule on the plantation will be taken away. Those that they do 
 not want themselves they will take off to the army. I am sorry, 
 my daughter, to have to tell you these things. I do not wish to 
 frighten you, but to prepare you." 
 
 " Yes, papa, I would rather know it now. I do not like to be 
 taken by surprise, for then I never know exactly how to act." 
 
 " The only way to act in all such cases, Julia, is to be perfectly 
 quiet, and to do or say nothing to exasperate. You cannot stop 
 the work of destruction, but you may perhaps aggravate it." 
 
 " It would be very hard, papa, to stand by and witness in si- 
 
CAMERON HALL. 309 
 
 lence the desolation of your home by Yankee ruffians. I doubt 
 very much whether I could do it." 
 
 " Yes, Julia, it is hard enough, perhaps almost impossible for 
 some natures ; but, believe me, it is the wisest plan. You could 
 do it, for you can control yourself, and you would do it if I 
 should request it for my sake, as well as your own. Remember, 
 my daughter," he added, seriously, "I tell you now, that if you 
 should ever be placed in these circumstances, you must be quiet; 
 otherwise, you might endanger your father as well as yourself." 
 
 " That, indeed, papa," she answered, earnestly, *' is argument 
 enough to enforce silence. You can trust me now." 
 
 " I know it, Julia ; but as to Eva, I could not trust her, for I 
 know that she would not hold her tongue." 
 
 " Hold my tongue when, papa ?" inquired Eva, looking up as 
 she folded her letter and gave it to her sister. " What are you 
 talking about ?" 
 
 Her father explained, and she said : 
 
 " No, indeed, I could never hold my tongue and see my home 
 sacked and plundered by brutal soldiers I I would have to speak 
 once, and tell them what I thought of them, at the risk of making 
 acquaintance with the bayonet." 
 
 ''And I shall see to it, Eva," replied her father, "that you are 
 never tempted. Whenever the time comes, I shall never leave the 
 house, and if it is searched, I myself will be master of cere- 
 monies." 
 
 "Papa," said Julia, "it must be much harder for a man than 
 for a woman to bear such things as these in silence. You have 
 been accustomed all your life to protect yourself and your house- 
 hold, and I believe that it would be impossible for you to submit 
 to such indignity, and see your house plundered before your eyes 
 without making an effort to defend it. And since any such 
 effort might result in something dreadful, suppose that you let me 
 take your place, and if the house should be searched, let me ac- 
 company them through it. I know that I could now see them 
 do anything without a word of complaint, for the thought of 
 endangering you would enable me to resist any temptation to 
 speak. Will you, papa ?" 
 
 " Not for the world, Julia 1 It is no woman's business, especi- 
 ally so young a one as you are. It is my duty to guard my 
 daughters if I cannot protect my property, and I shall at least 
 try to do so. And now, girls, remernJber, it ia^not only my re- 
 quest, but my positive command, that if a raiding party should 
 ever come to the Hall, you shall, both of you, keep out of sight, 
 and let me attend to them " 
 
 He left the room, and Eva exclaimed, impatiently ; 
 
310 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " No peace or quiet of our lives I Before we are quite settled 
 down from one alarm we are stirred up by another, and all for 
 nothing, too ! The Yankees have no idea of coming here ; they 
 have more important work elsewhere." 
 
 "I trust that you are right, Eva," answered her sister; "but 
 how is this ? I thought that the complaint all along had been 
 that our life was too monotonous and quiet ; and now, as soon as 
 ' the excitement comes, you begin to complain of that !" 
 
 " It is not excitement that I object to ; it is the particular 
 kind that I do not like. Nobody likes the excitement of fear. 
 I am sick and tired of this miserable war 1 It takes away all the 
 pleasure of life. Here Willie is writing so hopefully of his an- 
 ticipated visit in a fortnight, and before I finish reading the letter, 
 I hear of a Yankee raid, which will, of course, put an end to his 
 coming altogether." 
 
 "Which will," replied Julia, "probably be the least dreadful 
 result to be apprehended. If papa's statement of their general 
 mode of procedure be correct, the loss of Willie's visit, however 
 great a disappointment ordinarily, will now scarcely be thought 
 of. Eva, what will you do when you see a Y^'ankee mount Dixie 
 and ride off?" 
 
 " What !" she exclaimed, Jumping up, " who says that any of 
 them would dare do such a thing?" 
 
 " Dare, child !" repeated Julia. " In war, people dare to do any- 
 thing. But papa says that the stables will be among the first 
 places that they will visit, and that not only Rebel and Dixie, but 
 all the other horses there, and all the plantation mules and horses 
 besides, will be taken." 
 
 " Well, I solemnly declare that whatever you and papa do, I 
 will never stand by and see them take Dixie without speaking a 
 word upon the subject." 
 
 "Not after what papa said just now, Eva?" 
 
 "Yes, sister, even after what he said just now; for if I were to 
 see a Yankee thief mount Dixie, I could no more help talking 
 than I could help breathing." 
 
 " Then, Eva, I think papa will show his wisdom by shutting 
 you up where you can neither see, hear, nor talk. For myself, I 
 intend to do just what he says. Poor papa ! in a case like this 
 he would have enough to bear, and I would try very hard not to 
 add to his burden." 
 
 " Yery well, sister, you can do it, for you can control yourself, 
 but for me it would be simply impossible." 
 
 That night, when her father and Eva were asleep, Julia went 
 out and called Uncle Billy, the confidential servant of the Hall, 
 into the library. She told him of the various rumors, and asked 
 
CAMERON HALL. 311 
 
 him if there was no place about the plantation where he could 
 conceal the riding horses, at least for a few days. He thought 
 that there was, and she told him that as they did not know at what 
 moment the enemy might come, she thought it would be best at 
 once, in the quiet and darkness of the night, to secrete them as 
 best he could, and she urged him to tell nobody, not even her 
 father or herself, where they were. The old man went off to 
 obey, and then she put away, in what she supposed a safe place, 
 her mother's silver tea-service. Some other valuables she also 
 concealed, and then, late at night, she went to bed, but not to 
 sleep. Such employment was new to her, and there was an ex- 
 citement about it which effectually put sleep to flight, and she 
 thought all night of what she would do in an emergency, and 
 tried to calm her fears and look steadily and bravely at what was 
 probably before her. 
 
 The next morning, while they were at the breakfast-table, Mr. 
 Cameron received a note from one of his neighbors, requesting 
 him to come and see him on urgent business. As he mounted his 
 horse, he said : 
 
 " Before I return, girls, I will go to town and hear the morning 
 rumors. I will not be gone long, however, and," he added, with 
 a smile, " I hope to be able to report that this, like all the other 
 threatened invasions, has vanished into thin air." 
 
 He had been gone about an hour. Eva was in the library 
 writing to Willie, and Julia was busy with her morning duties, 
 when all at once Mammy Nancy burst into the room, the picture 
 of terror. 
 
 " Lord have mercy. Miss Julia I Run to the window and look 
 down the road at the soldiers 1 Who is they ? Is they Yankees ? 
 Whar is they gwine ? What is they gwine to do to us ?" 
 
 Julia sprang to the window, and her heart leaped into her 
 throat when she saw a squad of soldiers in Federal uniform 
 halted at the lawn gate. They stopped a few minutes, and seemed 
 to be talking earnestly, and pointing in several directions ; then a 
 party of ten rode into the lawn, and the others went up the road. 
 
 Julia rushed to the hall door, locked and barred it. Then 
 she ran to the library, and although she tried hard to be calm, 
 still Eva was greatly startled by the unnatural tone of voice which 
 pronounced her name. She turned quickly round, and seeing her 
 sister's pale face and agitated manner, she dropped her pen, ex- 
 claiming : 
 
 " For Heaven's sake I tell me, sister, what is the matter ?" 
 
 " Eva," she answered, hurriedly, and striving so hard to be 
 calm that she seemed almost stern, ** Eva, the Yankees are here 
 now, coming up to the house. Papa is gone, and we must see 
 
312 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 them. Promise me that you will strictly obey him and not speak 
 one word to them." 
 
 Poor Eva looked ready to faint, and did not answer. A vio- 
 lent jerk at the bell now announced the unwelcome arrival, and 
 at the same instant three horsemen passed the window on their 
 way to the kitchen. 
 
 "Promise me, Eva." 
 
 "I will try, sister." 
 
 -Another violent jerk of the bell, and a thundering knock at 
 the door, bade Julia hasten, and she ran and opened it herself. 
 A lieutenant was the spokesman. 
 
 "This is the residence of Mr. Henry Cameron, I believe." 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Is he at home ?" 
 
 "No, sir, there is no one at home except his two daughters, 
 myself and a younger sister." 
 
 "I am sorry to disturb you, especially since you are alone; but 
 I have been ordered to come here and search for arms, and a rebel 
 soldier who is or has been here within the past day or two." 
 
 Julia said nothing in reply about arms, for she knew that her 
 father had a very valuable pair of revolvers which he would be 
 most unwilling to lose, but she answered : 
 
 " I assure you, sir, that there is no Confederate soldier here, 
 nor has been within a day or two." 
 
 " Well, perhaps not so recently as that; but you have had one 
 here." 
 
 " Yes, sir, one who was wounded at Manassas ; but he left us 
 more than a week ago. A search for soldiers in this house would 
 not repay you for the trouble, for I assure you that you would 
 neither find them nor anything belonging to them." 
 
 "Nevertheless, I am ordered to search, and a soldier, you know, 
 must obey orders. Boys, two of you come with me into the 
 house, the rest of you guard it, so that no one escapes." 
 
 Julia felt somewhat relieved at the idea of looking for soldiers, 
 for she thought that this would not require a minute search, and 
 that they would soon be satisfied. She had not yet learned that 
 this was the common pretext on which every house was entered. 
 As her father was not there, she thought it her duty to go with 
 them, and, afraid to go alone, she summoned Mammy Nancy and 
 Eva to accompany her. Seizing Eva by the arm, she whispered, 
 hurriedly : 
 
 " Remember, now, not one word I" 
 
 They were soon satisfied in the parlor and library, but when 
 they came to the dining-room, the examination was more minute. 
 By this time Eva's fears were somewhat calmed, but her indigna- 
 
CAMERON HALL. 313' 
 
 tion was rapidly rising to fever-heat. As she saw some silver 
 spoons and forks find their way into the lieutenant's pocket, she 
 exclaimed, hastily : 
 
 " Those are not soldiers I I thought " 
 
 A pressure upon her arm, so tight as to be painful, admonished 
 her, and she stopped short. 
 
 The search proceeded, and presently they went up stairs. In 
 Mr. Cameron's room nothing escaped. Wardrobe, bureau-drawers, 
 private secretary, all were pulled to pieces, and their contents 
 thrown upon the floor in wild confusion. Julia looked on in 
 silent anxiety, fearing every moment that the pistols would be 
 found ; but they were not forthcoming. The next room that 
 they entered was Willie's, and Eva found it doubly hard to con- 
 trol herself here. 
 
 " This, ladies, I believe," said the lieutenant, walking in, " is 
 the room that was occupied by the rebel soldier. We must 
 make a thorough search here." 
 
 Eva's writing-desk, containing Willie's letters, was upon the 
 table, and while the others were busy with drawers and trunks, 
 the officer deliberately seated himself to the examination of the 
 desk. 
 
 Julia just succeeded in arresting the exclamation bursting from 
 Eva's lips. 
 
 "Where is the key of this desk, ladies?" he asked, as he tried 
 it, and found it locked. 
 
 " Give him the key, Eva," Julia whispered, " or he will break 
 it open." 
 
 " Let him do it, then !" replied the indignant Eva. 
 
 With a bland smile, the officer said : 
 
 " Don't trouble yourselves, ladies, about the key ; I do not 
 need it." 
 
 In an instant the lock was forced, and the desk was open. 
 
 " Lord help us !" exclaimed Mammy Nancy, " if he ain't done 
 broke the child's box open !" 
 
 Eva stood by with flashing eyes and trembling limbs, and feel- 
 ing that her heart would burst if she had to bear this much 
 longer in silence. Julia watched her with the greatest anxiety, 
 fearing every moment lest she should break through all restraint, 
 and satisfied, from the appearance and manner of the man in 
 whose power they were, that her father's apprehensions had not 
 been exaggerated, nor his warning unnecessary. 
 
 One by one, Willie's letters were taken out, and the superscrip- 
 tion and postmark examined; but they were not opened, and Eva 
 drew a sigh of relief as she saw them laid down upon the table. 
 As if to prolong her torture, the lieutenant now proceeded de- 
 
 27 
 
314 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 liberately to remove all the contents of the desk; and even the 
 blank paper, envelopes, and pens were subjected to a scrutinizing 
 gaze before they were laid aside. 
 
 " Rebel stamps I" he said, scornfully, as Re held them up. 
 " Pity that they could not JBnd a better face to put on them than 
 that of the archtraitor Jeff!" 
 
 There was no reply. One by one each cover of the various 
 little compartments was removed, and they were peered into with 
 an insulting curiosity that was absolutely intolerable. At last 
 he seemed satisfied, and began slowly to restore the contents to 
 the desk. 
 
 Eva could bear no more. She felt that she would die if she 
 did not speak, and so, resolutely shutting her eyes to her sister's 
 beseeching and warning face, she exclaimed, trembling with 
 passion : 
 
 "Surely, sir, you have not yet finished searching a lady's writ- 
 ing-desk for arms and soldiers ! There is still one litile com- 
 partment, about as large as your finger-nail, which you have not 
 opened. Do look into it; perhaps you will find there a rebel 
 lieutenant-general, two brigadiers, and a columbiad !" 
 
 The scorn and contempt which flashed from her eyes were be- 
 yond the power of words to expreiss, and Julia saw with an 
 agony of fear that they had aroused all the venom of their foe, 
 who replied: 
 
 " I am quite satisfied with my search of your writing-desk, 
 Miss; but since you advise me to examine further, I will look 
 into these letters. I scarcely expect to find in them either a 
 brigadier or a columbiad, but it may be that I will find treason :" 
 and he proceeded quietly to the perusal of Willie's long and 
 closely written pages. 
 
 The clatter of a horse's hoofs was now heard, a rapid, de- 
 termined stride was upon the stairs, and in another moment Mr. 
 Cameron was in the room. The insolent air of the officer, Julia's 
 anxious face, Eva's defiant expression, and Mammy Nancy's help- 
 less fright, were all comprehended at a glance. 
 
 Mr. Cameron felt that he was too much excited to trust him- 
 self to speak at all, and he stood for a few moments biting his 
 lips and glaring in silent rage upon the scene before him. For 
 once he felt that his daughters were a clog and fetter to him, for 
 once the kindly feelings of his nature were turned into gall and a 
 thirst for blood ; and as he stood there, the owner of the mansion, 
 the father of his young daughters, the protector of his dependents, 
 bound hand and foot, unable to lift a finger to defend them against 
 insult and outrage, he ground his teeth in impotent rage, and felt 
 that if those daughters were only out of the way, he would at any 
 
CAMERON HALL. . 315 
 
 and all hazards acquaint one Yankee marauder, at least, with the 
 lead of that revolver which his hand now instinctively grasped. 
 But even when most excited, Mr. Cameron's judgment was never 
 obscured by blind passion. He determined that he would not 
 speak until he had had time to collect his thoughts and control his 
 feelings, and a moment's reflection convinced him that, for the 
 sake of his helpless daughters, and to save them from something 
 worse than they had yet endured, he must curb and restrain 
 himself. 
 
 Presently he said, in a low voice : 
 
 " Come, my daughters, this is no place for you." 
 
 He took a hand of each and led them down stairs into the 
 library, and bade them lock themselves in. 
 
 "Papa," pleaded Eva, clinging to his arm, please to get my 
 letters away from that Yankee. Don't let him take them off 
 with him." 
 
 "Be quiet, Eva," said Mr. Cameron almost sternly; "be quiet, 
 my daughter !" 
 
 He saw the tears gather in her eyes, and stroking her hair, 
 added, kindly: " I will get them if I can, my daughter; but you 
 know that your father is powerless now." 
 
 So saying, he closed the door and returned up stairs to watch 
 the work of desolation. 
 
 There was no longer any need of restraint, and throwing her- 
 self upon the sofa, Eva's overcharged feelings burst forth in pas- 
 sionate tears. 
 
 " I am a woman," she sobbed, " and I cannot defend myself, 
 and-none but a sneaking coward would thus insult the defense- 
 less ; but if I had been a man, that Yankee would never have 
 reached the bottom of the first page of that letter without a bullet 
 through his head, even if every bayonet in this yard had pierced 
 my body the next minute !" 
 
 "Oh, Eva, Eva!" exclaimed Julia, "you must not talk so. 
 You are in a passion now, and don't know what you are saying. 
 Believe me, papa is right ; dignified silence is the only hope of 
 safety." 
 
 " Dignified silence, indeed I" she exclaimed, passionately, 
 "" when an insulting Yankee is reading, before my eyes, letters as 
 sacred as tlie thoughts and feelings of my own heart ! I cannot 
 keep silence ; I must talk ; and I should have bursted with rage ^ 
 just now, if I had not said what I did to him about that desk." 
 
 " No, you would not, Eva ; and the effort to restrain yourself, 
 however great, would have been amply repaid ; for if you had 
 not said anything, your letters would have been returned to the 
 writing-desk unread." 
 
316 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "Never, sister I Yankee curiosity could not have resisted 
 such an opportunity of pryiug into private affairs. No, he in- 
 tended from the first to read them, but he only wanted to torture 
 me a little more by awakening hopes of release, which he intended 
 to disappoint." 
 
 ''You are severe upon the Yankees, Eva," said Julia, with a 
 quiet smile at her sister's uncontrollable rage. " I never saw you 
 in such a passion before in all your life." 
 
 " I have had enough to provoke a " 
 
 She was interrupted by a piercing shriek, and the cry of " fire ! 
 fire 1" was taken up and repeated by terrified voices. Julia ran 
 to one window and Eva to another, and the latter> exclaimed : 
 " Oh, sister ! it is the barns. They have fired the barns !" 
 
 From the window where they stood, they watched the long, 
 black, curling smoke, that wound up from the roofs of the several 
 granaries where Mr. Cameron had stowed away the abundant 
 harvests of his fields. Presently a shaft of dark, lurid fire leaped 
 high into the air, and burst into a sheet of flame, which speedily 
 wrapped all the buildings in one grand conflagration. Mr. Cam- 
 eron stood upon the veranda, and with folded arms and a clouded 
 brow watched the rapid destruction, and groaned in spirit as 
 he thought of the numbers around him who were dependent upon 
 those barns for the food to sustain life. Crash after crash was 
 heard, as roofs, walls, and blazing rafters tumbled in, and blended 
 with charred and burning masses of corn, wheat, and rye, in one 
 smoking ruin. 
 
 "Now, boys, for the smoke-house !" was the next cry, and they 
 proceeded forthwith to that department. 
 
 "Bring a fire-brand, Jim I" shouted one of the soldiers to 
 another, who was lingering behind at the barns. 
 
 "No, boys," called out the lieutenant, "no more burning I 
 The smoke-house is too near the dwelling, and there is no use in 
 burning that now. Bring the meat out and throw it in a pile in 
 the yard, and then set fire to it." 
 
 The house was rapidly emptied, and the meat, which Mr. 
 Cameron had hoped would supply his plantation for two years, 
 was soon thrown in a pile and awaited the torch. 
 
 All a Southern negro's idea of comfort and abundance is em- 
 bodied in the smoke-house ; and while the servants hj^d stood by 
 in silent dismay, and watched the burning of the corn that was to 
 'make their bread, they could not see the meat consumed without 
 expostulation or remonstrance. 
 
 " Lord help us, Mister I" exclaimed Mammy Nancy, " 'taint 
 possible that you is gwine to burn up all that meat I what is we 
 gwine to live on ?" 
 
9 CAMERON HALL. 317 
 
 " That is none of my business, old lady !" was the reply. 
 
 " Well, what is the sense of burnin' it up ? It won't do you no 
 good if it's burnt up." 
 
 " No ; but then it can't do the rebels any good either." 
 
 " Well, Mister, for the Lord's sake, jest let me jerk up a piece 
 or two before you put that fire to it." 
 
 " If you want it for yourself, I have no objection ; but yoa 
 shan't save any for your master, as he calls himself. Remember, 
 old woman ! I am coming back here before long, and if I find 
 that you have saved it for him, I will put this bayonet right 
 through you." 
 
 As he said this, he touched her hand with the point of his 
 bayonet, and as she felt the cold steel, the old woman dropped her 
 meat and exclaimed, in a terrified voice: "Lord have mercy on 
 me ! Look here, Mister : what make you hate master so ? What's 
 he done ?" 
 
 " He is a rebel, old lady." 
 
 "A devil !" she exclaimed. " Now God knows that ain't so. 
 I've lived with him thirty years this comin' Christmas, and I ain't 
 never seed none of the devil about him yet. I tell you, sir, that's 
 the gospel truth." 
 
 "Hurrah, old lady," exclaimed the lieutenant, "I accept the 
 altered name, and thank you for it, too ! But I can tell you one 
 thing, that if the rebels are not devils, they have at least got the 
 devil in them, and we are going to take him out." 
 
 " Take care. Mister," she answered, squaring herself, and con- 
 scious of her superior wisdom ; "take care, then, for if the devil 
 is in 'em, and you are fightin' agin him, you'll be apt to have the 
 worst of it. I know something about him, I do. I've seed him, 
 and I've felt his power, too. Sure as you is born, sir, you is 
 fightin' agin mighty great odds, and if the Lord don't help you, 
 you is swamped !" 
 
 "But we expect Him to help us," he answered, laughing, "for 
 they say that He always helps the right ; but see here, old woman, 
 if you don't stop preaching and get some of that bacon out of that 
 pile, it will be so far gone, presently, that the devil himself could 
 not save it for you. I am going to throw this brand into it this 
 minute." 
 
 "Come here, Jim and Bob!" she shouted. "Run boys, run, 
 you lazy rascals I Pick up some of this meat and pitch it off • 
 into a pile thar, and for God's sake don't let all the bacon 
 burn up I" 
 
 The soldiers stood by laughing, and allowed her to take off 
 several pieces ; and as she and the boys started off to her cabia 
 with her rescued treasure, the officer called out : 
 
 2t* 
 
318 CAMERON HALL. , 
 
 " Remember, old woman, that is yours ; it is not for anybody 
 else." 
 
 " Yes, Master !" she answered, loudly, and then muttered to 
 herself: " Yes, it's this nigger's now, sure; and if it is, I'm gwine 
 to do what I please with it; and if my master and them two chil- 
 dren that I nursed, Julia and Eva, don't get some of it, then old 
 Nancy won't neither — that's so ! I always thought that Yankees 
 was folks before, but if they is, the devil is in 'em sure, instead 
 of bein' in master, as that fellow said; for nothin' else under 
 heaven but a Yankee or the devil would be fool enough to burn 
 up a smoke-house full of meat !" 
 
 The soldiers stood by and watched the burning meat, opening 
 it occasionally with their bayonets, so that the fire should reach 
 every piece ; and when they saw the whole one blazing mass, from 
 which none could be rescued, a voice said: "Now for the 
 stable, boys 1 There must be fine horses at such a place as 
 this !" 
 
 Eva was still standing at the library window looking out at the 
 scene, and although she could not hear the words, she saw the 
 direction in which they went, and exclaimed, in a voice of de- 
 spair : " There, now ! they are gone to the stables I I must go, 
 sister," she added, suddenly, and with energy, as she went to- 
 ward the door. " They shall not have Dixie !" 
 
 " Stop, Eva I" said Julia, catching her by the arm. " Stop 
 and listen. You must not, you need not go out of this room. 
 They will not find Dixie, or Rebel, or papa's riding horse either, 
 in the stables." 
 
 " What do you mean, sister ?" 
 
 " I mean that I have had them taken out and put somewhere 
 else." 
 
 " Oh ! what a thoughtful sister you are 1" exclaimed Eva, joy- 
 fully. '' "Where did you hide them ?" 
 
 " I don't know. I left that to Uncle Billy's discretion. He 
 took them away last night; but you must not say anything about 
 it, for if it should be known, it would get the old man into 
 trouble." 
 
 "Bless you, and bless Uncle Billy, too !" exclaimed the grate- 
 ful Eva. " I would rather that you should have saved Dixie than 
 anything that I own." 
 
 " He may not be saved yet, Eva, for the Yankees may find him 
 even now. You have seen that nothing escapes them. However, 
 Uncle Billy and I have done our best." 
 
 " Why didn't you tell him to hide them all, sister ? He might 
 as well have tried to save the carriage and buggy horses, loo." 
 
 " No, Eva, it would at once have created a suspicion, if the 
 
CAMERON HALL. 319 
 
 stables had been found empty, and besides, it would have been 
 impossible to hide so many. I knew that some were obliged to 
 go, and I only tried to save the three that we valued most. I 
 am very anxious about them yet, and shall never feel that they 
 are safe until the last Yankee has disappeared from Hopedale. 
 If I succeed in saving them this time, I am resolved that Rebel 
 shall never run any more risks of this sort. I shall send him to 
 the army." 
 
 "Oh, sister I give Rebel away ! I thought that you loved him 
 as much as you did any of the rest of us." 
 
 " Scarcely so much as that, Eva," she replied, with a smile, 
 " though I am warmly attached to him, and there are few things 
 at the Hall that I would not sooner give up ; but I would much 
 rather know that he was killed or worn out in the Confederate 
 service, than to see a Yankee mounted on him or leading him 
 away by a halter, as that one is doing the carriage horse now." 
 
 The work of desolation seemed now complete. The house 
 had been ransacked, the barns burned, the bacon destroyed, and 
 the horses stolen, but there were still minor injuries to be in- 
 flicted which could not be neglected. Every gun was discharged, 
 and its contents lodged in some unfortunate fowl that was walk- 
 ing in fancied security about the yard. Some of them were 
 carried off, but the greater portion were left where they fell, as 
 tokens of the wantonness of their destruction. 
 
 "Are these all the horses that Mr. Cameron has ?" inquired 
 the lieutenant of a negro boy, who stood with his hands in his 
 pockets, staring with open eyes and mouth, and wondering that 
 the master, whom he thought omnipotent, should quietly permit 
 these men to take the horses that he so much valued. 
 
 " No, sir. Master had three more beauties, heap prettier than 
 them, but this mornin', when Uncle Billy went to the stable, some- 
 body had done draw'd the staple, and all three was gone. Some- 
 body stole 'em last night. They was the young ladies' and mas- 
 ter's riding horses." 
 
 " Perhaps your master has hid them somewhere ?" 
 
 " No, sir, that he ain't 1 Master never hid nothin' in his life ; 
 and besides," he added, with a knowing look, " I'd like to see 
 anybody hide a horse on this 'ere plantation whar this nigger 
 couldn't find it. No, sir ; them horses ain't here ; them horses 
 is stole sure I" 
 
 There was such an air of positive assurance in the declaration, 
 that whatever doubts of its truth the Yankee might have had, he 
 was nevertheless satisfied that the boy himself believed what he 
 had said, and' seeing nothing more at present on which to exert 
 his destructive energies, he collected his men for their departure. 
 
320 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 As he passed Mr. Cameron, who was standing upon the porch, 
 the lieutenant bowed, and said : 
 
 " This is very disagreeable work, sir, I assure yon, but my 
 orders were imperative. I hope that you will say to the ladies 
 that I regret extremely the military necessity which compelled 
 me to intrude upon them," 
 
 Mr. Cameroii made no reply, and the party rode down the 
 lawn. He watched them until he saw them through the gate, 
 and then going into the library, said bitterly : 
 
 " Young ladies, the Federal lieutenant, your honorable visitor, 
 begs me to assure you of his extreme regret at 'the military ne- 
 cessity,' which compelled him to intrude upon your privacy, ran- 
 sack your house, destroy the meat and bread upon which you ex- 
 pected to live, burn your houses, and steal your horses I" 
 
 "Also," added Eva, impetuously, "to read private letters and 
 steal spoons and forks I Truly, it must require a great deal of 
 courage to be a Yankee soldier ! Enough to enable him undis- 
 mayed to frighten and insult helpless women and to pocket their 
 silver!" 
 
 "It is hard, very hard to bear!" muttered Mr. Cameron. "If 
 I had been here when they came, I should have been calmer, and 
 could have borne it better ; but to come in as I did, and find you 
 two girls at the mercy of that insolent ruffian, and see him en- 
 gaged in his insulting work, was almost more than I could bear. 
 It was just as much as I could do to keep my hand from my re- 
 volver." 
 
 "Speaking of your revolver, papa," said Julia, "I was very 
 anxious about it when they were in your room, for I was sure 
 that they would find it. They said that they came to search for 
 arms and soldiers." 
 
 "That was the pretext, Julia, and, interpreted, it means that 
 they came for pillage and plunder. There was, however, cause 
 to be anxious about the pistols, for they certainly would not have 
 left them if they had seen them. It is part of their policy to 
 take from us all means of defending ourselves." 
 
 "Where are they, papa?" asked Eva. 
 
 "Never mind. They were not so far oflf that I could not have 
 reached them when I was watching that fellow reading those 
 letters, and it required all my self-command to prevent me from 
 letting him know and feel their proximity. It is hard, very 
 hard," he added, drawing a deep, hard breath, "for a man, for a 
 father to bear this !" 
 
 " What became of my letters, papa ?" asked Eva. " Did the 
 gallant officer take them away ?" 
 
 " No, child, he did not want your letters, nor would he have 
 
CAMERON HALL. 321 
 
 read them through for any consideration. It was only the de- 
 sire to insult and torture you that made him subject himself to 
 that painful 'military necessity.'" 
 
 "Sister," said Eva, "I thought that I should faint when I saw 
 that bayonet prize open the press where the silver tea-service is 
 kept, and you don't know how relieved I felt to see the empty 
 shelf What has become of it?" 
 
 " That is my business, Eva," replied Julia. " I took care of 
 that and a few other things, last night, when everybody was 
 asleep." 
 
 "And it is to your forethought also, Julia," said her father, 
 " that we are indebted for the preservation of the riding horses, 
 if, indeed, they are preserved. I am greatly afraid, however, that 
 they will be found yet." 
 
 " Did Uncle Billy tell you where they are, papa?" 
 
 "He only informed me, with an air of great importance, this 
 morning, when I ordered my riding horse, that he, with the two 
 others, had been hid, according to Miss Julia's orders, and that 
 she had forbidden him to tell anybody, even his master, where 
 they were." 'All right, Billy !' I answered, ' so that you are just 
 as careful not to tell anybody else either.' He told me, also, evi- 
 dently quite pleased with his own sagacity, that he drew the staple 
 from the stable door last night, and this morning had shown it 
 as convincing proof that the horses had been stolen. ' But what 
 will you do, Billy, when you want to put them back ?' I asked. 
 'Never mind, master,' he answered. 'Let me alone for that. 
 I ain't fixed on no plan about that yit, but I'll find some way to 
 do it. You may be sure that if I could get 'em out without 
 anybody knowin' it, I can put 'em back too ; and if I could make 
 up one tale I can make up another.' I hope that the result will 
 allow me to be as much pleased with his sagacity in hiding horses 
 as he evidently is himself." 
 
 "Papa," said Eva, "what do you think? If Rebel escapes 
 the Yankees this time, sister intends to give him away !" 
 
 "Yes, sir," answered Julia, in reply to her father's inquiring 
 look. "I am going to send him to the army," 
 
 " To whom, Julia ?" 
 
 " I have not made up my mind yet. Walter, you know, can- 
 not use him." 
 
 "Send him to Dr. Charles, sister," said Eva. 
 ^ "You may do so, Eva, if you wish it, but I will not." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Simply because I do not wish to do so. I am perfectly will- 
 ing," she added, with a slight flush, " that he should have Rebel, 
 
322 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 and I will give him to you if jou will make the present in your 
 
 name," 
 
 " I will do it gladly enough ; but what a singular person you 
 are, sister ! If I had such a present as that to make, I am sure 
 that it should go in my own name." 
 
 "I feel otherwise," replied Julia, quietly, "and will only give 
 the horse to you to dispose of on condition that my name shall 
 not be mentioned at all in connection with him, and tliat Dr. 
 Beaufort shall not know that he ever belonged to me." 
 
 " I accept the conditions. And so I am to have the privilege 
 of making the present, am I ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Girls," said Mr. Cameron, "you must go up stairs and see 
 what is to be done. I am afraid that it will take days to get 
 everything in order again." 
 
 " Did they go into our rooms, papa ?" asked Eva. 
 
 *• They went everywhere, Eva, as you will find out presently. 
 Do you think that Willie would have been very secure in that 
 'safe' garret where you proposed to hide him from the scrutiny x)f 
 Yankee soldiers ?" 
 
 " No indeed, sir ! I did not know what Yankees were when I 
 proposed to do that. I had an idea then that they were civil- 
 ized." 
 
 " If you are brought into contact often with them during this 
 war, my daughter, I am afraid you will find that you have been 
 mistaken with regard to their character in many other respects. 
 From my heart I wish that I could find some secure retreat in 
 the Confederacy where I was sure that my two daughters should 
 never again see a Yankee face." ♦ 
 
 The sisters went up stairs, and Eva stood at the door of her 
 room and looked with dismay at the chaos out of which she was 
 to bring order. Wardrobe doors were open, bureau drawers 
 were sitting about on the floor, and their contents scattered in 
 wild confusion all over the room. 
 
 "The Yandals !" she exclaimed, indignantly. "How prepos- 
 terous to arm themselves with Enfield rifles to attack and rout a 
 woman's wardrobe ! An old flint-lock musket would have an- 
 swered as well for such work as this." 
 
 She rang the bell, and summoning assistance, she and Julia 
 and the servants worked hard all day, trying to restore order, and 
 when night came, after all their labor, they seemed scarcely to 
 have begun. After tea, Eva threw herself exhausted upon the 
 sofa, exclaiming : 
 
 " This has been the hardest day's work of my life. I >vould 
 
 I 
 
CAMERON HALL. 323 
 
 not object to the labor and fatigue if there had been any use in. 
 it, but to wear out one's energies and strength in doing what was 
 wholly unnecessary would try the patience of Job !" 
 
 The next morning, immediately after breakfast, they all went 
 to work again. Mr. Cameron and Julia were arranging the 
 papers which had been thrown out of his desk, and Eva was col- 
 lecting his scattered clothes. The sound of wheels attracted her 
 attention, and running to the window, she exclaimed : 
 
 " Why, who on earth can that be, coming in a buggy drawn by 
 that sorry-looking mule ? Some poor neighbor, I suspect, papa, 
 coming to 'the squire' for help and sympathy." 
 
 " The squire can give him a plenty of the last, my daughter, 
 but, alas ! not much of the first just now." 
 
 Eva watched the approaching buggy, and as it stopped at the 
 door, she burst into a hearty laugh, saying : 
 
 " It is Fncle John, I do declare ! I must run down and see 
 that splendid animal !" 
 
 " Where did you get your fine buggy horse, Uncle John ?" she 
 asked, as she met him in the hall. " I don't think that I ever saw 
 a finer display of ribs !" 
 
 "It is to this, my daughter, that I probably owe the privilege 
 of coming behind him to the Hall this morning. If those ribs 
 had been covered with a decent amount of flesh, he would have 
 been in the Yankee service to-day." 
 
 "I suppose from this. Uncle John, that they visited your stable 
 too." 
 
 " Not my stable only, but my whole house, to punish me doubt- 
 less for the offense of opening it to sick and wounded Confed- 
 erate soldiers. They did not find anything in the house to tempt 
 their cupidity, for you know that my furniture is plain; but it 
 makes me groan to go into the stable. Both my fine horses 
 gone !" 
 
 Mr. Cameron and Julia now joined them in the library, and 
 Uncle John said : 
 
 "I came out, sir, to see for myself what depredations had been 
 committed here. I heard the most exaggerated reports in town ; 
 and although I did not believe them, still they made me uneasy. 
 I heard, for one thing, that they had burned your barns with all 
 their contents." 
 
 " Which, I am sorry to say, Uncle John, is a lamentable truth. 
 If you will look through that window, you will see in everyplace, 
 where yesterday morning stood a well-filled barn, a heap of black- 
 ened ruins." 
 
 "Is it possible !" exclaimed Uncle John, going to the window 
 and looking mournfully upon the scene of desolation. "I did 
 
324 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 not believe that they were such Yandals. If they had wanted the 
 food themselves, I knew that they would take it ; but I did not 
 suppose that they would thus wantonly destroy it." 
 
 " Have they gone, Uncle John ?" asked Julia. 
 
 "Yes, they went away last night. The town is as quiet this 
 morning as if they had never been there." 
 
 "What damage did they do ?" asked Mr. Cameron. 
 
 " They rifled stores, stole horses, threatened some rebels, as 
 they call them, and frightened some women and children by 
 searching houses. They did not destroy any property, however, 
 not even the depot; but the rumor this morning is, that they have 
 torn up the railroad for fifteen miles." 
 
 " Did they annoy Grace ?" asked Julia. 
 
 "They stopped at the gate, and asked some questions of a 
 negro, who told them that the house was occupied by a blind 
 child and her mother, and that no rebel soldiers had stayed there, 
 and so they passed by. I did not think that it was safe for Grace 
 and Agnes to stay there alone last night, and insisted that they 
 should go to Mr. Derby's ; but I could not prevail upon the silly 
 child to go, for fear that if she left her organ the Yankees would 
 come and break it up. I could not convince her that they would 
 not take the trouble to destroy it ; neither could I persuade her 
 that if they wanted to do it, she could not protect it. She was 
 perfectly immovable ; and the upshot of it all was that I had to 
 yield, as I always do, and inasmuch as they ought not to stay 
 there alone, I had to stay myself- with them. Grace says that 
 Agnes was the most miserable child yesterday that she ever saw. 
 She would not play, and she started at the sound of every foot- 
 step, fearing lest it might be the Yankees coming to break her 
 organ. But this morning, since I have assured her that they are 
 gone, she is quite happy again, and I left her playing the first 
 joyful music since the battle of Manassas." 
 
 "Uncle John," said Eva, "did you say that the railroad had 
 been torn up ?" 
 
 "Yes, Eva, it is so reported." 
 
 " In which direction ?" 
 
 "South." 
 
 "Oh, then," she exclaimed, "Willie cannot come back I" 
 
 Uncle John could not help smiling, as he replied : 
 
 " That is a calamity certainly, Eva ; but there are even worse 
 ones than that resulting from the loss of that road. When did 
 Willie expect to return ?" 
 
 "In two weeks from this time, and he will be so disappointed I 
 Poor Willie ! I am sorry for him. He has had such a lonely, 
 wearisome time with that wound, that it seems indeed a pity that 
 
CAMERON HALL. 325 
 
 he should be deprived of any little pleasure which he is capable 
 of enjoying." 
 
 " He has had a long and painful time, I grant you, Eva ; but 
 I cannot agree with you in thinking that it has been either lonely 
 or wearisome. Did it seem to you, Julia," he asked, with a 
 twinkle in his eye, "thalt Willie was very much fatigued with the 
 monotonous life at the Hall ?" 
 
 "I thought," answered Julia, with a lurking smile, "that he 
 bore it with commendable fortitude." 
 
 "I used to think him a model of patience," answered Uncle 
 John, "when I saw him day after day in the same place on the 
 sofa, and Eva in the same place beside him, doing the same thing, 
 either reading or talking to him, sewing a button on for him, or 
 arranging flowers for him. I wondered then how he could bear 
 the monotony so well ; but I never heard him complain of it 
 once, — did you, Eva?" 
 
 "Now, Uncle John," she replied, "you might just as well stop 
 all that. You cannot tease me now, for you have done it so 
 long, that I am proof against it. You yourself brought Willie 
 here, and commended him specially to my care, and begged me 
 to help sister nurse him. I only did what you requested." 
 
 "And, of course, only because I requested it, Eva I" 
 
 "Yes, at first, but not afterward ; for when I learned to know 
 Willie I liked him for himself He has many interesting traits 
 of character, and these, together with my sympathy for his suffer- 
 ings, and my anxiety lest traveling in his condition should cause 
 him to suffer just as much again, have made me take almost as 
 much interest in him as I do in Walter." 
 
 "In whom, Eva?" 
 
 "In Walter, Uncle John." 
 
 "In Walter 1 Whew 1" exclaimed Uncle John, prolong- 
 ing the interjection most significantly and provokingly. 
 
 The crimson flush mounted in an instant to Eva's temples, and 
 the tears rushed to her eyes. She was now thoroughly annoyed 
 and displeased, and, getting up, she went to the window and stood 
 looking out upon the lawn. 
 
 "You have hurt her, Uncle John," whispered Julia. 
 
 "I did not mean to do it, indeed I did not," he answered, jump- 
 ing up and following her. He saw the tears in her eyes, and 
 putting his arm around her, asked forgiveness. 
 
 "I thought that I might venture to tease you just a little, my 
 daughter," he said, playing with one of her curls; "especially 
 since you have just told me that you were proof against it." 
 
 "About anything else, Uncle John, but please not about Willie. 
 Indeed," she said earnestly, and the tears came back, " I did not 
 
 28 
 
326 CAMERON HALL, 
 
 dream, Uncle John, that you would misunderstand me. I thought 
 that perhaps others might, but you never 1" 
 
 If Uncle John, like Julia, thought in his heart that she was 
 mistaken, he saw that she was at least sincere in believing that 
 her love for Willie was altogether sisterly; and so he accepted 
 her explanation, and only asked : 
 
 " Is Willie quite satisfied with this sisterly affection, Eva ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, he seemed so." 
 
 "Does he understand and believe it?" 
 
 " I should hope so, for he has heard it often enough, and 
 seemed quite willing to occupy Walter's position in the family." 
 
 " Doubtless, with certain members of it ; perhaps not with all." 
 
 "Well, Uncle John," she replied, with the flush still upon her 
 cheek, "have it your own way. Fortunately, I understand you 
 perfectly, and am accustomed to your teasing, and will try and 
 bear it^now philosophically, if by way of compensation you will 
 take this letter to town and mail it" 
 
 "Who is your favored correspondent, Eva?" 
 
 "Willie," she answered. 
 
 " Perhaps you can engage my services to mail it on one condi- 
 tion; and that is that I may be allowed to read the sisterly 
 document." 
 
 "It would not repay you for the trouble. Uncle John." 
 
 "That remains to be proved. Bring it here and let me read 
 a page, and see if I think that it is worth finishing." 
 
 "I am sure that you would not, sir. It is the most stupid let- 
 ter that I have sent him yet. I was so tired last night, that I 
 had not energy enough left even to abuse the Yankees. Indeed, 
 Uncle John, you would never have the patience to wade through it. " 
 
 "Well, I must say that it is very unkind in you to subject your 
 weak, invalid brother to an infliction that I, in strong, robust 
 health, could not bear. That is not sisterly, Eva, — do you think 
 so?" 
 
 "Uncle John, do let me alone !" she exclaimed. 
 
 "Julia, how often does she inflict these voluminous documents 
 on Willie ?" 
 
 " I believe, sir, that she sends him one every day." 
 
 "Every day! Worse and worse ! I declare, Eva, that is out- 
 rageous ! I know that you would treat your brother Walter more 
 judiciously than that, if he were in Willie's weak condition. 
 Willie is not strong enough yet for the daily repetition of such 
 an irksome task ; and if you are not careful, the exertion of read- 
 ing such frequent and such ' stupid ' letters, will produce fever, 
 and with no sister Eva to nurse him, I should tremble for the 
 result." 
 
CAMERON HALL 327 
 
 "Uncle John, you are perfectly absurd and proyoking this 
 morning !" she exclaimed, now thoroughly out of patience, and 
 as much annoyed by Julia's quiet smile, and the peculiar expres- 
 sion of her father's face, as she was by Uncle John's words. " If 
 it were anybody else, I should be really angry. This is the re- 
 sult of having spoiled you all my life. I have always submitted 
 good-naturedly to your teasing, and now you are going to abuse 
 the privilege." 
 
 "Which is always the lamentable result, my daughter," he 
 answered, laughing, " of injudicious indulgence, whether of an 
 unreasonable old man, or an unreasonable little child. But come, 
 let us be friends again. The spoiled old man cannot afford to 
 lose the good will of his indulgent young friend. Forgive me 
 this time, Eva, and I will promise never again to say a word 
 against any amount of sisterly affection that you may choose to 
 bestow upon your brother Willie." 
 
 "Agreed. And now will you mail my letter?" 
 
 "No, Eva," he said, "for, all teasing and jesting aside, your 
 letter cannot go to AVillie now. Didn't I tell you just no^ that 
 the railroad is torn up for fifteen miles?" 
 
 "And must we wait until it is repaired before we can even hear 
 from our friends ?" 
 
 "Yes ; either until the road is repaired, or some other arrange- 
 ment is made for transporting the mails." 
 
 " How long before the road will be repaired ?" 
 
 " That, my daughter, I cannot tell. As we are beyond the 
 Confederate lines, we will not of course do it ourselves, since we 
 could not use it; and unless the Yankees occupy the place and 
 put it in order for their own use, it will probably remain as it is 
 for a long time, perhaps during the war." 
 
 "And so we are shut up," she exclaimed, in dismay. " Shut 
 up alike from seeing our friends and from hearing from them. I 
 declare this is intolerable !" 
 
 " This is war, my daughter, and it brings in its train many 
 evils, so much more vexatious and annoying, that this seems as 
 nothing in comparison. I am going now, Eva," he said, taking 
 her hand. " Good-by ! I have teased and worried you too much 
 this, morning, I confess, but the temptation was irresistible. I 
 was obliged to do something to divert my thoughts from Yankee 
 depredations." 
 
 "Humbug! nonsense!" exclaimed Eva, as she and Julia re- 
 turned to the library after Uncle John had gone. "As if I couldn't 
 tell whether or not my love for Willie was sisterly I Don't you 
 believe that I could, sister?" 
 
 " I am very sure that I could, Eva," was the quiet reply. 
 
328 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "And so could anybody that would take the trouble to study 
 their own feelings, even if they were doubtful. As to mine, they 
 are too patent to everybody else, as well as to myself, to require 
 any study. Anybody who understands me, and knows how 
 readily I form attachments, and how ardent my feelings are, 
 could at once comprehend my love for Willie." 
 
 "You have a very good test, Eva, if you choose to apply it, by 
 which to judge your feelings. Walter is your brother, and just 
 about Willie's age, and you have only to compare your love for 
 the two plainly to understand the case." 
 
 Eva did not reply, but she thought: "I understand it already. 
 However, sister, I will try your test, just to satisfy myself that I 
 am right. The idea of two such children being lovers ! A pretty 
 pair we would make, with the combined age, wisdom, and expe- 
 rience of seventeen and twenty I The thought is absurd." 
 
 Eva had time enough during the next two weary weeks to 
 study her feelings, and, however strongly she resisted the convic- 
 tion, the truth gradually forced itself upon her that there was, 
 after all, a shade of difference in the love that she felt for the two, 
 a shade, however, which she accounted for in the difference of 
 their conditions, — Walter being in high health and spirits, and 
 needing neither tenderness nor sympathy, while Willie, an invalid 
 among strangers, needed both. No letters had come from either, 
 neither could she write any. She could not deny that the long- 
 ing to hear from Willie was the more painful. "But it is natural," 
 she argued, "that it should be so, for I am anxious about his 
 health." 
 
 The appointed three weeks had more than passed away. Every- 
 thing was quiet in Hopedale. There were no more rumors of 
 threatened raids, and everybody believed that all the mischief 
 that could be done had been accomplished, and that there was no 
 more reason to apprehend another visit from the enemy. Still, 
 Willie did not come, and Eva was restless and disturbed ; but she 
 thought that she succeeded in keeping it all to herself, assigning 
 as a reason for her unwonted concealment, that Uncle John and 
 sister did not understand her, and she was resolved hereafter to 
 avoid everything that could confirm their foohsh suspicions. 
 
 It was a bright December afternoon. The sun was pleasant, 
 and there was no keen, biting winter wind. Eva was tired of the 
 house ; tired of reading, of sewing, gf everything within doors. 
 The bright sunshine tempted her, and she rang the bell, intending 
 to order Dixie saddled, but before it was answered she changed 
 her mind, and when the servant came, she said : 
 
 "Lucy, bring my cloak, hat, and gloves." 
 
 They were brought, and in a few moments she was sauntering 
 
CAMERON HALL. 329 
 
 slowly down the lawn, with a very different gait from her usual 
 bounding step. She had no special reason for going to the 
 grove, whose leafless trees and carpet of dead, crisp leaves formed 
 a painful contrast to the refreshing shade and beauty of its sum- 
 mer dress; but she was restless, and wanted to go somewhere, or 
 do something, she cared not what, if she could only beguile her 
 thoughts a little while from the one absorbing subject. But her 
 thoughts went with her, and were busy with vain conjectures as 
 'to the cause of Willie's delay, and torturing fears lest he might 
 not come at all. One moment she almost hoped that he would 
 not attempt it, for she was afraid that the journey would injure 
 him ; the next, she thought of his recovery and return to the 
 army, cut off from all communication with her for months, per- 
 haps longer, and then she wanted him to come at any and all 
 hazards. Bewildered and oppressed, having beconae daily more 
 and more uncertain with regard to the nature of those feelings 
 of which she had not long ago been so confident, not able to de- 
 fine them to herself, and not knowing exactly how she felt or what 
 she wanted, she wandered on with a disturbed, anxious face, very 
 different from its accustomed sunshine. She went far into the 
 grove, still keeping the carriage-road, until she reached the old 
 walnut-tree, whose leafless limbs now stretched like long gaunt 
 arms over the road. The sight of the old tree, with its broad, 
 flat stone underneath, and the broken remnants of decayed shells 
 around, memorials of the happy nut-gatherings of other days, at 
 once recalled Walter. For an instant, even Willie was forgotten. 
 The innocent pleasures and the companion of her childhood rose 
 before her ; she remembered those happy days of careless mirth, 
 and contrasted them painfully with her present disquiet and un- 
 rest, and the thought flashed across her with a pang : 
 
 ''Will I, can I ever be a child again ? Is the burden now 
 upon my heart a sign, a pledge, that I can never more be the 
 careless, happy child that I was not long ago, with no more anx- 
 iety than the butterfly or the bird ? Ah, sister, it was no sacri- 
 fice for you to become a woman, for your very childhood was 
 womanly; but for me, I dread womanhood, with its cares and 
 responsibilities. I wish that I could always be the merry, light- 
 hearted child that I was when Willie first came to the Hall : at 
 least, I wish that the change could have been gradual; but I do 
 not know how or when it has come. I only know that a few 
 short months ago I was a child in heart and feeling ; now, I must 
 be a woman, for childhood surely never felt such anxiety as 
 mine I" 
 
 If she heard, she did not heed the crackling sound of the crisp 
 
 28* 
 
330 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 leaves as they were crushed beneath a horse's slow, deliberate 
 tread. The horseman looked with eager, scrutinizing gaze upon 
 the girlish figure that seemed strangely out of place seated upon 
 that cold stone, in a leafless grove, upon a winter's day. But he 
 felt that he could not be mistaken. He knew who it was, although 
 he did not see the face, and dismounting, slowly and with diffi- 
 culty, he walked quietly along until he stood behind Eva. 
 
 She was not given to thoughtful moods, much less to reverie. 
 These she had always considered the prerogative of womanhood, ' 
 and therefore something with which she had no concern ; but she 
 was now quite as deeply absorbed as her more thoughtful sister 
 had ever been. Willie waited in vain for a movement or a sign 
 of recognition. If he had been one of the trees around her, she 
 could not have seemed more unconscious of his presenoe ; and at 
 last, tired of waiting, he laid his hand gently upon her shoulder, 
 and said : 
 
 •'What are you thinking about, Eva ?" 
 
 She could not have been more startled if a visitant from the 
 other world had stood before her. She turned deadly pale, and 
 from the tumult of feelings, in which surprise and pleasure, doubt 
 and anxiety were all mingled, the excitable child found refuge, as 
 she generally did, in a good hearty cry. It was not altogether a 
 strange sight to Willie. Twice before he had seen her thus over- 
 come, but then she had been much distressed; and seeing her 
 here thus, alone at such a season, argued something unusual, and 
 he was afraid something distressing. He took his seat beside 
 her, and waited in silence until she should speak to him. She 
 cried on until she was relieved, and then, wiping her eyes, and 
 smiling brightly upon him, like the sunshine after a summer 
 shower, she welcomed him gladly to the Hall again. 
 
 But he was not satisfied thus to ignore her unexplained tears, 
 and so he said : 
 
 " Something troubles you, Eva ; what is it?" 
 
 With a smile and a blush, she answered, evasively : 
 
 " No, Willie, I am not necessarily in trouble because I cry. I 
 am only a silly child, whose tears are shallow, and always ready 
 to overflow. But come," she added, wishing to change the sub- 
 ject, " you look tired. You must not stay here, you must go at 
 once to the Hall, so mount your horse and ride on, and I will 
 follow as quickly as I can." 
 
 " Yes, Eva, I am tired, but I am not going to the house yet. 
 Sit down again," he added, drawing her gently back, "for you 
 are not going either. I am too glad to find you alone, and what- 
 ever may be the result, my suspense, at least, will be relieved be- 
 fore we leave this spot. You have told me more than once, Eva, 
 
CAMERON HALL. 331 
 
 that you regarded me as a brother, that Walter and I were side 
 by side in your heart. Once or twice a remonstrance trembled 
 upon my lips, but I checked it. Your words were positive ; they 
 could not be misunderstood, and I have no right to think either 
 that you were yourself deceived or mestnt to deceive me. I ac- 
 cepted the brother's place, at least I tried to do so ; but, Eva, it 
 would not do, and I have come back now to tell you that it does 
 not, it will not, it cannot satisfy me. Oh, Eva I recall that one 
 word, take back that sister's love. I would rather have none 
 than that. If you do not love me at all, perhaps my great love 
 for you will after awhile awaken a response ; but if you have al- 
 ready given me a^ sister's affection, I know that I can never have 
 any other. Speak to me, Eva; tell me something." 
 
 She looked as if she were about to resort to her usual relief of 
 tears, but she controlled herself, and a deep blush overspread her 
 face and neck as she answered, in a low voice : 
 
 "I was mistaken, Willie. I have found it out since you went 
 away. It is no sister's love that I have for you " 
 
 "Now, God bless you for that, my darling!" he said, as he 
 clasped her face in his hands and pressed a kiss upon her fore- 
 head. *' God bless you for that one word 1" 
 
 "Oh, Willie !" she exclaimed, blushing crimson, and releasing 
 herself from his grasp, "that would be dreadful if we were any- 
 thing but children." 
 
 "If this be one of the privileges of childhood, Eva," he an- 
 swered, smiling, "we shall always be children, and you must not 
 think me a very unreasonable one if I tell you that I am not yet 
 satisfied. I cannot be contented only to know that you are not 
 my sister ; I must also know when you will be my wife." 
 
 " You and papa and sister must settle that, Willie," she an- 
 swered, with her old merry laugh. " I know nothing about such 
 things. But I don't think that it will be very soon, for papa looks 
 upon me as nothing but a child, and I am sure that he will want 
 you to wait until I become a woman." 
 
 " We are both little more than children, Eva ; but that need 
 not separate us. We will only grow older and wiser all the bet- 
 ter, if we can do so together. Don't you think so ?" 
 
 "Yes, Willie, I agree with you; but I am afraid that papa 
 will think differently. Suppose that we agree to abide cheer- 
 fully by his decision, like obedient children; will you, Willie ?" 
 
 "Yes, Eva, I will try." 
 
 " Come now, you must go. You look tired enough to faint. 
 Kide as fast as you can, and go straight into the library. Your 
 sofa is ready for you, and my little chair is in the same old 
 place." 
 
332 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 *'I would much rather walk with yon, Eva; but that is out of 
 the question, for I am now so tired that I can scarcely stand." 
 
 " Well, then, get on your horse quickly, and be off." 
 
 As he, mounted slowly, and started off in a walk, she said, 
 laughing : 
 
 "If you go at that gait, Willie, you will find me seated in my 
 little chair when you get there." 
 
 " I cannot ride any faster, Eva," he said. " This has been my 
 gait all the way. The jolting is painful." 
 
 She had intended to run on before and announce his arrival ; 
 but when he said this, and she saw how exhausted he looked, and 
 how evidently he was suffering, she walked ajong quietly and 
 anxiously by his side, fearing lest, after all, he might not be able 
 to reach the house. It was with great relief that she saw him at 
 last in the lawn; and then darting forward, and skimming the 
 ground like a bird, she ran to the house, calling aloud : 
 
 " Oh, papa ! oh, sister ! Willie has come ! Willie has come !" 
 
 Thus summoned, Mr. Cameron and Julia hastened to the door, 
 where they stood several minutes waiting for him. Mr. Cameron 
 assisted him to dismount, and supported him into the library ; 
 where Eva had already wheeled the sofa near the fire, and brought 
 pillows and blankets to make him comfortable. She placed her 
 little chair beside him, and, seating herself, said : 
 
 "Now, Willie, you are at home again. This seems like old 
 times." 
 
 He took her hand, and answered, softly : 
 
 " Better than old times, Eva. I am not Walter now, and I am 
 happy ! You must all entertain me to-night," he said. "I am 
 too tired to talk, but just tired enough to listen." 
 
 That ni^ht, when Julia was almost ready for bed, Eva stole 
 softly into her room, and said, in a low voice : 
 
 " Sister, may I talk to you a little while ?" 
 
 "Yes, child," Julia answered, knowing well what was coming. 
 
 "I have found out something, sister," she said, blushing. "I 
 have found out that I don't love Willie as I do Walter." 
 
 "And I found that out long ago, Eva." 
 
 " Then why didn't you tell me so, sister ?" 
 
 "I intimated once, you recollect, that such a thing was possi- 
 ble ; but you repelled the thought so indignantly, that I could 
 do nothing but leave you to find it out for yourself, which I 
 knev^that sooner or later you must do. I have suspected for 
 several days past that the truth was beginning to dawn upon 
 you." 
 
 • " No, sister, the truth never dawned, it flashed upon me. I 
 only began to find out that Willie did not occupy Walter's place 
 
CAMERON HALL. 333 ' 
 
 in my heart. What he really was to me, I never knew until this 
 evening, when he asked me to be his wife, and my heart responded 
 so fully and unreservedly, that I knew it must be a wife's love 
 that I had for him; and so I promised." 
 
 "What does papa say, Eva?" 
 
 " I have not told him yet. Willie is to do that in the morn- 
 ing; but there is but one answer that he can give. There is, 
 there can be no objection against my Willie I" 
 
 "Happy, confiding child !" thought Julia. "May you never 
 awaken from your sweet dream of bliss I — Eva," she said, "do you 
 not think that this was a grave and important step to take with- 
 out consulting papa ?" 
 
 " It might have been with anybody else, sister ; but it could 
 not be with Willie. Papa will not, cannot object ; you will see 
 it." 
 
 " But just suppose that he should. What then ?" 
 
 " I never trouble myself about possibilities. I am very sure 
 that papa will think it all right. Willie and I belong to each 
 other now, and nobody can separate us." 
 
 "You certainly, Eva, would not marry him without papa's con- 
 sent I" 
 
 "1^0 — never, sister I Papa can, and if he sees fit he will, pre- 
 vent our being married, but I do not believe that he will ; but 
 neither papa nor any other human being could prevent our loving 
 each other.' We cannot ourselves control that now. I do not 
 expect papa to consent to our immediate marriage, and I have 
 told Willie so, and we have agreed to be obedient children and 
 await his time ; but of the final result we have neither of us any 
 doubt. If we live we shall go through life together." 
 
 "God grant you, Eva, the realization of your dream ! It is a 
 happiness which He sees best to deny to some hearts. Some, 
 as warm and loving, and as closely bound together as yours and 
 Willie's, He sometimes sunders by an insurmountable barrier." 
 
 "Such will not be our fate, I am sure," answered Eva, cheer- 
 fully. " Willie and I are going to be happy, very happy, sister, 
 and won't you be glad?" 
 
 "Very glad, my darling. Should God see best to make all 
 your life as bright and happy as it has been in your childhood's 
 home, none would rejoice more than your sister. But, Eva, you 
 must not certainly expect it to be so. God, like our earthly 
 father, finds it necessary sometimes to mingle chastening with 
 happiness; the cloud and the rain are as needful as the sunshine, 
 to perfect the flower." ^ 
 
 Eva kissed her sister, and with a light, buoyant heart went ofi^ 
 to her pleasant sleep and happy dreams; while the troubled Julia 
 
334 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 tossed and groaned through the live-long night, as she thought of 
 the happiness of her child-sister, and tried to gain her own con- 
 sent to cloud that sunshine, and to send a pang through that 
 young heart. It was the most painful struggle of her life. She 
 had unhesitatingly sacrificed her own happiness, but she could 
 not so readily blight her sister's. However, Julia was accus- 
 tomed to delay only until she was convinced of the right; and 
 when she arose in the morning from her sleepless bed, it was with 
 an unfaltering purpose to do what she conceived to be her duty. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 The next morning, Mr. Cameron received a message from 
 Willie, saying that he was not able to get up to breakfast, and 
 requesting him to come to his room at his earliest convenience. 
 
 With boyish frankness and simplicity he told his story, and 
 quietly awaited the response, whose purport, as Eva had told her 
 sister, his unsuspecting heart had never doubted. Mr. Cameron 
 was not so much surprised by his declaration as Willie had ex- 
 pected ; for his experienced eye, like Julia's, had seen it long 
 ago. He took Willie's hand cordially, as he replied : 
 
 " I have but one objection, my son. You are both altogether 
 too young. As to Eva, she is nothing but a child; Willie. You 
 know that as well as I do." 
 
 "It is true, sir," he answered modestly, "that we are both very 
 young and without experience. We have that yet to learn ; but 
 may we not do it as well together as apart ? I have heard some- 
 thing, too, Mr. Cameron, of an assimilating process being neces- 
 sary between newly-married people, and that during that process 
 there a"re many clashing feelings which produce an occasional jar, 
 or sometimes even a perpetual heartache. Now, might we not 
 be spared much of this, by beginning life together so young, and 
 having our characters and tempers moulded by the same circum- 
 stances and interests ; and would there not be sooner produced 
 that oneness which makes the happiness of married life, and 
 which is sometimes purchased, by people who marry later, at the 
 cost of many a pang?" 
 
 Mr. Cameron smiled, as he replied : 
 
 "Your 'argument is a strong one, Willie, and I have nothing 
 wherewith to refute it ; and so all that I can do is to see if there 
 
CAMERON HALL. 335 
 
 is another, specially belonging to the present case, which may 
 outweigh it. In other times and under other circumstances, I 
 should perhaps yield to your entreaty without resistance ; but 
 just now, you must yourself acknowledge that I have good grounds 
 for hesitating. Suppose now that I should give you your child- 
 wife, what would you do with her ? As soon as you are suffi- 
 ciently recovered, you will go back into the army, where I trust 
 and believe that you intend to stay, if your life is spared, until 
 this war is over. Meanwhile, what is to become of her ? You 
 will not be willing to leave her here, outside the lines, where you 
 cannot hear from her; and if you take her away, you take the 
 child from home, father, and sister, and, unable to take care of 
 her fourself, she is left to the care of strangers. Think of her, 
 Willie, among strangers. You yourself know how unhappy she 
 would be." 
 
 "I should never, Mr. Cameron, leave Eva among strangers. 
 She should never leave you without your consent ; and then I 
 should only take her from one home to another. She should go 
 to my home in Alabama, where she would find another father, 
 and I would give her, too, what unfortunately she has never 
 known, a mother." 
 
 He paused for an answer, but none came, and in a tone of un- 
 easiness he continued : 
 
 "I know that I am asking a great deal, Mr. Cameron, when I 
 ask you to give me that child, as you call her, the light of your 
 heart and of your home. My own great love for her, and the 
 painful consciousness that she is now indispensable to my happi- 
 ness, can enable me to know better than anybody else what it is 
 that I am asking of her father. All that I can do, sir, is to 
 assure you from the depths of an honest heart that her happiness 
 shall not suffer in the transfer. To make her happy, as happy as 
 she has been in her father's home, shall be the business of my 
 life, as to love her shall be its pleasure. " 
 
 *' I believe it, Willie. It is not a doubt of this that makes me 
 hesitate ; nor is it a selfish unwillingness to give her up. How- 
 ever dependent I may be upon her for happiness, I know that 
 I have no right to sacrifice hers to mine ; but yet as her father, 
 Willie, it is my duty to use my superior age and experience in 
 guarding it, and not, for fear of making two young people tem- 
 porarily uncomfortable, to jeopardize the happiness of both. I 
 am afraid, my son, that you will have to be satisfied at present 
 with the grant of only a portion of your request. I will promise 
 to give the child to you, but not just now. Let her father take 
 care of her until her husband can. Will that do ?" 
 
 "Thank you, sir, more than I can express," he answered, with 
 
336 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 his blue eyes full of tears. " It is more than I had a right to ex- 
 pect, though not quite all that I asked. She told me that she 
 did not thiuk you would consent to our immediate marriage, and 
 asked me to agree that we would, like obedient children, cheer- 
 fully await her father's time. I promised to do it, and I mean to 
 try, Mr. Cameron, however great the self-denial may be." 
 
 "God bless the child!" exclaimed Mr. Cameron, earnestly, 
 "that is just like her. Willie, she deserves all the happiness at 
 your hands that you can give her ; and if you will let her, she will 
 be your sunbeam as she has been mine. No man knows," he 
 added, thoughtfully and sadly, " no man can know what he is 
 doing, when he asks a father for a daughter, especially for such 
 as mine. God help my lonely old age, when I shall have given 
 them both up !" 
 
 There was a pause of a few moments, and then "Willie said : 
 
 "I trust, Mr. Cameron, that you do not think that in urging 
 our immediate marriage, I am thinking only of myself and my 
 own happiness. No, sir, I love her far too well for that ; but I 
 honestly believe that hers, as well as mine, would be most pro- 
 moted by it. We are married in heart and soul now, sir, just as 
 much as we will be when Mr. Derby shall have pronounced us 
 man and wife. We could not be more anxious about 'each other 
 then than we shall be now; the separation will be just as pain- 
 ful now as it could be after we were married : but if we actually 
 belonged to each other in the eyes of men as well as of God, there 
 would be a certain feeling of security, of possession, of safety 
 against accident or peradventure, that would go far toward sus- 
 taining both. We might not doubt each other; we might and 
 would have an abiding, implicit faith in the truthfulness and con- 
 stancy of each other ; and yet, sir, in the thought that Eva was my 
 own wife, that nothing but death could separate us, there would 
 be a supporting power which, it seems to me, that you, having 
 once been a young husband yourself, ought to understand and 
 appreciate." 
 
 "And so I do, my son. I both understand your feelings, 
 and sympathize with them, for I am not yet so old as to have 
 forgotten what it is to be young and ardent. But since I have 
 been both old and young, and have had the ardor of one tempered 
 by the experience of the other, I have the advantage over you. 
 You are perfectly honest and sincere in what you say, and you 
 really believe that, with Eva as your wife instead of your be- 
 trothed, you will not only be a happier, but likewise a more effi- 
 cient soldier. Is it not so ?" 
 
 "I don't only believe it, sir, I know it." 
 
 " Now listen to the voice of experience, Willie. So far from 
 
CAMERON HALL. 337 
 
 being a spur to your energies, she will only clog them ; so far 
 from nerving your arm, she will paralyze it." 
 
 ''Never, Mr. Cameron, never, sir!" exclaimed Willie. 
 
 " Hear me, my son. You have heard of responsibility; but as 
 yet you know nothing of it but the name. Now, the moment that 
 you marry Eva, you will assume a responsibility of whose weight 
 you little dream, and whose burden you can never more shake off. 
 It matters not that you still leave her with her father to be taken 
 care of; it matters not that you may be satisfied that he will do 
 it as well, perhaps better than you could yourself. You have 
 constituted yourself her protector ; you have virtually taken it oift 
 of her father's hands, and you will and must feel, as long as she 
 lives, that the responsibility of her happiness, of her protection, 
 rests upon you. Heretofore you have been free. Ties you had 
 at home, but no responsibilities, and your tlioughts and attention 
 were given to your duties as a soldier. Your heart was unbur- 
 dened ; and there is no such nerve to an arm as a light heart. 
 But hereafter you would be hampered and fettered. Anxiety for 
 your wife would cloud your judgment and dim your perceptions ; 
 and unless you were more of a man and a patriot than most, of 
 our sex, more governed by that conscientious motive which never 
 allows feeling to affect the performance of duty, you would find 
 your interest slacken and your energies fail." 
 
 Willie shook his head, and Mr. Cameron said, smiling : 
 
 "It is true, my sou, although you cannot see it. However, I 
 will not quarrel with you for not seeing things through my spec- 
 tacles, especially in the present case. You have agreed to yield 
 to my decision, and it would be unreasonable to ask more." 
 
 "I am afraid you will think that I am the unreasonable one, 
 Mr. Cameron, to have asked so much of you ; but boys, you know, 
 are proverbial for large demands, and impatient for immediate 
 gratification." 
 
 " Yes, my son, and men are soon taught, by the discipline of 
 life, that immediate gratification is the exception, and not the 
 rule; that desire and enjoyment are most frequently separated by 
 a wide interval of toil and anxiety. — But you plunged so suddenly 
 into your business when I came in, that you did not even give 
 me time to ask if you are better this morning." 
 
 "I am sure, sir, that I am no worse, though still exceedingly 
 tired. I thought that a little indulgence, this morning, might be 
 pardoned, and think that I already feel better for the rest. I 
 shall get up now, however, and go down stairs. Where is Eva? 
 I have not even heard her voice this morning, and that is un- 
 natural." 
 
 '' We are becoming s(Tmewhat accustomed to that now, Willie; 
 
 29 
 
338 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 though at first it seemed, indeed, most singular to see her moving 
 about the house almost as quietly as her sister; but she has done 
 it ever since you went away. I suspected from the first that you 
 had something to do with it, and I did not think it quite so much 
 a matter of course either, as she did, tliat your departure should 
 have so distressed her. When I came up stairs just now, she was 
 at the pit searching for flowers to deck your table this winter's 
 day. She has not forgotten that Willie loves flowers." 
 
 Julia shrank with an aching heart from the trial that was before 
 her ; but as soon as she had seen her father go up to Willie's 
 Toora, she called Eva away from the pit into the library. 
 
 **Sit down here, child," she said, "and listen to me. I have 
 something to say to you." 
 
 Eva saw the pain expressed in her sister's face, and cried out, 
 in alarm : 
 
 "Oh, sister! what is the matter? Is Willie worse?" 
 
 "No, Eva, Willie is better; but I have something to say to you 
 about him." 
 
 She paused a moment, for her lip quivered and her voice fal- 
 tered ; but presently she went on. 
 
 "Eva, you know that George has disgraced not only himself, 
 but father and sisters as well. You must remember that George 
 is your brother." 
 
 "Well, sister!" she replied, in astonishment and simplicity, 
 "what has that to do with Willie ?" 
 
 "Perhaps, child," said Julia, gently, "if Willie knew it, he 
 would not be willing to marry George's sister. You must tell 
 him, Eva." 
 
 The child was astonished. She sat a few moments, as if she 
 had been stunned; and then, hiding her face in her sister's lap, 
 she cried out in a voice of agony that went to Julia's very heart: 
 
 "Oh, sister, that is not my fault! I am not to blame for what 
 George has done. Why, oh why must it blight my happiness ?" 
 
 Julia tried to explain, what was so clear to herself, that the 
 family name must be affected by the conduct of every individual 
 member of it; but Eva could not understand it. All that she 
 could then know or feel was, that she and Willie miglit after all 
 be separated ; and when once that dreary thought took posses- 
 sion of her mind, and she fully realized it, Julia was obliged to 
 stop talking altogether, for her sobbing sister could neither hear 
 nor understand any more. After a long time, she sprang up sud- 
 denly, and exclaimed with energy: 
 
 " I don't believe that Willie will care about George at all ! He 
 is too just to blame me for George's conduct !" 
 
 "I trust so, darling," apswered her 'sister; "but Willie must 
 
CAMERON HALL. 339 
 
 know it, Eva. It would not be dealing fairly and honestly with 
 him to marry him without telling him. You will do it, won't 
 you ?" 
 
 "Oh no, sister!" she answered, shrinking. "I cannot tell 
 him. I am perfectly willing for him to know it, for I would not 
 deceive him; but I cannot tell him myself I cannot tell Willie," 
 she added, with a shudder, "that my name is disgraced. Oh no, 
 sister, anything but that I" ^ 
 
 Julia groaned involuntarily, as she looked at her, and answered : 
 
 " You can do it better than anybody else, Eva. Besides, it is 
 your duty." 
 
 "Oh, sister, please don't tell me that. I would rather do any- 
 thing else in the world !" 
 
 " Yes, Eva, I believe that you would. Duty is often very hard ; 
 and I admit that it is particularly so in this case. jNi evertheless, 
 you ought to do it, and the sooner the better." 
 
 This was about as much as Julia generally found it necessary 
 to say to her sister; so she kissed her now and went away, leav- 
 ing her to think about her duty, and make up her mind to its 
 performance. Eva sat a long time in a dreamy state, scarcely 
 conscious of anything except a leaden weight upon her heart; 
 and she was at last aroused by the sound of her father's step 
 coming down stairs, and, fearing lest Willie might be with him, 
 she hastily escaped to her own room. 
 
 When Willie came down into the library it was empty, but he 
 found that careful hands had provided for his comfort. The sofa 
 was near the fire, and the little chair was in its accustomed place 
 beside it. 
 
 As he glanced around the room, with its familiar furniture and 
 home-like aspect, he thought : 
 
 "How many happy hours I have spent here; and yet they are 
 all but a foretaste of the happiness that awaits me, with my sweet 
 child-wife 1 How can I be thankful enough for such a gift ! God 
 help me to show my gratitude for the blessing, by the care with 
 which I guard it I" 
 
 Eva did not come ; and at last, tired of waiting, he rang the 
 bell, and sent Lucy for her. 
 
 She soon came, with a sad face, and tear-stained cheeks, and 
 laggard step. 
 
 Willie was both amazed and distressed. 
 
 "Come here, Eva," he said, "and sit down in your little chair. 
 But first arrange my pillows. They are never comfortable until 
 you have had something to do with them." 
 
 She did as she was requested, and then seated herself in silence. 
 Willie drew her face down to kiss her, saying, with a smile ; 
 
340 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "You know that 'we are nothing but children.' Besides, papa 
 has just given you to me. You belong to me, now." 
 
 She drew back, and replied, with a burst of tears: 
 
 "No, Willie, not now." 
 
 "Eva," he exclaimed, anxiously, "what is the matter? What 
 does this — what can this mean ?" 
 
 As soon as she could speak, she told him, simply and in a few 
 words. When she had finished,#he said, taking her hand : 
 
 "Eva, you are not George ; neither are you responsible for his 
 conduct. He has done enough wrong already ; he must not and 
 shall not interfere with our happiness. You belong to me still." 
 
 She looked u,p at him with a bright, glad smile through her 
 tears. He kissed her, and said : 
 
 "You are mine, Eva, my own. Your father says so, and 
 neither George nor any other human being shall take you from 
 me. And now listen, we are neither of us ever to speak or think 
 of George again wliile we live. Do you hear ?" 
 
 " I am sure that I am very willing, Willie. The truth is, that 
 I should neither have thought nor spoken of him now, if sister 
 had not told me that it was my duty. She said that it would be 
 wrong to marry you under a deception." 
 
 "And so it would, Eva; but your sister did me injustice when 
 she thought that it could affect my feelings toward you." 
 
 " She did not say that it would, Willie, but only that perhaps 
 it might. Are you sure," she added, with a slight hesitation, and 
 with an expression of pain, " very sure, that you will love, will 
 respect me just as much as you did before ? For if not, Willie, 
 I cannot " 
 
 " Yes, you dear, little, silly child," he answered, laughing, and 
 pushing back her disordered curls from her face. "I am 'sure, 
 very sure, that I will love, will respect you just as much,' and, if 
 possible, a little more than I did before. Are you satisfied 
 now ?" 
 
 "Perfectly satisfied," she answered, with a sigh of relief, " and," 
 she added, with a smile, " perfectly happy, too, Willie. And now 
 tell me, what did papa say ?" 
 
 "Just what you said he would ; that our age was his only ob- 
 jection. He has given you to me, but I must wait a little while 
 to have you in possession. It will be hard to wait, Eva, will it 
 not ?" 
 
 " Yes, Willie, very hard for me. Sister could, if she were in 
 my place, wait so patiently that nobody would suspect that" she 
 ever wished it otherwise ; but I cannot. I shall be very miserable 
 when you are gone. It was hard enough," she added, with a 
 smile, "to give you up when you were only my brother; and, 
 
CAMERON HALL. 341 
 
 now that you are so much more, I don't know how I can do it 
 at all." 
 
 "And how do you think that I will bear to be separated from 
 you ? You can have no conception of the weariness of those 
 weeks that I have been away from you. For awhile your daily 
 letter kept me up, but when that ceased, it was intolerable in- 
 deed. And, besides, I did not feel then that I had any right 
 even to wish for you, for you did not belong to me, neither 
 had I reason to hope that you ever would ; but now that you 
 do, now that I have a better right to you than anybody else, 
 I do not know how I will bear it at all. As to going back to the 
 army, that seems, indeed, in the distant future, f thought that 
 when my wound began really to heal, and I could see it grow 
 better from week to week, that I should soon be myself again ; 
 but I am still strangely weak, much more so even than I imagined, 
 until I undertook to come here on horseback. Hard, active ser- 
 vice in the army, with employment for mind and body, might per- 
 haps render the separation tolerable ; but as this is impossible for 
 some time to come, and as it will not be prudent to stay here, I 
 would like to take you as my wife to my own home, and let you 
 take care of me until I shall be able to rejoin my regiment. How 
 would you like this, Eva ?" 
 
 "Yery much, Willie. Indeed, I would rather go anywhere 
 with you than to stay without you ; but it is not right for us to 
 be indulging any such idle wishes. Sister would think that we 
 were both unreasonable and ungrateful, and ought to be satisfied 
 with papa's permission to love each other now, and his promise 
 that we shall one day belong to each other." 
 
 "And your sister would be right, Eva," he answered. "It is 
 both unreasonable and ungrateful, and not only so, but it is incon- 
 sisteut with that life of Christian submission and obedience on ' 
 which I am about to enter. God helping me, Eva, I will do so 
 no more ; I will wait patiently for you." He was silent a little 
 while, and then said; "Eva, when may I see Mr. Derby? Can 
 you not send for him to come out this afternoon ? He must bap- 
 tize me to-morrow, if he thinks that I am fit." 
 
 " You will not be strong 'enough to go to town to-morrow, 
 Willie." 
 
 " Yes, if you will send me in the carriage. We must not delay 
 it, Eva. Remember how I was hurried off before." 
 
 " I will go and send for Mr. Derby at once, if you say so." 
 
 "Yes, if you please." 
 
 She went out and sent the messenger, and when she came back 
 and seated herself, Willie took her hand and said, seriously : 
 
 " I have been very lonely, as I told you, Eva, since I left you ; 
 
 29* 
 
342 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 but I have not been idle, and 1 trust that my time has been pro- 
 fitably spent. I have studied the prayer-book much, especially 
 the baptismal office, I like that word ' soldier' as it is used there. 
 It is full of meaning to one who knows from experience what the 
 soldier's life is. To do duty even when most disagreeable ; to 
 obey orders when you don't under.4and them ; to bear privation 
 without complaint, and toil with cheerful submission ; to shoulder 
 the musket and march when most you long to rest ; to watch 
 when you are most weary ; to fight when you are ready to faint; — 
 I think, Eva, that I have learned somewhat of my duty as Christ's 
 soldier by being a soldier to my country. But this is not all. 
 Hardship, privation, and toil only sweeten rest, and the soldier 
 who has fought is best prepared to mingle in the shout of victory. 
 I have thought many times of my glad exultation on the day of 
 Manassas, when I heard the cry of victory. How my heart 
 swelled and bounded and throbbed, even when I lay mangled and 
 bleeding upon the ground, and thought that my life was fast ebb- 
 ing away with my blood 1 And if an earthly soldier can feel 
 such exultation in one single victory that he has helped to win, 
 when perhaps he mast needs fight his battle right over again, what 
 must be the feelings of the Christian soldier, whose battles are all 
 fought, whose victories are all won, and who lays aside his sword 
 and his armor to enjoy forever the peace for which be has fought I 
 Yes, Eva," he added, thoughtfully, "I believe that I know now 
 what it means to be Christ's soldier !^^ After a slight pause, be 
 added : " Do you know, Eva, that I expect you to help me much 
 in the Christian life ?" 
 
 "Oh, no !" she said, shrinkingly, "don't expect that, Willie. 
 You will help me, but, indeed, I cannot help you. Sister 
 .could, but I cannot." 
 
 " Yes, Eva, you can, and you will. You will both encourage 
 and influence me for good." 
 
 "I will try my best, Willie; but you must not expect much 
 from me. Sometimes I am afraid that I am no Christian at all, 
 for I cannot be like sister, no matter how much I try." 
 
 "Of course you cannot, Eva, for (jod did not make you alike. 
 Your dispositions and temperaments are altogether different, and 
 these, religion cannot alter. Its moral principles are the same, 
 and it must control all characters, but it does not eradicate our 
 individual nature and make us all alike. St. Peter and St. John 
 were both Christian men, and surely no two ever lived who were 
 more entirely dissimilar. I think that there is quite as much in- 
 dividuality in the religion of people as there is in their faces, and 
 you must not think that because you are unlike your sister you 
 are therefore not so sincere a Christian." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 343 
 
 " Sincere I believe that I am, Willie, but that is all that I can 
 say for myself; but sister is the most conscientious person that I 
 ever saw. if she is once convinced that anything is right, and 
 is her duty, she never asks herself if she wants to do it, but she 
 goes quietly and steadily forward until it is done." 
 
 " I believe and am willing to acknowledge all that. I do not 
 wish to depreciate your sister, for I should be incapable of ad- 
 miring what is excellent, and also most ungrateful, if I did not 
 love and respect her. But what I insist upon is, that you shall 
 not depreciate yourself, and shall not think that you cannot be a 
 Christian because you are not like your sister. What is it in 
 yourself that you find fault with ?" 
 
 "My thoughtlessness and light-heartedness, Willie. Surely, if 
 I reaJized as I ought, what people call the responsibilities of life, 
 I would be less of a child and more of a woman. And yet, to tell 
 you the truth, I do not want to be a woman, nor do I want to feel 
 life's responsibilities. I want to put them off just as long as pos- 
 sible. I have never felt any more care or anxiety than the birds, 
 and I wish that I never could 1 I love childhood, with its free- 
 dom from care, its light heart, its sanshine, its happiness. Now 
 I am getting too old for this. I am approaching womanhood, — 
 indeed, since I have promised to be a wife I ought to have al- 
 ready become a woman, — and it must be unreasonable, and per- 
 haps unchristian for me still to cling so to childhood, still to dread 
 and to shrink from that burden which I know that I, as well as 
 others, must bear." 
 
 "It is not unreasonable, it is not unchristian, Eva," said 
 Willie, warmly. "While God gives you sunshine, enjoy it; 
 while He sees best not to burden you with care, do not seek to 
 burden yourself. Wait His time. Your Christian obedience 
 and submission will show themselves by accepting the burden and 
 the responsibility when His hand lays them upon you, and until 
 then, enjoy your freedom, and thank Him for it. And as to your 
 loving childhood and clinging to it, I wish that you always would. 
 Always keep the same childlike spirit and temper that you have 
 now, and especially preserve it in your religion. Let the religion 
 of your whole life be that of childhood, — trustful, loving, docile, 
 obedient, and it must be acceptable in the eyes of Him who has 
 Himself given a little child as the most beautiful exemplification 
 of Christian character." 
 
 " Good scriptural doctrine, Willie !" said Mr. Derby, coming in. 
 " You and Eva seem to preach to each other by turns, and I al- 
 ways happen to come in too late for anything but the conclusion. 
 I am glad to see you back again," he added, shaking his hand, 
 "but sorry to find you still on the sofa." 
 
344 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " Yes, sir, still here. I can bear it with tolerable fortitude ia 
 this place and in this company" (with a glance at Eva), " but any- 
 where else, I assure you, sir, that my slow recovery is a sore trial 
 of patience. But you must have come very rapidly, or else the 
 time has passed very pleasantly. It seems to me but a very short 
 time since Eva sent for you." 
 
 "And so it is. The messenger met me on the road, coming 
 not to see you, for I did not know that you were here, but to 
 look after my young parishioners. That one sitting beside you 
 there has been. sorely in need of pastoral care c^ late. In the 
 first place, she has been in trouble; and although as I did not 
 know the cause, I could not administer the comfort that she 
 specially needed, yet there are general promises and general 
 comforts, alike applicable to all cases, which the minister may 
 offer, and frequently with soothing effect. And not only has she 
 needed consolation of late, but reproof as well. She has been a 
 naughty girl, Willie, and has said some very hard things, and 
 made some very wrong wishes about the Yankee Vandals, as she 
 calls them." 
 
 '' That is true, Willie," she said. " I had not come to that 
 part of my confession ; but I had not forgotten it. I intended to 
 tell you all the wrong about myself, and I am afraid that when I 
 had finished you would agree with me that, whatever helpmate 
 I might be in other respects, in your religious life I would be 
 only a clog and a burden." 
 
 " Clog and burden you can never be, Eva I Do you know, Mr. 
 Derby, that this young parishioner of yours has been given to me, 
 and that I have built large hopes of improvement in temper and 
 character upon the influence and example of my wife ?" 
 
 "Oh, Willie I" she exclaimed, blushing to her temples, "you 
 must not talk so to Mr. Derby. He knows me too well. I never 
 feel so wicked as when somebody calls me a Christian, and I 
 never realize so painfully that I ought to be something besides 
 the child that I am, as when you remind me that I am to be your 
 wife. " 
 
 " Never mind, Eva, I am satisfied with you just as you are, 
 and that is sufl&cient ; is it not, Mr. Derby ?" 
 
 " Yes, Willie, if you are satisfied, nobody else has a right to 
 complain, and nobody will, until you take the child away, and 
 then there will be a general rebellion." 
 
 " I am afraid, sir, that you will not rebel for a long time. I 
 am not to take her yet. Her father says that I must wait." 
 
 "And he is right, my son. He can take care of her, while you 
 cannot." 
 
 " It is right, Mr. Derby, but it is hard. If I had her with me, 
 
CAMERON HALL. 34 
 
 my present exile from duty, from home, and from the Hall, would 
 be tolerable. As it is, it is almost martyrdom." 
 
 " Have you not met with kindness since you left us, Willie ?" 
 
 *' Kindness, sir 1 I have met with nothing else; but 1 want 
 society, her society. Perhaps I would have borne it better if I 
 had been farther from the Hall. You know that it is more 
 tolerable to have pleasures entirely beyond our reach, than to 
 have them almost within our grasp, and yet be unable to catch 
 them. Sometimes I used to feel sorry that I had ever seen 
 Cameron Hall." 
 
 "How do you feel about that now?" asked Mr. Derby, glanc- 
 ing at Eva. 
 
 " Thankful, sir, for the wound that nearly cost me my life ; 
 thankful for the accident that sent me to Hopedale ; and thankful 
 beyond all expression for my stay here. Eva and I expect to be 
 grateful for this as long as we live ; is it not so, Eva?" 
 
 " I am sure that I shall be, Willie, and I hope that you will be 
 also. I shall try very hard to be all that you expect ; but I am 
 afraid that you are risking much when you place your happiness 
 in my keeping. The truth is that I have everything to learn. I 
 have been myself taken care of all my life, and have never known 
 what it is to feel that anybody was dependent upon me for any- 
 thing." 
 
 ''And you are still to be taken care of, Eva, just as much as 
 ever ; and if you have, as you say, everything to learn, I know 
 that you will be an apt scholar. Mr. Derby, you must promise 
 now, to come and visit us, when peace comes and we have our 
 own home, and you shall see for yourself what a model wife your 
 parishioner will make." 
 
 "I hope by that time," she said, laughing, "to have taken 
 some lessons from sister in cooking, for at present I have about 
 as much idea of it as Walter. I must read you his letter, Willie, 
 giving his experience in that line, and let you see what splendid 
 cooks Cameron Hall can send out into the world, and what is in 
 store for you in future, while I shall be learning." 
 
 She then leaned over, and whispered : 
 
 " I will go now, and leave you to talk to Mr. Derby. When 
 you want me again, send for me." 
 
 As she closed the door, the minister said : 
 
 " Happy child I May her heart never know a cloud I No, 
 that is not the best wish for her either. May she only know such 
 as may prepare her for the unclouded sunshine of heaven !" 
 
 " I will try hard, sir," said Willie, " to make her happy." 
 
 "You must, my son. Should her life be dark, see to it that 
 you do not help to make it so." 
 
346 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "I will, Mr. Derby," he answered, earnestly. "It shall be my 
 business to share with her the burden of life. Do you know, sir," 
 he added, "that I shrink, just as much as she does, from the 
 thought of burden and responsibility being laid upon her? The 
 idea is unnatural. Of all the beings that I ever saw, she is most 
 associated with sunshine, and whenever I think of her, it is as if 
 a ray of light had suddenly shot across my heart. She was not 
 made to bear trouble and sorrow." 
 
 " That may be, Willie ; but you must yourself take hold of the 
 truth that you were urging upon her when I came in. God is 
 pledged to put no heavier burden upon her than she requires, 
 and than He will help her to bear; and until He sees best to do 
 it, you as well as she ought to rejoice in the brightness of her 
 young life, and anticipate for her nothing else. Let the future 
 alone ; God will take care of that." 
 
 In his conversation with Willie about his baptism, Mr. Derby 
 had nothing new either to hear or to advise. They had talked 
 long and often upon the subject, and he would not have hesitated 
 long before to administer the rite of which Willie was afraid that 
 he was unworthy. 
 
 "Eva," he said, " thinks that, in my present condition, it would 
 be right to be baptized here, and that you would not object to 
 it; but as it is possible for me to go to church, I prefer to do it." 
 
 " That is right. It seems a small matter ; but even in things 
 seemingly insignificant, I would prefer to follow the church's 
 guidance. The sacraments belong to God's house, and while 
 provision is made to administer them elsewhere, when need re- 
 quires, still, when it is practicable, the church is the proper 
 place. I will meet you there, if you say so, to-morrow morning 
 at eleven o'clock." 
 
 " Very well, sir. My conscience will be greatly relieved when 
 it is done, for I have had many sharp upbraidings since I went 
 away for having gone without it." 
 
 " I too have regretted it much, Willie ; and have been afraid 
 that perhaps I did not do my whole duty. I have sometimes 
 thought, that if I had been more faithful in teaching and urging, 
 you would have yielded long ago." 
 
 "A most unnecessary self-reproach, I assure you, sir. If yoa 
 had not done your duty so faithfully, the probability is that I 
 would not have seen mine at all. May God help me to be as 
 faithful in doing, as you have been in teaching !" 
 
 After a little while, Mr. Derby said : 
 
 "I suppose, Willie, that some of these days you will want me 
 to perform another service for you, — one in which Eva will not be 
 a witness, but a participator." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 3^7 
 
 "Yes, sir; and I wish that I thought it would be very soon." 
 
 " So do I, Willie, for your sakes. I will officiate next time all the 
 more cheerfully from having done so now. I can the more readily 
 give Eva into your keeping ; but I should not be willing to give 
 her to any but a Christian man. With her disposition, so loving, 
 so trusting, so yielding, the influence of any other might seriously 
 injure her Christian character." 
 
 "May I come in?" asked Eva, opening the door and putting 
 her head in. 
 
 "Yes, come," said Willie. "You need not have gone at first, 
 for Mr. Derby and I had nothing to say that you might not have 
 heard." 
 
 " Eva, where is Julia ?" asked the minister. 
 
 " She is making something nice for Willie's dinner, Mr. Derby. 
 I went out to help her just now, but I think that she could have 
 dispensed with my assistance. My thoughts were in the library, 
 instead of the pantry, and I broke too many eggs, and did not 
 weigh enough sugar, and made mistakes generally, until at last 
 she sent me away. Indeed, Willie, I am sorry for you; you 
 have chosen such a useless child." 
 
 "Don't waste your sympathy, Eva. I am satisfied." 
 
 " I suppose, children," said Mr. Derby, " that you are sur- 
 prised that I should have expressed no astonishment at what 
 you have told me." 
 
 " Yes, sir," replied Eva, " you take it very quietly ; just as if it 
 was nothing new." 
 
 "Nor is it, my daughter. I saw it three months ago." 
 
 " Oh, no, Mr. Derby, not so long ago as that 1 Even Willie 
 did not know it then I" 
 
 " That may be ; but, nevertheless, I saw plainly enough what 
 was coming. And as to yourself, Eva, you are altogether too 
 transparent for concealment." 
 
 " I have never tried it, Mr. Derby, because I had nothing that 
 I wanted to hide. I did not suspect the nature of my feelings 
 toward Willie ; perhaps if I had, I would have tried to conceal 
 them, as I shall do now." 
 
 "A most successful beginning you have made, Eva," replied 
 the minister, laughing. " Why, child, I saw how matters stood 
 the very instant that I came into the room." 
 
 " Of course you did, because I intended that you should ; but 
 I do not mean that all the world shall know that Willie and I are 
 going to be married. I will try to keep my secret, though I am 
 afraid that I cannot, for Uncle John always declared that to tell 
 me a secret was just like publishing it." 
 
 "And why try to make a secret of our engagement, Eva?" 
 
348 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 asked Willie. "If we were married, we would not object to its 
 being known ; why try to hide the fact that one day we intend to 
 be ? This mystery and secrecy about engagements were always 
 incomprehensible to me." 
 
 " It is only because that, under such circumstances, persons 
 are always talked about, and this is disagreeable, especially to a 
 lady." 
 
 " Well, Eva, it may be that you ladies have different notions 
 and feelings on this subject from our less shrinking sex ; but if 
 I know myself, I would have no objection for the whole world to 
 know this minute that I intended to marry you." 
 
 "To tell the truth, Willie," she answered, laughing, "I feel so 
 too; and yet I am afraid that this is not a proper feeling. I hope 
 that I am not unwomanly, above all, I trust that I am not want- 
 ing in maidenly reserve ; but yet I do not feel that I should be 
 distressed, or even greatly annoyed, if our engagement should be 
 known. Of course I do not expect to publish it, nor on the other 
 hand can I deny it." 
 
 "That is right, my daughter," said Mr. Derby, "and your 
 frankness and truthfulness are neither unwomanly nor unmaid- 
 enly." 
 
 The day passed oflf pleasantly ; and in the afternoon Uncle 
 John came. He announced his arrival, as he generally did, by 
 walking into the library, where he found the whole circle. He 
 looked troubled and anxious; but his eye brightened with pleas- 
 ure as he comprehended at a glance the happiness of the two 
 young hearts. Eva sprang up to meet him, and he whispered : 
 
 " So, your brother has come back, Eva 1" 
 
 "Not my brother now, Uncle John. Something more than 
 thatl" 
 
 "Oh, ho ! I thought so, my daughter." 
 
 He then congratulated Willie on his return to his sister. 
 
 Willie looked perplexed, and said he did not understand, and 
 Uncle John replied : 
 
 "You must know that this curly-headed damsel here, not three 
 weeks ago, was really fretted and worried " 
 
 "Now, Uncle John," interrupted Eva, "be careful — don't ex- 
 aggerate." 
 
 "I repeat," said Uncle John, "she was really fretted and wor- 
 ried, if not positively angry with me, for being in the slightest 
 degree incredulous, when she told me that she loved Willie with 
 a sister's love, the same in kind and almost in degree that she 
 felt for Walter." 
 
 " She was sincere, sir, for she told me the same ; and unfortu- 
 nately for my comfort, I was not so incredulous as you were. I 
 
CAMERON HALL. 349 
 
 am happy to find, however, that she was mistaken, for that sister's 
 love with which she promised to favor me has kept me very un- 
 happy since I left her, I always thous^ht that when a man offered 
 a woman his heart, with all its strong, deep feelings, and asked 
 hers in return, there could be no more refined cruelty than to 
 offer him, in place of what he asked, cold friendship or a sister's 
 love. He asked bread, and she gave him a stone !" 
 
 A pang shot through Julia's heart, as she thought : 
 
 "It was not what I felt, but it was what I offered in return for 
 a love as deep and fervent as was ever given a woman. It was 
 what I sent him away with, and what he has had to be contented 
 with ever since — if, indeed^ he has not finally succeeded in over- 
 coming a passion which seemingly met with so poor a requital." 
 
 "Well, Willie," said Uncle John, "I am glad that your affec- 
 tion has met with a more satisfactory return than the sister's 
 love which was at first offered. I am both glad and sorry to see 
 you children so happy." 
 
 "Why, Uncle John ?" exclaimed several voices. 
 
 "Because the pleasure must be short-lived. There is another 
 rumor in town of an approaching raiding-party ; and from what 
 I can hear, it seems reliable." 
 
 "I scarcely think it can be, sir," said Mr. Derby, "for there is 
 no temptation to visit us again in this vicinity. The neighboring 
 country is already pretty well devastated." 
 
 " The rumor may not be true," replied Uncle John ; "but so 
 we all thought before, and if I were in Willie's place, daylight 
 to-morrow morning would not find me here." 
 
 "Oh, Uncle John !" exclaimed Eva, "he cannot go. He has 
 not been able even to sit up to-day." 
 
 "Very well, my daughter, he must decide for himself." 
 
 "Of course, I must go, Eva," said Willie. "You would not 
 have me stay? Don't, Eva, please don't," he whispered, aa he 
 saw the storm coming ; " wait until to-morrow, when I shall be 
 gone." 
 
 " I must go away for a little while, Willie," she said, attempt- 
 ing to rise; "I will come back again presently." 
 
 "Xo," he answered, laying his hand upon her to detain her, 
 *' you must not go. You must stay by me as long as I am here, 
 and try and be your own bright self. Won't you ?" 
 
 "I will try," she answered, choking back her tears, and seating 
 herself again. 
 
 Uncle John was now kept busy answering questions, which 
 were rapidly asked by one and another ; but as is usual in such 
 cases, he had little satisfactory information to give. 
 
 "Uncle John," said Willie, "do you think that I ought to go 
 
 30 
 
350 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 away at once, or might I safely stay until morning ? If T c^onld, 
 I should like to do so very much, for I am still so tired froin my 
 journey, that I very much doubt if I could ride all night." 
 
 "I scarcely know what to advise, my son. Perhaps, as yon 
 have just come, and nobody knows that you are here, you mii-^ht 
 venture to stay until daylight; but I would certainly try and get 
 away by that time. How did you come ?" 
 
 "On horseback, sir." 
 
 " Well, it is very evident that you cannot go back that way. 
 "We must devise some other way for you to travel, and it must be 
 arranged at once ; we have no time to lose. If the Yankees had 
 not taken my horse, I would drive you myself in my buggy." 
 
 "Oh, Uncle John !" exclaimed Eva, "that would be the very 
 thing I I would be willing for him to go, if you would go along 
 to take care of him ; but, indeed, he is not able to ride on horse- 
 back. Put his horse that he rode to your buggy." 
 
 "And how would I get the buggy back, my daughter?" 
 
 "Uncle John," said Julia, "perhaps I could devise a plan." 
 
 "Which will doubtless be a good one," he answered. 
 
 "I have determined to send Rebel to the army. Now if any 
 way can be devised to send him from the place where Willie is 
 going, you might put him to your buggy, and Bob shall go along 
 on a mule, which you can drive back." 
 
 "That would do very well," answered Uncle John. 
 
 "But, sister," said Eva, "I want Willie to take Dixie away 
 with him. She will be useful to him when he i" able to exercise." 
 
 " Very well," said Julia, " that will be all the better, for we can 
 put both the horses to the barouche, which will be much more 
 comfortable for Willie than a buggy; and Bob will take two 
 mules instead of one, for Uncle John to drive home." 
 
 "And so, girls," said Uncle John, "you are going to part with 
 your riding horses ?" 
 
 '^es, sir," answered Julia. "I hope that they will both go 
 into the Confederate service." 
 
 " Who is to have Rebel ?" he asked. 
 
 "I have told Eva that she might give him away." 
 
 "I am going to send him to Dr. Beaufort, Uncle John. I 
 would give him to Willie, but I would rather that he should have 
 mine." 
 
 "Uncle John," said Julia, "do you think that you can devise 
 any way of sending him to the army?" 
 
 He thought a moment, and then said : 
 
 " I have positively a great mind to put him on the cars, and 
 run down to the army myself, and give him into Charles's own 
 hands. I would like to see him and Walter." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 351 
 
 "Oh, Uncle John, how I wish you would I" said Julia, earn- 
 
 Bstly. 
 
 " Do you, my daughter ?" he asked, looking at her. 
 
 She colored a little, as she answered ; 
 
 *'Yes, sir, very much." 
 
 *'Then," he said, "I will go." 
 
 "Indeed, sir," said Mr. Cameron, "it would be doing us a great 
 favor. It would be a comfort to me for you to see Walter, and 
 find out how the boy is getting on, and what he needs." 
 
 "And as to myself, Uncle John," said Willie, "I have no words 
 to express my gratitude for the plan which you and Miss Julia 
 have arranged, both for my physical comfort and for the pleasure 
 of your society. I had both a lonely and a painful ride when I 
 came here." 
 
 " You must have had, Willie, and I promise that you shall go 
 away much more comfortably than you came. And so we will 
 consider the arrangement made, and to-morrow morning we will 
 leave at daylight. Julia, can you give us a cup of coffee so early 
 as that?" 
 
 " Certainly, sir ; and not that only, but a nice breakfast besides. 
 Uncle John," she added, "will you do something for me ?" 
 
 "With a great deal of pleasure, my daughter." 
 
 " You and Willie have very little baggage. If I pack a box 
 of nice things, will you not take it to Walter, and — to Walter?" 
 
 " To Walter and to Dr. Charles, Uncle John," interposed Eva. 
 " If sister sends a box, I insist upon Dr. Charles having a part of 
 the contents." 
 
 "That must be as your sister pleases, Eva," replied Uncle 
 John. "I shall do just what she requests. What do you say, 
 Julia?" 
 
 "I would preft-Tit," she answered. 
 
 "Uncle John," said Eva, "you will please tell Dr. Charles, that 
 as I have given my horse to Willie, and he does not need an- 
 other, I would rather that he should have Rebel than anybody 
 else." 
 
 "A message, Eva," replied Uncle John, laughing, "more truth- 
 ful than agreeable. Perhaps your present might be more accept- 
 able, if you do not send word that you give it because somebody 
 else does not want it." 
 
 " Well, then, you can make the message to suit yourself; for I 
 am too much bewildered just now to do anything right. Sister, 
 you but where is she?" she asked, looking round. 
 
 " Gone," replied her father ; "she left the room a minute ago." 
 
 "Yes, Uncle John," said Eva, smiling even in her sadness, 
 "such a stir as there will be now in that kitchen I One will be 
 
352 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 beating biscuit, another parching coffee, another making bread, 
 another preparing a turkey to roast; and sister herself will be 
 stuflBng a ham. The Yankees kindly left us four turkeys and six 
 hams — and one of each will be sure to go. Presently she will be 
 calling for me to come and make some cake, and get some pickles 
 and preserves ready for packing." 
 
 "That is not probable," said Willie, "if you told the truth on 
 yourself this morning, Eva; for if you should spoil the cake as you 
 did then, and put the preserves into the pickle jars because your 
 thoughts were somewhere else, you would prove a hinderance in- 
 stead of a help." 
 
 "Uncle John," said Eva, "sister will work herself to death to- 
 night. She will cook until daylight, and will have things nice 
 enough and abundant enough for a prince. We have not a 
 great deal in the way of provision left at the Hall now ; but 
 Walter and the doctor will never know it if they judge from that 
 box." 
 
 "I don't doubt it, Eva. I know that she will send an abund- 
 ant supply, and I know, too, that she would be more than 
 repaid for her trouble if she could see the poor hungry fellows 
 make acquaintance with her dainties. That sight will be one 
 of the greatest pleasures of my visit to the army. But I must be 
 going." 
 
 "And so must I," said the minister. " I am very sorry, Willie, 
 to see you hurried off again in this way." 
 
 "Mr. Derby," he answered, " I cannot consent to go again un- 
 baptized. Will you do it to-night?" 
 
 " Certainly, my son, if you wish it. Of course, then, the service 
 must be at home." 
 
 ■ " No, sir. If it is possible, I would still prefer it at the 
 church. Do you think it would be practicable, Mr. Cameron ?" 
 
 " Practicable I certainly, Willie ; but it must be done very 
 quietly. I do not wish it to be known that you are here to- 
 night." 
 
 " It need not be known," replied Mr. Derby. " Let him come 
 to town after dark and drive to my house, and we will walk from 
 there to the church, and nobody need know anything about it." 
 
 "Very well," replied Mr. Cameron, "that will do." 
 
 "Uncle John," said Willie, "ask Agnes and her mother to 
 meet us at Mr. Derby's. I would like to have them present." 
 
 When they reached the door, Eva could not help laughing in 
 spite of her sorrow, as she exclaimed: 
 
 " There, Uncle John, I told yon so ! Don't you hear that 
 beating going on in the kitchen ? Those biscuits are being made 
 in a fit of enthusiasm, and poor Aunt Sally's arms will ache 
 
CAMERON HALL. • 353 
 
 when she is done. I wish that you could be behind the scenes 
 to hear sister encourage her to beat hard and make them 
 nice." 
 
 Her momentary cheerfulness was gone in an instant when she 
 saw Mr. Derby and Uncle John actually going, and was re- 
 minded of that other parting which awaited her on the morrow. 
 Uncle John saw the tears in her eyes, and said kindly, as he took 
 her hand : 
 
 "Cheer up, my daughter, and try to bear it for Willie's sake. 
 He needs all your help to enable him to keep up his spirits. His 
 trial, Eva, is a sorer one even than yours." 
 
 "I will try," she answered, as two tears fell upon his hand; 
 "but it is hard, Uncle John, very hard. You don't know how 
 hard it is. " 
 
 "Yes I do, my child. Uncle John knows all about it, — all 
 about it, Eva," he repeated, thoughtfully. 
 
 When they were gone, she returned to Willie, in the library. 
 
 "Here, Eva," he said, pointing to the little chair, "bring it 
 up close to the sofa and sit down. I have something to say to 
 you." 
 
 "Well, Willie," she said, after waityjg a minute or two for 
 him to begin. " I am ready. What is it that you want to 
 say ?" 
 
 " I am going to ask you to make me a promise. Our separa- 
 tion just now will be very hard to bear, harder for me in my 
 loneliness and weakness, than for you in your accustomed health 
 and at home ; but we have both promised to acquiesce in your 
 father's decision. Now, to acquiesce is not to yield repiningly 
 and complainingly to something against which we find it useless 
 to struggle ; it is to submit cheerfully, and this is now our duty. 
 I want you to promise that you will try hard to bear up and be 
 your bright cheerful self, and still your father's sunbeam, as he 
 told me, the other day, that you had always been. We must be 
 hopeful and thankful, Eva: thankful for the good Providence 
 that has permitted us to know and love each other, and hopeful 
 that the same goodness will watch over and preserve us for each 
 other. This is right, is it not?" 
 
 "Yes, Willie, it is right, but hard to do; but because it is 
 right, and you wish it, I will try." 
 
 "Another thing, Eva. You have promised to be my wife, and 
 a wife means a helpmate. Of course, I know nothing as yet of 
 a wife's influence, but I conceive it to be powerful, indeed almost 
 irresistible, upon a man for good or evil. At any rate, I am 
 persuaded that loving you as I do, you will always control my 
 
 30* 
 
354 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 actions in a great degree ; and I want yoa to control them in 
 the right direction and encourage me to do what is right. Now 
 your father urged, as an objection to our marriage at present, that 
 anxiety and distress at being separated from you would impair 
 my energies, and tempt me to neglect my duty; and so it would, 
 if I should leave you behind, unwilling for me to go, throwing 
 every obstacle in my way, and persuading me that my duty was 
 to you and not to my country. You are promised, Eva, to a 
 soldier; should this war last so long that our patience shall be 
 exhausted, and we cannot wait any longer, you will marry a sol- 
 dier, one who purposes, if he has health and strength, to stay in 
 the army until the war is over, and (I trust) the South is free. 
 Now, you must help me to be faithful to my duty. Distressed 
 you must and ought to be to give me up : I would not have you 
 otherwise ; but I would like to see my wife bear up under it like 
 a true woman, such a wife, such a woman as it would be a privi- 
 lege to fight for. Will you, darling?" 
 
 "I will try, Willie." 
 
 " One thing more. Whenever I shall be separated from you, 
 both now and when I am in the army again, always write me 
 cheerful letters. There ^ill be enough that is depressing around 
 me ; let the voice from home and from you dispel, instead of 
 deepening the cloud. Let me look forward to your letters as 
 the prisoner does to the sunlight, and let my soul drink in their 
 contents like a refreshing draught. Will you ?" 
 
 " I promise, Willie." 
 
 " Once more. This night, when I shall have made those solemn 
 vows, we will be bound together by a tie holier even than that 
 which shall make us husband and wife. You too, Eva, have 
 made those same vows. Let us see to it that we each help the 
 other to keep them. Then we can be sustained in all our separa- 
 tion by 'a reasonable, religious, and holy hope,' that our bond of 
 union will outlast this brief life, and," he added, thoughtfully and 
 sadly, "that if our Father should see best soon to sever our love 
 here, it will be renewed in that other home, where separation and 
 anxiety are alike unknown." 
 
 Eva fairly broke down now, and burying her face in her hands, 
 all her promises of restraint and self-control were swept away in 
 a moment. 
 
 Willie watched her in silent sorrow. He had rather thought 
 aloud than spoken, and his words had been involuntary, as he 
 remembered the thousand dangers to which he was daily ex- 
 posed. 
 
 After awhile she looked up, her lashes still wet with tears, and 
 said, in a low earnest voice : 
 
CAMERON HALL. 355 
 
 " Willie, if God should take you, I only pray that He will not 
 leave me. I cannot live without you now." 
 
 His own eyes were dim as he answered, fervently: 
 
 ** May God in his mercy spare us to each other !" 
 
 They sat in silence a long time. The shadows of the waning 
 winter day were deepening, and the cheerful blaze of the fire had 
 died out, leaving only the glowing coals to lighten the room. 
 Eva leaned her face upon her hand and gazed steadily into the 
 fire, as if she found there the object of her painful and anxious 
 thoughts; and Willie looked just as steadily at her face, from 
 which the careless happiness of childhood was all gone, and 
 where in its stead was plainly written the intense anxiety of the 
 woman. Willie was the first to speak. 
 
 " Forgive me, Eva, for what I said just now. I ought not to 
 have done it. God knows, that I never design by word or deed 
 to cast a shade upon your face or heart. Come," he added, 
 cheerfully, "dry those tears and brighten up now. I don't want 
 to remember you as sorrowful and tearful; and especially unwill- 
 ing am I to feel that I have caused it. Let me tell you of my 
 Southern home ; of the mother and the other father that will 
 welcome you there ; of the brothers and sisters that I will give 
 you; of the camelias and oleanders and cape-jasmines that 
 will grow for you without the shelter of hot-houses and pits ; of 
 the broad, white cotton-fields, that look like acres of snow in mid- 
 summer; and the magnolia-trees crowned with their magnificent 
 white flowers and glistening leaves." 
 
 Eva's elastic heart soon rebounded from its depression; and 
 she listened with interest and pleasure to Willie's animated de- 
 scription of his home. When he had finished, he said : 
 
 " We will be very happy there, my Eva; will we not?" 
 
 "Yes, Willie, very happy!" she answered, brightly. Then a 
 cloud overspread her face, and she added : " But home ! Father, 
 sister, Walter, Mammy Nancy 1 Oh, Willie ! how can I leave 
 my home ?" 
 
 " I will not ask you to give up your home, Eva. I only in- 
 tend that you shall have two homes instead of one. I will take 
 you to mine in the winter, and you shall bring me to yours in the 
 summer." 
 
 " That will be charming 1" she answered, gayly. "Yes, Willie, 
 we shall be very, very happy !" 
 
 And standing on the threshold of life, with the bow of promise 
 spanning all their future, those two young hearts, full of love and 
 hope, saw nothing before them but peace and happiness; and, 
 sheltered in the haven of their quiet home, they quite forgot the 
 fierce swellings and surgings of the storm of war without. 
 
356 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " Eva," said Willie, " I want you to give me something to take 
 away with me." 
 
 " YoQ are welcome to anything of mine. What will you 
 
 have ?" 
 
 " I want your picture, and I want this ringlet," taking up a 
 long, luxuriant curl. 
 
 ** I cannot give you the first, Willie; for there is no likeness of 
 me in existence, except a painful daguerreotype that you would 
 
 not have." 
 
 "I wish very much," he answered, "that I had a painted minia- 
 ture, and I will have it one of these days, if there is an artist in 
 the land capable of doing justice to your face. But a daguerre- 
 otye is better than nothing. Can you not have one taken 
 here ?" 
 
 " I will try, but I don't believe that I will succeed in getting a 
 likeness. I have attempted it frequently, and always failed." 
 
 " Well, try again, and don't forget it. Have one taken for 
 me as soon as I am gone, and I will try and devise some means 
 to get it. I must wait for that; but the ringlet I suppose I may 
 have at once." 
 
 " Yes, this very minute if you want it. Here are the scissors ; 
 help yourself." 
 
 Quite unconscious of the damage that he was doing, and in- 
 tent only on securing the treasure, Willie unhesitatingly severed 
 the beautiful curl, and was holding it up admiringly, when Julia 
 came in. 
 
 "Oh, Willie! oh, Eva!" she exclaimed. "What have you 
 
 done ?" 
 
 "What?" answered both, in the same breath. 
 
 " Why, child, you have cut off the richest, prettiest curl on 
 your bead, and just in the most conspicuous place, too ! You 
 have ruined yourself." 
 
 " Oh, Eva !" said Willie, in the most penitent tone, "how sorry 
 I am that I took it ! I would not have disfigured you for the 
 world. Let me see," he added, turning her full face round to 
 him. " Indeed, I do not miss it at all. You look just as pretty 
 without it." 
 
 " Perhaps she does with that view," said Julia; "but turn her 
 head the other way, and see if you do not miss it behind." 
 
 "There is a vacant space," said Willie, sorrowfully. "I am 
 very sorry. Indeed, I did not know that I was doing any mis- 
 chief. Can you not divide some of the others, Eva, so as to 
 make one for this empty place ?" 
 
 " Never mind, Willie," she answered, " don't disturb yourself 
 about it. You are welcome to my curl, and if it gives you any 
 
CAMERON HALL. 857 
 
 pleasure to have it, I would a great deal rather tnat it should be 
 in your hand than on my head, and I am sure that if I don't mind 
 losing it, nobody else need care. But you must let me put it up for 
 you. If you roll it up as you are about to do, when you open it 
 you will find, instead of a ringlet, a tangled, unsightly mass of 
 hair. " 
 
 She rolled it up smoothly into a flat curl, and secured it with 
 a narrow ribbon, and when she gave it to him he said ; 
 
 "It shall be my talisman in battle, Eva." 
 
 "Oh, Willie !" she answered, "how gladly would I give you 
 every curl upon my head for that purpose !" 
 
 Julia had thrown herself into a chair with a weary sigh ; and 
 Eva, now looking at her, said : 
 
 "You are tired, sister, and I have been so selfish that I did not 
 come to help you. I will do better next time." 
 
 " I did not want you, Eva. I should have been the selfish one 
 to have asked it under the circumstances. I have seen everything 
 begun now, and the servants can do the rest. After Willie is 
 asleep to-night, you will help me pack the box, will you not ?" 
 
 " Yes, sister, gladly enough. I will want something to do to 
 keep me from thinking." 
 
 "Children," said Mr. Cameron, coming in, "we ought to have 
 tea at once, and go to town as early as possible. With all the 
 expedition that we can use, it will be late before Willie gets 
 home and in bed, and he ought to have a good night's rest." 
 
 Julia hastened away in obedience to her father's suggestion. 
 Tea was Soon over, and by the time that it was fairly dark, they 
 were on their way to town. 
 
 It was a moonless, but a clear, starlight night, when the little 
 party quietly left Mr. Derby's house to walk to the church. Few 
 words were spoken, for the circumstances were calculated to sub- 
 due and to solemnize. The party separated, and went different 
 ways, unwilling that their destination and purpose should be 
 known. It seemed, indeed, like the olden primitive time, when 
 the early Christians, for fear of persecution, were compelled to 
 seek the cover of darkness for the performance of their most 
 solemn rites. Mr. Derby went a little before thje others, and 
 reached the gate first. He looked up and down the street, but 
 all was deserted and still. He then applied the key, and was 
 quickly within the yard, and then within the church. The others 
 followed, and were soon gathered within the sacred building. 
 The darkness and stillness were oppressive. Often, in other days 
 of peace and prosperity, had they, together with a large congre- 
 gation, been assembled at that same hour in that holy temple, 
 when the full blaze of light revealed the most delicate carving 
 
358 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 and tracery up to the very crown of the pointed roof; but never 
 before had they been there when the pall of thick, black darkness, 
 unrelieved by a single ray of light, had shrouded all its beauty in 
 impenetrable gloom. Mr. Cameron, Willie, and Eva had not 
 yet arrived, and the others, groping their way along, seated them- 
 selves in the first pew, and in silence awaited their coming. They 
 were only a little way behind, and yet so long and oppressive did 
 the minutes seem, that at last Mr. Derby went out to see if they 
 were coming, half afraid lest something might have happened to 
 detain them. To his great relief he met them at the door, which 
 he locked after they had entered. A few moments afterward, a feeble 
 light suddenly shone in the distance. It seemed a long way off, and 
 was almost swallowed up by the surrounding darkness, but still 
 it was sufficient to guide them to the font, around which the little 
 company now silently grouped themselves. A single wax taper 
 was their only light, audits flame, so delicate, yet shining so clear, 
 pure, and steady, in the midst of the gloom around, was not an 
 inappropriate emblem of that feeble but unmistakable light of a 
 single Christian life which onr Lord bids his followers "let shine" 
 upon this sinful and darkened world. 
 
 With uplifted face, full of solemn, earnest purpose, the young 
 soldier knelt to receive the baptismal stream. There upon his 
 bended knee he was signed and sealed, pledged to another war- 
 fare than that in which he was already engaged ; enrolled in an- 
 other than his country's service. 
 
 It was done; and Willie arose, henceforth to be " Christ's 
 faithful soldier and servant unto his life's end." 
 
 When it was all over, Uncle John, with one of those impul- 
 sive outbursts that sometimes belied his title to that old age which 
 he so constantly claimed, caught Willie in a tight embrace, and 
 said, in a low voice, trembling with emotion: 
 
 " God bless you, my boy ! God bless you I" 
 
 Mr. Cameron grasped his hand in silence ; Eva clung to him 
 with a suppressed sob ; and Julia, with her eyes full of tears, only 
 said : 
 
 " My Christian brother !" 
 
 That uight, when all the others were in bed, the two sisters 
 were busily engaged packing their box of provisions. Eva 
 worked away steadily and silently, occasionally wiping away a 
 tear, until at last she could restrain the flood no longer, and she 
 sat down upon the floor in helpless grief Julia said nothing as 
 usual, but worked on quietly. After awhile Eva said, between 
 her sobs : 
 
 "Oh, sister ! how will I, how can I bear it?" 
 
 "You can and you will bear it, my darling, after what you have 
 
CAMERON HALL. 359 
 
 seen this nigbt. Far more than you can conceive now, will the 
 recollection of this baptismal service sustain and comfort you 
 when Willie shall be again exposed to the dangers of war. 
 What would I— oh ! what would I not give," she added, forget- 
 ting herself, " for such comfort with regard to " 
 
 She checked herself, and Eva looked up and asked : 
 
 "To whom, sister?" 
 
 Julia did not answer ; and Eva, absorbed in her own sorrow 
 did not care sufficiently for a reply to repeat the question. Pres- 
 ently she said, in a plaintive voice : 
 
 " Oh ! how lonely and desolate, how troubled and anxious will 
 my life hereafter be until this dreadful war is over, and Willie and I 
 can be reunited, never more to be separated ! I almost envy you, 
 sister, with only Walter to be anxious about. May you never| 
 never know the heavy burden that has been laid so suddenly upon 
 my heart, and has changed me in a moment from the light-hearted 
 child to the care-burdened woman." 
 
 Julia only replied by a deep sigh. When they were separating 
 for the night, Eva kissed her sister, and said : 
 
 "How thankful I am to have so kind and good a sister to sym- 
 pathize with me in my trouble. Sister, I cannot bear this alone; 
 you will help me, won't you ?" 
 
 "I will do all that I can for you, my child, but God alone can 
 really help you." 
 
 Julia sighed again, as she remembered that, unlike Eva, she 
 had never even had the comfort of sympathy. 
 
 The sisters went to bed : Eva's young heart and body already 
 so wearied with her unaccustomed burden, that she fell asleep 
 immediately from exhaustion; while the elder sister, long used to 
 the struggle, laid awake for hours, indulging the painful train of 
 thought awakened by Eva's unconscious words. 
 
 " I too," she thought, "have longed for sympathy; have longed 
 for some heart into which I could pour my trouble. I have 
 thought that Eva was too childlike to understand me, but now 
 she can enter into all my feelings, now at last she can, as she 
 says herself, help me to bear it." 
 
 The thought was soothing, and for a little while she rested 
 calmly upon it; but then all at once came the dreary reflection: 
 
 "No, I cannot, either. I will not tell her that I have thought 
 it my duty under the circumstances to shut myself out from the 
 happiness which she is now enjoying in Willie's love. She is ac- 
 customed to confide in my judgment, and to follow my advice, 
 and perhaps might think that, as in other things, so also in this,' 
 she ought to do what her sister thinks right. 1 may be wrong- 
 others think so, though as yet I cannot see it ; but I will not do 
 
3u0 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 anything to thrust my morbid notions, as TJncle John calls them, 
 upon her. She has told Willie all. He is satisfied ; both are 
 happy, and I will not be the one to disturb their peace. No, I 
 cannot tell Eva even now. I must still bear my burden alone." 
 
 In the darkness and stillness of night, when we are shut out, as 
 it were, from all human companionship and sympathy, and alone 
 with our sorrow, it always seems heavier; and many circumstances 
 combined to make Julia feel to-night, more than ever before, that 
 her burden was intolerable. At last she exclaimed aloud: 
 
 "I cannot bear this any longer. I have borne it silently, and 
 alone, until heart and body are alike sick. Surely it can be doing 
 George no wrong to speak of the shame that he has chosen to 
 publish to the world ; and I feel that it is doing both Charles 
 and myself a gross wrong, thus to have sent him away with no 
 word of explanation. If ever I see him again, and he tells me 
 that his feelings are unchanged, I will tell him all. I will tell 
 him that it is not because I cannot, I do not love him, that I 
 sent him aw^ay; yes, I will tell him as he told me, that I love him 
 now, and will love him until I die I Perhaps he will be satisfied 
 then; at least I will. When he knows the truth, and the whole 
 truth, I shall be content." 
 
 At last she fell into an uneasy sleep, from which she was not long 
 after aroused by a vigorous shake from Mammy Xancy, who said: 
 
 "Get up, Miss Julia, get up! It's daylight; the chickens is 
 crowiu' now. Master Willie ought to be gone this minute, if he 
 don't want them Yankees to catch him; for people tell me that 
 they is mighty early risers, if thar's any mischief to be done." 
 
 Julia sprang up hastily, saying : 
 
 "Go, Mammy, quickly, and awaken Eva; and don't leave her 
 until she gets up, for if you do, she will certainly turn over and 
 go to sleep again." 
 
 "Not this time!" replied Mammy, laughing. " I'll jest tell 
 her that Master Willie is waitin' for her, and says she must come 
 quick, and I'll be bound she'll hop like a pea on a hot shovel!" 
 
 "Are the gentlemen up ?" inquired Julia. 
 
 "Bless your soul, child, long ago. As to old Master John, he 
 don't look like he's been to bed at all. He has been at the stable, 
 with Bob, for the last hour, looking at the harness, and makin' 
 Bob give one good breakfast to that old mass of ribs that he's 
 gwine to take along. I declar, Miss Julia, it's a disgrace to send 
 sich a lookin' cretur as that from the Hall. The people will 
 think that we's poor white folks, and ain't got corn enough to 
 feed a mule I Howsomever, they'll know better than that, when 
 they see them other horses. I'm glad that they's gwine along, 
 for the credit of the family I" 
 
CAMERON HALL. 361 
 
 In her zeal for the reputation of the Hall, Mammy had quite 
 forgotten Eva, until Julia reminded her, and besrged that she 
 would urge her to dress as quickly as possible. The old womaa 
 left the room, saying: 
 
 " I'll have her dressed and down stars, now, as quick as you." 
 
 The breakfast was a silent one ; the sorrow of the children, as 
 all the rest called them, clouding the other hearts. Uncle John 
 said : 
 
 '' Girls, have I neither letter nor message to take to Walter 
 and Charles? The boys will not be glad to see me, if I go 
 empty-handed," 
 
 " They will scarcely call you empty-handed," said Mr. Cam- 
 e^on, " when they see the inside of Julia's box. But I am sorry 
 that there is no letter for Walter. He will be disappointed." 
 
 "You must tell him, Uncle John," said Julia, "how sudden 
 and unexpected this whole thing was, and that, as we had not 
 time to do both, I thought that these substantial proofs that he 
 was remembered and cared for would be more acceptable than a 
 whole sheet full of empty words." 
 
 " You are right, Julia. A hungry soldier may well be ex- 
 cused, and may love his home and family none the less, because 
 he would rather eat a dozen home biscuits than to read a dozen 
 home pages without the biscuits. And what message for Charles, 
 Julia?" 
 
 " Xone," she answered. 
 
 "jS'ow, Julia, that it not like you; that is not kind. I really 
 think that his repeated allusions to his pleasant visits at the Hall, 
 and his hope to repeat them at some future day, might meet with 
 some recognition or response. Eva, are you too much taken up 
 with Willie to have a kind word for your old friend? He does 
 not often write without sending you a message." 
 
 "I like Dr. Charles just as much as ever," she answered. "If 
 I did not, I would not give Rebel to him. You may tell him. 
 Uncle John, how gladly I would welcome him back to the Hall, 
 and that I hope he will give me the pleasure of doing so before 
 long." 
 
 As they were returning to the library, after breakfast was over, 
 Eva caught Uncle John's arm, and whispered : 
 
 " You must tell Walter all about Willie ; and tell him that I 
 am no longer the child that he left at home, but just as happy 
 and just as miserable a woman as he could find in the Con- 
 federacy." 
 
 "Rather a contradiction in terms, I think, my daughter." 
 
 " Perhaps in terms. Uncle John, but not in reality. You under- 
 stand what I mean." 
 
 31 
 
3?2 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "Yes, Eva, perfectly." 
 
 The sun was just above the horizon, when the preparations for 
 departure were all complete. The barouche was at the door, 
 supplied with Uncle John's buffalo robe, and pillows and blankets 
 for Willie, who protested that he was no longer enough of an 
 invalid to need these things. Julia, however, insisted that they 
 should go along, and Willie, as usual, yielded. 
 
 " Let us bear it like Christians, my darling," whispered Willie, 
 as he strained Eva to his heart. " It will not be always so. 
 Some day we will meet to be separated no more." 
 
 Mr. Cameron now came into the library, to tell Willie that 
 everything was ready. He looked compassionately upon them, 
 and laying a hand on the head of each, said : 
 
 " Try to bear your separation, my children, and if I see that it 
 is too hard, I will not be unmerciful. I will not separate you." 
 
 "Thank you, sirl" answered Willie, gratefully. "We will not 
 abuse your kindness. We will, if you think best, try to wait sub- 
 missively. Will we not, Eva ?" 
 
 She did not answer, but clung to him, until her father gently 
 released her, and seating her upon the sofa, said : 
 
 "You must go now, my son." 
 
 Willie clasped her once more tightly to his heart, held her there 
 one moment, and was gone. 
 
 They were all now ready to go. Willie was in the barouche, 
 and Bob was mounted upon Willie's horse, leading the mule 
 which Mammy Nancy thought was so unfortunate an exponent 
 of the wealth of Cameron Hall. She went up to the carriage, 
 and said, with sincere sympathy : 
 
 " Good-by, Master Willie I God bless you ! Keep up your 
 spirits, and don't be down-hearted. I'll take good care of the 
 child till you come back." 
 
 " Thank you. Mammy," he answered, shaking her by the hand. 
 " If Eva is in your keeping, I know that she will be taken 
 care of" 
 
 Mammy wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, and as 
 she turned round, with her face and heart full of sympathy, her 
 eyes rested upon the unlucky mule. In an instant she forgot 
 everything except the fleshless bones, which were to her a source 
 half of mortification and half of mirth. The latter predominated 
 now, and she called out: 
 
 " I say, Bob, don't let nobody steal your fat mule ! Good-by, 
 Master John!" she said, extending her hand. "Don't give 
 that mule to none of them Secesh officers; and if any of 'em 
 wants to buy him, jest tell 'em that master is gwine to make a 
 Christmas present of him to Master Jeff Davis !" 
 
CAMERON HALL. 363 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 ^ Uncle John was standing in Walter's tent, with his hands in 
 his pockets, and an expression of unmingled satisfaction upon his 
 face, a quiet spectator of the eager scrambling, the exclamations 
 of delight, the smacking lips, and unequivocal relish of the con- 
 tents of Julia's box. Charles Beaufort was with him, a looker-on 
 rather than a participator in their enjoyment, and probably think- 
 ing rather of the giver than of the good things themselves. 
 
 "Pitch in, boys!" exclaimed Walter. "Pitch in, and help 
 yourselves, and pay for that memorable breakfast that I once 
 cooked for you." 
 
 . "You may well call it memorable, Cameron," answered Mat. 
 " I, for one, will never forget it. I thought that I was ' gone 
 up,' when I tasted that mouthful, and was sorry that I had not 
 time to make my will and leave you my last month's pay to buy 
 yeast and soda." 
 
 "This is rather better bread than yours, Cameron," said Nel- 
 son, diving deep into the box, and bringing out a splendid-look- 
 ing loaf, whose light-brown crust, just bursting, revealed the 
 SQOwy flakes of the interior. "By Jove! this is bread, sure 
 enough ! Hallo, Ben, stop there ! You are putting away that 
 stuffed ham a little too fast; and as to Tom there, if some of 
 you boys don't relieve him of that pickle-jar, the doctor will have 
 to try his skill upon him presently." 
 
 "Hallo, Squire Butternut!" shouted Walter, as he saw the old 
 man some distance off; "come here. It is thanksgiving day over 
 here, and we want you at the feast." 
 
 He was not reluctant to accept the invitation ; and as he re- 
 ceived, at Walter's hands, a tin plate piled with the good things, 
 he said, looking complacently at it : 
 
 " Well, this is what I call real good eatin' 1 My old woman, 
 whose cookin' can't be beat, couldn't do no better than this. I 
 see, my young friend, that there's somebody at your house that 
 knows how to cook, though you ain't the one, sure !" 
 
 So saying, he seated himself upon a camp-stool, and proceeded 
 to illustrate his approbation by attacking the food with as much 
 determination of purpose as he ever fired upon a Yankee. 
 
 "Jupiter Tonans!" exclaimed Xelson, with his mouth full of 
 stuffed ham, "this is food for the gods ! Who upon earth could 
 have seasoned it, Cameron ? I'll fight for that woman, whoever 
 she may be!" 
 
364 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " My sister Julia, I suspect," he replied. " She generally does 
 it ; and you are not the first man who has smacked his lips over 
 the stuffed haras of Cameron Hall." 
 
 " Would she look at a fellow, "Walter ?" he asked. " I must 
 try for a furlough, and go over. Any chance, Cameron, or has 
 somebody else been before me ?" 
 
 " I leave you to find that out for yourself, Nelson," he answered, 
 laughing. " The Hall is a hospitable house, where you will be 
 well received and well treated ; and whenever you are so dis- 
 posed, and can get that little piece of paper that a soldier always 
 wants and seldom gets, you can make your comments in person 
 to Miss Julia, upon the delicacy of her hams." 
 
 "And I," said Tom, with one hand full of yellow pickle, and 
 the other full of walnuts, and his mouth crammed with pickled 
 cherries, "I will go along, to give in my testimony that Miss 
 Cameron's pickles quite equal her stuffed ham, and that no other 
 woman in the Confederacy could make such." 
 
 "Look here, Tom," said Nelson, "are you skirmishing with 
 those pickles yet?" 
 
 "No skirmishing!" said Mat, pointing to the three jars, one 
 in front and one on each side of Tom, from which he was al- 
 ternately helping himself. " It is a regular charge upon the 
 center and both wiogs." 
 
 "And likely to be a successful one," quoth Butternut, wiping 
 his mouth upon his coat sleeve, and putting his empty plate 
 down upon the ground. 
 
 "Successful on the part of the pickles," said Nelson. "I 
 think that they will fairly lay him out before he is done. I say, 
 Tom," he added, with a sly wink at Mat, " if you eat too many 
 of those pickles, just apply to Cameron here, and he will give 
 you half a pound of soda to correct the acidity !" 
 
 And so they went on, laughing, and joking, and eating, as merry 
 and jovial as if there had been no war in the land, and they were 
 only on a pleasant excursion, learning, by way of variety, some- 
 thing of camp life. At last, when they were almost surfeited, 
 Walter exclaimed : 
 
 " Look here, boys ! we are not done yet. Here is something 
 else. Let us see what is in this bundle." 
 
 He removed the wrapping and found two boxes of choice 
 Havanas. 
 
 " Hurrah I hurrah I" they all shouted ; " this is the best of all I 
 Miss Cameron forever 1 long life, health, and happiness to Miss 
 Cameron I" 
 
 " Not so fast, boys," said Walter. " I am afraid that you are 
 not indebted to Miss Cameron for these. She does not approve 
 of youths, like myself, smoking." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 365 
 
 " Nevertheless, she certainly enconraged it in this instance, 
 Walter," said Uncle John, now coming forward. " She sent 
 those cigars herself. She says that you soldiers have so few 
 luxuries and so many hardships, that she could not resist the 
 temptation." 
 
 " Here, fellows!" said "Walter, opening one box, "help your- 
 selves." 
 
 They needed no urging ; and while the box was passing 
 round, Walter was about to break open the other, when he ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " Hallo, doctor ! Excuse me. I did not see your name. This 
 is for you." 
 
 Charles took the box, and saw his name upon the lid in a deli- 
 cate female hand. He opened it, and retaining the cover, passed 
 the cigars around. 
 
 The match was quickly lighted, and in a moment the slender, 
 blue smoke was curling over each head, and they were enjoying a 
 luxury to which they were now altogether unaccustomed. 
 
 Only one cigar in the company remained unlighted, and old 
 Butternut held his tightly in one hand, while he fidgeted rest- 
 lessly, and dived into the various pockets of pantaloons, coat, and 
 overcoat. At length, with a grunt of satisfaction, he drew out an 
 old cob pipe with a short reed stem. 
 
 "I say, squire," said Nelson, winking at the others, "did you 
 get your Meerschaum from Vienna ?" 
 
 " What's that you say ?" he asked, knocking the cob against 
 the leg of his stool, to get rid of a few remaining ashes." 
 
 "Your Meerschaum !" repeated Nelson. 
 
 " What sort of a varmint is that ?" asked Butternut, gravely, 
 putting the stem into his mouth and blowing it vigorously. 
 
 Nelson forgot to pursue his joke, in his wonder and horror at 
 seeing the old man deliberately break up the cigar and fill his 
 pipe with the crumbs. 
 
 " The abominable old heathen 1" he muttered. " To give you 
 a choice Havana is worse than throwing pearls to swine." 
 
 He glared savagely at him, and if the order had been given 
 that minute to charge bayonets, old Butternut's patriotic colored 
 suit would scarcely have saved him from Nelson's wrath. 
 
 The feast was ended, and the labors of hours had all been, 
 swept away as in a moment, before the ravenous appetites of 
 hungry soldiers. 
 
 " Soon over !" thought Uncle John, as he looked upon the rem- 
 nants scattered around ; " and yet could Julia have seen what I 
 have, she would feel compensated for her trouble." 
 
 He and Charles now walked away to the tent, or rather the 
 
 31* 
 
366 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 log hut, which boasted the nnnsnal luxuries of a chimney and a 
 plank floor. A cheerful fire was blazing, and Uncle John said, 
 as they went in : 
 
 "Yery comfortable establishment this, for the army, Charles. 
 But what is all this ?" he added, pointing to paper, pen, and ink- 
 stand upon an inverted tin bucket. " That looks like an im- 
 promptu writing-desk," 
 
 " That is just what it is, sir. I was writing honie when I was 
 sent for to the opening of the box." 
 
 " That was a sight worth seeing, Charles. I wish that Julia 
 could have witnessed it herself" 
 
 "I wish that she could, sir," he answered, heartily; and then 
 added, after a moment's hesitation, " the sight of a lady would be 
 more acceptable to some of us here, than even the dainties that 
 her hands have prepared." 
 
 "Come, come, Charles," said Uncle John, smiling, "don't say 
 *the sight of a lady.' Be honest, and say at once the sight of 
 Julia Cameron. You know that she is the special one of the 
 sex who is in your mind at this time." 
 
 "Yery well, sir, have it so, if you like. I do not deny the 
 charge, but frankly confess that I would like extremely to see her 
 at this moment. And yet — and yet," he added, thoughtfully, " I 
 don't know that it would give me any real pleasure after all." 
 
 "Charles," said Uncle John, looking earnestly at him, "I 
 have suspected ever since you were at my house that there was 
 some trouble between you and Julia, and what you have now 
 said confirms these suspicions. Can it be possible that you two 
 children, as well as Willie and Eva, have entangled yourselves in 
 a love aflFair at this unfortunate time ?" 
 
 " No, sir," he replied with a sigh. 
 
 " Well, what is the trouble ? It is yery plain that there is some- 
 thing weighing upon your mind." 
 
 Charles hesitated. The restraint that had been imposed upon 
 him was more irksome to him at this moment than it had ever 
 been before. It would have been a great relief to have given, with- 
 out reserve, the confidence that Uncle John invited, and for an in- 
 stant the confession trembled upon his lips. But then he remem- 
 bered his unconditional promise to a request that specially ex- 
 cluded Uncle John from this confidence, and he was for a 
 moment silent. Then, wishing to change the subject, he re- 
 plied : 
 
 "You cannot expect me, with my temperament, to be a very 
 gay, cheerful man, so long as I live in the midst of suffering. It 
 depresses, it sickens me. I am sure that Nature never could 
 have designed me for a surgeon." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 367 
 
 "I am by no means sure of that, Charles," he answered. "It 
 seems to me that you have the necessary requisites to make you 
 eminent in your profession. You have skill, manipulation, and 
 education, and besides these, you have enjoyed advantages in 
 Paris which are not to be had in this country." 
 
 "That may be, sir; but there is one grave deficiency which 
 counterbalances all these. I have not the nerve for a surgeon, 
 neither have I that inordinate love of the profession which can 
 make me forget the misery that I inflict, in the skill of the opera- 
 tion. I cannot so keep my feelings in abeyance as to cut and saw 
 a human being as if he were a block of wood, and reserve my 
 sympathies and compassion until my surgical assistance is no 
 longer needed. To be a surgeon, a man should have a heart of 
 gutta-percha and nerves of whalebone." 
 
 "And a man who hasn't them, but has, on the contrary, a 
 heart of sympathy and nerves delicately strung, ought to have 
 some recreation, some respite from these scenes of suffering, and 
 that, Charles, is what you need now. You have been for months, 
 without intermission, going through this painful routine, and you 
 want rest and change. Why don't you apply for a furlough, and 
 go away for a few days ? You say that your hospital duties are 
 very light now." 
 
 " I could be very well spared for a few days, just now, but I 
 have nowhere to go. My home is so far off that I would not 
 care to go there on a shorter furlough than three or four weeks, 
 and this I would not feel justified in asking, when I have only 
 been in service six months. If Hopedale were only within the 
 lines. Uncle John, how glad I would be to go back with you I A 
 week's absence from my post would suffice for quite a satisfactory 
 visit there." 
 
 "I wish, with all my heart, that you could, Charles, but I am 
 afraid that a visit there now would afford you neither rest nor 
 pleasure. The thousand rumors of approaching raiding parties 
 allow neither quiet nor security to the man who is obliged to get 
 out of the way, as Willie can testify. Poor Willie ! poor Eva I 
 their dream of bliss was short." 
 
 "How long. Uncle John, before they will be married?" 
 " Mr. Cameron thinks that the idea of their being married now 
 is absurd, but he will be obliged to relent. It is evident that 
 they are both going to be very miserable apart, and as the chil- 
 dren have gotten into the scrape and cannot get out of it, if I 
 had the control of them, they should be married at once. When 
 ^ two young hearts are bent on anything of this kind, my observ^- 
 • tion is, that an old one coming between them cannot separate 
 them long. I shall tell Cameron so, if he ever speaks to me on 
 the subject." 
 
368 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " I little dreamed when I parted with Eva, a few months ago, 
 so artless and childlike in her character, that she would be a wife 
 before the elder one, so much more mature and womanly, so — 
 in short, so superior in all respects to her child-sister." 
 
 "Now, Charles," exclaimed Uncle John, laughing, "it is well 
 that Willie was not by to hear that, for, weak as he is, he would 
 have thrashed you on the spot, — at least he would haye tried to 
 do it. It is as fortunate as it is singular through what different 
 glasses we look at the same characters. Willie would be dumb 
 with amazement to have heard what you just said, and nobody 
 could make him believe that any man in his senses could really 
 think Julia the more interesting and attractive of the two 
 sisters." 
 
 " I am glad that he did not," said Charles, dreamily. 
 
 " He could not by any possibility have interfered with your 
 success, if you have any intentions in that direction. Willie is 
 nothing but a boy, and Julia always treated him as such ; and 
 her maternal care of him was quite a source of amusement to me. 
 If their respective ages had been forty and ten, there could not 
 have been more control on the one side, and more submission on 
 the other." 
 
 " I'll warrant that he fell into the hands of a good nurse, Uncle 
 John. A woman with so quiet and gentle a manner, and at the 
 same time so much firmness and decision of character, cannot be 
 otherwise than a good nurse." 
 
 " Indeed she is, nor could she have been more careful and un- 
 tiring if she had been nursing Walter, instead of a stranger. 
 And if you could only have seen her, with a face as pale as death, 
 and compressed lips, but a tearless eye and a steady hand, help 
 me to tie up some bleeding arteries in the absence of the" sur- 
 geon, you would have witnessed a specimen of womanly fortitude 
 worth seeing." 
 
 ** Indeed, sir ! I did not suppose that she could have done such 
 a thing." 
 
 "Nor did I; but it was an unexpected emergency, and a case 
 where delay would have been fatal. I needed help, there was no 
 other at hand, and I called her up to me and whispered that she 
 might save his life. That was sufficient ; and I believe that if I 
 had needed her for hours, she would have stayed with me and 
 worked with me until it was all done." 
 
 " Indeed ! she has more claim to the title of surgeon than I 
 have. And was there no reaction ?" 
 
 "Yes; one that both alarmed me and showed what powerful 
 restraint she could impose upon her feelings. When she was no 
 longer needed, I saw her totter out of the room, and followed 
 
CAMERON HALL. 3S9 
 
 just in time to catch her as she fainted. When her conscionsness 
 returned, unselfish to the last, her first impulse was to beg me not 
 to tell Willie, for fear that if she were needed again, ft miG:ht 
 make him unwilling for her to help him. And so we never told 
 Willie. All that he knows is what he himself saw her do." 
 
 "One would think that was enough; and do you suppose that, 
 after this, the foolish boy can think the younger sister the nobler 
 character ?" 
 
 "Undoubtedly he does. He does not depreciate Julia, he only 
 exalts Eva. It is not that he admires Julia less, but that he loves 
 Eva more." 
 
 " I suppose. Uncle John, that it is, as you say, fortunate for 
 us that in these matters we have difi'erent tastes and preferences. 
 For myself, I can only say that such a quiet exhibition of disre- 
 gard and forgetfalness of self, such an instance of firmness and 
 self-control on the part of a timid and delicately-organized woman, 
 seems to me to partake, if not of moral sublimity, at least of some- 
 thing very nearly akin to it." 
 
 " So I thought, Charles, when she was lying dead before me, 
 her face as white as the pillow on which it rested. She is a noble 
 girl; although she has some few traits of character that I would 
 like to alter." 
 
 "I cannot imagine, sir, what they can be. It is true that you 
 have known her much longer than I have; but there is so much 
 openness and candor and truthfulness in her character, that if you 
 are acquainted with her at all, you must needs know her well. 
 The only barrier to a speedy acquaintance with Miss Cameron 
 is her reserve, and when once that is overcome, her whole char- 
 acter is as clear as the transparent brook, whose every pebble can 
 be plainly seen at the bottom. I know her well. You need not 
 smile. Uncle John, for I feel that I know her, even though my 
 intercourse with her, unlike yours, may be reckoned by days in- 
 stead of years. I understand her thoroughly, and there is nothing 
 in her character that I would take the responsibility of alterino-." 
 "And yet, Charles, she has peculiarities (for such they are 
 rather than faults) that I would like exceedingly to alter ; pecu- 
 liarities which affect her happiness rather than mar her character. 
 She has some morbid notions which, for her own sake, I would 
 like to eradicate, and yet while I deprecate them I cannot but 
 respect them, because their very morbidness shows the high tone 
 to which her nature is strung. And then, too, this very reserve 
 of which you have just spoken I would like to change, because it 
 prevents her from being properly understood and appreciated. 
 Julia will go through life with less affection and admiration than 
 she deserves, because she is shut up in a reserve which some 
 
370 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 people cannot, and others will not, take the trouble to pene- 
 trate." 
 
 "But, Uncle John, is not that reserve the result of diffidence 
 and timidity, faults, if such they can be called, not too frequently 
 met with, and certainly very pardonable in one of her sex?" 
 
 "It may be partly the result of these, but not altogether. 
 Julia's heart is warm and her affections strong; but she is quite 
 satislied to expend them all on a few objects. I do not believe 
 that she really cares to have a large circle of friends. The few 
 that she loves, she clings to, and they are in turn devoted to her, 
 and she asks and wants no more. In this, she does not do her- 
 self justice. She deserves to be universally beloved, and she 
 cannot be, because she does not allow herself to be known." 
 
 " Such a character may not shine so much in the world, Uncle 
 John ; but it will certainly make the brightness and happiness of 
 home, and that, after all, is woman's true sphere." 
 
 " So it is, Charles, and I would be the last one to wish her to 
 sacrifice this to the other; but I think thafa little less of one 
 and more of the other would better equalize and harmonize her 
 character — ^hat is all. Don't be uneasy, my boy. I have no 
 desire to upheave her character and recoustruct it, for nobody 
 has better reason to be satisfied with it, just as it is, than Uncle 
 John." 
 
 " I should think not, for you are one of the few whose love 
 seems so completely to satisfy her." 
 
 Charles sighed with a vain longing to be admitted within that 
 narrow circle, and to feel himself as necessary to her happiness 
 as he knew that she was to his. Presently he said, abruptly: 
 
 "Did you not tell me, Uncle John, that Rebel was a present 
 from Eva ?" 
 
 "Yes, that was her message." 
 
 "I thought that he belonged to the elder sister." 
 
 "And so he did; but Julia wanted to send him to the army, 
 and gave Eva the privilege of disposing of him as she pleased. 
 He is a splendid animal, Charles, and you must take good care 
 of him, both to gratify the girls and on account of his intrinsic 
 value. Julia was warmly attached to him. 1 surprised her, the 
 morning that I left, in a little quiet demonstration tha^ she did 
 not intend anybody to see. I found her in the stable with her 
 arms around the horse's neck ; and when she became aware that 
 there was an unexpected witness of the scene, she could not, in 
 her haste, wipe away all traces of tears before she looked up. *I 
 want him to go,' she said, sadly, as she patted his neck, 'but I 
 am very sorry to part with him. I could scarcely love him more 
 if he were a human friend.' " 
 
CAMERON HALL. 371 
 
 "I will take care of him, sir," said Charles, earnestly. 
 
 Just then Walter came rushing by, exclaiming: 
 
 "Uncle John ! Doctor! They have just brought in a spy to 
 headquarters 1" 
 
 And on he went, without a moment's pause, eager to see and 
 to hear all about it. 
 
 "He will be disappointed," said Charles, "that he was not the 
 fortunate man to bring him in. He once told me that he would 
 like nothing better than to be the brave captor of a spy." 
 
 Then the conversation returned to its old channel; both find- 
 ing in the quiet life at Cameron Hall pleasanter themes than 
 could be afforded in the bustling and stirring scenes of war and 
 the camp. Charles did not think that his promise extended to a 
 concealment of his admiration for Julia's character; and of this 
 he continued to speak freely and without reserve, endeavoring at 
 the same time to talk of her as he would have done of a common 
 acquaintance ; and although Uncle John could not be deceived, 
 and felt assured that there was underlying all this something of 
 a deeper and tenderer nature than was acknowledged, yet since 
 Charles was not disposed to open his heart to him, he delicately 
 forbore, by word or look, to betray his suspicions. 
 
 They had been talking some time, when a head was thrust in 
 at the door, and iS'elson said, addressing himself to Uncle John: 
 
 "You seem to be a friend of Cameron's, sir. Will you please 
 come to him, for we boys cannot do anything with him." 
 
 " What is the matter ?" exclaimed Uncle John and Charles in 
 the same breath. 
 
 "Have you not heard, sir? The spy that was brought in, 
 awhile ago, turns out to be his brother George ; and between mor- 
 tification and rage, the boy is well-nigh deranged." 
 
 Not a word was spoken, and for a minute neither moved. 
 Dumb and motionless, Uncle John thought of Cameron Hall, 
 and Charles of the sister, whose heart he well knew such a sor- 
 row would pierce with a doubly poisoned fang. 
 
 Without a word either to each other or to the messenger, they 
 both arose, and followed Nelson to Walter's tent, where they found 
 the youth in a pitiable condition indeed. Mingled sorrow, anger, 
 and mortification swelled into a bitter tide, to which the boy gave 
 way with all the passion of a strong nature. In his fury, he 
 heaped up maledictions upon his traitor-brother ; and, for the time 
 being, that brother's inevitable and mournful doom was forgotten 
 in the agony of shame which his treachery had entailed upon his 
 family. There was no such thing as either soothing or comfort- 
 ing him, and Uncle John found that he could do nothing but 
 wait in silence until the passion had exhausted itsel£ 
 
372 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "It would seem enough," he exclaimed, bitterly, "to have been 
 a traitor, to have fought against his country, home, father, brother 
 . — but to be a traitor-spy 1 to be held up to the execration of the 
 world ; to be hung and thrown into a dishonored grave ! Oh, 
 God 1 he deserves it all, and I would not alter the sentence ; but 
 it is more than I can bear that he should be my brother, that he 
 should be called by my name !" 
 
 Poor Walter I he made his first acquaintance with sorrow 
 through a bitter trial; and it came in a form which his impetuous 
 temper was ill calculated to bear. Unacquainted with his larother, 
 forgetful even of the wrongs and petty tyranny which had been 
 the torment of his infancy, to Walter as well as to Eva there 
 had been something shadowy, undefined, unreal, in the feelings 
 which that brief newspaper paragraph had awakened. He could 
 not enter into the keenness of the mortification and sorrow of his 
 father and elder sister ; but suddenly, and in a moment, it had all 
 come home to him now, and the unreality before only increased 
 the severity of the blow, and its unexpectedness made it but the 
 heavier. After awhile he said, suddenly: 
 
 " Go and see him. Uncle John ; I will not, I cannot. It may 
 be that he will have some message for my father, some word of 
 regret for the disgrace that he has left upon a stainless name, 
 some word of repentance, some prayer for forgiveness for the sor- 
 row that he has brought upon a happy family. My poor father I 
 It is a pity that, like my mother, he too could not have rested in 
 a quiet grave, before his old age had been blighted by such a 
 curse 1" 
 
 "I will go and see him, my son ; but suppose that your brother 
 should want to see you ; suppose that he should prefer to talk to 
 you rather than to send a message by one who is a stranger to 
 him ?" 
 
 " Whatever he may have to say, bid him say it to you, sir ; for 
 I will never see him. I have now no recollection of him, and I 
 will not have my only memory of my elder brother that of a trai- 
 tor and a spy. Would to God I could forget that he had ever 
 lived !" 
 
 Uncle John made no reply, but went out to fulfill Walter's re- 
 quest. His application at headquarters was not refused, when 
 he made himself known as the friend of the prisoner's father, and 
 he was permitted to see him. He found him sitting in a tent, 
 manacled and chained, and under heavy guard, waiting to be sent 
 by the earliest train to Richmond, there to await his trial by 
 court-martial. His hat was pulled over his face, and his head 
 was bent down upon his breast, so that not a feature was visible ; 
 and yet there was something in his appearance and attitude which 
 
CAMERON HALL. 373 
 
 assured Uncle John, as he approached him, that this was not the 
 first time he had seen that man. 
 
 He did not seem to be aware of the presence of any one, or if 
 he was, no perceptible movement betrayed it. Uncle John went 
 up close to him, and said, in a voice of mingled sorrow and pity : 
 
 " George Cameron !" 
 
 He looked up suddenly, and revealed the features of Agnes's 
 gloomy stranger-friend on the steamer. 
 
 The recognition was mutual, but neither acknowledged it in 
 words ; and after the surprise was over, the prisoner said coldly, 
 and with a half-suppressed sneer : 
 
 " To whom am I indebted for the honor of this visit ? In my 
 circumstances I certainly have no right to expect a visit from 
 anybody in the rebel army, unless, indeed, it might be prompted 
 by curiosity." 
 
 " No idle curiosity has brought me here, George," said Uncle 
 John kindly. " I am the most intimate friend of your father 
 and sisters, and I have come this moment from your brother's 
 tent." 
 
 He waited for a reply, but none came for several minutes, and 
 then the question was coldly asked : 
 
 " If not curiosity, then may I ask again what brought you 
 here ?" 
 
 Uncle John could not quite conceal a little irritation in his 
 tone as he replied : 
 
 ''Nothing but a feeling of interest and sympathy which I must 
 ever have for one of the Cameron family, even in such circum- 
 stances as yours." 
 
 " For which I should doubtless be profoundly grateful ; but, 
 inasmuch as I have gone thus far through life vdthout much of 
 either sympathy or interest, I may not be so much to blame if I 
 should fail to appreciate them properly. As to my circum- 
 stances," he added, with a short, bitter laugh, "they are rather 
 unpleasant, but not altogether unexpected. They are but the 
 fate of war, and such I knew were the chances when I accepted 
 the mission." 
 
 Again there was a pause. There was a hardness, a bitterness 
 in the tone and words of the man, that repelled all sympathy and 
 crushed all kindly feeling. Uncle John was strongly tempted to 
 leave him in disgust, but he remembered that he was a Cameron, 
 and he determined to bear anything, in the faint hope of eliciting 
 one word that might alleviate the sorrow of those at home. 
 
 The prisoner's head drooped upon his breast, and there was 
 every indication that his visitor's departure would be the most 
 
 32 
 
374 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 acceptable part of the interview, but Uncle John resolutely de- 
 termined not to see it. After a little while he said, kindly : 
 
 " George, have you no message for those at home, — for father, 
 sisters ?" 
 
 "No," he answered sullenly "Father and sisters have not 
 been such to me." 
 
 "And whose fault was that, George ?" 
 
 "And by whose authority," he answered fiercely, his eyes gleam- 
 ing, and his hands working uneasily, as if he longed to burst his 
 fetters, "by whose authority do you thus catechize me and pry 
 into the secrets of my early life?" 
 
 "On my own authority, George Cameron," answered Uncle 
 John firmly, his own eye flashing. " Not from the impertinent 
 curiosity to which you persist in ascribing it, but from what now 
 seems a vain hope of extracting from you one word of kindly re- 
 membrance, one word of filial regret, one prayer for the pardon 
 of those whom you have so deeply wronged. Listen to me, 
 George Cameron. You must, you shall hear me. Within a 
 few months I have seen your father's erect, vigorous frame bowed 
 beneath the weight, not of years, nor altogether of sorrow, but 
 of mingled sorrow and shame. I have seen his hair rapidly 
 growing gray, and his cheeks furrowed with the deep lines, not 
 of age, but of care. I have seen your sister writhe in agony at 
 the thought of a blighted name. You have done it all, and I 
 did hope, though it seems in vain, that from the sad end of a sad 
 career you might perhaps find it in your heart to speak one word, 
 to send one message that might soften the bitterness of their 
 mortification and sorrow." 
 
 " Now I swear," he exclaimed, "this is beyond endurance ! If 
 these hands were only free you would not dare to talk to me in 
 this way. I am no boy, no child, to be thus called to account 
 for my actions, and if I were, you are not the man to do it. 
 Guard ! put this old man out of this tent." 
 
 " Not yet," said Uncle John quietly but firmly. " My visit is 
 not ended yet, and as it is the last one that I shall ever inflict 
 upon you, I beg that you will bear with me only a few minutes 
 longer. Do I understand you to say that you have no message 
 for your father ?" 
 
 "No, none, unless you choose to tell him that I' glory in dying 
 in the United States service, and only regret that I must go 
 without seeing this accursed rebellion crushed. Will he be glad 
 to receive that message? Will you be willing to bear it?" 
 
 Uncle John did not answer the question, but said in reply: 
 
 " One more question, George Cameron. Where is your wife?" 
 
 "By heaven I" he exclaimed, grinding his teeth, "if this im- 
 
CAMERON HALL. 875 
 
 pertinent old man is allowed thus to torment me while I am 
 bound hand and foot, I will burst with rage, and the Confederate 
 halter will be cheated out of one victim I Who told you that I 
 had a wife, and what business is it of yours where she is ? Would 
 you take care of her? You, the»high-souled, spotless Confede- 
 rate, would you extend a helping hand or give a word of sym- 
 pathy to the wife of a traitor-spy ?" 
 
 "Sneer on, George Cameron," he answered calmly; ''sneer 
 on. Yes, I would take care of her, I would make any sacrifice 
 for her and her child. If you will only calm yourself and listen 
 to me a few minutes, perhaps I can show you what business it is 
 of mine whether you have a wife and where she is." 
 • Without waiting for the permission which he knew that he 
 would not receive, he told him in a few words the story of his 
 life. His eye moistened with tenderness, as it always did, when 
 he spoke of the child to whom he believed that he owed all that 
 was kind and gentle in his nature. When he had finished the 
 brief history, he said : 
 
 " On his dying bed in my own house her old father asked and 
 received forgiveness for the wrong that had poisoned my whole 
 life, and in token of the sincerity of that forgiveness, he exacted 
 of me a promise that if I should ever find that child for whom 
 he had vainly searched, I should befriend her and be kind to her. 
 From what I have told you, you will not suppose that the promise 
 was hard to make or would be difficult to keep. That child, 
 George Cameron, is your wife; does it still surprise yoa that I 
 should ask what has become of her ?" 
 
 Very different now were the aspect and manner of both listener 
 and narrator from what they were when the story began. Gradu- 
 ally George Cameron's fierce, defiant, insulting manner had given 
 place to an expression of deepest interest, while Uncle John's 
 irritation and excitement had softened down into that tone of 
 affection, nay almost of reverence, with which he always spoke 
 of that child. To his question the prisoner replied, almost 
 humbly : 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir. I did you wrong ; it was not im- 
 pertinent curiosity." 
 
 He paused a moment, and added, sadly: 
 
 " I wish that I could tell you, or rather, I wish that somebody 
 could tell me where my wife and child are." 
 
 "Why, why did you ever leave them, George ?" 
 
 "On my honor, sir " he stopped a moment, and added, 
 
 with a little of the old bitterness, "if you can believe me pos- 
 sessed of such a thing — on my honor it was not my intention to 
 desert my wife. I had always been of a restless, roving disposi- 
 
376 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 tion, and even from my earliest childhood the restraints of home 
 were irksome to me, and at last became intolerable. I never 
 could bear to be tied down to any place or any routine, and even 
 domestic ties failed to overcome the restlessness of my temper. 
 It was not that I was wearied with my wife, but rather with the 
 monotony of the life of that quiet country village. I longed for 
 something exciting, something varied ; and the descriptions of 
 life in the mining districts of California seemed to offer just what 
 I wanted. I did not think, however, that it was the place to 
 take my young wife and her infant child, because I had not the 
 means to make them as comfortable in that extravagant country 
 as they were at home. And so I left them, honestly purposing 
 to return, when I had made sufficient money, and take them there 
 too." 
 
 " But you did not. You neither came back to them, nor wrote 
 for them to come to you." 
 
 " No, sir, there was my fault, — a fault still to be attributed 
 rather to m} roving disposition than to any willful intention to 
 wrong my wife. My expectations in California were fully realized ; 
 not the golden dreams which allure so many, for these were but 
 secondary attractions to me. I found what my nature craved : 
 an ever-shifting scene, a constant excitement, a life of adventure, 
 and I was fully satisfied. At first I persuaded myself that until 
 I was wearied with this life and was ready to settle down perma- 
 nently, it would not be right to bring my wife to a wild country 
 where woman needs a protector always with he'r; but, while I 
 was waiting for the time to come when I could bring her to me, 
 I was, at the same time, gradually and insensibly becoming ac- 
 customed to being without her, until, at last, I found that my 
 happiness was quite as independent of her as it was before I ever 
 knew her." 
 
 " But did it never occur to you that perhaps hers might not 
 be altogether so independent of you ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, it did at first; but after awhile all such thoughts 
 quieted down, and I seemed to take it for granted that she could 
 learn to do without me as well as I had learned to do without 
 her." 
 
 "And did not her letters awaken a pang of remorse?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, as long as they came ; but after awhile they too 
 ceased, and there was nothing to remind me of wife and child 
 except a lingering memory, painful because it was linked with 
 the consciousness of wrong, and therefore I strove to forget. So 
 it went on for years, but at last the punishment came, as it always 
 must. It required a long time to satiate me with California life, 
 but at length I grew tired of it. Its very excitement and variety 
 
CAMEKON HALL. 377 
 
 became monotonous, and when I had grown familiar with all its 
 phases I wanted something new. Quiet and repose were now 
 the novelties for which I longed, especially when my health be- 
 gan to fail, and I needed the comforts of home and the gentle 
 offices of a wife. So I came back to find them, never dreaming 
 of the disappointment that awaited me. So accustomed had I 
 been all my life to carry out my own purposes, and to bend cir- 
 cumstances to my will, that it never occurred to me now that the 
 home and wife that I wanted would not take me back with open 
 arms and a glad welcome. I never even thought of the possi- 
 bility that death might have interfered with my plans ; but I 
 went back to my deserted home as confident of finding it as if I 
 had left it but the dav before. Had I found wife, and child dead 
 I should have been surprised, but I could have borne it; but to 
 be told that they had been gone for years, none knew whither, 
 only added a new impulse to my determination to find them, at 
 the same time that it irritated me to find myself so completely 
 baffled. Had I been in my wife's place I should probably have 
 acted just as she did, and should have placed myself beyond the 
 reach of a faithless husband ; but we are prone to expect only 
 endurance and forgiveness from the gentler sex, and I was stung 
 to the quick when I found that I, in common with too many 
 others, had presumed too far upon these traits of character. 
 And now I wanted my child, and I determined to bend all my 
 energies to find her; but her mother has shown marvelous saga- 
 city in selecting her retreat, for years ago I gave up the fruitless 
 search. Perhaps I may be fioding fault with the dead, for I re- 
 member sometimes with a pang what a gentle, loving nature hers 
 was, and how little calculated to bear the chilling effects of de- 
 sertion; but then she had no right to die without leaving some 
 clew by which my child might find her father. Such, sir, is a 
 brief history of my hfe. In it there is much to condemn, and 
 much, too (if you knew all), to excite your commiseration and 
 sympathy. I have sometimes thought," he added in a sad, re- 
 gretful tone, "that perhaps all my trouble may be traced back to 
 my first wrong step. I remember learning at my mother's knee 
 the curse pronounced upon the disobedient child." 
 
 He relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and Uncle John hoped 
 that memory had wandered back to his childhood's home, and 
 the mother of whom he had spoken, and that he would soften 
 and melt under the influence of such thoughts. He waited some 
 minutes for him to speak, but he did not, and then Uncle John 
 asked : 
 
 " How comes it, George, that I find you now in such painful 
 circumstances ?" 
 
 32* 
 
378 ' CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " I had no home, sir, and I had lived upon excitement so long 
 that I could not do without it. For awhile I found something 
 new, both in kind and degree, in the excitement of the camp and 
 the battle-field ; but that, like all the rest, palled upon my taste, and 
 I sought a higher flavor, a keener spice, in the risk and danger of 
 my present disastrous mission." 
 
 " Perhaps, George, you will allow your father's friend the 
 privilege of asking you one question. Why, in seeking the ex- 
 citement of the camp and the battle-field, did you not seek it on 
 the right side? Why, oh why did you take up arms against 
 country, home, father?" 
 
 The softness and gentleness were all gone in an instant. The 
 deep frown canae back, and in a peremptory tone, that plainly 
 prohibited all discussion of that point, he only answered : 
 
 "We will not discuss that question. I did as I thought best." 
 
 "George," said Uncle John, "I have persisted in this inter- 
 view, when, had you been another than a Cameron, you would 
 long since have driven me away; but, as your father's son, I 
 must in any and all circumstances be interested in you. God 
 only knows how from my soul I regret to find you in this condi- 
 tion. Tell me, is there nothing that I can do for you ?" 
 
 The expression of his face softened for a moment; but then, 
 as if determined to crush out all such feelings, he replied, in a 
 flippant, reckless tone, clanging his haud-cuflfs together as he 
 spoke : 
 
 "Nothing, unless you strike these ofl", and turn me loose again, 
 to give plenty of valuable information to the Federals, — and I 
 rather suspect that you are too good a rebel for this. No, no ! it 
 is the fate of war ; and all that is left me to do now is to submit 
 cheerfully, and swing gracefully." 
 
 " Would you not like to see a minister, George ? You re- 
 member Mr. Derby. He is still in Hopedale, and would esteem 
 it a privilege to do anything to comfort or benefit one of your 
 father's children. You are to be sent to Richmond ; he will go 
 there to see you, if you would like it." 
 
 " Oh no, sir 1 Such a journey, for such a purpose, would be 
 quite unnecessary. I know all that he would tell me, and if I 
 cannot get ready to die myself, he cannot do it for me." 
 
 " Have you any hope of being acquitted?" 
 
 " None in the world, sir. The evidence is as clear as day. 
 Papers, maps, and drawings were found upon my person that 
 would have enabled the Federal army to give you a surprise, 
 which would have more than redeemed the Bull Run disaster of 
 last July. Oh no ! there is no hope for me. Half the evidence 
 would be enough to convict me." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 379 
 
 "Have you a Bible, George?" 
 
 "Why, sir," he replied, with a dry, hard laugh, "I have not 
 seen one for years." 
 
 " Have yoii a prayer-book ?" 
 
 " I left the last one that I ever owned upon the table in my 
 room, when I turned my back upon Cameron Hall," 
 
 " Then take this, George," he said, taking one from his pocket, 
 " and promise to read it. You will find in the ofi&ce for the 
 visitation of prisoners, and in the prayer for persons under sen- 
 tence of death, something adapted to your wants and circum- 
 stances." 
 
 He gave him the book, open at the place, and George replied, 
 r with a poor attempt at levity, as he glanced at the page : 
 
 " I am much obliged for your intended kindness, but, indeed, 
 sir, I cannot accept it as adapted to my circumstances. This 
 prayer and exhortation, for instance, are said to be designed for 
 a 'criminal.' Xow, inasmuch as I utterly disclaim all pretensions 
 to being anything of the sort, they are evidently not designed for 
 . me. However, if it will oblige you, I will read them, and try 
 and find out how a malefactor ought to feel." 
 
 Uncle John heaved a deep sigh at the hardened and determined 
 indiflference with which the unhappy man was resolved to meet 
 his fate. He got up to go away, and George seemed to soften 
 again, as he said : 
 
 " What has become of my little blind friend? Was the opera- 
 tion successful ?" 
 
 " It was not. The surgeon pronounced her hopelessly blind, 
 and I brought her back to her mother, several months ago." 
 
 " I became singularlv interested in that child. She is one of 
 the few friends that I have made of late years. I am not socially 
 inclined now, but I believe that I should soon have learned to 
 love that little blind musician." 
 
 " You are not alone in that respect. Agnes never fails to 
 make friends of all who know her. She frequently speaks of 
 you, and wonders if you are any happier now than you were 
 then." 
 
 An expression of pain rested upon the prisoner's face. The 
 kind recollection, and the sympathy of the blind child, evidently 
 touched him deeply; and as he held Uncle John's hand, he said, 
 in a subdued voice : 
 
 " Give my love to her, and tell her how much I should like to 
 see her once more. Don't tell her," he added, averting his eyes, 
 and with a slight hesitation, "where you have seen me, and 
 under what circumstances. Just say to her that you saw me in 
 the army." 
 
380 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 Uncle John silently wrung the fettered hand, and turned away. 
 The prisoner pulled his hat over his face, and his head drooped 
 lower upon his breast than before, but this time in the attitude of 
 sadness rather than that of sullen defiance. 
 
 Uncle John and Charles were sitting that night in their hut 
 before the fire. Both were busy with their thoughts, and but 
 few words had been spoken upon the subject which engrossed 
 their minds. They had now been silent a long time, and the 
 only movement was an occasional rejection of the white ashes 
 from the almost extinguished cigar. Uncle John was the first to 
 speak, and then it was rather thinking aloud than talking. 
 
 "Poor Julia! This will be the overflowing drop to the brim- 
 ming cup." 
 
 Again there was a dead silence of several minutes, and then 
 Charles answered : 
 
 " Yes, to one of her integrity and right-mindedness, such a 
 blow will be severe, indeed." 
 
 *"Ah ! Charles, you do not know her as I do. You have never 
 seen her writhe under the mortification occasioned by her brother's 
 conduct. You have never heard the bitterness with which she 
 speaks of the family disgrace." 
 
 " Does she imagine, sir, that her brother's conduct can affect 
 the character of any of the rest of the family ?" 
 
 " Yes, she believes that it has already involved them in a com- 
 mon shame. Why, sir, she has begun to be afraid of almost 
 everybody; afraid to intrude herself, as she says, upon the so- 
 ciety even of friends, because she feels that the honest and the 
 right-minded will now always think of her only as George Cam- 
 eron's sister. On this point she is wrong, all wrong. This is 
 one of those morbid notions which I told you this morning I 
 would like to eradicate. Morbidness is scarcely a strong enough 
 word to express the state of her feelings, and yet I am afraid 
 that they are hopelessly fixed. At least I have exhausted all my 
 arguments and persuasion in trying to convince her that she is 
 
 wrong. 
 
 V 
 
 A light began to dawn upon Charles's understanding, and he 
 grasped with eagerness what seemed a key to the mystery of her 
 conduct toward him. He made no reply, for Uncle John's words 
 had transDorted him in an instant to the lawn of Cameron Hall, 
 on that last night, when Julia, trembling with emotion, yet firm 
 as a rock, had told him of the insurmountable barrier, the un- 
 alterable determination. 
 
 "She did not know," he thought, "that I had ever heard of 
 her brother's disgrace, and she scorned to take advantage of my 
 ignorance, and to bind me by ties which nn honorable man cannot 
 
CAMERON HALL. 381 
 
 break. But when she hears that I know it all; that George 
 Cameron's treason, were it, if possible, fouler and blacker than it 
 is, could not in my eyes cast a shadow, much less a stain, upon 
 her; when she knows that the combined disgrace of all the Cam- 
 erons upon earth could neither alter my opinion of her nor 
 change my feelings toward her,— then she will, she must see it in 
 a very different light, and we may yet be happy. I say we, for I 
 remember well that she did not say she could not love me; and if 
 such had been the truth, her truthful lips would certainly have 
 said it; and besides, I have evidence to the contrary." 
 
 Had Ui!cle John been less deeply absorbed in his own sad 
 thoughts, the sudden change in Charles's tone and manner would 
 have seemed both surprising and unaccountable. As it was, he 
 did not notice the cheerful, almost gay tone, with which he said : 
 "It seems to me, Uncle John, that I could convince her that 
 she took an unreasonable view of the case." 
 
 " Then you are a better logician, and a more skillful pleader 
 than I am, and if you can, I wish that you would do it; it would 
 be nothing more than common humanity to save such a heart as 
 hers from unnecessary sorrow. But I think, Charles, that you 
 are mistaken. You do not, perhaps, overestimate your powers, 
 but you do not realize what you have to encounter. Julia is not 
 hasty in her decisions, and consequently they strike the deeper, 
 and are the more difficult to uproot. The -truth is, I do not be- 
 lieve that anybody will be able to change her notions upon this 
 subject. For myself, I have long since ceased to allude to it, 
 because, as I tell you, it has never done any good, and I cannot 
 bear to see her shrink as if I were touching a painful wound. To 
 one of your profession, it needs no argument to prove that where 
 a wound is incurable, it is neither wise nor kind to persist in the 
 torture of the probe and the knife." 
 
 ^ Uncle John's words again plunged Charles into a reverie, and 
 his castle of hope, reared as it had been upon the foundation of 
 a single word, was now as quickly demolished, as he "thought : 
 
 "If Uncle John, the old privileged friend, cannot approach 
 this subject, how can I dare to do it? And yet, if I do not tell 
 her that this insurmountable barrier is no barrier at all to me, she 
 will still think that it separates us as widely as ever. I will ask 
 Uncle John if he does not think that the interests involved will 
 justify the pain that I must inflict, and he shall advise me. But 
 no, I cannot do that either, for my promise binds me." 
 
 He was bewildered and perplexed, and the remainder of this, 
 their last evening together, was spent in thoughtful silence. 
 
 _ The next morning Uncle John returned home. Walter held 
 his hand, and said, in a low voice; 
 
382 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " Tell sister that I would give anything on earth to be at home 
 now. I would like to hide my head from all the world until this 
 is forgotten. But as this cannot be, tell her that I shall only 
 strive the harder to do my duty, so that the faithfulness of one 
 Caoieron shall, so far as may be, atone for the errors and crime 
 of another." 
 
 " Cheer up, Charles," said Uncle John, as he took leave of him. 
 "As soon as I think that you may come to Hopedale without risk, 
 I will write for you. The air and the society," he added, with 
 peculiar emphasis upon the last word, "will refresh and invigorate 
 you." 
 
 "And I, sir, will need no urging, if I can be spared for a few 
 days, and can come safely." 
 
 All the way home. Uncle John was thinking, with a troubled 
 heart, of the sad duty before him. To have told them of Walter's 
 death would have been painful enough; how much worse to tell 
 them of the fearful doom, the punishment of treachery, that 
 awaited the eldest son, the eldest brother ! But while he dreaded 
 the unwelcome task, he yet rejoiced, for their sakes, that they 
 would not hear it from iuditfereut lips, but would first learn it 
 from one who knew the pain that he inflicted, and would sympa- 
 thize with the sorrow that he gave. 
 
 When he reached the Hall, he was met by both the girls, who 
 ran out to welcome him. Eva was all eagerness to get the letter 
 that she was sure Willie had sent, and Julia's face wore a happier 
 look than he had seen for a long while, as she thought that now 
 she would hear something directly from Charles as well as Walter. 
 Poor Uncle John was more troubled than ever, when he saw her 
 face so lighted up, and he tried hard to keep his own from betray- 
 ing the pain that was at his heart. But her quick eye at once 
 detected something wrong, and with the smile upon her face in- 
 stantly frozen, she exclaimed, in a voice of agony: 
 
 " Oh, Uncle John, you have bad news for us I" 
 
 "Yes, my daughter," he answered, sadly, "but not what you 
 fear. Walter and Willie are both well." 
 
 "And Charles ?" she gasped, forgetting for the moment that 
 she had seemingly no right to be so anxious about him." 
 
 At another time, Uncle John would have been surprised ; but 
 now his thoughts were otherwise engrossed, and he answered, with- 
 out thinking : 
 
 "Charles, Julia, is well." 
 
 He took a hand of each of the girls, and led them into the 
 library, and there told his sad story. Eva listened with more 
 anger than sorrow. She felt her own and her family's wrongs 
 more than the miserable fate of her stranger-brother. She felt 
 
CAMERON HALL. - 383 
 
 as if she had been injured by one whose connection with her was 
 that of circumstance or accident rather than the alliance of flesh 
 and blood ; and she was disposed to resent it as an injury rather 
 than to receive it as an affliction. But Julia viewed it otherwise. 
 Once, she too had felt a resentment for which she had reproached 
 herself, but which she could not then overcome ; but it was all 
 gone now. There was no room for anger in her heart now. There 
 was nothing but a leaden weight of grief and horror at the 
 thought of her brother's doom. 
 
 Her father was not at home, and at her earnest request Uncle 
 John stayed, until his return, to tell him. 
 
 ''I cannot. Uncle John," she said, with quivering lip, " I cannot 
 tell him this. Poor papa!" 
 
 Uncle John went home immediately after tea, and as soon as 
 he was gone, they all went to their several rooms : Mr. Cameron 
 to brood in solitude over a calamity which far outweighed all the 
 happiness of his life ; Eva to try and forget her sorrow and anger 
 in another perusal of Willie's letter, whose assurances of sympa- 
 thy and love made her young heart feel that no trial could be 
 intolerable so long as she had him to share it; and Julia to 
 ponder in loneliness a sorrow bitterer far to her than death. For 
 awhile, all else was swallowed up in the single thought that her 
 brother was about to be launched into eternity by a sudden and 
 violent death, and her heart sickened at the recollection that 
 there was nothing in all his past history, and especially nothing 
 in his present circumstances, to warrant her in hoping that he was 
 prepared to meet his doom. Uncle John had not told them one 
 word of regret or repentance ; he had told nothing on which she 
 dared to build the slightest hope, and well she knew that if there 
 had been one look or word which could have afforded comfort, 
 his kind, considerate heart would have treasured it up and brought 
 it home. By degrees, other thoughts came into her mind ; thoughts 
 of her father's blighted and dishonored age ; of her young brother, 
 whose message to her had touched her to the heart. She thought 
 of herself, her own keen suffering, and wondered if this sensitive 
 shrinking from dishonor and disgrace, this anxiety that all who 
 were connected with her should stand pure and fair, not only in 
 the sight of God, but also of their fellow-men,— if this feeling 
 could be wrong, could be a sin. Lastly, she thought of Charles'; 
 and while her heart was wrung by the certainty that now they 
 were sundered by a barrier which he himself would think impass- 
 able, yet at the same time her true nature rejoiced that he was 
 not bound to her by the tie even of a plighted word ; that he 
 was not reduced to the painful alternative of either breaking his 
 faith or marrying the sister of George Cameron. Now she felt 
 
384 CAMERON HALL 
 
 t 
 
 assured that the subject would never be renewed : indeed, she 
 thought that she and Charles had seen each other for the last 
 time, and from her inmost soul she thanked God that she had 
 been enabled to stand so firm, and to do what she believed to be 
 right, amid so many and so strong temptations, both from his 
 entreaties and her own earnest longings. 
 
 "Farewell, Charles I" she thought. "If you marry at all, it 
 must be a woman whose name as well as character is without a 
 stain." 
 
 Before he went home, Uncle John stopped at the cottage to 
 see Grace and Agnes, and to deliver George Cameron's message. 
 He said nothing to Grace, in Agnes's presence, of the painful 
 subject of his thoughts ; but leading the child away from the 
 organ to her little chair by the fire, he said : 
 
 "Do you remember, my daughter, the gloomy stranger upon 
 the steamer who became your friend ?" 
 
 "Yery well, sir," she answered, her face brightening. 
 
 "I saw him at the camp the other day, and he recognized me 
 the moment that he saw me. He inquired particularly about 
 you, and sent his love to you, and says that it would give him 
 great pleasure to see you again." 
 
 "Is he a soldier, Uncle John ?" 
 
 "Yes, Agnes." 
 
 " I am glad of it, for I know that he must be happier now than 
 he used to be. He told me on the steamer that he was lonely, 
 that -he had no friends, and nothing to do that interested him; 
 but now that he is in camp, with all the other soldiers, he must 
 have plenty of company ; and if he is fighting for his country he 
 has found something to interest him. Poor Mr. George ! I am 
 so glad that he is happier. Did he look so. Uncle Juhn ?" 
 
 "He always looked sad, Agnes. You know I have often told 
 you so." 
 
 "You said that he looked dark and frowning, Uncle John, 
 and did not look like a good man. Do you think he is a better 
 one now?" 
 
 " How can I tell, my daughter ?" he answered, beginning to 
 be painfully perplexed, and not knowing exactly how to evade 
 the questions which he had promised not to answer. 
 
 "Did you ask him to come to Hopedale, and pay you and me 
 a visit ?" 
 
 "No, I did not." 
 
 "Now, Uncle John, I wonder that you did not; because you 
 are generally so kind to everybody, and Mr. George has so few 
 friends. I wish that I could see him again,Jor I always liked 
 him, although you did not. He was very kind to me — and then, 
 
CAMEROX HALL. 385 
 
 besides, you remember that he told me I was both a comfort and 
 a pleasure to him. If I come over some day, will you write him 
 a letter for me ? I will tell you what to say." 
 
 "Yes, Agnes," Uncle John answered, abstractedly; "I will 
 write for you when you wish it." 
 
 When he was ready to go, he led Agnes back to the organ ; 
 and then she had begun to play, he motioned Grace to follow 
 him. When they were out of hearing of the child, he told her in 
 as few words as possible the story of George Cameron. When 
 be had finished, he said : 
 
 "Agnes must not know anything of this, for I am pledged not 
 to tell her. He himself requested it. The only softness that he 
 evinced at all, was in his unwillingness that the innocent, blind 
 child should know his present condition and circumstances. He 
 wishes her still to know him only as 'her steamer friend.'" 
 
 To Uncle John's great surprise, Grace was much more over- 
 come by his story than had been either of George Cameron's sis- 
 ters. With a deep groan she sank into the nearest chair, and 
 covering her face with her hands, trembled violently. Uncle John 
 asked anxiously: 
 
 " What is the matter, Grace ?" 
 
 She neither moved nor spoke. He tried to raise her up, and 
 said : 
 
 " You are trembling like a leaf. It is too cold for you here. 
 Go back to the fire." 
 
 "Oh, no !" she answered, with a shudder, "not there I " Not 
 where Agnes is I" 
 
 Uncle John said no more, but watched her some minutes in 
 silent amazement. Presently she sprang up suddenly, and stood 
 before him, her face perfectly white and rigid. 
 
 " Uncle John," she said, " will you do me a favor?" 
 
 "Yes, Grace. You need not have asked the question." 
 
 " Will you take Agnes to-morrow to Richmond, and keep her 
 there until — until — until it is all over ? He wants to see her, 
 and, under the circumstances, I have no right to deny the father 
 the privilege of seeing his child." 
 
 Uncle John staggered and reeled, and only saved himself from 
 falling by grasping a chair. He passed his hand over his fore- 
 head and looked around dreamily and vacantly, so stupefied with 
 amazement that he did not know where he was, or what he 
 did. 
 
 Grace waited for a reply, but receiving none, she asked 
 again : 
 
 "Will you do it, Uncle John ?" 
 
 33 
 
386 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 « 
 
 "Do what, Grace?" be asked, looking at her with a vacant 
 stare. "What is it that I must do ? Am I dreaming ?" . 
 
 " No, Uncle John, you are not dreaming, nor am I. Would to 
 God I were !" 
 
 " Well, tell me, — what do you mean ?" 
 
 " I only mean to ask you, if you will add one more to the many 
 kindnesses that you have done my child, and take her to see her 
 father before — before he dies." 
 
 " Do you mean to say that you are George Cameron's wife, — 
 that Agnes is his child ?" 
 
 "Yes, I mean it all. Ask no more now. Some day when 
 I can, I will tell you all. You will take Agnes to-morrow ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 He grasped her hand, looked one moment earnestly into her 
 face, rushed out of the house, and was gone. 
 
 It was only when he found himself at home trying to collect 
 his scattered thoughts that he remembered all, and even then he 
 could not convince himself that it was reality. Xo wonder that 
 in the tumult and chaos of his thoughts Uncle John should have 
 believed that he was dreaming! Xo wonder that he could not 
 realize that in Grace, the gentle friend of his old age, he had 
 found the child-angel, the comforter of his youth ; and that in his 
 love for the blind child, the granddaughter of Lucy Ellsworth, 
 he should have found the compensation for his early disappoint- 
 ment ! He remembered the old man, his guest, dying within 
 speaking distance of the child whom he had so long looked for 
 in vain. He thought of George Cameron, about to die a felon's 
 death within reach of the wife whom he had once loved, then de- 
 serted, then sought again, and against whom he had finally be- 
 come embittered, while all these years she had quietly lived near 
 his father's home, and, together with her blind child, had been 
 admitted as a friend within that home-circle which, in the way- 
 wardness of vouth, he had left forever in a voluntarv exile. Xo 
 wonder that Uncle John sprang from his chair and walked hastily 
 up and down the room, to assure himself that he was indeed 
 awake. 
 
 When Grace returned to the parlor, she threw herself into 
 Agnes's little chair and covered her face with her hands. She 
 rapidly reviewed the events of her past life, of which sorrow and 
 disappointment had made so large a part, and wondered, as she 
 had often done before, why it was that she needed such sore 
 chastening. This was the crowning sorrow, the one in com- 
 parison with which all the rest seemed as nothing. She remem- 
 bered the husband of her youth, the man upon whom she had 
 lavished all the affection of her young heart, and though she had 
 
CAMERON HALL. 387 
 
 feit for years that her love for him was all dead, still he was her 
 husband, the father of her child, and his ignominy and disgrace 
 stung her to her inmost soul. She had borne desertion ; under 
 it, her heart had withered silently and without complaint. Now 
 she writhed and groaned under this heavier chastening, this in- 
 tolerable sorrow. Her only relief was the thought that Agnes 
 was happily unconscious of the dishonored name bequeathed hlr 
 by the crime of her wretched father. And while her heart ached, 
 and her face wore an expression of deepest suffering, the child 
 played on, a sweet, soothing strain, too soft and low to be heard 
 amid the wild tumult of thoughts, memories, and feelings in her 
 mother's heart. The music ceased, but Grace knew it not. 
 Presently Agnes asked : 
 
 " Was that sweet, mother ?" 
 
 The question was unheard and unanswered ; and Grace was 
 only roused when an outstretched, wandering hand rested upon 
 her head. 
 
 " What is the matter, mother ? Are you crying ?" 
 
 "No, my child." 
 
 " Well, you are troubled, for your voice says so. What is it, 
 mother ?" 
 
 And now came the struggle. Grace was to propose to Agnes 
 a visit to her father, and gain her consent, without disclosing to 
 her either his name, circumstances, or relation to herself, and this 
 was to be done without betraying by word or tone that she 
 knew aught of the stranger except that he had been interested 
 in and kind to her child. It was not the first successful effort 
 that she had made in her life to keep the cloud which shadowed 
 her own heart from deepening the blindness of the child, but 
 never before had it cost her such a struggle. 
 
 "Agnes," she said, in a voice that trembled in spite of all her 
 efforts, "you are looking pale and thin as you did before Uncle 
 John took you away last spring, and I want to send you off 
 again." 
 
 "Oh, mother, not to Paris !" exclaimed the child, piteously. 
 
 " Xo, my daughter, not Paris, but only to Richmond, where 
 you can go in a day and a half." 
 
 " What for, mother ? Indeed, I would rather not. It does 
 not give me pleasure, as it does other children, to travel. I can- 
 not see, and I am all the time afraid that I will be lost, or that 
 something will run over me, and I am never qniet and contented 
 unless I hold somebody's hand. I am safe and happy at home 
 with you ; please, mother, don't send me away." 
 
 " I will not force you to go, my child. Uncle John proposes 
 to go with you ; you will only be away from me a few days, and 
 
388 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 • 
 
 you know that he will take as good care of you as I can. If you 
 go, Agnes, you will have the pleasure of seeing your — your 
 friend, Mr. George. Would you not like that ?" 
 
 "Yery much, but I would rather that he should come here to 
 see me. Suppose you write and ask him." 
 
 " That would be useless, Agnes. A soldier cannot leave the 
 afmy to make a visit whenever he chooses. You seem to like 
 him so much, that I should suppose you would be glad to meet 
 him again, especially as he particularly desires it." 
 
 "And so I would, mother; and if I were not blind, I should 
 like nothing better than to go to Richmond with Uncle Joiin. 
 And even as it is, if he were sick or in trouble, and I could do 
 him any good, I would gladly go; but if Mr. George is well, and 
 in camp with so many soldiers, he cannot need the company of a 
 blind child. He only sent me that message because he thought 
 that I would be pleased to know that he remembered me, but I 
 don't believe that he intended or expected me to come and see 
 him, do vou ?" 
 
 " Perhaps not, but he said that it would gratify "him. How- 
 ever, you need not think any more about it, for you shall not go 
 unless you are perfectly willing. I thought that a visit of a few 
 days with Uncle John would be both pleasant and beneficial to 
 you, and I mentioned your friend as another inducement for you 
 to go." 
 
 " But, mother, why do you want me to go to Richmond ? Mr. 
 George is not there, for Uncle John saw him in camp with Dr. 
 Charles and Mr. Walter." 
 
 " He went to Richmond, Agnes, while Uncle John was in 
 camp." 
 
 Agnes did not give her consent, but her mother said no more, 
 for she was persuaded that Uncle John's influence, added to 
 what she had already said, would decide the matter. Grace was 
 worn out and exhausted and longed to be alone, that without 
 restraint her burdened heart might relieve itself Agnes went 
 to bed and was soon enjoying the sweet sleep of childhood, hap- 
 pily blind alike to the cloud upon her mother's face and her 
 mother's heart. 
 
 The next morning, as Grace had foreseen, a single earnest 
 request from Uncle John decided Agnes to accompany him to 
 Richmond. She had been taught by her mother never for one 
 moment to weigh her own inclinations against the wishes of him 
 who had done so much for her; and now, whatever objections she 
 might have had, he did not know them, for she acquiesced at 
 once in the arrangement. At twelve o'clock they left for Rich- 
 mond. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 389 
 
 " Don't tell her that she is going to see her father," said Grace. 
 "I earnestly hope that he will not tell her himself. I have suf- 
 fered enough for both. I trust that he will have mercy on his 
 blind child, and spare her." 
 
 " Have you any message for him, Grace ?" 
 
 "None," she answered. 
 
 There was a moment's pause, and then, speaking as if each 
 word cost a pang, she said ; 
 
 "Uncle John, my love for hin; was a long time dving, and tlie 
 struggle nearly cost me my life; but it is dead now,''dead, dead!'' 
 
 Ao:ain she paused; and presently she added, with a start: 
 
 "No, I have no message. The child is sufficient, and if—and 
 if he should doubt her identity, this will prove it." " 
 
 She placed in his hand a letter, yellow with age, saying: 
 ^ "_ You need not give it unless he seems to doubt. I would not 
 inflict unnecessary pain." 
 
 She grasped his hand, and said, with emotion : 
 
 " God bless you, Uncle John, for the kindness that never fails 
 me. May He reward you ; I never can. From you, the stranger, 
 1 have met with that sympathy and kindness which I ought to 
 have received from others, upon whom I had a stronger claim." 
 
 She turned away, and hurried off, without waiting to hear 
 Uncle John's answer. 
 
 "Not So much of a stranger, Grace, as we have both thouo-ht 
 all along; nor does the obligation rest alone upon you. My 
 debt of gratitude goes farther back, even beyond your recollec- 
 tion, and the old man's kindness can never repay the blessing 
 and benefit conferred by the child !" 
 
 The day was cold, the road rough, and their horse by no 
 means the best; and after an hour's riding Agnes be^an to be 
 tired. ° 
 
 '' How long, Uncle John, before we get to the railroad ?" 
 " We will not take the cars before to-morrow morning, Agnes. 
 We will have to spend to-night at a station, not many miles 
 from home. Don't you know that the Yankees have torn up the 
 road?" ^ 
 
 I* Yes, sir, I know it; but I cannot imagine why they did it." 
 ^ "Because it is Southern property, and its destruction would 
 injure Southern people. For the same reason they took my 
 horses, and Mr. Cameron's, and burned up his barns and his 
 meat." 
 
 "I wish that they had left the railroad, Uncle John. The 
 cars are so much pleasanter than a buggy, especially when it is 
 so cold." 
 
 33* 
 
390 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 Uncle John saw that she was shivering, so he checked the 
 horse, and wrapped the buffalo robe closely around her feet, and 
 spread a blanket over her lap. 
 
 "Now," he said, "you will be warm and comfortable in a few 
 minutes, and perhaps, if I try to entertain you, you will forget 
 that you are jolting along over a rough, disagreeable road. Let 
 us see. You know my child-angel, Agnes ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "Do you remember, a long time ago, when I first told you all 
 about her, that I said I wondered what kind of a woman she had 
 grown to be ; and that if she had fulfilled the promise of her 
 childhood, I would like so much to find her, and live with her the 
 rest of my life ? Do you recollect it all, Agnes ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," she answered, hastily; "and I remember, too, that 
 you promised, Uncle John, never to leave me, even if you should 
 find her. Don't you remember ?" she added, anxiously. 
 
 He did not answer her question, but only replied : 
 
 " I have found her, Agnes. " 
 
 She started, with an expression of pain, as if some dire calamity 
 had overtaken her. She was silent a few moments, and then ex- 
 claimed, in a tone of mingled doubt and apprehension : 
 
 "But you are not going to live with her. Uncle John?" 
 
 "I trust so, my daughter, all the rest of my life." 
 
 He was thinking less of Agnes at that moment than of her 
 mother, and had quite forgotten her invincible jealousy of his af- 
 fection for this child. He was first made conscious of the effect 
 of his words, by a burst of tears, as she exclaimed, reproachfully, 
 and almost passionately : 
 
 "But you promised, Uncle John, you promised that you would 
 never leave me 1 Your child-angel can see, and does not need 
 you; but I am blind, and cannot do without you. What will 
 become of me when you are gone ?" 
 
 "I am not gone, my daughter, nor am I going. I still in- 
 tend to take care of you, as long as I live, just as I have done 
 these many years." • 
 
 "Are you going to Richmond to see her?" 
 
 ** No, Agnes ; but even if I were, you need not be jealous of 
 my love for her. She is no longer a child. You must remember 
 that Uncle John is now an old man, and she is now a woman as 
 old as your mother." 
 
 " I am glad of that," she replied, with evident relief. " I 
 bad forgotten that. I always think of her as a little girl, like 
 myself." 
 
 " She can never come between you and Uncle John's heart, 
 Agnes; and if she had her choice this moment, she would much 
 
CAMERON HALL 391 
 
 rather that he should be kind and affectionate to you than to 
 herself." 
 
 " Who told you where she was, Uncle John ?" 
 
 "Her father." 
 
 "And where did you see him?" 
 
 " Do you remember the old soldier, who died at my house last 
 summer, that I used to tell you about ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " He was her father; and he told me something just before he 
 died that has enabled me to find her. But I never found out, 
 until last night, who she was, and where she lived." 
 
 *'And who is she. Uncle John ?" she asked, as if anxious, and 
 yet half reluctant to know. 
 
 "Her name is Grace, and she lives in Hopedale, and has a 
 little blind daughter named Agnes." 
 
 " Oh, Uncle John, Uncle John 1" exclaimed the delighted child, 
 " I am so glad, so happy 1" 
 
 He drew her up close to him, and could plainly feel the quick 
 beatings of her glad heart. 
 
 Her surprise and pleasure kept her silent for several minutes ; 
 and then she asked, suddenly : 
 
 "Didn't you say just now that her father told you? You 
 don't mean, Uncle John, that the sick old man at your house 
 was my mother's father ?" 
 
 "Yes, her father, and your grandfather." 
 
 " Then why didn't he tell us so, Uncle John?" 
 
 " Because he did not know it himself. He would have given 
 all the world to have found you before he died." 
 
 "But why didn't he know?" 
 
 "Because he was a sailor a great many years of his life, and 
 lived on the ocean, so that he never saw your mother after he 
 sent her away on the ship where I first knew her. After she 
 grew to be a woman, he went to the town where he thought that 
 she lived, but she was gone, nobody knew where, and he tried for 
 a long while to find her, but never could." 
 
 "But, Uncle John, what made her go away without telling 
 anybody where she was going, and why did she not write to her 
 father and tell him where she intended to live ?" 
 
 Uncle John felt that he was rapidly approaching delicate 
 ground, and that he had already inadvertently aroused an in- 
 satiable childish curiosity. He was greatly perplexed. To re- 
 fuse a reply, would only sharpen the curiosity which he wished 
 to allay, and so he thought it best to give an indifferent answer, 
 and then beat as hasty a retreat as possible from the dangerous 
 subject. So he replied : 
 
392 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "Her father was sailing about in a ship all round the world, 
 and she did not know where to send a letter to him. And be- 
 sides, she had already written him several, and having received no 
 answer, she thought that perhaps he was dead, and so she did 
 not write any more." 
 
 Without waiting for another question, Uncle John now changed 
 the subject, and although several times during the afternoon her 
 thoughts were evidently returning to it again, he adroitly pre- 
 vented its renewal. 
 
 The next evening they arrived in Richmond, and Uncle John 
 found that George Cameron's case had been tried that day, but 
 the decision was not yet made known to the public. He himself 
 was satisfied what it would be, and was therefore not surprised to 
 hear, that night, that he had been condemned to a speedy execu- 
 tion, and that two more days would complete his earthly life. 
 
 Uncle John was personally known to some of the authorities 
 at Richmond, and through their influence obtained access to the 
 prisoner, a favor which could not be refused when he made known 
 the object of his mission. 
 
 The next morning early he went alone to the prisoner's cell. 
 He was, of course, greatly surprised to see his unexpected visitor, 
 nor could Uncle John quite decide, from his manner, whether the 
 surprise was an agreeable or an unwelcome one. There was more 
 of coldness and hardness in his present greeting than there had 
 been in his farewell a few days before, but there was none of that 
 positive repugnance and aversion which he had manifested during 
 the greater part of their former interview. 
 
 Instead of rejecting his offered hand, as Uncle John almost 
 expected him to do, he took it kindly, and said : 
 
 " I did not expect another visit from you, sir. I thought that 
 we had parted for the last time in this world." 
 
 "And so did I, George," replied Uncle John, sorrowfully. 
 "Since I can give you neither comfort nor benefit, believe me 
 that I would not voluntarily have repeated the pain of that other 
 parting. This interview is none of my seeking. I come, at the 
 request of your wife, to bring to you, before you die, your 
 daughter and hers." 
 
 His chains alone prevented his start of surprise from becoming 
 a leap. At first he did not answer. He was dumb with amaze- 
 ment ; but in a little while the frown upon his brow deepened 
 into a furrow, and his eye gleamed with passion, as he exclaimed, 
 angrily : 
 
 "Thou liest, by Heaven, old man I Did you not yourself ask 
 me, only two days ago, who and where my wife was, and give me 
 your reasons for asking these questions ? Now you come to me 
 
CAMERON HALL. 393 
 
 professing to bring my child, who has been sent by mj wife I 
 Methinks you must take me for both boy and dotard. The other 
 day you catechised me like the one, now you would cheat me as 
 if I were the other ! Would to God you could let me die in 
 peace, without raking up all the torturing memories of my whole 
 life to haunt me at its close I" 
 
 "God forbid," replied Uncle John, solemnly, "that I should 
 add to the torture which you now bear I I repeat, that I would 
 not willingly have intruded myself upon you now ; but under the 
 circumstances I could not refuse your wife's request." 
 
 "And pray where did you so unexpectedly find my wife and 
 child?" ^ 
 
 " In Hopedale, where I have known them for years; but never, 
 until since I saw you, as the wife and child of George Cameron." 
 
 "In Hopedale!" he repeated, sneeringly and bitterly. "And 
 so my father and his family have helped to separate me from my 
 wife and child I Doubtless, they thought that the boy who could 
 not appreciate such home-ties as they had offered him, would not 
 be fitted, as a man, to take care of his own wife and child ! I 
 doubt not they have done it much better than I could, and I owe 
 them much for having relieved me of the trouble 1" 
 
 The scorn and bitterness with which he spoke were absolutely 
 intolerable to Uncle John, and it required a great effort for him 
 to control himself sufficiently to reply caloily. 
 
 "You do them gross injustice, George. 'Unless. your wife has 
 herself told them, since I left Hopedale, of her relationship to yon, 
 your father and sisters are still ignorant of it." 
 
 " She must have learned to keep a secret," he answered, " bet- 
 ter than most of her sex, if she has lived years, as you say, in the 
 neighborhood of my father's family, and has never by word or 
 look betrayed her connection with them." 
 
 "It may be remarkable, but it is nevertheless true. For years, 
 your father and sisters have loved her as a dear friend, without 
 suspecting that she was more ; and her child could not have been 
 dearer to them, if they had known the closeness of the tie that 
 bound her to them." 
 
 " If not to seek their aid and countenance, will you please to 
 tell me why she should have selected their home as hers ?" 
 
 "That question she must herself answer. I cannot. I know 
 nothing of the history of her past life, except what I have heard 
 from yourself and her father. Though our intercourse has for 
 years been in all other respects without reserve, yet she has never 
 made the slightest allusion to her past life." 
 
 "And what of my daughter ? What is she like ?" 
 
 "You are the best judge of that. She is the blind child whom 
 
394 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 you met upon the steamer; the only friend, as you yourself ac- 
 knowledged, that you had made for years." 
 
 Had a thunderbolt fallen at his feet and severed his chains, 
 George Cameron could not have been more astounded. He sat 
 for a little while in blank amazement; and when by degrees he 
 began to comprehend the full meaning of Uncle John's words, he 
 suddenly pulled his hat down over his eyes and wept like a child. 
 After awhile he said, hurriedly : 
 
 " Where is she ? Why did you not bring her with you ?" 
 
 "I thought it best, George, to prepare you for the interview; 
 and I am very glad that she has not witnessed this. We, her 
 friends, like to spare her everything like sorrow. Her life is dark 
 enough at best ; we only tell her what will lighten it, and give 
 her as much sunshine as possible." 
 
 "You are right, sir. And does she know who it is that she is 
 coming to see?" 
 
 "She knows nothing, except that she is coming to see* her 
 friend, Mr. George, and thinks that she has come in accordance 
 with your expressed anxiety to see her again. I delivered your 
 message, and nothing more, just as you requested. You are the 
 proper person to tell her the rest if you think best." 
 
 The prisoner's whole frame shook with emotion, as he ex- 
 claimed in a tone that went to the heart of his listener : 
 
 "I would give, oh ! I would give years of my wasted life for 
 the blessed privilege of clasping my daughter to my heart, and 
 telling her that I am her erring but repentant father, of asking 
 and receiving from those childish lips, before I die, full and free 
 forgiveness for the wrong which she is too innocent to appre- 
 ciate ! But no," he added, touchingly, "it must not be — and I 
 deserve it all. To her pure heart the knowledge that she had 
 such a father, and that he had caused so much misery to the 
 mother whom she idolizes, would be a blindness of the heart 
 deeper and more intolerable than that of her eyes. I will spare 
 her. She shall only know me as the friend of her brief voyage, 
 and for her sake I will deny myself the only comfort that is left 
 me now. It seems a small reparation for past wrongs ; but God 
 only knows the sacrifice that it costs." 
 
 The hard and unrelenting man was at last overcome. He had 
 been inaccessible to the offices of friendship, and had received all 
 such offers with a sneer or with cold indifference. He had heard, 
 without a pang of remorse, of his childhood's home, and had had 
 no kind message for those whom, without cause, he had forsaken 
 in his youth. He had even uttered no word of regret for the 
 trusting heart whose happiness he had blighted, and had spoken 
 with carelessness and levity of the fearful doom to which he was 
 
CAMERON HALL. 395 
 
 hastening; but callous as he was to all other influences, he was 
 at last broken down by the thought of his little blind child, and 
 the repentance which nothing else could wring from him flowed 
 unbidden at the recollection of her wrongs. 
 
 All at once a sudden thought seemed to strike hira, and already 
 half ashamed that a stranger should have been witness to his un- 
 usual emotion, he looked up, and fastened upon Uncle John's^ 
 face a deep, earnest gaze, as if he would read his heart. 
 
 Apparently he was satisfied with the scrutiny, and said, 
 thoughtfully: 
 
 "You are, you must be telling the truth, for your face speaks 
 it; and yet it would be a comfort to have some assurance, some 
 proof that she is indeed my child." 
 
 "Will this satisfy you?" replied Uncle John, placing in his 
 hand the letter that Grace had given him. 
 
 He opened it, and recognized in an instant those youthful vows 
 of life-long devotion, all of which he had broken. It was a mute 
 but a powerful reproach, and as such, it stung him to the soul. 
 He trembled visibly as he gave it back, and said, half in anger 
 and half in sorrow : 
 
 " This is indeed sufiBcient. It is a double-edged sword that 
 she has used to avenge herself! Methinks she might have found 
 some other proof equally convincing and less keen in its edge." 
 
 "I know nothing of the contents of the letter, George; but 
 this much I know, she never designed to inflict unnecessary pain. 
 This is not in keeping with her character. Grace did not intend 
 to torture, but to convince, and she gave me what she said would 
 be sufficient proof if you should require it." 
 
 " Did you call her Grace ?" he asked. " That is not her name. 
 Her maiden name was Mary Middleton. But go, sir," he added, 
 impatiently, " we are wasting time, and. minutes are precious. 
 Go and bring my child to me." 
 
 "Farewell, George Cameron," said Uncle John, extending his 
 hand. "I will not again intrude upon you during the brief time 
 that you have to spend with Agnes. Farewell ; may God for- 
 give you and have mercy upon your soul !" 
 
 " Farewell, sir," he apswered, feelingly. " Thank you for this 
 kindness at the close of a life which has had but little ; but, per- 
 haps, that little was more than it deserved!" 
 
 He still held Uncle John's hand, and there was a slight tremor 
 in his voice, as he asked : 
 
 "Am I only to see her once?" 
 
 "As often as you please." 
 
 " How long are you authorized to keep her here ?" 
 
 " Just as long as you want her." 
 
396 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "This is TVednesday. To-morrow is Thursday, and then 
 Friday." 
 
 He paused, and his face was very pale, as he added : 
 
 " I shall not need her after to-morrow. Let her spend this 
 afternoon with me, and all day to-morrow, if she is willing to 
 stay." 
 
 » " She will scarcely need any other persuasion than the assur- 
 ance that it will give you pleasure. I will go and bring her at 
 once." 
 
 George Cameron's whole frame shook nervously, as he saw 
 Uncle John leading Agnes into his cell. Her hand was stretched 
 out before her, as it always was when she was in a strange place, 
 and it very nearly came in contact with the irons upon his wrist. 
 
 " Confound these things," he muttered, "they will betray me !" 
 
 "Where are you, Mr. George?" she asked. 
 
 He grasped her hand without speaking, and pressed a kiss 
 upon her lips, so full of strong, passionate feeling, that the child 
 was astonished. 
 
 "Agnes," said Uncle John, "I am going out now for a little 
 while, but I will not go far away. Whenever you want me I will 
 come." 
 
 "Yery well, Uncle John," she answered, cheerfully. "When 
 Mr. George and I get tired of each other, I will call you. It will 
 seem like being on the steamer again, for me to l3e talking to 
 Mr. George, only that the air here is not fresh and sweet as it was 
 on the ocean." 
 
 It was several minutes before George Cameron felt that he was 
 sufficiently master of himself to speak. It completely unmanned 
 him to look upon that childish face, and to think of the double 
 claim which her blindness and helplessness gave her upon a 
 father's protecting care and love. But while she had not found 
 that parental care where she had a right to expect it, it was still 
 very evident that she had not felt the want of it. There was none 
 of the sadness of orphanage upon that blind face, and while the 
 thought that his child had never needed him was full of bitter- 
 ness, yet there was a melancholy satisfaction mingled with it, 
 when he remembered that his neglected duty had not helped to 
 darken her life. 
 
 Had Agnes been more accustomed to his voice, she would at 
 once have detected the unnatural constraint in his tone, as he 
 said : 
 
 "Agnes, it was very kind in you to leave your mother and 
 come so far to see a stranger, — one, too, who has never been 
 able to make himself agreeable to a child of your age." 
 
 " I was willing to come, Mr. George," she answered, " when 
 
CAMERON HALL. 397 
 
 Uncle John told me that you wanted to see me very much; but. 
 I would a great deal rather that you should have come to see 
 me. I am happier at home, with mother, than I can be any- 
 where else, and I wanted her to write and ask you to come and 
 see me ; but she told me that you could not come, for a soldier 
 cannot leave the army whenever he pleases. I don't know about 
 your being agreeable to other children, but you always were to 
 me; and you know that on the steamer I liked to talk to you 
 better than anybody else, except Uncle John." 
 
 " Yes, Agnes, you were always kind to me, and I have thought 
 many times, since we parted, of the little blind child who had 
 given me so much comfort." 
 
 "And I, too, have thought many times of what you used to 
 tell me about your feeling better after you had talked to me. Do 
 you know, Mr. George, that you are the first person to whom I 
 was ever really useful ? You don't know how ranch I like to 
 think of this. You, who have eyes, and can always be doing 
 good to somebody, cannot imagine how pleasant it is for a blind 
 child, who has never been able to do anything for others, to be 
 told that she has been useful even to one single person." 
 
 "You, who can always be doing good to somebody !" What 
 a reproach to the unhappy father coming from the lips of his un- 
 conscious child ! He felt it in his inmost soul, and with difficulty 
 stifled the groan that struggled to his lips. He was thankful 
 that he was not compelled to dissimulate with his face as well as 
 with voice and words, as he answered : 
 
 " Perhaps, Agnes, you underrate your usefulness. I doubt not 
 but you have done quite as much to promote the happiness of 
 your friends as other children have, who can see. What, for in- 
 stance, would your — your mother and Uncle John do without 
 you?" 
 
 " They would be very lonely, sir, and would miss me very 
 much ; but only because I occupy so much of their time and 
 thoughts ; not because I have ever been useful to them." 
 
 "Agnes," said the prisoner, abruptly, his face working convul- 
 sively, "your — your mother, is she happy?" 
 
 " Certainly, sir," she replied, " my mother is happy. She is 
 good, and good people are always happy." 
 
 "I am not so sure of that, my child. I have known some very 
 good people who had a great deal of trouble to make them 
 sad. " 
 
 "And so my mother has often told me that she has had. They 
 say, too, that she always looks sad ; but may not sad people be 
 happy ?" 
 
 "No, Agnes, it seems to me a contradiction in terms." 
 
 34 
 
398 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " Perhaps so, sir; I don't know much about such things; but I 
 thought that people were sad when God afflicted them, and un- 
 happy when they did wrong. Xow, my mother is a Christian. 
 She always tries to do right, and so she cannot be unhappy, 
 although she may sometimes be sad." 
 
 " You are a singular child. Who taught you such no- 
 tions ?" 
 
 " Nobody taught me, but I must have learned them from 
 mother and Uncle John, Mr. Derby and Mr. Cameron, Miss 
 Julia and Eva, for they are my only companions." 
 
 " Miss Julia, Miss Eva 1" he repeated, thoughtfully. "Agnes, 
 do you love these ladies very much ? You mention them very 
 often." 
 
 "Do I love them?" she repeated, in surprise. "What a 
 question ! But I forgot, you don't know them, Mr. George. If 
 you did, you never would have asked it. Indeed, I do love them 
 very dearly, and I should be a most ungrateful child if I did 
 not." 
 
 " They are kind to you, then ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, just as kind and affectionate as if they were my own 
 sisters." 
 
 " Is Eva pretty ? But I forgot, you cannot see." 
 
 " Yes, sir, mother says that she is very pretty, and I am sure 
 that she must be, for she has such a bright, glad voice, and such 
 a ringing laugh, and long, thick curls. Yes, we all think that 
 Eva, is beautiful, and somebody else does, too, and that is Mr. 
 Willie." 
 
 "And who is he, Agnes ?" 
 
 "A young soldier, who was wounded at Manassas, and brought 
 to the hospital in Hopedale ; and when he was well enough to 
 be moved, they took him out to the Hall, where Miss Julia 
 nursed him for months; and now he is nearly well, and he and 
 Eva are going to be married." 
 
 "What !" he exclaimed, in his surprise thrown completely oflf 
 his guard. " Going to be married ! When I last " 
 
 He suddenly checked himself, and forced himself to ask, 
 quietly : 
 
 " How old is she ? Is she not very young to be married ?" 
 
 " I don't know, sir. She is seventeen, and she must be old 
 enough, or her father would not have consented. And, besides, 
 they are not going to be married now. Mr. Cameron wants 
 them to wait until the war is over, but Uncle John does not 
 think that they will be able to do it." 
 
 The child's words were altosether unheeded by her companion, 
 for memory was busy picturing, with all the vividness of present 
 
CAMERON HALL.^ 399 
 
 reality, that last scene at home so many years ago. How well he 
 remembered the little group under the oak-tree ; how plainly he 
 saw the curly-headed Eva, half amazed and half terrified, the 
 enraged Walter holding in one hand his dandelion curl, and 
 doubling up his other fist ready for the expected combat; and 
 last of all, the indignant little Julia standing as a shield between 
 him and his victim ! And that well-remembered willow twig ; 
 ah I its memory lashed him now with a keener sting than it had 
 then inflicted on that childish face, and the bright-red mark 
 across her cheek was as painfully vivid as when she had stood 
 before him, quivering with mingled pain and anger. 
 
 Agnes waited long for a reply, and then said : 
 
 "Are you thinking, Mr. George ?" 
 
 "Yes, my daughter," he answered, sadly. "I was thinking — 
 thinking." 
 
 She instantly detected the alteration in his tone, and asked : 
 
 "Are you sad, Mr. George?" 
 . He thought that, according to her definition of terms, he might 
 oe called not sad, but unhappy; and perceiving that he must 
 guard his tone as well as his words, and determined not to be- 
 tray himself, he replied, with an attempt at cheerfulness : 
 
 "No, indeed, Agnes, not sad to-day. I have too good com- 
 pany for that." 
 
 " Mr. George," she said, " I was so glad when Uncle John 
 told me that you were a soldier." 
 
 " Why so, child ?" 
 
 " For several reasons. You told me when I first knew you 
 that you had no friends and nothing to do. Now in the army 
 you will have both, and what is better still, you will be happy in 
 doing your duty to your country, by fighting and helping to drive 
 away these miserable Yankees." 
 
 The father became restless. He did not like the subject, but 
 was afraid to excite her suspicion by seeming to avoid it, and he 
 replied, in a careless, indifi"erent tone : 
 
 " Why, Agnes, don't you like the Yankees ?" 
 
 In other circumstances he would have been amused at the ex- 
 pression of blank amazement upon her face, and he listened with- 
 out surprise, as she answered, coldly : 
 
 "Now, Mr. George, if I did not know that you wanted to 
 tease me as Uncle John does sometimes, I would get right up 
 and go away, and would not say another word to you ; but of 
 course you cannot love the Yankees any better than I do, or you 
 would not be fighting against them. Now, if you knew my 
 friends in Hopedale, and loved them as I do, you would fight 
 all the harder in the next battle, for what they did to them." 
 
400 'cAMERON HALL. 
 
 " What did they do ?" 
 
 " They actually burned up Mr. Cameron's barns full of grain, 
 and all his meat, and stole all his horses and mules, except a few 
 old useless ones, so that he cannot make another crop next year, 
 and does not know where he is to get food for his servants 
 now." 
 
 Her listener grew more and more disturbed. He dared not 
 stop the child, but he did not answer, hoping that she would 
 soon grow weary of the subject ; but she was evidently excited, 
 and talked rapidly and with far more bitterness of feeling than 
 he had ever seen her show before. Little dreaming that the sub- 
 ject could be objectionable to a Confederate soldier, as she sup- 
 posed him to be, she went on : 
 
 " When they first arrived at the Hall, Mr. Cameron was not 
 there. Miss Julia and Eva, two unprotected young ladies, were 
 the only persons at home, and yet these soldiers, with a lieutenant 
 at their head, searched the house from top to bottom. They 
 even went in the ladies' bureau-drawers, and Eva's writing- 
 desk, and the oflQcer read Willie's letters to her before her eyes. 
 He pretended that he was searching for a Confederate soldier; 
 but when he found the silver spoons and forks, he showed what 
 he really came for, by putting them into his pocket. What do 
 you think of that, Mr. George ? What do you think of a soldier, 
 an officer, stealing silver spoons ?" 
 
 He did not reply, and presently she compelled an answer, by 
 repeating her question. 
 
 " Say, Mr. George, what do you think of that ?" 
 
 "I think, Agnes, that the whole proceeding was a villainous 
 one ; but do you think that it is fair to judge a whole army by 
 two or three soldiers, or all its officers by one ? Perhaps in 
 your — in the Confederate army some might be found no better 
 than these." 
 
 " Now, Mr. George !" she exclaimed, half angrily, " are you 
 going to put our soldiers and our officers on a level with such 
 people as these? You are not talking pleasantly, now," she 
 added, with the candor which, in consideration of her infirmity, 
 she had always been privileged to use. " I don't like to hear 
 you talk so at all." 
 
 "Well, my child," he answered, "it will surely not be difficult 
 to find more pleasant things to talk about. The subject, Agnes, 
 was not of my choosing; it was yours." 
 
 " It is not the subject, Mr. George, that I find fault with ; it is 
 the way that you talk about it. Of course you do not mean it; 
 but it sounds like excusing them. Ni)w, if you were a Yankee, 
 you might say so, for nobody would expect you to be any better 
 
CAMERON HALL. 401 
 
 than the rest of them ; but you are no Yankee. Didn't you tell 
 me on the steamer that you belong to my State, Yirginia?" 
 
 "Yes, I am a Yirginian." 
 
 "Well, then," she said, very decidedly, "you ought to be the 
 last man in the world to say anything that sounds like excusing 
 the Yankees for what they have done and are now doing in your 
 own State, — burning property, stealing cattle, and destroying 
 railroads." 
 
 "Agnes," he said, amused even in the midst of his depression 
 and gloom, "you are the most incorrigible little rebel that I ever 
 saw. " 
 
 " I don't like to be called a rebel, Mr. George. It is a Yankee 
 name." 
 
 " Do you like Secesh better?" 
 
 "No, I abhor that; for they call us that to show their con- 
 tempt for us. I like to be called a Southerner, which is just 
 what I am." 
 
 " Somebody has indoctrinated you thoroughly, Agnes. Who 
 is it, — your mother ?" 
 
 " What do you mean by that, Mr. George ?" 
 
 " I mean that somebody has made you a fierce, hot Southerner^ 
 Who did it ?" 
 
 " God," she answered, reverently. " He had me born in the 
 South, and I can no more help loving my country, and getting 
 angry when I see it ruined and desolated, than I could help 
 loving my mother, and getting angry if I saw her tormented and 
 abused." 
 
 Every word that the child uttered was a home-thrust, which 
 pierced only the deeper because she did it so unconsciously. 
 The father felt them all, and yet he could not resist an unac- 
 countable temptation to draw out her feelings to the utmost 
 extent ; and so he said : 
 
 "Agnes, if such are your feelings toward a real Yankee, who 
 invades your Southern country, what would they be toward a 
 Southern Yankee." 
 
 " What is that, Mr. George ? I never heard of such a thing." 
 
 " It is a man who is a Southerner by birth, but a Yankee in 
 feeling; who either joins the Yankee army, or believes that it is 
 right in desolating and ruining the Southern country." 
 
 "A man to join an army for invading and desolating his own 
 country, or believe that such a thing is right!" she exclaimed, 
 with horror and amazement. " Oh, Mr. George, I don't believe 
 that such a villain as that is in the world !" 
 
 " Oh, Agnes !" he exclaimed, involuntarily, " don't say that." 
 
 "Yes I will I" she replied, in a most excited manner. "I 
 
 34* 
 
402 CAMERON HALL. • 
 
 don't believe that anybody who had a man's heart could be wicked 
 enou<^h for that 1" 
 
 "What would you do, Agnes, if you were to meet such a 
 person?" 
 
 "Loathe and scorn him!" she answered, "and keep far from 
 him, as I would from a viper !" 
 
 Her whole face expressed unutterable loathing, and even her 
 sightless eyes seemed to flash with indignation. Involuntarily 
 her listener tried to shrink away, as if he felt the glance of her 
 burning scorn; but presently he remembered, with a feeling of 
 relief, that she could not see the object of her contempt, and he 
 murmured, inaudibly : 
 
 " Better as it is ! Ignorance is bliss for you, my child. I 
 would not plant such a sting in your young heart, even for a 
 thousandfold greater pleasure than it would give me now to tell 
 you all I No ; you shall know me only as your friend 1" 
 
 " What did you say, Mr. George ?" she asked. " I did not 
 hear you." 
 
 " Nothing, my child, nothing. Now tell me something about 
 your home and your mother." 
 
 Frankly and unsuspiciously she told him of her mother, and 
 3isclosed many things in her past and present history which 
 caused a pang, and wrung forth a sigh from her listener. It 
 was almost dark when Uncle John came to say that it was time 
 to go. 
 
 "You will come back to-morrow, Agnes, and see me?" the 
 father said. 
 
 " Why cannot you come to see me ?" she asked. " Our rooms 
 at the hotel are pleasanter than yours. It is damp and close 
 here." 
 
 "I cannot come to you, Agnes. Don't you know that your 
 mother told you a soldier could not leave his post and go away 
 whenever he pleased ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; but you cannot be very busy, or you would not 
 have had time to talk so long to me now." 
 
 " No, I am not very busy, but a soldier is obliged to obey 
 orders, and ask no questions. I have been ordered to stay here, 
 and I must do so, no matter how much I would like to take a 
 walk or pay a visit." 
 
 " Well, Mr. George, if that is the case, I will come to see you 
 again to-morrow morning, if Uncle John will bring me." 
 
 It required all the prisoner's dexterity and watchfulness to 
 prevent the clanking of his chains, and to keep his fettered hands 
 from coming in contact with hers, as he clasped her in a tight 
 embrace. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 403 
 
 On their return to the hotel, she asked: 
 
 "When are you going home, Uncle John?" 
 
 "Day after to-morrow morning, Agnes." 
 
 "Will your business all be finished then?" 
 
 "Yes; and I shall be very glad to get home again. Won't 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes, sir; I love home better than any other place, — Paris, 
 or Richmond, or any place," 
 
 The next day she spent with the prisoner. Their conversation 
 was almost exclusively about the families at the cottage and the 
 Hall, and sometimes be felt a longing desire to send some mes- 
 sage to both households; bat this would involve a betrayal of 
 himself to Agnes, and besides, there was still a lurking bitterness 
 in his heart, which made all such feelings only momentary. There 
 was but one soft spot there, and that Agnes had found and wholly 
 appropriated. To wife, and father, and sisters he was still per- 
 fectly indifferent. 
 
 As the day began to wane, the last day of his earthly life, he 
 became so oppressed and dejected that it required a great effort 
 to talk at all, and sometimes there was a pause of several minutes 
 in the conversation. After one of these, he said, sadly : 
 
 "Agnes, you are going away to-morrow, and I do not feel as if 
 I would ever see you again." 
 
 " Oh, Mr. George, you must not say that. Some time you 
 must get a furlough, and come to Hopedale to see me, and then 
 you shall know and learn to love my mother, and the family at 
 the Hall, and shall never say again that you have no friends. 
 You must promise to come ; will you ?" 
 
 "Yes, if it should ever be possible." 
 
 " But why may it not be possible ?" 
 
 " You know, Agnes, that a soldier's life is very uncertain. 
 Mine may not be a long one." 
 
 " Yes, perhaps so ; but that is not certain, and a soldier ought 
 not to expect to be killed. He ought to do his duty, and hope 
 that God will spare him to do something great for his country. 
 That is what mother told Mr. Walter when he went away." 
 
 The prisoner's answer was a sigh, which almost amounted to a 
 groan. After a little while, he said : 
 
 "You will promise, my child, not to forget me." 
 
 " Yes, sir, I will promise never to forget you, and always to 
 love you too." 
 
 "Thank you, my darling, thank you !" he answered with grateful 
 earnestness. 
 
 "And will you promise, Mr. George, to come to Hopedale ?" 
 
 "Yes, if lean." 
 
404 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "And if I write to you, or rather if I get mother to do it for 
 me, will you answer the letter ?'' ^ 
 
 " Yes, Agnes, if I should ever receive it." 
 
 The child was gone. He had strained her passionately to his 
 heart, in a last embrace, aud had sent her away forever from her 
 father's presence as from the presence of a stranger. He listened 
 to her retreating footsteps, and when they were lost in the dis- 
 tance, the wretched man sank upon the floor and sobbed like a 
 child. 
 
 The next morning Uncle John went again to the prison. He 
 did not go in, but simply inquired of the guard if the execution 
 was over. 
 
 "Yes, sir," he answered, "it took piace at nine o'clock." 
 
 At eleven he and Agnes were in the cars, on their way to 
 Hopedale. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIY. 
 
 The morning after Uncle John and Agnes had gone to Rich- 
 mond, Grace walked out to the Hall. The walk was too long 
 for her at any time, and she had never undertaken it but once 
 before, and then under strong excitement. Julia saw her as she 
 entered the gate, and immediately conjecturing that something 
 was wrong, she hastened to meet her half way down the lawn. 
 
 "What is the matter, Grace ?" she exclaimed, as she saw her 
 haggard face and flagging steps. 
 
 She replied by asking : 
 
 " Is your father at home, Julia? I must see him alone." 
 
 When they reached the house, her strength gave way, and she 
 sank exhausted upon the steps. Julia was now both alarmed 
 and distressed. She saw that something very unusual was the 
 matter, for she knew Grace well enough to be assured that only 
 an intolerable trouble could thus overcome«her. 
 
 "You are sick and in trouble," she said, anxiously. "What 
 must I do for you ?" 
 
 "Only take me to your father, Julia." 
 
 Julia half led, half supported her to the library, where her 
 father was alone. 
 
 Mr. Cameron saw at once that she was greatly agitated, and 
 there was even more of kindness and gentleness than usual in his 
 greeting. They sat several minutes in silence, he waiting for her 
 
CAMERON HALL. 405 
 
 
 
 to speak, and she trying to nerve herself to do it. At last, in a 
 few words, she told him the mystery of her life, and gave him 
 convincing proof that the unknown stranger, whom the kindness 
 of years had made his friend, was none other than his dau2:hter- 
 in-law, and the blind child, who had been scarcely less to him 
 than a daughter, was indeed his own grandchild. 
 
 Mr. Cameron was astounded. She had finished her stDry sev- 
 eral minutes before he replied at all, and then he said, in a tone 
 of mingled kindness and reproach : 
 
 "And why, my daughter, have you waited all these years to tell 
 me this ? Why have you toiled and struggled to support yourself 
 and your helpless child in the very sight of a comfortable home, 
 where there was room enough and love enough for you and her? 
 Why have you denied me the opportunity of doing my duty to 
 you both ? And if you had determined that you and she should 
 live independent of the care and affection of the Cameron family, 
 why did you seek their home for your own ?" 
 
 "I came to Hopedale, sir, for two reasons. One was to bring 
 my child within reach of your protecting care if she should ever 
 need it. I never intended to ask aid from any one so long as I 
 had health and strength to provide for her myself, but I had no 
 right to leave her helpless and friendless, and I always purposed 
 to reveal myself to you in case that I should be about to die. 
 My other reason for coming here was because I felt assured that 
 here, under the very wing of the home which he had left in his 
 youth, and against which, for some unknown reason, he was so 
 embittered, I would be secure against discovery if my husband 
 should ever attempt to find me." 
 
 "Were your feelings so bitter toward him, Grace ?" asked Mr. 
 Cameron. 
 
 " I felt, sir, that I never wanted to see him more. My love 
 was strong, as strong and trusting as ever woman bestowed upon 
 a husband; but, Mr. Cameron, even such love as mine can wither 
 and die. When I first sought refuge in Hopedale, it was under 
 strong excitement. I had not ceased to love my husband then. 
 No, I loved him devotedly, passionately, even then; but, stung 
 with a sense of injustice and wrong, and burning with indigna- 
 tion at receiving neglect and desertion where I had a right to ex- 
 pect love and protection, my chief anxiety was to disappoint him 
 if he should ever try to find me again. My love died out years 
 ago. Now I am oppressed with a sense of his degradation, but 
 it is more on Agnes's account than on my own ; it is rather be- 
 cause he is her father than because he is my husband." 
 
 " But, Grace, since you have thought it best to keep your secret 
 for years, why have you revealed it now ?" 
 
406 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "Because the reasons for secrecy no longer exist. I will never 
 be sought now, and I have shown myself capable of taking care 
 of myself and Agnes, and that I require nothing at your hands. 
 On the contrary, it may be that, as daughter and sister, I can do 
 something for you in our common calamity. "When you were 
 prosperous and happy, I cared not to cast a shadow upon you by 
 revealiri^ myself as the deserted wife of your erring son. All my 
 own individual grief I have kept to myself, but this is a common 
 grief, brought alike upon you and me by him, and as his wife it 
 is both my duty and my right to share it with you, his father and 
 sisters. If I can do no more, I can, at least, feel and suffer with 
 you." 
 
 " I respect your motive, my daughter," replied Mr. Cameron, 
 "but at the same time I must condemn your action. You have 
 wronged both yourself and us : yourself, by being shut out from 
 the protection and love of those upon whom, from your peculiar 
 circumstances, you had even more than a daughter's claim ; and 
 us, by keeping us in ignorance of a duty which, had we known it, 
 we would most gladly have fulfilled. My poor daughter," he 
 added, looking compassionately at her, "how you must have suf- 
 fered all these years, bearing your burden silently, and without 
 sympathy !" 
 
 "That has added no little to its weight, sir," she replied. 
 "After I learned to know you well, and especially since Julia has 
 grown up with a heart so full of sympathy, I have often longed 
 for the comfort of a full confession, and the restraint that I im- 
 posed upon myself was only another element in my cup of sor- 
 row. I could have borne it better elsewhere, but for my child's 
 sake it was better to remain here, and so I did. I have kept my 
 secret, Mr. Cameron, but it has cost a continual effort to do it." 
 
 " Indeed, my daughter, you have kept it well, too well for your 
 comfort and for my duty; but silence and mystery are ended now. 
 The forsaken wife of that unfortunate boy, who began his career 
 in disobedience and is about to end it in dishonor, shall find a 
 father in the parent whom he abandoned, and a home beneath the 
 roof which he deserted. Hereafter, Grace, you and Agnes shall 
 find a home in your father's house, and be sheltered by his love 
 and care." 
 
 She shook her head, and answered : 
 
 "No, sir, that cannot be." 
 
 "How now ?" he exclaimed, almost angrily. "Am I still to be 
 denied the privilege from which I have been so long shut out ?" 
 
 "Agnes must never know," she replied, " what 1 have now told 
 you." 
 
 "Now this passes comprehension," he said, impatiently. "One 
 
CAMERON HALL. ' 407 
 
 would think that the child had lived long enough near her grand- 
 father without knowing it." 
 
 "I cannot consent," she answered, quietly, "that my child 
 should. first know her father as a criminal." 
 
 " She need never know that. We can only tell her that her 
 father is my son, and that he is dead." 
 
 " That, sir, will be impossible. George's unhappy end is no 
 •secret. If I could I would still keep her in ignorance of his name 
 and existence, but this I cannot hope to do. Newspapers will 
 herald his crime and his fate through the length and breadth of 
 the land, and somebody will be sure to tell her. She will be suf- 
 ficiently grieved for the sake of her friends at the Hall, she must 
 not be grieved too on her own account. Believe me, sir, it is 
 better, far better, that when Agnes hears the name of George 
 Cameron, it should fall upon her ears as that of a stranger, with 
 whom she has no further concern than to sympathize with the 
 trouble and sorrow that he has brought upon you." 
 
 "But would it not be something of a compensation for this 
 knowledge to find that those whom she has been accustomed to 
 regard as friends are something more ? that she is bound to them 
 by the ties of blood, and has the strong claim of relationship 
 upon them ?" 
 
 "Agnes is nothing but a simple child, Mr. Cameron, and knows 
 and cares little for ties of blood. Years of affectionate kindness 
 have bound her to you by a love that no relationship could in- 
 crease, and she could neither love you better herself, nor expect 
 more affection from you, if you were a thousand times her grand- 
 father." 
 
 "You may be right, Grace," he answered, doubtfully. "God 
 knows that I would not do anything to make her unhappy, and 
 yet it would be a great comfort to me to be able, without restraint, 
 to lavish my affection upon her. I would like to compensate her 
 now for all these lost years." 
 
 "You need not restrain your affection, sir. Lavish it upon 
 her as fully and as freely as you will, it will not surprise her, for 
 she has long been accustomed to it. Indeed, I think you will 
 find it difficult to be kinder or more affectionate to her than you 
 have been for years." 
 
 " Then, Grace, if I understand it, we must rejoice quietly in 
 our new-found ties. The world must know nothing of them." 
 
 "Yes, sir, for the present, at least, for Agnes's sake. Mr. Der- 
 by and Uncle John already know it. Mr. Derby has known it 
 ever since I first came to Hopedale, and I told Uncle John night 
 before last, when I asked him to take Agnes to see her father." 
 
 "Has she gone?" he inquired, in surprise. 
 
408 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "Yes, sir. They left yesterday afternoon. Her father proves 
 to be not altogether a stranger. He is the friend whose acquaint- 
 ance she made on the steamer, and whom she only knows as Mr. 
 George. As ignorant as herself, he sent a kind message to her, 
 and expressed a wish to see her, a wish which, under the circum- 
 stances, I felt that I had no right to disregard. I feel some anx- 
 iety lest he may reveal himself to her, but I expn^ssed no wish 
 upon the subject. Perhaps I ought to be willing, if ib will com-* 
 fort him ; but knowing the child as I do, I cannot help wishing to 
 spare her the pain which this knowledge would certainly iniiict. 
 As to ourselves, let us continue outwardly our same relation as 
 friends. The world has nothing to do with our ties and our inner 
 life. As to happiness, there is, I su-^pect, as little in the future 
 for you as there is for me, for such a blow will leave in your heart 
 but little capacity for it, and I myself bade farewell to it years 
 ago. But we can be as father and daughter to each other — a 
 mutual comfort and solace." 
 
 " I cannot but acquiesce in your wishesi, my daughter, however 
 much I may doubt their expediency. One thing, however, I shall 
 insist upon. I have consented to your terms, you must now 
 agree to mine. If in the eyes of the world we are to be nothing 
 more than friends, in reality it must be far otherwise. I will not 
 be satisfied merely with the name of father ; you must allow me 
 to act a father's part. Even while ignorant of our relationship, 
 your conduct in this particular has always been unaccountable to 
 me. You have uniformly and consistently rejected from me 
 kindness which you were willing to receive from others upon whom 
 you had no stronger claim." 
 
 " But you understand it now, Mr. Cameron. So long as I 
 kept my secret from you I resolved to be independent of you. 
 Hereafter I shall not only desire but I shall expect to be treated 
 as a daughter." 
 
 The sisters, equally surprised at Grace's t'idings, received them 
 with characteristic difference of opinion. Eva was bitterly op- 
 posed to having Agnes kept in ignorance. She was satisfied 
 that the child, if she knew all, would love her much better than 
 she could possibly do now; and as to herself, she was very sure 
 that her intercourse with Agnes would hereafter always be re- 
 strained for fear of betraying what she was told to conceal. But 
 Grace quietly overruled these objections, as she had done those 
 of her father. Julia, on the contrary, coincided entirely with the 
 mother, whose views struck an answering chord in her own feel- 
 ings. She well knew what Grace meant, by the sting which 
 would be thus planted in the chi'd's heart, and she agreed with 
 her that it would be an unnecessary infliction. This disclosure 
 
CAMERON HALL. 409 
 
 revealed to her, as it had done to her father, much that had here- 
 tofore been inexplicable in Grace's conduct ; for while she had 
 evidently been for years warmly attached to them, and was always 
 ready to perform for them the offices of friendship, there had been 
 a quiet but a very decided way of rejecting all favors from either 
 her father or herself, that had both surprised and annoyed her. 
 And yet, at the same time that she had thus rejected them for 
 herself, she had, with seeming inconsistency, not only allowed, 
 but even encouraged Agues to receive from them any kindness 
 whatever. Now Julia understood it all. She could appreciate 
 the feeling which made the mother shrink from being herself 
 under obligations, while she permitted her daughter to receive 
 what, as his child, she had a right to demand. She, as well as 
 Grace, regretted that the veil of mystery must still be thrown 
 over their connection. They would have preferred at once to 
 have made it known, but for Agnes's sake they were willing to 
 make the sacrifice. 
 
 When she and Uncle John returned, they found things going 
 on in their usual calm routine at the Hall and the cottage ; and 
 if there was a little more warmth, a little more tenderness with 
 which the grandfather pressed to his heart the blind child of his 
 erring son, she did not know it, for she could not see the tears 
 that he hastily brushed away, and, as her mother had foretold, 
 she had been too long accustomed to his affection to be surprised 
 at it now. 
 
 As Uncle John lifted her out of the buggy at her mother's 
 door, he whispered : 
 
 " You must not tell your mother about the child-angel, Agnes. 
 That is a secret between you and me, and nobody must tell her 
 that except myself" 
 
 "Oh no, Uncle John," she answered, "I won't say one word 
 about it !" 
 
 But, childlike, and bursting with the importance of keeping a 
 secret, she exclaimed, as soon as she met her mother : 
 
 " I have had a pleasant visit, mother, and Uncle John and I know 
 a great secret, and you will be so glad to know it some of these 
 days ; but we cannot tell you yet, can we, Uncle John ?" 
 
 " No, Agnes, I rely upon you to keep it. If you mention it 
 before I give you permission, I will never tell you another." 
 
 "Come to-night, Uncle John," said Grace, "and I will tell 
 you all. You deserve this proof of friendship at my hands." 
 
 That night, when Agnes was dreaming pleasantly about Uncle 
 John, his child-angel, and Mr. George, her mother was quietly 
 and painfully unfolding the records of a life of sorrow. He 
 listened attentively, and when she had finished he said : 
 
 35 
 
410 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "You have indeed suffered much, Grace ; but the worst is over 
 now. The rest of your life may be at least quiet and peaceful, 
 though it cannot be happy." 
 
 "Yes," she answered, "I know well that the worst is over 
 now. You may not have felt it, Uncle John," she said, with sad 
 earnestness, " but I know that when the heart is worn out by 
 years of sorrow, or crushed by a heavy blow, there is a sort of 
 painful satisfaction in the thought that it is dead, that never 
 more can it bleed and suffer as it has done before. Yes, I am 
 thankful that the worst is over now." 
 
 "I did not mean in that sense, Grace," he answered. "I do 
 not believe that after these past years of your life your heart will 
 be capable of what we call happiness, but it is not so dead that 
 it cannot enjoy peace, blessed peace, rest, and quiet, after years 
 of storm. Nor is it so dead that it will be indifferent to the 
 kind and soothing offices of kindred and friendship. Very mer- 
 ciful is it that at this crisis of your life you should have access to 
 such friends as those at the Hall, that your newly-revealed ties 
 should bind you to hearts so full of kindness and sympathy. 
 Had your husband's family been other than they are, their cold- 
 ness or indifference might have increased the chilling desolation 
 of your heart ; but as it is, you will find in their love a support, a 
 comfort, which, as yet, you can scarcely realize." 
 
 "Yes, I can. Uncle John. I have known for years what a 
 comfort it would be to me to be taken to their hearts as sister 
 and daughter; and had they not been just what they are, I should 
 not have told them what tbey know now." 
 
 "Grace," he said, "you have surprised them by the revelation 
 of what you are to them. You will be yourself not less amazed 
 to find out what you are to me. Your claim upon Mr. Cameron 
 is a strong one, upon me it is tenfold stronger; and were I to de- 
 vote the brief remnant of my life entirely to you it would be quite 
 too short to cancel the oi3ligation which I owe to tlie child- 
 angel, whose innocence and gentle companionship recalled me 
 from a wretched misanthropy to my better self" 
 
 Uncle John then told her the whole story. When he had 
 finished, she exclaimed, with tears : 
 
 " Oh, Uncle John ! if you had only told me this long ago ; if 
 you had only told me then what my poor old father said to you, 
 he would have had the satisfaction of finding at the last hour of 
 his life the daughter whom he had sought so long, and I would 
 have had the mournful privilege of closing those eyes, which, as 
 it was, were sealed by stranger hands. What would I not give 
 to have known then what you have told me now I" 
 
 "And what would I not give if I had told you ! But you must 
 
CAMERON HALL. 411 
 
 remember that he was absolutely dying when I heard it. But 
 had it been otherwise, I should probably not have told you, since 
 I little dreamed that you had ever heard more of George' Cam- 
 eron than his name." 
 
 "My poor, poor father I" she said, as her tears fell rapidly. 
 "A wanderer all his life, a wanderer even to the end ! Strange 
 indeed, was the Providence that brought him to die almost at his 
 daughter's door, and yet denied him the privilege of that dauo-h- 
 ter's care, and left him for strangers to nurse, for strangers^to 
 bury I Ah, Uncle John ! how mucl^, chastening I must have 
 needed, how much I have received ! Mj life, unlike that of 
 others, has not been checkered with joy and sorrow ; its only 
 variety has been the different shades and kinds of grief. The 
 young, unprotected daughter, patiently watching and longing for 
 the father who never came; the forsaken wife, looking and pray- 
 ing for the return of the husband from whom she was separated 
 though she knew it not, by a chasm wider and deeper than that 
 of death ; the helpless mother, thrown out upon the world with 
 her blind baby, in a life-long exile from all whom she had ever 
 known, and bearing, through weary years, a sorrow which was 
 eatmg out her very heart; to find herself, when she had just 
 reached the meridian of life, the widow of a condemned traitor, 
 and to learn that the father for whom she had waited in vain in 
 her youth had at last died within the very sound of her voice I 
 Oh ! what other and what different kinds of sorrow can still be 
 in reserve for me ?" 
 
 Uncle John listened in silence to the sad catalogue of sorrows 
 which she rehearsed. He had learned that in all great griefs, 
 words are but empty sounds, and that the true secret of friendly 
 comfort is silent sympathy. So he said not a word, but waited 
 a little while, and then grasping her hand, said kindly: 
 " May God support and help you, Grace !" 
 He then went away and left her alone with her sorrow. 
 
 CHAPTER XXY. 
 
 Time now dragged heavily both at the Hall and the cottage. 
 Eva's glad voice was hushed, and her girlish heart was sobered 
 by womanly fears and anxieties; and as she conjured up a thou- 
 sand torturing fancies with regard to Willie, she sometimes re- 
 membered with surprise, and it may be with a feeling of self- 
 
412 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 reproach too, the light-hearted carelessness with which she had 
 once spoken of war, and the anxieties of mothers, sisters, and 
 lovers. » 
 
 Julia was, if possible, more quiet than ever. She was altered 
 in appearance since Charles Beaufort left her, for sorrow must 
 and will have a vent ; if not in words and tears, it will reveal itself 
 in the cheek, the eye, the step. Once she had tried to conceal 
 her trouble, but there was no longer any need of this, for in the 
 great calamity that had fallen upon their house there was a suf- 
 ficiently apparent cause for her distress. And indeed for the 
 present this had swallowed up all other thoughts. George and 
 his fearful doom absorbed her mind, and if sometimes the recol- 
 lection of Charles would for a moment intrude, and she remem- 
 bered vrith a pang how completely she was severed from him now, 
 she instantly checked the selfishness which could bring into the 
 account her individual suffering, when her brother's crime had 
 been so fearfully expiated, and such a blight had fallen upon the 
 whole name and family. 
 
 "I cannot realize that to-morrow is Christmas; can you, sis- 
 ter?" asked Eva. 
 
 "Not now, Eva; but we will when we get into the church to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Julia worked away industriously at the little garland of cedar 
 and holly berries, which was designed for the portrait of her 
 mother that hung in her father's room, and was the only thing 
 about the house which was to wear its accustomed Christmas 
 dress. As she twined it around the frame, the soft, gentle eyes 
 seemed almost to smile upon her, and it was with a mingled feel- 
 ing of pleasure and pain that she looked at the face so identified 
 with her childhood : pain, at the recollection of that young 
 brother so vividly recalled by the sight of the mother ; and plea>ure, 
 'as she thought that her peace could not be disturbed, as theirs 
 was, bv that brother's mournful fate. 
 
 There was, indeed, nothing in the aspect of Cameron Hall on 
 Christmas morning to remind them of the festal day. Quiet, sad 
 faces met each other with the accustomed "good morning," be- 
 cause their lips could not frame the mockery of the Christmas 
 greeting. Their little breakfiist-table was a painful contrast to 
 the long, well-filled board, surrounded by gay and happy guests, 
 who were wont to come to spend the happy season at Cameron 
 Hall ; the parlor was cold, cheerless, and desolate, where usually 
 the blazing fire roared up the spacious chimney, diffusing cheer- 
 ful warmth and a ruddy glow upon the assembled party ; while 
 vases looked bright and gay, filled with the evergreens and the 
 holly, and family portraits smiled upon the guests from their 
 
CAMERON HALL. 413 
 
 frame-work of fresh green garlands. There was, indeed, nothing 
 at Cameron Hall now that looked like Christmas. All was cold 
 and quiet ; and as, after their unsocial meal, the father and daugh- 
 ters repaired in silence to the library, instead of following a gay 
 troop of guests into the parlor, as they had done a year ago, 
 they perhaps realized, m,ore painfully than ever before, the change 
 that one short year had produced in their feelings and their cir- 
 cumstances. 
 
 Mr. Cameron looked sadly upon his daughters, and said : 
 
 "I am sorry for you, my children. This will be no Christmas 
 to you." 
 
 "Not so gay and merry a Christmas, papa," replied Julia, " as 
 we have been accustomed to ; but perhaps, after all, a better one. 
 The recollections of this day, with its quiet, sober sadness, may 
 hereafter give us more real pleasure than have some of our more 
 cheerful ones." 
 
 Julia's words verified themselves in her feelings, when she was 
 that morning seated in church. The calmness and stillness from 
 which she had come were much more favorable to devotion than 
 the scene of bustle and noisy mirth from which she generally on 
 that day found her refuge within the sanctuary ; and never before 
 had the church seemed such a quiet, peaceful haven as it did this 
 day, when a whole nation was convulsed and heaving with the 
 storm of war. The lesson drew a vivid picture of the terrible 
 reality in the words : " Every battle of the warrior is with con- 
 fused noise and garments rolled in blood;" and then, clear and 
 distinct above the clash of arms and the shout of contending 
 armies was heard the prophetic promise of the Child- Governor, 
 the promise whose fulfillment they had this day come to cele- 
 brate ; the Child in gentleness and tenderness, yet strong enough 
 to bear the government upon His shoulder. Oh, how blessed, 
 when the whole nation was scourged and panting and bleeding 
 beneath the lashings of war, to hear of the Prince of Peace ! 
 How inexpressibly blessed, when injustice and oppression and 
 wrong and robbery were abroad in the land, to hear of a king- 
 dom that should be "established with judgment and with justice 
 from henceforth even forever;" and to know that " the zeal of the 
 Lord of'Hosts" was pledged to perform this ! Nor was there 
 anything in the grand. exultant Christmas music that was incom- 
 patible with surrounding circumstances. AH the sweeter and 
 more glorious was the song of the Herald Angels, because they 
 sang of Peace above a world distracted by war, of Good Will, 
 above opposing armies, each thirsting for the other's blood ; and 
 it needed, indeed, an angel-choir to "shout the glad tidings" to 
 an oppressed and invaded land, that "Messiah is King;" that, 
 
 35* 
 
414 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 high above all human government, and controlling all confusion 
 and misrule and anarchy, whether man wills it or not, " Messiah 
 is Kingl" 
 
 It was, indeed, a precious Christmas service, full of soothing 
 comfort, and Julia felt it in her inmost soul. Her troubled heart 
 stayed itself upon the government of that kingdom of which she 
 had now heard, and she felt so secure under it that, for the time 
 being, she rose far above all anxieties and fears, both with regard 
 to the final destiny of the country and the personal safety of her- 
 self and all who were dear to her. She felt so quiet and peace- 
 ful that, as she passed out of the church, she turned round at the 
 door, with a lingering regret to cross its sacred threshold and 
 find herself once more in the turmoil and unrest of her earthly 
 life. Sweetlv smiled the church in its Christmas dress. Font 
 and column, desk and chancel were wreathed and garlanded, and 
 ivy and holly and cedar had combined to beautify His sanctuary, 
 and to make His earthly temple glorious. There was no Christ- 
 mas at Cameron Hall, and at many another home in the land, 
 where once they had held high festivity; but there was Christmas 
 in the church. Grief and trouble may hush the voices of earthly 
 mirth ; but the church's songs of praise are but the sweeter when 
 they ring out in the sadness and gloom of the night of sorrow ! 
 
 AH the other worshipers were gone, but still Julia stood and 
 looked. She did not know how long she had been there, when 
 she felt a gentle touch upon her shoulder. It was Uncle John, 
 whose only Christmas greeting was a look of sympathy, a grasp 
 of the hand, and a "Grod bless you, my daughter!" 
 
 As she turned round to leave the church, Charles Beaufort 
 stood in the aisle before her. 
 
 In an instant the quiet and peace were all gone, and the old 
 pain had come back. She gave him her hand in silence; he held 
 it a moment, and then, placing it upon his arm, led her out with- 
 out a word. When they reached the carriage, he said ; 
 
 " May I come this afternoon ?" 
 
 She answered, "yes :" the door was closed, and they drove ofif. 
 
 So sudden had been their meeting, and so quickly was it over, 
 that it seemed, indeed, like a dream. She tried to collect her 
 thoughts so as to be prepared to meet him calmly ; but fier heart 
 was all in motion now, and its painful excitement was beyond her 
 power to quell. His feelings toward her had not changed ; she 
 needed no words to tell her that. There was something in his 
 look and manner, even in the quiet, protecting way in which he 
 laid her hand upon his arm, that said plainly that he felt it to be 
 his right and privilege to take care of her. 
 
 It was with a heating heart and a flushed cheek that she met 
 
CAMERON HALL. 415 
 
 him in the afternoon. His manner was respectfal, nay, almost 
 reverential, but it was mingled with a tenderness that could not 
 be mistaken ; and before she took her seat, or a word had been 
 spoken, she knew that she must go through the same scene as on 
 that summer night. 
 
 " Julia," he said, " I have literally fulfilled your commands. I 
 have not intruded myself by word, letter, or message ; but you 
 little know what that obedience has cost me." 
 
 He waited for a reply ; but receiving none, he continued : 
 
 " I have come to ask again the same question ; perhaps to re- 
 ceive the same ansjprer which has weighed so heavily upon my 
 heart ever since I left you. I have come to ask if that same 
 barrier still separates us ; and if so, may I now know what it is ?" 
 
 " I am afraid, Charles, that it will separate us now more widely, 
 more hopelessly than ever." 
 
 "Afraid !" he exclaimed, gladly seizing upon the word. " Then, 
 Julia, you would not willingly have it so 1 Only tell me this, only 
 assure me that this barrier is not one of your own making, and I 
 will not even yet despair. Oh, Julia 1" he added, with an earn- 
 estness that went to her very heart, "only tell me that the hopes 
 which, slender as they are, have nevertheless sustained me for 
 months, — only say that these speak the truth, and I will try to be 
 satisfied." 
 
 He took the prayer-book from his pocket, and unfolded the 
 leaves, revealing the little faded flowers. Julia's face was crim- 
 son, as she said : 
 
 " I quite forgot those when I gave you that book. I have re- 
 membered them since, ai^d hoped that you would not discover 
 their hiding-place." 
 
 " You have wished me, then, deprived of my only comfort in 
 connection with yourself I You sent me away without one word, 
 except the assurance that between us there was a wide gulf. 
 "What it was, or whether it might ever be spanned, I did not 
 know. I only knew that you seemed to think it impassable. One 
 day I found these flowers, which seemed silently to contradict 
 your actions. They assured me that no indifferent heart could 
 have thus carefully preserved these memorials of that Sunday 
 evening. From them I drew hope and comfort: comfort, in the 
 belief that your heart did not respond to your actions ; and hope, 
 in the thought that no artificial barrier could eternally separate 
 two loving hearts. I added to them others, that had been as 
 carefully preserved as themselves: do you recognize them?" 
 
 He held up, as he spoke, the flowers tied together by a blade 
 of grass. 
 
 " Yes," she answered, " I remember them well." 
 
416 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " Julia, these flowers have brought me back. But for them, I 
 might' have acquiesced hopelessly in your decree, fliight perhaps 
 never have consented to the risk of feeling again the same pain 
 that you once inflicted on me. Tell me, do they speak the truth ? 
 May I rely upon their silent testimony, and believe that you are 
 not indifferent to me, that if you could, you would be willing to 
 remove this barrier?" 
 
 She replied in a voice that trembled in spite of all her efforts : 
 
 " Yes, Charles, these flowers do speak the truth. I owe it to 
 you to tell you so now, and I regret that I did not do so at first. 
 It might perhaps have spared us both much^pain if I had then 
 told you all." 
 
 " Heaven bless you for that confession, Julia 1 It is worth 
 much, very much to me." 
 
 " You must not build any hopes upon it," she answered, sadly; 
 " for, as I told you just now, we are more widely, more hopelessly ' 
 separated than ever." 
 
 "How can that be, Julia? Y^ou acknowledge that you love 
 me I" 
 
 " Yes, with all the strength of woman's devotion." 
 
 " Then there is nothing that ought to, or that shall separate 
 us. What is it, Julia ? You owe it to me also to tell me that. 
 I have offered you all that a man can offer, and I might at least 
 have the poor satisfaction of knowing why such love as mine for 
 you must be rejected." 
 
 "Yes," ghe answered, " I ought to, and I will tell you why." 
 
 She hesitated, turned deadly pale, and then, with a painful 
 effort, which awakened his deepest sympathy, she said : 
 
 "I cannot marry you, Charles, because — because I am the 
 sister of George Cameron 1" 
 
 "And is that, indeed, all ?" he asked. " Is it not enough that 
 he should be able to grieve your heart, even as it is now ; do you 
 intend that his erring life and sad end shall blight the happiness 
 of your whole life ?" 
 
 "God knows that I do not intend it, but I am afraid that it 
 must be even so. I can neither extract the sting nor wash out 
 the disgrace, and so I must be content to suffer the one and 
 wear the other. Surely, Charles, you cannot wonder now at my 
 unwillingness to bind upon another the chains which so gall my- 
 self; you cannot think it strange that I will not consent to bring 
 to my husband the dowry of such a name I" 
 
 "A dowry which I or any other man might gladly accept, 
 when the name belonged to such a woman as Julia Cameron. 
 You are and must ever be to me what you are in yourself, — pure, 
 noble, and unstained ; and. the crime of a whole generation of 
 
CAMERON HALL. 417 
 
 Camerons could no more sully your character, or affect you per- 
 sonally, than could the foul earth at the base of Mont Blanc stain 
 the snow upon its summit." 
 
 " You are honest and sincere, Charles, in what you say now, 
 but your feelings have obscured your judgment. I believe that 
 you would be perfectly willing to marry me now, but when the 
 heat of passion should be over, and you could look calmly upon 
 the fact that you had forever linked your untarnished name to 
 such as mine, you would not feel that any degree of love from 
 me could repay the sacrifice, and you would realize, when it was 
 too late, that a good name is indeed the most priceless of earth's 
 treasures." 
 
 "I know it already, Julia; I do not need to learn it; but I 
 could not lose mine by giving it to you. I shall rejoice and be 
 proud to hear you called by my name ; and yet I speak truly 
 when I say that I will regi'et that you must lose your own, for 
 the name of Julia Cameron is to me synonymous with all that is 
 upright, truthful, and beautiful in character, and so long as you 
 yourself have not degraded and sullied it, so long must it remain 
 as fair and spotless as it is now." 
 
 " The world, Charles, does not so regard it. Unfortunately, 
 we are so linked together here, that the crime of one member of a 
 family darkens not only the life and character of the individual, 
 but that of all the rest as well. And if one thing more than another 
 has been to me a source of painful gratitude, it is that you were 
 prevented from speaking, and I from hearing these words two 
 years ago. Had it been otherwise, the crime of George Cam- 
 eron would have extended its baneful blight to your name as well 
 as mine, and my life would have been doubly embittered by the 
 thought that I, who meant to bring to my husband only the de- 
 votion of a loving heart, should have brought him instead the 
 heritage of shame and disgrace." 
 
 " Would to God that those words had been spoken, that you 
 had been irrevocably mine before this accursed crime had ever 
 been committed I Then it should have been my privilege to teach 
 you that you yourself only could estrange me from you, and that 
 so long as you remained your own true and loving self, all the 
 combined falsehood and crime of the whole world could be, in its 
 effect upon you, nothing more than a passing breath upon the 
 clear mirror. Ah, Julia, Julia I if your love were like mine, if 
 your happiness were as dependent upon me as mine is upon you, 
 you would not, you could not thus send me away. There is 
 nothing, absolutely nothing under heaven but your own decree, 
 that could separate me from you. Nothing that father, sister, 
 brother could do, would alter my feelings toward you. My love 
 
418 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 was not awakened by any other than yourself, and therefore 
 nothing that another might do could possibly aflfect it." 
 
 "Charles," she answered, "I did not expect, and I certainly 
 have not deserved this reproach from you. The world calls me 
 cold, undemonstrative, perhaps unfeeling, but I thought that 
 you, at least, knew me better. I thought that after the confes- 
 sion I have made, after I had told you that you have, and have 
 long had, my whole heart, you would accept this as the strongest 
 proof of the unselfishness of my love for you. If I did not love 
 you so well, if I did not love you a thousandfold better than my- 
 self, if I were not willing to sacrifice my own happiness rather 
 than yours, I would have answered you otherwise. Ah, Charles!" 
 she added, with mournful earnestness, "you little know what I 
 am doing for myself now. I am deliberately surrendering myself 
 to a life of lonely sorrow; I am accepting for my heart a life- 
 long starvatioi^a perpetual denial of that love on which alone its 
 happiness can exist !" 
 
 "Then by Heaven!" he exclaimed, "it shall not be:" and 
 springing from his chair, he walked hurriedly up and down the 
 room. " Julia, you have no right to act thus, no right thus 
 obstinately to reject the happiness which you acknowledge 
 that your heart craves, and which God has placed within your 
 grasp. It is as great a wrong as for the dying man to push 
 from his lips the draught that might save his life !" 
 
 "You are excited now," she answered, quietly; "but could 
 our positions be reversed, could you stand in my place, and I in 
 yours, you would feel just as I do, and the stronger your love 
 for me, the greater would be your reluctance to give me a sullied 
 name." 
 
 "Ay, Julia, reverse the positions; I consent to that, and see 
 how your love would bear the test to which you subject mine. 
 Suppose that it were my brother instead of yours who occupied 
 George Cameron's place, would that affect your love for me? 
 Would you deem it right to* visit his sins upon me ? "Would you 
 feel that you were doing justice to your own love or to mine, by 
 refusing to me the sympathy of a trusting heart when most I 
 needed its sustaining power ? Say, Julia, would you ?" 
 
 She hesitated a moment, and then answered, thoughtfully : 
 
 " I have not taken that view of the case. No, Charles, no. 
 On the contrary, I would but give you a fuller measure of my 
 love, so that if possible the wife might soothe the pain which 
 the brother had inflicted." 
 
 " I knew it, Julia. Had you answered otherwise, your love 
 would not be what I believe it is, nor would you be the woman 
 that you are. And can you not believe that my affection, equally 
 
CAMERON HALL. 419 
 
 with yours, can bear this test, and that I speak what I really 
 feel when I say that your brother, instead of being a barrier to 
 separate us, should only draw us the more closely together ? 
 Surely, Julia," he exclaimed, suddenly, bending upon her a look 
 of earnest inquiry, '* surely, you cannot doubt me I You must 
 believe in the sincerity of what I tell you !" 
 
 " Yes, Charles. True love admits of no doubt." 
 
 " Then will you not be convinced ? Will you not be willing 
 to look at this matter from another stand-point? for, believe me, 
 you are wrong, wholly wrong in your views. You have your- 
 self just confessed that you are demanding of me a different line 
 of conduct from that which you would pursue in my circum- 
 stances." 
 
 "Oh, Charles, Charles I" she answered, in a bewildered tone, 
 "you have confused and blinded me. I have thought deeply, 
 painfully, over this subject. I have honestly tried to find out 
 and to do the right, and my decision is no hasty 6^ne. As long 
 as I reflected alone, my duty was very clear ; but now, since I 
 have listened to you, I am all bewildered again, because my 
 feelings and inclinations side with you against my judgment. 
 Please," she said, entreatingly, "please do not persuade me to 
 do wrong. Whatever else I may have to bear, at least spare 
 me this pain, and let me have the consciousness of having done 
 right to sustain and comfort me in my trouble." 
 
 "God forbid, Julia, that I should either tempt you to the one 
 or deprive you of the other. I do not ask you to do wrong; on 
 the contrary, I beseech you to avoid it," 
 
 "I am painfully confused now," she answered. "I cannot 
 oppose your arguments, nor am I prepared as yet to indorse 
 them. I cannot trust myself to your guidance, nor am I capable 
 of deciding this matter for myself Oh that I only had a 
 mother I" 
 
 "Can you not talk to your father, Julia? Surely you can 
 trust him, and he can advise you." 
 
 " Yes, but not so well as a mother. N^one so well as a woman 
 can understand a woman's feelings, and none so well as the 
 mother who has been herself a girl can understand the daughter's 
 doubts, and fears, and perplexities. But I will talk to papa, and 
 he shall tell me whether I am right or wrong." 
 
 "And will you not allow me the same privilege ? If you array 
 your arguments against our marriage, it is but fair that I should 
 be permitted to urge mine in its behalf" 
 
 " Certainly, this is your right. I regret the necessity, because 
 it involves a subject extremely painful to papa ; but the interests 
 at stake are sufficient to justify it. But there are others whose 
 advice I wish you to ask besides my father's.'* 
 
420 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " I obey, Julia, though you yourself are sole arbiter of my 
 fate. If you will consent, no human being shall separate us. 
 But who is it that I am to ask?" 
 
 " Your own parents, Charles. Write to them, tell them all. 
 State the case in all its black and gloomy truth, and ask them if 
 they are willing that their son should marry the sister of a 
 traitor. Promise to do this, and to tell me truthfully what 
 they say. I think, Charles, you will find that my notions are 
 neither so peculiar to myself nor so wrong as you deem them 
 now. You will find that others agree with me." 
 
 " Whoever else may agree with you, Julia, I am quite certain 
 that my parents will not. They have no such morbid notions as 
 yours, and they love their son too well to let such a thing as this 
 shut him out from happiness. Experience has taught them both 
 the value of a good husband and a good wife, and they would 
 not, except for some very grave reason, deny their son and the 
 woman of his choice that happiness which themselves can so well 
 appreciate. I can answer for them, Julia, without waiting to 
 write." 
 
 " But this will not satisfy me ; you must promise to ask their 
 advice." 
 
 " I will before I sleep to-night ; and I will do more than this : 
 I will talk the matter over with Uncle John, and hear his opinion. 
 You have confidence in him?" 
 
 "Yes, in most things; but in this, scarcely more than I have 
 in you or in myself. I know that Uncle John regards my no- 
 tions upon this subject as you do. He thinks that they are un- 
 reasonable and morbid, and, like you, would be sure to say that I 
 have no right to allow them any weight in the decision of this 
 matter. I have no objection to your talking to him — indeed, I 
 prefer that you should ; but I can tell you beforehand what he 
 will say," 
 
 " I wonder, Julia, that it has not made you distrust the sound- 
 ness of your judgment, to find so many whose opinions differ 
 from yours. You are not accustomed to be so unyielding in 
 other matters." 
 
 " No ; but this is of such vital importance, and so much de- 
 pends upon it, that it behooves me, for your sake as well as 
 mine, to be careful lest passion and inclination should mislead 
 me. I know my own temperament and disposition, and what it 
 requires to make me happy, and if I should marry you, and from 
 any cause whatever, whether the fault were my own or another's, 
 should find that I did not have your respect and esteem, words 
 cannot express the wretchedness of my life. This fear that you 
 will not be able thus to respect me with my sullied name, now 
 
CAMERON HALL. 421 
 
 holds me back as with a grasp of iron ; for when the ardor of 
 youthful passion shall have subsided, there must be the basis of 
 respect and esteem on which to found a reasonable, but none the 
 less real aflfection : otherwise there can be no true happiness." 
 
 " You are right, Julia, and it is just because esteem and re- 
 spect are necessary elements of my affection that I have sought 
 you. I could not love a woman whom I did not respect in my 
 inmost soul, and upon whose principles I could not rely with un- 
 wavering trust. Such is the feeling with which I regard you, 
 and it is this which makes my love for you so entirely independ- 
 ent of the character and conduct of all others." 
 
 "You have not convinced me yet, Charles," she answered. 
 " The truth is, I am afraid to be convioced, afraid to listen to 
 your arguments, because my feelings and wishes are so strongly 
 enlisted on your side of the question that I dare not trust myself. 
 Of one thing, however, I am sure, and that is that I want to do 
 right, and have made up my mind that if I can find out what the 
 right is, to do it at whatever sacrifice." 
 
 " But who is to decide what is rig'ht ? You are not willing to 
 trust either yourself or myself, those who are certainly the most 
 interested, neither will vou vield to Uncle John's judgment. Will 
 you let your father and my parents decide the question for you, 
 and if their united judgment shall accord with mine, and with 
 your wishes, will you promise to yield ?" 
 
 " Yes, on one condition, and that is that you try yourself a 
 little longer." She hesitated a moment, and then added, with an 
 effort: " You have not been fairly tried yet. Wait until you see 
 my brother held up, as he will be, to the scorn and execration of 
 the nation. Wait until you see his name branded in the public 
 newspapers, with every epithet from which a true, honest man 
 shrinks, and see then if you will still be willing to marry his 
 sister." 
 
 " I have been already sufficiently tested on that point. The 
 end of his sad career involves no element of disgrace that it did 
 not have in the beginning, and I knew all that when I asked you 
 months ago to be my wife. Julia," he added, suddenly, " it is 
 hard for me to be patient with you in this matter. Your determ- 
 ination and your unwillingness to be convinced are absolutely 
 unaccountable." 
 
 " Not unwillingness, Charles. I insist upon that. However, 
 I have agreed to place our happiness at the disposal of others, 
 and if your parents and my father see nothing in my circum- 
 stances to prevent me from becoming your wife, I will hesitate 
 no longer." 
 
 36 
 
422 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " Then, Julia, our happiness is sealed, at least so far as the de- 
 cision of my parents is concerned, and I cannot but believe that 
 your father as well as they will prove less cruel than yourself" 
 
 "I shall be glad when It is decided," she said, wearily; "for 
 oh, Charles ! you little dream of the heaviness of these past 
 months of doubt, and thought, and struggle. I am exhausted, 
 worn out in mind and body." 
 
 "And I, Julia, not less so than yourself. How mnch of suffer- 
 ing we might both have been spared if you could only have seen 
 this thing in its true light ! Now, however, I trust that doubts 
 and anxieties are at an end." 
 
 " I would not have you too sanguine, Charles. It may be that 
 papa's views will coincide with mine rather than with yours. I 
 find that many of what you and Uncle John call my morbid 
 notions are not peculiar to myself, but have been inherited from 
 him." 
 
 "At least, Julia, he will be open to conviction. Is he at home ? 
 and if so, may I see him at once ? I am not willing to bear this 
 suspense and uncertainty another night, and must have my final 
 answer before I leave you. If I gain your own and your father's 
 consent, I shall fear nothing else." 
 
 In his interview with Mr. Cameron, Charles did not encounter 
 that opposition which Julia's words had led him to fear; for while 
 her father appreciated and sympathized with her feelings, because 
 they were precisely his own, yet, in a matter which so completely 
 involved her happiness, he was unwilling to assume the responsi- 
 bility of influencing her decision, but preferred to trust to that 
 judgment which in other less important matters he had generally 
 found good. 
 
 With a paternal pride, which his listener readily excused, Mr. 
 Cameron finished by saying : 
 
 " When you know my daughter, Charles, as I know her, you 
 will find that she has some notions and feelings which are per- 
 haps exaggerated, and which for the sake of her own happiness 
 you may desire to change, but which at the same time you will 
 be compelled to respect, because they are, after all, only the ex- 
 aggeration of virtues, and show how little of base alloy is mingled 
 with her honest, truthful nature. As to yourself, Charles, I 
 cheerfully commit her happiness to your keeping, for I believe 
 that you can thoroughly understand and appreciate her character, 
 and are capable of giving in return for the pure, deep love that 
 you have won an affection which will satisfy all her demands. 
 The father of such a daughter may be pardoned for saying that 
 when you have married Julia you will have found a wife indeed." 
 
 "I know it, sir," was the hearty response, "and I trust and 
 
CAMERON HALL. 423 
 
 believe that you will find me not unworthy of the high confidence 
 that you place in me. Thank you for it, Mr. Cameron, as well 
 as for the treasure that you have committed to my keeping I 
 am now indeed happy." 
 
 The few days of Charles's leave of absence sped by too rapidly 
 for them both. His was a happiness so brightly contrasted with 
 the anxiety and sadness of the past few months, that his spirits 
 overflowed in an unnatural exhilaration, while Julia's feeling was 
 one of rest, of sweet repose, rather than exuberant happiness ; 
 the same sense of quiet security which the shipwrecked mariner 
 might have when, after having given up all hope, he awakes from 
 a sleep of exhaustion and sorrow to find his frail raft floating 
 safely upon the smooth waters of a quiet haven, where the shore 
 may be reached without an effort. From this state she vainly 
 tried to arouse herself. She would not consider her happiness 
 complete until Charles had heard from his parents, and she was 
 altogether unwilling to surrender herself to her sweet dream from 
 which an awakening would add to sorrow the bitterness of disap- 
 pointment; but Julia, as she herself had expressed it, was worn 
 out by the struggle of months, and after a vain effort to resist, 
 she yielded herself to Charles's assurance, and rested calmly and 
 sweetly in the belief that from his father and mother she need 
 expect nothing but the warm welcome of loving hearts. 
 
 The evening before he left Hopedale, he came out to the Hall 
 with an open letter in his hand, and his face radiant with joy. 
 
 "Read it," he said, giving it to her, "read it, Julia. All 
 obstacles are removed. jS'ow you are indeed my wife." 
 
 "Yes, Charles, your wife," she answered, as she folded the 
 letter, and her eyes glflteniug with tears, she murmured quietly 
 "thank God I" ' m j» 
 
 "And how long must I wait for the full realization of my hap- 
 piness ?" ^ 
 
 "Until the war is over." 
 
 *' Oh, Julia, you are not in earnest ! Surely you cannot be !" 
 " Yes J I yielded my judgment in the other case because it was 
 opposed to that of all others, but now I know that I am right, 
 from the fact that I have papa's opinion of this matter in the case 
 of Willie and Eva. He thinks that they ought to wait, and yet, 
 with his usual consideration and kindness, has promised not to 
 insist upon their separation if it should prove more than they can 
 bear." 
 
 "And may we not claim the same promise, Julia?" 
 "Xo, for we are older than those children, and ought to look 
 at things in their true light, and be both able and willing to sac- 
 rifice inclination to duty. Willie honestly believes that he can do 
 
424 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 a soldier's service better as a husband than as a lover, while you 
 and I know that all experience proves the contrary, and that 
 every man who goes into the army, leaving a wife behind, subject 
 to privation and toil, goes with heart and energies fettered. Xow 
 I would not have you so hampered; I would have you free to do 
 your duty. Shall we not agree to try and postpone the thought 
 of ourselves, and our own individual happiness, until our country 
 shall no longer need you ?•' 
 
 "But suppose that I should be sick or wounded ? As my wife 
 you might come to me, and do for me what now it would be im- 
 possible for you to do. Ah, Julia I a hospital, in its best estate, 
 offers but a miserable substitute for the gentle offices of woman, 
 and many a poor fellow thinks, with a heavy heart and a moist- 
 ened eye, of the life that he feels is ebbing away, and that he 
 knows might have been saved by the careful nursing of the loved 
 ones at home. You would not condemn me to this?" 
 
 " Never. Only so long as you can be useful to your country, 
 do I consider our first duty to her. If sick or wounded, your 
 duties are temporarily, at least, suspended, and then my duty is 
 due to you. In such a case, if you can be brought to the Hall, 
 you shall come, and Mr. Derby shall in a few minutes seal that 
 relationship which will give me the wife's place and the wife's 
 right to do for you whatever human power can do to comfort and 
 to heal ; and if you cannot come to me, I will promise to go to 
 you, — in the hospital, in the tent, on the field, wherever you may 
 be. Will this suffice ? and am I not right ?" 
 
 " It must suffice, since you have so decreed it, and I believe 
 that you are right, as you generally are, hut that right imposes 
 on us, on me at least, great self-denial ana sacrifice." 
 
 " On i^s," she replied. "1 prefer your first expression. I am 
 imposing on you no sacrifice which I do not feel myself, and which 
 I am not obliged to feel more heavily in the quiet and anxiety of 
 my separation from you, than you will, in the active employment 
 both for mind and body of your daily life in camp." 
 
 ''Then, Julia," he said, sadly, "I am afraid that our complete 
 happiness is still distantly prospective. This fearful war may last 
 a long time yet." 
 
 "I am afraid that it will, but we must try to bear our propor- 
 tion of its trials bravely and hopefully, thanking God for the 
 privilege of being bound together in heart at least, if not by the 
 outward tie." 
 
 " How often may I hear from you?" 
 
 "Just as often as you desire. The support and sympathy that 
 you need to sustain and comfort you, I will be able, under the 
 circumstances, to give better than any one else, and as it will be 
 
CAMERON HALL. 425 
 
 my duty as well as my pleasure, I need not be afraid of indulging 
 in it to excess." 
 
 Charles knew full well that Julia spoke truly when she said 
 that every restriction imposed upon him was equally painful to 
 herself He saw plainly that from her present decision there was 
 no appeal, but even while he regretted it he was constrained to 
 admire and respect her conscientious adherence to what she con- 
 ceived to be her duty, even in matters which concern the affections 
 alone, and which are not generally considered legitimate subjects 
 for the restraints of conscience. 
 
 When she bade him farewell, it was not, as Eva had parted 
 from Willie, in a flood of tears. Her face was very pale, but 
 calm, and the tears trembled in her eyes, but not one overflowed, 
 as she said : 
 
 ''God bless you, Charles! Be faithful to your God first, to 
 your country next. To see you will be my longing desire ; but 
 that you may do your duty faithfully and unshrinkingly at all 
 times, under all circumstances, and at all hazards, shall be my 
 constant prayer." 
 
 CHAPTER XXYI. 
 
 Several weeks had passed away. Julia was not what the 
 world calls happy, but she was very quiet and peaceful. The 
 thought of her brother was, and she knew that it would be all 
 through life, a burden from which there was no escape. Unlike 
 the pain of bereavement, time has, for the feeling of mortification 
 and shame, no healing power, and the sting rankles as keenly after 
 years have passed away, as it did at first. She found, however, 
 in Charles's love a support, a sustaining power, whose value* she 
 fully appreciated, and for which she poured out a daily thanks- 
 giving. But while for herself she was profoundly grateful for 
 that rest and quiet which she was now enjoying, instead of that 
 racking torture which she had so long borne, she was grieved to 
 see Eva sink so completely under the weight of anxieties and 
 troubles which were all so new to her. Willie was still re- 
 moved not more than a day's journey from her, but had never 
 again returned to the Hall. There were no longer even any 
 rumors of raiding parties, but the country was still without 
 
 36* 
 
426 ' CAMERON- HALL. 
 
 the Confederate lines, and exposed to incorsions from the enemy, 
 and as he was yet very far from recovered, and the weather in- 
 tensely cold, he had prudently heeded the advice of Mr. Cameron, 
 and had abstained from again undertaking a journey which in- 
 volved so much risk and exposure. Willie, while almost a boy 
 in years, began now to feel the responsibilities of manhood, and 
 to realize that he must act for another as well as for himself; for 
 although Eva tried hard to write cheerfully, a^she had promised, 
 yet he saw plainly from her letters that she needed all his support 
 and encouragement to enable her to bear their separation at all. 
 He had promised Mr. Cameron that they should both submit 
 Without a murmur to his decree, and he tried conscientiously to 
 keep Eva as well as himself up to its fuhfillment. His letters had 
 been always bright and hopeful, containing very little about the 
 present, and with no mention of his condition or sufferings, but 
 full of the future, the blissful future, all radiant with hope and 
 full of happiness. These letters, however, did not satisfy Eva. 
 He had promised that just so soon as he was well enough, he 
 would come back to the Hall if it was safe, and if not, would go 
 home to his mother and sisters ; but week after week the letters 
 came, with nothing about his health, and nothing about either 
 coming to her or going to them. At last her anxiety became in- 
 tolerable. Her repeated questions about his health were still un- 
 answered, and she knew very well that if he had anything favor- 
 able to tell her he would gladly do so. At last she wrote to him 
 and told him how miserable and anxious she was, and that the 
 very worst he could tell her about himself would be less intolera- 
 ble than her present suspense. These plain, downright questions 
 he could neither evade nor ignore, and in his reply he answered 
 them truthfully, telling her that he was not recovering so rapidly 
 as he could wish, and that at times he still suffered very great 
 pain. He tried faithfully to guard against any expression of de- 
 spondency, uttered not one longing for her, and did not even say 
 that he would be happier or more comfortable with her society 
 and attentions. But with all his care, she needed no words to in- 
 terpret the feeling which, while he did not express it, he yet could 
 not wholly conceal, and her fears at once greatly exaggerated his 
 condition, and she imagined him suffering as she had known him 
 do at the Hall. Alone among strangers, perhaps with neither 
 surgical skill nor proper nursing, and this within a day's journey 
 of her whose duty it was, and who had sacredly promised to do 
 these things for him. 
 
 She was sitting in her little chair, by Willie's sofa, pondering 
 the contents of the open letter in her lap. Her father was in the 
 room, but she did not know that he was sadly watching her as she 
 
CAMERON HALL. 427 
 
 leaned her head upon her hand, the young, childish face contrast- 
 ing painfully with her attitude of womanly perplexity and sorfow. 
 Like Julia, Mr. Cameron too had seen v/ith pain the change that 
 had come over his light-hearted child. The elastic step, now slow 
 and languid ; the sunny face, now always clouded with anxiety; 
 the bright, laughing eye, now glistening with tears or glazed with 
 weeping, — all these assured him that the child of his home and 
 his heart could never be a child again. And yet there was no 
 murmur or complaint. She had promised Willie to try and bear 
 it like a Christian, and she did so, and it was her uncomplaining 
 sorrow that had so deeply touched her father's heart. He watched 
 her now several minutes as she sat thinking deeply, when all at 
 once, as if by an irresistible impulse, she sprang up, and placing 
 the letter in his hand, said : 
 
 " Papa, I have tried to bear it. Read this : sick, suffering, 
 alone, he needs me. Is it right that I should stay away ?" 
 
 She stood by while her father read the letter, whose contents, 
 not less than her appearance, appealed to his sympathy. When 
 he was done, he looked for a few moments in silent compassion 
 upon the struggle, between the child and the woman, that he so 
 plainly saw in that young heart. She was evidently trying to 
 keep back her tears, and to bear with fortitude the burden that 
 she felt was too heavy for her; but while striving to be a woman, 
 Eva was in reality still a child, and finally the child predominated. 
 She sat down upon her father's knee as she used to do long years 
 ago, and putting one arm around his neck, laid her head upon his 
 shoulder and sobbed aloud. 
 
 This was more than the father could bear. He laid his hand 
 upon her head, and said : 
 
 ^ "I cannot separate you and Willie any longer, my child. You 
 shall be married at once." 
 
 She jumped up, and with her old impulsiveness caught her 
 father in her arms, and kisses were her only thanks, as her laugh- 
 ter and tears were mingled together. 
 
 "And may I write to Willie, papa, and tell him what you say ?'* 
 
 "Yes; but not this minute," he added, detaining her, as like 
 the arrow from a bow she was darting off to communicate the 
 glad tidings. "You must be prudent in this matter, Eva, or you 
 children, in your eagerness and haste, will probably overlook what 
 is necessary for his safety. Willie is still an invalid, as this letter 
 plainly shows, and must not undertake to come to you until he 
 can do so comfortably and without risk. We must first provide 
 some means for him to get here, and then give him permission to 
 come." 
 
 " But how can we provide means for him to come, papa ? 
 
428 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "We have no conveyance to send for him, no horses Oh, papa !" 
 
 she exclaimed, in nervous, restless haste, " how can he come ? 
 What must I do ?" 
 
 "The first thing for you to do, my child," he said, taking 
 her hand, "is to compose yourself. You are greatly excited 
 now. Your cheeks are flushed, and your heart is beating like a 
 sledge-hammer. I will keep you here until you are calmed down 
 a little, and then you shall go to your sister. She is good at 
 making arrangements, and perhaps, with Uncle John's assist- 
 ance, she can decide upon some plan for accomplishing your 
 wishes. " 
 
 She waited a little while, and said : 
 
 "I am quiet now, papa, — may I go ?" 
 
 "Not yet." 
 
 A few moments more elapsed, and she said, trembling with 
 impatience: 
 
 " Now, papa ! Indeed, I am just as calm and composed as I 
 can be. May I go ?" 
 
 "Very calm and composed, doubtless, with those sparkling 
 eyes, and that hurried breathing, and that fluttering heart I But 
 go, child, I will not detain you any longer." 
 
 She was gone in an instant. Her father's eyes followed her, 
 and he murmured, sadly : 
 
 "Your heart needs more sunshine, my poor child, than it will 
 find in this world of clouds and shadow !" 
 
 Eva ran first to find Bob, and sent him with all speed to town, 
 requesting Uncle John to come to her as quickly as possible. 
 She then went to her sister to pour out to her the full tide of 
 her happiness. 
 
 Thus abruptly summoned, without a word of explanation, 
 Uncle John, who was walkii:g leisurely along the street when 
 Bob hailed him from the buggy, jumped in, and seizing the reins, 
 applied the lash vigorously, but in vain, for the poor old mule 
 was incapable of the locomotion that his impatience demanded. 
 
 "What is the matter. Bob?" he inquired a^ixiously. "Is any- 
 body sick ?" 
 
 "Don't know, sir," answered Bob, with stolid indifference. 
 
 "Just as I expected," muttered Uncle John. " Never knew a 
 negro in ray life to know anything that he was asked. The 
 Know-Nothing party will never become extinct while there is a 
 negro left !" 
 
 And venting his vexation on the unfortunate mule, he lashed 
 him again, but it was useless ; and, finally, Uncle John settled 
 himself down to a state of mingled anxiety and impatience, while 
 the mule walked quietly along to the Hall. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 429 
 
 When he was told why he was sent for, with a smile of relief 
 and pleasure that belied his words, he said to Eva, pinching her 
 cheek : 
 
 "Now, my little miss, I have a great mind not to help you 
 out of your difficulty at all. It would only be punishing you as 
 you deserve, for giving me such a fright. I thought that some- 
 body must be either dying or dead, or that some dire calamity 
 had befallen the family, when lo and behold ! it is only that old 
 Uncle John's services are wanted to help two children to get 
 married !" 
 
 "You must excuse my thoughtlessness. Uncle John. I did 
 
 not mean to send such an abrupt message. I did not think " 
 
 "Of anything, or anybody, Eva, but Willie. Well, I will 
 forgive you this time, on condition that hereafter you will be 
 more considerate. Now, what is it that I am to do ?" 
 
 " To devise some way to get Willie here comfortably and 
 safely. " 
 
 "Which means," replied Uncle John, laughing, "to go after 
 him and bring him." 
 
 "Oh no. Uncle John!" exclaimed Mr, Cameron; "she does 
 not mean that. Eva is too considerate to ask or wish such a 
 thing of a man of your age at this season. She only wants some 
 advice and help about arranging a plan." 
 
 " I am only a few weeks older, Mr. Cameron, and it is not a 
 great deal colder than it was when I did the same thing be- 
 fore." 
 
 " But I did not ask it, Uncle John," said Eva. " It was your 
 own voluntary proposition. Remember that." 
 
 "And the fact that you did the same thing only a few weeks 
 ago," interposed Mr. Cameron, "is only an additional reason 
 why she would not be so unreasonable as to wish you to do it 
 again." 
 
 "What do you say to all this, my daughter?" asked Uncle 
 John. 
 
 Eva thought a moment, and then replied, frankly: 
 
 " To tell the truth, Uncle John, I would be very glad for you 
 to go. Papa is right when he says that I do not ask or expect 
 it, but I cannot go so far as he does, and say that I do not wish 
 it. On the contrary, I would be better satisfied for Willie to 
 come with you than with anybody else, for he is not prudent, 
 and you would take care of him." 
 
 "And I will go for him," replied Uncle John, pulling one of 
 her curls, " although you do not deserve it, you naughty girl ! My 
 old heart has not quieted down yet." 
 
 "And will you indeed go for him ? you dear, good Uncle John 1" 
 
430 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 she replied, joyfully. " What can I do to repay you for all your 
 kindness to us V 
 
 " You can bring back the roses to your cheeks, and the light 
 to your eyes, and the happiness to your heart, and be the glad, 
 merry child that you used to be. I am half disposed to quarrel 
 with Willie for having so suddenly and unexpectedly cut short 
 your childhood. The old Hall needs a child to lighten it, and 
 it has not had one since Willie came here last summer." 
 
 "Ah, Uncle John!" she answered, with a sigh, "the child 
 Eva you will never see again 1 I trust and believe that you will 
 yet see me happy, more so than I ever was before, but it will be 
 a different sort of happiness from that careless light-heartedness 
 that I used to feel. It will be a woman's happiness, and with 
 that there must always mingle some care and anxiety." 
 
 "Of course, no longer a child 1" he replied, with a smile, de- 
 termined to prevent the conversation from assuming that shade 
 of sadness which seemed now to tinge everything at the Hall. 
 " No one would hereafter presume to apply the epithet ' child ' 
 to Mrs. Eva " 
 
 " Oh, Uncle John !" she exclaimed, blushing, " please don't. 
 I did not mean that, indeed I didn't. Come, now, let us talk 
 over our plan and decide upon it." 
 
 " It is already decided, Eva. I am to go and bring Willie. 
 It only remains for you to say when." 
 
 "Just as soon as you please. Uncle John." 
 
 " Just as soon as you can, you mean, Eva. Suppose I go in 
 the morning, how would that suit you ?" 
 
 "Better than any other time, if it were practicable; but I am 
 afraid that you cannot possibly go so soon. You know that we 
 have no horses, nor do I know where you are to find any." 
 
 " Never mind, I will arrange all that, and will promise to 
 bring him safely and comfortably, and I hope looking much bet- 
 ter than we have ever seen him yet. Willie will be a handsome 
 boy when the bloom of health is upon his cheek, don't you think 
 so, Eva ?" 
 
 " He need not wait for that. Uncle John. A face, however 
 pale and wan, must needs be handsome with such eyes, such ex- 
 pression, such a smile. But I greatly fear that Willie will neither 
 be any better nor be looking better than when we parted with 
 him. I judge from this letter that there has been no improve- 
 ment whatever in his condition since he left here." 
 
 " That is only because he is tired, and lonely, and homesick. 
 When he has the proper nurse, I'll warrant that he will get well 
 fast enough. We will have him back in the army in a few 
 weeks." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 431 
 
 '' Oh, TJncle John I" she exclaimed, deprecatingly, " don't say 
 that. It will be a long, long time before he will be strong enough 
 to go into service again." 
 
 " Doubtless, if he waits for you to say so ; but you must remem- 
 ber, my daughter, that Willie is a soldier, and his place is in the 
 army, and whenever he is well enough to go, you must not hold 
 him back." 
 
 "Nor will I, Uncle John; but even if I were to try to do so, 
 it would be in vain, for Willie is determined to do his duty." 
 
 "I believe it, child; if I did not, when Mr. Derby gives the 
 last opportunity for objection to be made before pronouncing 
 you man and wife, Uncle John's voice should be heard forbid- 
 ding the bang. I would never give you to a man who would be 
 unfaithful to his duty at such a crisis as this. Would you, Mr. 
 Cameron ?" 
 
 " Never, sir ; but I am not afraid of either of the children. 
 Uncle John. Willie will do what is right ; and as to this child, 
 she has a child's heart but a woman's principles. We may trust 
 
 her." 
 
 When Uncle John went back to town to make his arrange- 
 ments for the morrow's departure, Eva wrote to Willie a glad, 
 joyous letter, sparkling with her own overflowing happiness. 
 Uncle John returned in the afternoon, and when she met him, 
 with her eye beaming, and her face bright and joyous, he said, 
 laughingly : 
 
 "Why, Eva, among other things, I must henceforth reckon 
 myself a tolerable physician. You have made a marvelous 
 stride toward the bloom and strength of health since I promised, 
 a few hours ago, to bring Willie to you. You look now almost 
 like the Eva of old." 
 
 " I am happy, now, Uncle John," she answered, " so happy I" 
 
 And if Eva was so happy, what shall be said of Willie, when 
 he looked up wearily from his book, as a carnage shopped at the 
 door, and he beheld Uncle John's welcome face ! and when he 
 learned wherefore he had come, and when he had read Eva's 
 letter, his excitement was quite too great for his strength. 
 
 "Grod bless Mr. Cameron," he said, earnestly, "for the kind 
 consideration which would not longer separate us I I will have 
 a double motive now for being a soldier in very deed and 
 truth." 
 
 "And Eva, I hope, will be her former self. Anxiety about 
 you, Willie, has sadly altered her, and she fancied that you are 
 still as great a sufferer as you were last summer." 
 
 " She is not far wrong, sir, although I have never told her so. 
 I am not doing well. My wound is not healing as I would like 
 
432 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 to see it, nor do I believe that it ever will, unless I have a better 
 surgeon than I have here. If I had had a comfortable mode of 
 conveyance, I should have gone back to the Hall two weeks ago ; 
 but I dared not undertake the journey on horseback again, for it 
 was a serious injury to me before, although Eva does not know 
 it. I have been thinking seriously, the last two days, of trying to 
 get home, although I doubt very much my ability to do so. I 
 believe, however, Uncle John," he added, smiling, " that all things 
 considered, I would rather go back with you to Cameron Hall, 
 than to go even to Alabama." 
 
 " That, I think, is quite probable, my son. Don't you think, 
 Willie, that you ouglit to be everlastingly grateful to me for that 
 transfer of you from the hospital to the Hall ? 1 am sure that I 
 little dreamed what I was doing for you." 
 
 " Nor did I, sir. I am afraid, however, that you will have to 
 take words only, empty words for an expression of my gratitude; 
 for, indeed, I do not know anything that I can do to show it." 
 
 "Yes, my son, the most acceptable proof of your gratitude, 
 both to her father and myself, is to show yourself worthy of her, 
 and to take loving care of the child ; and this I believe you will 
 do." 
 
 "God helping me, sir, I will I" 
 
 It was late in the afternoon when the travelers reached, the 
 grove near Cameron Hall. Willie's head was out of the carriage 
 watching the winding road, until a sudden turn revealed just what 
 he expected to see — Eva sitting on the same rock, under the 
 walnut-tree, where he had found her before. A cry of joy burst 
 simultaneously from both; Uncle John checked the horses, and 
 in an instant Eva was beside Willie, alternately laughing and 
 crying for joy. 
 
 That night, as Willie was lying upon the sofa, looking so com- 
 fortable and happy, with Eva by his side, all brightness and sun- 
 shine again. Uncle John said ; 
 
 " It does my old heart good to see you two children so happy. 
 It is a privilege that none but children enjoy now. We old people 
 are too anxious to be happy ; but I am going to put on my gayest 
 and most cheerful spirits for the wedding. When is it to be '?" 
 
 "To-morrow, sir," answered Willie. 
 
 "To-morrow, Willie !" exclaimed they all together. 
 
 "Yes," he said, much surprised. "I thought that was under- 
 stood. Eva said in her letter that it was to be at once." 
 
 "But, indeed, Willie," said Julia, laughing, "you do not give 
 me time to make any wedding-cake, or arrange Eva's bridal dress, 
 or do any of the thousand little nameless things that go to make 
 up a wedding. What an inconsiderate bridegroom you are I" 
 
CAMEKON HALL. 433 
 
 "I don't want to be inconsiderate," he answered, good-humor- 
 edlv. " or unmindful of the convenience of others. I am a novice 
 in all such things, and so my faults and blunders must be laid at 
 the door of ignorance. I will do anything and submit to any- 
 thing, on one condition ; and that is, that you will arrange mat- 
 ters as expeditiously as possible. As to wedding-cake, we can 
 dispense with that until after the war ; and as to Eva's bridal 
 dress, I would rather she should wear that white muslin that she 
 had on the evening that I first saw her, than the richest robe of 
 silk that could be bought in Paris." 
 
 "And so would I, Willie," said Eva. "I would like to be 
 married in that dress, because it is associated with such pleasant 
 memories of you. May I wear it, sister?" 
 
 "Certainly, if you prefer it." 
 
 "And if," said Willie, " a bride without a veil is not an intoler- 
 able anomaly, and if it is not unheard-of presumption in me to 
 make any requests with regard to my bride's toilet, I would pre- 
 fer that Eva should not wear a veil. When I look at her, I want 
 to look right down into her eyes, without having an intervening 
 cloud to shut out their light from me." 
 
 "Why, Willie," said Eva, laughing, "don't you know that a 
 bride's veil does not cover her face ? That is not the fashion 
 now." 
 
 "I thought," he replied, "that the use of a veil was to cover 
 the face ; but since this is not so, and it is a useless appendage, 
 and since we are not to have any wedding-party, I suppose we 
 can be allowed a privilege enjoyed by few bridal couples, that of 
 selecting our own dress, without fear of running counter to any 
 of the old acknowledged customs. Now, if I am making any 
 monstrous demands, you must tell me, for I don't want to be un- 
 reasonable or exacting." 
 
 "The absence of a veil," said Eva, "would be a matter of 
 necessity, if it were not of choice ; since no suitable material could 
 be found in Hopedale now, and I cannot send elsewhere. You 
 don't know, papa, how much expense you will be spared by my 
 being married during the war. In former times, it would have 
 involved an expenditure of many hundreds of dollars with New 
 York milliners and dress-makers." 
 
 " Which would not have added one atom to our happiness, 
 Eva," said Willie. "I doubt if either of us will ever feel the 
 want of those months of preparation, which usually employ the 
 time and thoughts of a whole household on a wedding occasion. 
 My Confederate gray and your simple muslin will make us just 
 as happy as the most expensive satin and broadcloth coulcl^do." 
 
 " I have been opposed, from the beginning," said Uncle John, 
 • 37 
 
434 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "to putting any unnecessary delays and impediments in the way 
 of the children's ha})piness; and if they are content to do with- 
 out cake and furbelows, why not let them be married to-morrow ?" 
 
 " That is just as they please," said Julia, " provided papa does 
 not prefer delay." 
 
 "Tiie delay of a day or two would make no diuerence," he 
 replied. " If they are going to be married before the end of the 
 war, I would as soon that it should be to-morrow as any other 
 time." 
 
 "Then, to-morrow it shall be," said Willie. "Shall it not, 
 Eva?" 
 
 "Yes, Willie, to-morrow." 
 
 "Will you let me select the hour?" asked Julia. 
 
 "Yes, gladly, sister," replied Eva. "I would like something 
 about my wedding specially of your own choosing." 
 
 " Then let it be as near twilight as possible. The church wears 
 an aspect of holy solemnity at that hourj which it has at no other 
 time." 
 
 It was just at sunset, on a quiet February evening, that the 
 youthful pair stood before the chancel "to be joined together in 
 holy matrimony." The waning light fell, softened and subdued, 
 through the rich coloring of the stained glass, and one clear 
 bright ray of the setting sun streamed, rich and full, and fell like 
 a halo upon Eva's golden hair. Through the tall arches and up 
 to the vaulted roof, daylight and darkness were struggling for 
 the mastery, and along the silent aisles, and in the empty pews, 
 the shadows were gathering, and over all there reigned a peace- 
 ful calm, a holy solitude, a reverent silence, which, more impres- 
 sively than words, proclaims: "the Lord is in His holy temple." 
 It was the hour to solemnize, and the devotion of the little com- 
 pany assembled there formed a striking contrast to the levity and 
 mirth which even the sacredness of the church cannot, on such 
 occasions, always restrain. 
 
 Eva's dress was the extreme of simplicity. Her soft, white 
 muslin was without ornament, save the single white camellia that 
 was fastened upon her bosom. A wreath of delicate flowers, 
 which her own hands had twined, rested upon her brow ; and 
 beneath it fell the rich, clustering, golden curls, whose luxuriance 
 anjj profusion rendered a veil superfluous indeed. 
 
 The service was over. Side by side they knelt at the altar, 
 and the minister's hand still lingered, in paternal blessing, upon 
 the young heads bowed before him, when all at once the low, 
 trembling tones of the organ broke the stillness, not in an out- 
 burst of joyous music, but in rich melody, interwoven with a 
 minor strain of plaintive sorrow. Deep and solemn rolled the 
 
CAMERON HALL. . 435 
 
 tide of music through the gathering darkness, and now and then 
 a note of low, sobbing bass fell almost like a wail upon the ear 
 and heart. In silence and wonder they all listened to the blind 
 child, as she interpreted their feelings by her own music. It is 
 never with a feeling of uumiugled joy that the child, the sister, 
 is forever surrendered to the keeping of another ! 
 
 There was no movement until the last note of the organ had 
 died away into silence, and then Willie and. Eva went up to 
 Agnes. Her face was sad, and there was a tear upon her cheek. 
 
 "My child," said her mother, almost reproachfully, ''your music 
 was too sad for a wedding, and especially for Eva's. She ought 
 to have had glad, joyous music." 
 
 " No, mother, the organ spoke her feelings as well as ours. Her 
 marriage takes her away from us, and takes us away from her. 
 The music spoke the truth, mother." 
 
 "You are right, Agnes," said Eva, her eyes full of tears. "I 
 am happy, very happy now ; but with it all there will blend sad 
 thoughts of leaving home and friends, and of TVillie leaving me 
 before long. Yes," she added, thoughtfully, "your music indeed 
 spoke the truth !" 
 
 When they left the church, twilight had faded away into dark 
 night, and the stars were shining. Below, all was shrouded in 
 darkness; above, all was clear and bright, meet emblem of the 
 life on whose threshold those two young hearts now stood. Its 
 trials and difficulties and sorrows, like the unsightly objects of 
 earth, were mercifully hidden beneath the dark veil of the future ; 
 but hope, like the cloudless vault above, spanned their earthly 
 life, and love, like those quenchless stars, would only shine the 
 brighter in the darkest night I 
 
 Willie and Eva had been married a week. The bright after- 
 noon sunshine, as clear and cloudless as their own hearts, had 
 tempted them from the fire, and arm in arm they were walking 
 up and down the winding, graveled road that led to the gate of 
 the lawn. All their talking was, as usual, of the future ; and 
 now, with the elasticity of youth, they had leaped over all the in- 
 tervening time of war and suffering and bloodshed, and were 
 planning what they would do, and how happy they would be, 
 when blessed peace should once more have settled upon the land, 
 and Willie, his duty done, his country free, should have returned 
 in safety and honor to her proud and loving heart. Their home- 
 picture was a sweet one, for its outlines were sketched by a vivid, 
 youthful fancy, and its colors were borrowed from the rainbow of 
 hope, and the whole was flooded by the glowing sunshine of warm, 
 young hearts. No wonder that its serene and quiet beauty tempted 
 them to forget the scene of strife and danger, of pain and turmoil 
 
436 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 which must be passed, before they could realize and enjoy what 
 now they could only iniagine. They were talking and dreaming 
 of the future, when Uncle John's voice recalled them to the pres- 
 ent, as, riding up behind them, he exclaimed : 
 
 *' I told you, Eva, that your nursing would soon recall Willie 
 to health and strength ; but I scarcely expected to see silch won- 
 derful results in so short a time. What have you been doing to 
 him ?" 
 
 "Nothing as yet, Fncle John," she replied, laughing, "except 
 to make promises. He seems to be perfectly contented for the 
 present, to be told what I am going to be to him and to do for 
 him in the future. We have just been planning a sweet home, 
 where we are to live when the war is over, and where there is to 
 be a snug little room always ready to welcome Uncle John when 
 he comes to see us every spring. You will promise to do that as 
 long as you live, won't you ?" 
 
 "Yes, daughter," he replied, with an involuntary sigh, "when 
 the war is over and you and Willie are settled in your own home, 
 I will promise to come and see you every spring. But how is 
 this, Willie," he asked, with a sudden cheerfulness, as if striving 
 to cast away sad thoughts, " how is it that you have recovered so 
 wonderfully as to be able to walk about the yard ?" 
 
 "It is some of this witch's magic. Uncle John." 
 
 " Rather some of sister's good nursing, Willie. Give the 
 praise where it is due." 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "some of sister's good nursing. She and 
 the doctor have taken me under their care this week, and I am 
 much better for it. I was quite sure, as I told you, that my 
 wound needed better treatment than it had had since I left here." 
 
 Just then Julia appeared, hastening to meet them. 
 
 "Oh, Willie I" she exclaimed, "is it possible that you are 
 walking about here in the cold? I declare. Uncle John, I cannot 
 trust these children out of my sight for a single moment. After 
 Eva's lecture upon prudence, it would seem that we might expect 
 better things of her; but indeed she knows no more about it prac- 
 tically than Willie does, and permits him to do all sorts of im- 
 proper things. Come, you must go back into the house this 
 moment." 
 
 They went into the library, where they found Mr. Cameron, 
 who asked, as soon as he saw Uncle John : 
 
 " Where is Agnes ? Why didn't you bring her?" 
 
 Mr. Cameron's heart now clung to his granddaughter, and it 
 was a triple cord that bound her to him. It was the same old 
 compassionate feeling for her infirmity and for her gentle cheer- 
 fulness that had first drawn him to her, now deepened and 
 
CAMERON HALL. 437 
 
 strengthened by the consciousness that she was indeed his own 
 by the strongest of ties, and to this was superadded an inde- 
 scribable tenderness, as he saw in her a meraorial of his son, — 
 that son, whom as the wayward youth, the erring man, he strove 
 to forget, but whom as the child he still loved to remember, the 
 first-born of his house, the infant who had first awakened in his 
 breast a father's feelings, and who was so identified with the 
 memories of his young wife, his first home, his early manhood. 
 All these the sight of Agnes revived. In her he could recall 
 them all, without the bitterness and the pang which ever accom- 
 panied the thought of George ; and as he felt himself now rapidly 
 growing old under the weight of care and anxiety, he yvsls thank- 
 ful for the comfort and companionship of Agnes. More especially 
 was'this the case just at this time. Ho had given up one daughter, 
 the other was pledged, and he did not know how soon she too 
 would be claimed at his hands; he had surrendered his only son 
 to his country's service, and without Agnes he felt that his old 
 age would be desolate indeed. Besides all this, Mr. Cameron 
 experienced a strange sort of pleasure in the thought that she 
 was blind, that none would ever try to win the blind child away 
 from his heart, and in her helplessness he felt a security that 
 while he lived her blind life would be the sunshine of his own. 
 All these thoughts he had revolved in his mind, and there was 
 but one thing wanting to make his satisfaction complete. He 
 wanted to tell the child that she belonged to him, that he had a 
 right to her, inferior only to that of her mother, and that she 
 occupied in his heart the same place as Julia and Eva. He did 
 not sympathize in Grace's feelings about this matter, and was 
 restless under the restriction to which he had so reluctantly con- 
 sented. He had frequently talked to Uncle John about it, but 
 Uncle John agreed with the mother. He always said : 
 
 " Let the mother have her own way, Mr. Cameron. She 
 knows the child better than you do, and thinks she is happier as 
 she is, and so I would let her remain." 
 
 And Mr. Cameron felt himself constrained to acquiesce, though 
 still unconvinced. To the question which he had now asked. 
 Uncle John replied : 
 
 "I would have brought her, but she is not well this morning." 
 
 " I trust that there is not much the matter!" 
 
 " I think not, but her mother is evidently distressed and anxious. 
 Indeed the possession of that child can scarcely be called a pleas- 
 ure, for the fear of losing her quite counterbalances Grace's pres- 
 ent enjoyment of her." 
 
 " Why so ?" inquired Mr. Cameron. " I have never seen 
 
 31* 
 
438 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 anything about Agnes to awaken apprehensions of that sort. On 
 the contrary, I think that she has the promise of as long a life 
 as any child of my acquaintance." 
 
 " So I think, sir. I suppose tliat the mother's anxiety is natu- 
 ral, and rendered morbid perhaps by the possession of only one 
 comfort in a life otherwise made up of sorrow and disappointment. 
 Another reason for it may be found in the fact that she regards 
 Agues's musical genius as an unnatural development, a premature 
 maturity, involving premature decay, while, as I have often told 
 her, it is no development at all, but simply a gift, which would be 
 quite as wonderful in the full-grown woman as it is in the child, 
 and was bestowed upon her as a compensation for her blindness. 
 This, however, Grace will not believe, and the slightest indisposi- 
 tion on the part of Agnes renders her as wretched as anot*her 
 mother would be at the serious illness of a child. She is misera- 
 ble now because Agnes has not touched the organ to-day; but 
 the child feels languid and badly, and does not want to play, that 
 is all." 
 
 " I must go and see for myself what is the matter, and if she is 
 sick she must be brought here. I shall insist upon that." 
 
 " You will encounter no opposition there, I assure you, sir. 
 If Agnes should be very sick, which I do not think at all proba- 
 ble, her mother will find her anxiety intolerable in the solitude of 
 her own home, and will be only too glad to seek the sympathy 
 and assistance which she will be sure of finding here." 
 
 " They ought both to be here all the time," said Mr. Cameron, 
 with a little impatience in his tone, " and it is a foolish notion of 
 Grace's that prevents it. The child is too young to be made 
 miserable, even if she knew it all. On the contrary, I believe 
 that she would be happier, for she is of an afifectionate nature, 
 and her heart would go out gladly toward her newly-found rela- 
 tives. As to myself, I need her, and ought to have her, especially 
 when this child goes away, which she threatens to do in a week." 
 
 ** What! so soon as that, Eva?" asked Uncle John. 
 
 *' Yes, sir," answered Willie, " it must be. If I continue to 
 improve another week as I have done during this one, I shall be 
 able by that time to undertake the journey by short stages. 
 When I am fit for service again I will bring Eva back, and lend 
 her to her father and sister while I am in the army. They must 
 promise, however, to take better care of her than they did the 
 last time that I left her in their keeping, for instead of the bloom- 
 ing, rosy-cheeked girl that I lent them, they returned me a pale, 
 wan, sad-looking bride." 
 
 " That was not our fault, Willie," said Julia, " as Uncle John 
 can testify ; and unless as your wife she shall bear up more bravely 
 
CAMERON HALL. 439 
 
 under anxiety and separation than she did as your betrothed, we 
 will be obliged to return her to you looking just as she did 
 before. I hope, however, that under your tuition she will learn 
 fortitude." 
 
 "Yes," answered Eva, cheerfully, "I am sure that I will. If 
 Willie had been at home with his mother, or even in the army, 
 strong and well and with plenty to do, I would not have been so 
 distressed before ; but it was because he was sick and suffering 
 and lonely that I felt so troubled about him. But when he goes 
 again I will bear it like a Southern soldier's wife. You will 
 see it, sister." 
 
 " Tliat is right, my daughter," said Mr. Cameron, approv- 
 ingly. " Then indeed I shall have cause to rejoice that in my 
 child a Southern soldier has found sympathy, encouragement, 
 and help ; then 1 shall never regret that I did not insist upon 
 Willie's waiting for a wife until he had ceased to be a soldier." 
 
 When Uncle John returned to town, Mr. Cameron accom- 
 panied him, and they went together to the cottage. Mr. Cam- 
 eron's mind was now bent on having Grace and Agnes at the 
 Hall, and since he could not insist upon it openly, as he wanted 
 to do, he determined to try and gain the child's consent uncon- 
 sciously. She was still on the sofa where Uucle John had left 
 her in the morning, but disclaimed the idea of being sick, and 
 said that she was only tired. 
 
 Mr. Cameron seated himself by her, and said, pleasantly: 
 
 "Agnes, how would you like for yourself and your mother 
 to come to the Hall and stay some weeks with us ? It would do 
 you both good, and as to ourselves it would be an act of kind- 
 ness to us", for Julia and I will be very lonely next week, when 
 Willie and Eva are gone." 
 
 "I would like it very much indeed, Mr. Cameron." 
 
 Mr. Cameron ! how formal and frigid it sounded in the ears of 
 the man who longed to fold the child to his heart and lavish upon 
 her a father's love ! Grace saw in his face the painful revulsion 
 of feeling, and thought of the strange fatality that seemed to 
 mark every footstep of her way, and continually to bring her face 
 to face with conflicting claims and opposing duties. It pained 
 her thus to seem to interpose a barrier to the love and caresses 
 ready to be lavished upon her child, and she felt that she would 
 probably be regarded as only obstinate where she knew herself to 
 be self-sacrificing ; but above all other claims, and paramount to 
 all other duties, she considered the happiness of her blind child, 
 and she determined to persist in what she felt assured would best 
 promote it. 
 
 Again Mr. Cameron asked : 
 
440 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "And you will agree to go to the Hall, Agnes, if your mother 
 will consent?" 
 
 " For how long a time, Mr. Cameron ?" 
 
 " Just as long as you choose to stay," 
 
 " I would like to be there very much as long as I am too tired 
 to play on the organ, but I must come back just as soon as I am 
 well enough for that." 
 
 She paused a moment, and her face brightened as she added, 
 with the unrestrained freedom with which she was accustomed to 
 express her wishes to him : 
 
 " I tell you what I would like very much indeed, Mr. Cameron. 
 I would like for you to move my organ to the Hall, and then 
 I would be willing to stay just as long as you would like to 
 have me." 
 
 " My child," said her mother, " you do not know what you 
 ask. You have no idea of the trouble that it would cost to 
 remove that organ to the Hall." 
 
 "I did not know, mother," she answered, "that it would be 
 any more trouble to move my organ than a grand piano. I do 
 not wish to trouble Mr. Cameron, but I was only thinking how 
 pleasant it would be to stay at the Hall if the organ was there. 
 Then if you would stay with me, I would rather stay there than 
 to live at the cottage." 
 
 This was quite sufficient for Mr. Cameron, who said immedi- 
 ately : 
 
 " Never mind the trouble, Agnes. If it is practicable it shall 
 be done. Perhaps Uucle John can devise some way to do it. 
 Whenever my girls get into any difficulty they always send for 
 him, and he generally contrives to help them out of it." 
 
 "Agnes," said Uucle John, " are you willing to trust me to 
 take your organ to pieces and put it up agaiu ?" 
 
 " Take it to pieces, Uncle John !" she exclaimed, in dismay. 
 
 "Yes, daughter,. there is no other way to remove it." 
 
 "Then it must not be done," she said, decidedly. "Suppose, 
 Uncle John, that you should take it to pieces, and could not put 
 it together again, what should I do ?" 
 
 "You would do without it, my daughter," he answered, laugh- 
 ing at her evident alarm; "there would be no help for it." 
 
 "And surely. Uncle John, surely you would not pull it down 
 without knowing whether or not you could build it up again I" 
 
 " No, Agnes, certainly not," he answered, seeing that he had 
 awakened apprehensions which he could not so easily lull. "You 
 are not afraid to trust me, are you, Agnes ?" 
 
 " No — sir — " she replied, with hesitation, and in a tone of anx- 
 iety and doubt which contradicted her words; "but I believe, 
 
CAMERON HALL. 441 
 
 Uncle John, that I would rather wait awhile before having it 
 moved. I will g^ to the Hall and stay until I get well, and then 
 come home to the organ." 
 
 "But Mr. Cameron and Julia will be disappointed," replied 
 Uncle John, seeing that here was an insurmountable obstacle in 
 the way of Mr. Cameron's plans. " They want the organ at the 
 Hall, so that they can enjoy your music. Now if I assure you 
 that I will not remove a single part of it until I am sure that I 
 can put it back again, will you trust me then ?" 
 
 "Did you ever take an organ to pieces, Uncle John ?" 
 
 **No, never." 
 
 "Tlien," she said, with a nervous apprehension that she vainly 
 endeavored to hide, and at the same time with a feeling of self- 
 reproach at her unwillingness to trust him, "please. Uncle John, 
 don't touch it. I am not,— I mean I don't want to be afraid to 
 trust you, but I would rather not have it moved just now." 
 " Yery well, my daughter," he answered, "just as you please." 
 But Agnes was ill at ease. Accustomed always to yield to 
 the slightest expression of Uncle John's wishes, she felt that 
 she had how not only resisted him, but had, at the same time, 
 shown distrust of him. She could not see his face to tell whether 
 or not she had offended him, and her fears had imparted to the 
 tone of his reply a coldness which existed only in her imao-in- 
 ation. ° 
 
 Nothing more was said, and presently she asked, timidly, and 
 looking as if she were just ready to cry : 
 
 "Uncle John, is it very wrong for me to do so ?" 
 
 " To do what, my daughter ?" 
 
 "To be afraid for you to take down my organ. Oh, Uncle 
 John !" she said, earnestly and apologetically, ''if you only knew 
 what an organ is to a blind child you would forgive me, you would 
 not be angry with me." 
 
 "Angry with you, child ! why, I never thought of such a thing. 
 No, Agnes, the removal of the organ was proposed to give yo°a 
 pleasure, but if instead it is to give you pain and anxiety, of 
 course I prefer not to do it. So come, don't think any more about 
 it. You shall go to the Hall, and whenever you want the organ 
 there and are willing to trust me, I will remove it." 
 
 " Thank you, Uncle John," she said, much relieved. " Perhaps 
 some of these days I would like to have it there, but not now." 
 
 " Grace," said Mr. Cameron, " when may I have Agnes?" 
 
 "Now, sir," she answered, "if you wish it and she will consent 
 to go without me. Indeed I would prefer that she should go 
 home with you. She is not well, and the arrangements that I 
 shall be obliged to make within the next few days will keep me 
 
442 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 SO busy that T will not be able to give her the attention that she 
 may require." ^ 
 
 " Will you go, Agnes ?" he asked. 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 " Then yon must go at once, so as to get home before sunset." ' 
 
 " I must first say good-by to the organ. You will let me do 
 that, Mr. Cameron, won't you ?" 
 
 " Yes, but it must not be either a long or a sad farewell, for 
 you will play again in a very few days." 
 
 But his injunction was either unheeded or forgotten. It was 
 indeed a farewell, such a one as she might have played if she had 
 never again expected to awaken its music; and after waiting as 
 long as he possibly could, Mr. Cameron was at length obliged 
 abruptly to end the strain. On their way home, he said to her : 
 
 "Agnes, my daughter, I don't like for you to call me Mr. Cam- 
 eron. It sounds cold and formal. You call Uncle John, uncle ; 
 why not give me some affectionate title, too ? why not call me 
 Uncle Henry, — or grandfather ? I believe that I like that better. 
 How would you like to call me grandfather ?" 
 
 "I don't think it would do very well, sir," she answered, laugh- 
 ing ; "for grandfathers have to be old men, and Uncle John says 
 that you are not so old as he is. Oh, no, sir, you are not old 
 enough to be my grandfather, and it would sound ridiculous to 
 call you so." 
 
 "You are very much mistaken, my child. I am quite old, 
 enough for that, and I think I would like to be called so very 
 much. Suppose you try it." 
 
 "For what, Mr. Cameron?" 
 
 " Simply because, as I told you just now, it is more affection- 
 ate." 
 
 " Do you think it would make me love ^ou any better ?" 
 
 "I do not know that it would, but I might fancy that it did." 
 
 "No, sir; no name could sound better to me than Mr. Came- 
 ron, for whenever I hear it, it makes me think of patience and 
 kindness to a blind child, who is not even a relation." 
 
 "Have you never wanted relatives, Agnes ? Have you never 
 felt lonely when you thought that you had nobody but your mother, 
 no father, brother, sister, uncle, or aunt ?" 
 
 " When I was a very little child I used to wish that I had a 
 father to love me, as other children had, and brothers and sisters 
 to play with me, and I wondered that I had not, for it would 
 seem that a blind child ought to have more relatives than any- 
 body else ; but I have not wanted them since I have known and 
 learned to love you and your daughters, and Uncle John. In 
 you, I did not have the name of relatives, but I had everything 
 
CAMERON HALL. 443 
 
 else. Do you think, Mr. Cameron," she asked, earnestly, "that 
 I could possibly love you any better than I do if you were my 
 uncle, or even my grandfather, as yon want me to call you ?" 
 
 " I don't know, my child. You might not love me more, but 
 I think the feeling would be different. Suppose now that I were 
 really and truly your grandfather, don't you believe that you 
 would feel a little nearer to me than you do now ; would feel that 
 you had a greater claim upon me, and that I was bound to take 
 care of you ?" 
 
 " I could not feel any nearer to you than I do now, Mr. Came- 
 ron ; and as to your being bound to take care of me, I only 
 know," she said, with childish simplicity and trust, " that if my 
 mother should die, you and Uncle John would take care of me. 
 Wouldn't you?" 
 
 " Yes, my darling ! So long as I live you shall never be en- 
 tirely orphaned. Agnes, I expect a great deal of pleasure from 
 having you with me at the Hall." 
 
 " You mean, sir, that you expect to give me a great deal. I 
 cannot give pleasure to anybody except by my music, and you 
 have no organ at the Hall." 
 
 " I love your music, Agnes, but I love still better to talk to 
 you and have you with me, and I intend to make you my com- 
 panion. You shall ride with me, and walk with me, and I will 
 do all that I can to make you contented and happy." 
 
 " It only needs kindness, Mr. Cameron, to make me contented, 
 and everybody at the Hall is so affectionate to me that I cannot 
 be otherwise than happy there. Yes, sir, I expect to have a 
 pleasant, happy visit, and if I only had my organ I should not 
 care if I did not go back to the cottage any more." 
 
 When they reached the Hall, Agnes was languid and tired. 
 She asked permission to lie down on the sofa, and was soon fast 
 asleep. 
 
 " Julia," said Mr. Cameron, "if that child's organ is not brought 
 here she will not be contented three days, and yet the bare men- 
 tion of taking it to pieces makes her wretched. I wish that no- 
 thing had been said about it." 
 
 "It might yet be done, papa, without her knowing it. Is 
 Uncle John certain that he can rebuild it ? It would indeed be 
 a calamity if he should find that he could not. Agnes would 
 grieve herself to death." 
 
 "Yes, he seems sure of that, but she will not consent at all to 
 his trying it." 
 
 " Never mind, we will not ask her. Uncle John and I will 
 arrange all that when he comes to-morrow, and she shall be 
 spared all anxiety about it. If we are expeditious, I hope that 
 
444 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 the first time she wishes for it she will find it at the Hall ready 
 
 for use." 
 
 After awhile Willie and Eva came in, and Willie said : 
 "Who occupies the invalid's sofa now ? It seems, indeed, to 
 
 have no rest. This time, however, I am glad to see that it is not 
 
 an invalid, but only Agnes asleep upon it." 
 
 "Yes, it is Agnes," said Julia, "but an invalid too. Look at' 
 
 her cheeks, Willie; she has a fever." 
 
 "If her mother had thought so," said Mr. Cameron, "she 
 
 would not have sent her. She thought it was only languor and 
 
 debility, and that the country air would be good for her. I do 
 
 trust," he said, looking at her earnestly, " that she is not going 
 
 to be very sick." 
 
 Julia looked first at her father and then at Agnes, and thought : 
 " Sometimes we are permitted to grasp the blessings that we 
 
 crave, only to teach us that the comfort that we expected is not 
 
 in them, and the hopes that we built upon their possession must 
 
 have, for their fulfillment, a more solid foundation than belongs 
 
 to anything earthly." 
 
 CHAPTER XXYII. 
 
 The next morning, when Julia met her father, she said: 
 
 " Papa, Agnes is sick and needs her mother. I will not send 
 for her, for that might alarm her, but if you will stay with Agnes, 
 I will go for her myself." 
 
 "And bring the physician too, Julia. I cannot help feeling 
 anxious about the child." 
 
 Julia went off, and her father took his seat by Agnes's couch. 
 He watched her rapid breathing and flushed cheeks, and tried to 
 argue himself into the belief that apprehension, from so slight a 
 cause, was both unnecessary and foolish, but he could neither 
 subdue nor control his anxiety. 
 
 After awhile, Julia returned with Grace and the physician, 
 who only laughed at their fears, prescribed some simple remedy, 
 and went away, leaving them, if not altogether reassured, at 
 least willing to believe that fear and alarm were quite useless. 
 
 The attention of the household was now divided between 
 Agues and Eva, who was rapidly approaching the time when 
 she was to bid adieu to her childhood's home j and although she 
 
CAMERON HALL. 445 
 
 tried hard to comfort herself with the thought that she was only 
 going awaj for a little while, still she could not forget that it 
 was a virtual farewell to her father's house, which could never 
 again be the home that it once was, first in her affections, para- 
 mount in her thoughts Henceforth, another must divide with 
 It her love and care. Julia looked forward with keenest pain to 
 •the approaching separation, the first that the sisters had ever 
 known She thought with dread of her loneliness, how she should 
 miss the child who had been all her life a part of her daily 
 thought and daily care, and whose pleasure and comfort she was 
 as much accustomed to consult in her plans and purposes as she 
 was that of her father. She remembered, too, that to Eva's 
 sprighthness and vivacity she was indebted not only for much 
 of happiness, but also for all the sparkle of her own life, and she 
 felt a shrinking dread of the void in the house and in her heart 
 which she 1.U8W that Eva's departure would make. She tried so 
 to busy hei-:elf with Agnes as to shut out the thought of the trial 
 that awaited her, but it weighed upon her like a horrible night- 
 mare. She nursed the child with unremitting tenderness and 
 care but all the while her heart ached with the thought of Eva 
 
 1 he days passed wearily with Agnes, whose disease was a low 
 form of fever, wasting in its effects, but without pain, and pre- 
 senting no alarming symptom. She was lonely, and no entertain- 
 ment that her mother could devise amused or interested hpr 
 fehe had never been seriously sick before, and in all her life 
 Grace had never felt that her child so needed eyes. Dolls flowers' 
 and picture-books, that for any other child would have varied the 
 tedious monotony, possessed no interest for her; and sometimes 
 after her mother had read to her and told her stories until both 
 min^d and ear were wearied, she would say, with a plaintive 
 
 "I am so tired, mother, so tired of darkness!" 
 And the mother listened with shivering dread to the mournful 
 plaint, the first that she had ever heard her utter. 
 
 Uncle John had worked perseveringly and successfully to give 
 Agnes a pleasant surprise, and when she had been several days 
 at the Hall, he was standing one evening, alone before the 
 organ, contemplating with quiet satisfaction the result of his 
 labor and picturing her glad astonishment when he should tell 
 her what he had done. 
 
 " Is it finished, Uncle John ?" asked Julia, coming into the 
 
 room 
 
 "Yes, daughter, it is done ; and won't our blind child be 
 glad ?" 
 
 '* Yes, sir," she answered, absently, and with a sigh 
 
 38 
 
446 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " Poor daughter I" said Uncle John. " You are thinking 
 of Eva now. I am sorry for you, for you will be lonely in- 
 deed." 
 
 "Eva has not been many minutes out of my thoughts in the 
 past few weeks, Uncle John, but I was not thinking of her at 
 that moment. I was thinking of Agnes, and her mother, and 
 papa, and you, Uncle John. Sorely will we all miss the blind, 
 child 1" 
 
 " What !" he exclaimed, with a sudden start. " What are you 
 saying, Julia ? what do you mean ?" 
 
 "I mean, Uncle John, that Agnes is very, very sick." 
 
 " When did she become so much worse ?" he asked, anxiously. 
 Why didn't you send for me ?" 
 
 " She seems no worse now than she has been all the time. 
 I have been afraid from the beginning that she would never get 
 well." 
 
 " Foolish child !" said Uncle John, kindly, and very much re- 
 lieved, " how you startled me ! I thought that Agnes must have 
 grown suddenly worse. But you are mistaken, Julia. You 
 have no experience in these low types of fever, and do not know 
 how much depression and exhaustion there may be, without any 
 real danger. The doctor does not say that she is very sick, nor 
 do I thiiik so. Oh, no ! good nursing, such as she gets from her 
 mother and yourself, will bring her safely through." 
 
 " I trust so, but I am very anxious; and I could not help sigh- 
 ing just now when 1 saw you smile in anticipation of her delight, 
 for the thought flashed upon me then that Agnes might perhaps 
 never touch those keys again." 
 
 "Oh, Julia !" he exclaimed, "don't talk so. The thought of- 
 Eva's departure has depressed you, and this makes you take a 
 gloomy view of Agnes's case. But cheer up, now ! She will 
 yet, for many a year to come, make this old Hall tremble with 
 that deep pedal bass. Come, get your cloak and bonnet, and 
 let us take a walk. You have stayed in that sick-room so much, 
 and have withal been so troubled, that you are almost sick your- 
 self. Air and exercise will do you good." 
 
 Uncle John was determined, if possible, to divert her thoughts 
 both from Agnes and Eva, and so he said, cheerfully, as they left 
 the house : 
 
 " Tell me when you heard from Charles, and what he says of 
 himself and his affairs. Time was, Julia, when you were de- 
 pendent upon me for tidings from him, but now the case is re- 
 versed, and if I want to hear from him I must come to you." 
 
 Their talking was all of Charles ; but Julia, unlike Eva, lived 
 not altogether in the future, and much of the present mingled 
 
CAMERON HALL. 447 
 
 both in her thoughts and conversation. She viewed things in 
 their true relations, and saw them as they really were. She 
 neither ignored nor forgot the danger and uncertainty around 
 her, but fully realized that she must encounter much anxiety, sus- 
 pense, and perhaps much actual sorrow, before that goal to which 
 she looked forward could be reached. The only condition on 
 which she had consented to marry Charles in the existing state 
 of things involved so much of suffering and danger to him, that 
 she never allowed herself to think of it ; so that when she thought 
 of happiness, it was always as if she were looking across a black, 
 yawning chasm, which must be crossed, before the pure and 
 peaceful light could be reached on the other side. She struggled 
 to attain a patient serenity, a trusting hope, but beyond this she 
 did not aspire. Sometimes that serenity was ruffled by deep 
 anxiety, and that hope, losing for the moment its supporting, 
 anchor-like power, was swayed to and fro by torturing fears ; but 
 Julia was a Christian, and therefore always patient and submissive, 
 and generally even now wore that expression of calm, quiet cheer- 
 fulness which was her wont. 
 
 " When will you see Charles again ?" asked Uncle John. 
 
 "Ah, sir 1 I do not know. There is no definite time in the 
 future for that pleasure. We will not see each other often," she 
 added, with a sigh, ''while the war lasts, even if that should be 
 for years. We have agreed, Uncle John, not to tempt each other 
 away from duty, and except in some great and unexpected emer- 
 gency, I shall never ask him to leave his post to come to me for 
 a single day. He will come whenever he can do so consistently 
 with his duty, and, fortunately for my peace, I have confidence 
 enough in him to believe that he will never either desert his post 
 or forget me." 
 
 "A priceless faith, my daughter, nor is it misplaced. I be- 
 lieve that the end will prove that you have not overestimated 
 him.. I wish," he added, kindly, "that you two children could 
 have your happiness sealed as speedily as Willie and Eva. This 
 long waiting will be wearisome to both of you, and Charles will 
 not bear it as patiently and submissively as you will." 
 
 " Perhaps nut, but bear it he must, in some fashion or other, 
 because it is right, and he has promised to do it. He understands, 
 Uncle John, that unless he is ill or wounded, and requires a wife's 
 nursing care, we are not to be married during the war. He ac- 
 quiesced in my decision, and I do not think will ever propose that 
 it should be reversed." 
 
 They walked in the grove until it was quite dark, and the keen, 
 cold air sent them back to the house, where they went imme- 
 diately to Agnes's room. 
 
448 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 « 
 
 Languor and exhaustion were plainly written upon her face, 
 and when Uncle John asked how she felt, she answered, 
 wearily : 
 
 " Tired, Uncle John, — oh ! so tired !" 
 
 " She is tired of her position," said her mother, "and I cannot 
 remedy it. I took her up just now and seated her in the arm- 
 chair, but that exhausted her; then I propped her with pillows, 
 but that was not comfortable; and now I don't know what to do 
 for her." 
 
 "But I do," said Uncle John, lifting her gently in his arms 
 and seating himself before the fire in a large rocking-chair. 
 " Now, spread a blanket over her, and I will hold her so com- 
 fortably that she will be asleep in five minutes." 
 
 The change of position was a great relief, and nestling her 
 head against Uncle John's shoulder, Agnes verified his predic- 
 tion, and in a few minutes was fast asleep. Julia stole out 
 quietly, and the mother and Uncle John silently watched the 
 child. The room was dark, except as it was now and then 
 lightened by a fitful blaze of the decaying fire, whose uncertain 
 glare only served to sharpen the outlines of the thin face, and to 
 deepen, for the instant, tlie fever-glow upon the cheeks. The 
 quick eye of the mother detected in an instant the gentle touch 
 which Uncle John laid upon Agnes's wrist, and, with her anx- 
 ieties awakened in a moment, she asked, quickly : 
 
 "Has she more fever ?" 
 
 The pulse bounded as he had never felt it before, and with 
 difficulty controlling his voice and his countenance, he replied, 
 calmly : 
 
 " Her pulse is not so quiet as it was this morning. She has 
 more fever than she had then." 
 
 And then, afraid of more searching questions which he did not 
 wish to answer, he added : 
 
 " We must not talk now. Let her sleep if she can." 
 
 No more was said, and they kept their silent watch ; Uncle 
 John finding himself unwillingly partaking of Julia's fears, and 
 Grace oppressed with the same vague, undefined dread, which 
 had tortured her ever since the first morning that Agnes's hands 
 had fallen listlessly at her side before the organ. Presently Mr. 
 Cameron joined the silent group, and seating himself beside Uncle 
 John, looked first at the child, then at the mother, and then at 
 Uncle John, as if with a vain hope of reading something in their 
 faces which might contradict his own anxious fears. 
 
 They sat thus for some time, when Agnes suddenly awoke with 
 a start and a shudder, and asked, in a frightened tone : 
 
 "Where am I?" 
 
CAMERON HALL. 449 
 
 "In Uncle John's arms, my daughter," he replied, clasping her 
 hand. 
 
 " Oh, I am so glad !" she said, with a sigh of relief. " I must 
 have been dreaming; but I thought that I was in such a cold, 
 damp place, talking to Mr. George." 
 
 "Hush, daughter!" said Uncle John, not wishing either her 
 thoughts or conversation to be directed in that painful channel. 
 " Be quiet now, and go to sleep again ; you did not finish your 
 nap." 
 
 " I cannot, Uncle John ; I am wide awake now. I was so 
 frightened ! I would rather not go to sleep at all than to have 
 such dreams. I never dreamed before of seeing anything ; but I 
 actually thought that I saw him, and that was what frightened 
 me so." 
 
 Uncle John could plainly feel the quick throbbing of her heart, 
 and fearing the effect of this excitement, he tried to soothe and 
 quiet her, but in vain. She would talk, and there was an un- 
 natural, nervous hurry in the tone of her voice, as she said : 
 
 " Poor Mr. George ! I wonder what has become of him. Do 
 you know, Uncle John ?" 
 
 " I have never heard from him, Agnes, since we left Rich- 
 mond." 
 
 Her mind was now fixed upon Mr. George, and with childish 
 pertinacity she pursued her questions and vain conjectures, as to 
 where he was, and if he had made friends and was happier than 
 he used to be. Neither her mother nor Mr, Cameron spoke, but 
 received in silent agony every stab of the unconscious child. At 
 last she started up, and exclaimed, hurriedly: 
 
 "Mother ! Uncle John, where is mother? Is she here ?" 
 
 "Yes, Agnes," she answered, taking her hand, "your mother 
 is here." 
 
 " Mother, I want you to write to Mr. George for me now this 
 very minute. I promised to do it, and ought to have done it 
 before. I am afraid he will think that I don't keep my promises. 
 Will you, mother ?" 
 
 Grace could not answer a word, and looked ready to faint. 
 Uncle John came to her relief, and said : 
 
 "It is night now, Agnes, and your mother is so tired nursing 
 you all day, that she could not write a letter. Wait until to- 
 morrow, daughter, won't you ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, if mother is too tired to do it now. But will you 
 promise to write to-morrow, mother?" 
 
 " Wait until to-morrow comes, my child," she almost gasped. 
 
 "Agnes," said Uncle John, " if you are well enough to-mor- 
 
 38* 
 
450 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 row to tell me what to write, I will write a letter for yon to Mr. 
 George. Won't that do ? Your mother is not able to do it, she 
 has too much to do for you." 
 
 "Yes, that will do, Uncle John," she answered, satisfied with 
 the promise. 
 
 "And now, Agnes," he said, " I have promised to gratify you; 
 you must do something for me in return." 
 
 "I am willing. Uncle John. What is it?" 
 
 "You must lie still and not speak another word, and try to go 
 to sleep." 
 
 " I will try," she replied, settling herself in his arms and lean- 
 ing her head against his breast. 
 
 Again they sat a long time in silence. After awhile Mr. Cam- 
 eron, thinking she was asleep, and wishing to judge of her fever, 
 laid his hand upon one of hers that was resting upon the arm of 
 the chair. In a moment she passed her other hand rapidly over 
 his, and said : 
 
 "This is Mr. Cameron's hand, and it is so cool and pleasant. 
 Uncle John, my hands and ray head are burning up. What 
 makes me feel so hot in such cold weather ?" 
 
 "Because you have a fever, Agnes. You are sick, and the 
 more you talk the worse it is for you ; and that is the reason 
 why we try to keep you quiet." 
 
 "But, Uncle John, I must do something when I am awake. 
 If I could see, I would lie still, because then I could look around 
 and have plenty to amuse me without moving or speaking a 
 word ; but now it is so lonely to lie here wide awake and in the 
 dark, and not even talk. Oh, if I only had my organ 1" 
 
 "But, Agnes, you could not play upon it if you had it. You 
 are not able to sit up now." 
 
 " Still, Uncle John, it would be pleasant to know that I was 
 near it. Sometimes I am almost sorry that I came to the Hall. 
 It is true, I would rather be sick here than at home, because I 
 have so many kind nurses ; but I am sorry that I left my organ. 
 If I had known that I would be away from it so long, I would 
 not have come." 
 
 "How would you like to have it here, Agnes?" 
 
 "I wish that it was here; but. Uncle John," she added, earn- 
 estly, "please don't try to move it." 
 
 " I will not, Agnes. It is already here." 
 
 It needed Uncle John's firm, strong grasp to keep the sick 
 child from leaping out of his arms upon the floor. 
 
 "Already here, and built up again, and ready to play on?" 
 she exclaimed in delight. 
 
 "Yes, all ready to play on, Agnes, and only waiting for you 
 
CAMERON HALL. 4')! 
 
 to get well enough to touch those pedal notes that you and I 
 love so well." 
 
 It was a pleasant excitement ; but TJncle John knew that it 
 was not less dangerous for all that. Her eyes sparkled, and her 
 cheeks glowed, and her heart beat quick and hard ; but the un- 
 natural strens^ih was that of the treacherous fever which wasted 
 and consumed, even while it seemed to supply power and energy. 
 In a little wliile the reaction came, and she sank back almost life- 
 less in Uncle John's arms. 
 
 "Send for the doctor," he whispered to Mr. Cameron. 
 
 The physician was sent for, and he came with all speed ; but 
 it seemed to the anxious watchers that they waited for him for 
 hours. He said nothing, but it needed no words to express the 
 uneasiness so plainly written on his countenance ; and when he 
 intimated his intention of spending the night, the satisfaction 
 afforded by his presence was more than counterbalanced by the 
 conviction of the danger which made it necessary. That was a 
 weary night, and before morning Agnes was unconscious. 
 
 To Grace and Julia this result, however distressing, was not 
 unexpected, for both had feared it from the beginning, although 
 they scarcely knew why; but Eva had never had one anxions 
 thought about Agnes, and when she came into the room the next 
 morning and saw her lying motionless, with the ice bound upon 
 her head, and her mother sitting beside her like a statue, the pos- 
 sibility that Agnes might die flashed upon her for the first time, 
 and her distress was augmented by the suddenness of the blow. 
 
 The day wore on ; another night came, but there was no 
 change. Agnes needed nothing. It would have been a relief to 
 have had something to do ; but there were no wants to be sup- 
 plied, no pains to be assuaged, no little offices of gentleness and 
 love which, "even if not necessary, are yet so acceptable to the 
 sick. On one side of the couch sat the mother, and on the other 
 was the grandfather. Each held a little hand, and looked with 
 hopeless distress upon the child whose life, however necessary to 
 their happiness, they were powerless to retain. All day and far 
 into the night she had lain as motionless as the dead ; but in the 
 depth of midnight the mother felt a slight tremor of the hand that 
 she held, and then "it was suddenly withdrawn from her grasp. 
 Mr. Cameron released the other, and both wandered feelingly 
 over the coverlid, as if arranging the stops of the organ. 
 
 "Agnes, my darling," exclaimed her mother, "speak to me." 
 
 The child heard not; and presently she sang, in a low voice, 
 her hands the while seeming to accompany her on the organ, a 
 simple hymn-tune to the words which, years ago, had pictured to 
 her infant mind her first bright dream of heaven. Mr. Cameron's 
 
452 CAMERdN HALL. 
 
 tears fell fast, as in the deep stillness of midnight he heard, from 
 the lips of the blind child, who was even then upon the threshold 
 of the world of light : 
 
 "No midnight shade, no clouded sun, 
 But sacred, high, eternal noon!" 
 
 And this was all. She knew nothing that was going on around 
 her; and when the last word died upon her lips, she was again in 
 that same profound and dreamless sleep from which her mo- 
 mentary glimpse of light and heaven had awakened her. Earn- 
 estly the mother watched and prayed for one word of recognition, 
 eagerly she listened for the word "mother," but it never came; 
 longingly she gazed upon the sealed lips, and hoped that if she 
 might not hear the sound, she might at least see them move as if 
 trying to pronounce her name. But she longed and prayed in 
 vain. The weary hours dragged on heavily, bringing with them 
 neither change nor hope. 
 
 Night waned, and the cold, gray dawn struggled dimly into the 
 room, and contended with the flickering glare of the dying night- 
 lamp. Then, clear and bright and cloudless rose the morning 
 sun, flooding earth and sky with that light which is at once the 
 glory and the life of this lower world. It streamed full through 
 the window upon the face of the dying child; but the darkness 
 that veiled her eyes, no earthly light could penetrate. Plaintive 
 and weary was the voice which said: 
 
 " Mother, come close, and let me touch your cheek. Is it 
 very dark to-night?" 
 
 " The night is gone, my darling, and it is bright, glorious 
 morning. What made you think that it was night?" 
 
 " Because it is so dark, so much darker than it ever was be- 
 fore. Oh, mother," she added, with a shudder, " I am so blind !" 
 
 And then in her restless tossing she murmured the words of 
 the prayer that she loved: ''Lighten my darkness, Lord;" and 
 deep and fervent was the voiceless Amen in the mother's heart. 
 
 It was twilight. Agnes had been quiet for hours, so quiet 
 that Uncle John occasionally felt the ebbing pulse to see if life 
 still lingered. All at once she opened her eyes wide, not with 
 the dull, vacant stare of the blind, but as if she were gazing into 
 the infinite depths. Then a bright smile of glad surprise and 
 joy lighted up her face, as she exclaimed : 
 
 " Mother, I am not blind now ! I see, oh ! I see the glorious 
 light!" 
 
 And with the word " light" upon her lips, the earthly night of 
 the blind child passed away forever in the light of eternal and 
 unclouded day ! 
 
 Her ^'darkness icas hnhfened now/" 
 
CAMERON HALL. 453 
 
 CHAPTER XXYIII. 
 
 Agnes was gone, and with her the light had gone out in her 
 mother's heart. There was silence now in Cameron Hall. The 
 organ was silent: there was no longer any childish touch to 
 awaken its chords. The mother's room was silent: there was no 
 child there to be instructed or amused. The mother's heart and 
 voice were silent: the business of her life was done. There was, 
 however, no overwhelming grief, no sinking down in hopeless 
 despair. Quietly she surrendered her last comfort, patiently she 
 submitted to the sundering of her last tie. 
 
 Nor was Agnes only missed by her mother, and others, to 
 whom she was scarcely less dear. Joe too missed her, although 
 he could neither have defined his feeling nor explained its cause. 
 He never asked for her; but for many days after she was laid 
 away in her grave, he took his accustomed place at the organ, 
 and waited hour after hour for her to come. There was some- 
 thing very touching in this patient and fruitless waiting of the 
 unconscious idiot for the return of one who could never come 
 again; and as he stood by the silent instrument, with his face 
 turned toward the door by which he expected her to enter, his 
 whole appearance and attitude were as expressive of sorrow as 
 was the more conscious and evident grief of the rest of the 
 family. He seemed to miss something, to want something, al- 
 most to hope for something, but he could neither have told nor 
 did he know himself what it was ; and when hour after hour had 
 passed, and still she came not, he would go away, and, resuming 
 his wandering habits of old, would roam all day over the planta- 
 tion and through the grove. Repeated disappointment at last 
 taught him his lesson, and he ceased to go to the organ, and 
 soon he learned to pass it by with his accustomed vacant stare, 
 as if he had never known its use nor heard its tones, and the 
 recollection of the blind child soon faded entirely away from the 
 feeble memory of the idiot boy. 
 
 One evening, about sunset, Julia went into Grace's room. She 
 was sitting by the window looking out upon the western sky, 
 where the sun was going down in a blaze of glory. She did not 
 hear the opening door, and Julia paused upon the threshold and 
 looked with a feeling almost of awe upon that same expression, 
 that same intent, 'penetrating gaze that was upon Agnes's face 
 
454 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 as she passed away. Presently Julia saw a "bright smile, and 
 then she went up to her, and asked, gently: 
 
 " What is it, Grace ? What are you thinking of?" 
 
 "Of Agnes, Julia. I was looking at that blaze of light, and 
 thinking how she once longed to know what light was. Now 
 that sunshine, glorious as it seems to us, is as darkness to what 
 she sees! Oh, Julia, if heaven were nothing but light, it would 
 still be heaven to my blind child !" 
 
 " Then, Grace, you are willing to give her up?" 
 
 "Willing, Julia! Is the mother willing to have her child's 
 eyes unsealed ? Willing to open her prison doors and send her 
 out of darkness into the blessed sunshine? Willing to see the 
 long shadows of a hopeless night flee before the rising sun ? If 
 so, then I am willing to give up Agnes, and not willing only, but 
 more than that. I am glad, so glad that the day has at last 
 dawned upon her !" 
 
 "And yet, Grace, you seemed to cling to her with a nervous 
 grasp, as if you dreaded losing her above all other calamities." 
 
 "And so I did. She was my thought, my life, my light. But 
 the fear was a selfish one, and now that she is gone, I can rise 
 above my own sorrow. I forget the niorht of my own heart, and 
 the darkness of my own life, in the thought that where she is 
 there shall be no night, no darkness!" 
 
 Weeks passed. The bleak winds of March, laden with the last 
 icy breath of winter, were lulled, and the soft skies and genial suns 
 of April were rapidly clothing the earth in the green mantle of 
 resurrected vegetation. Eva and Willie had left a few days after 
 the death of Agnes, and the weekly letter which came, full of 
 the love of that young heart, large enough and warm enough to 
 form strong new ties without weakening the old ones, — this, to- 
 gether with the letters from Walter and Charles, were the only' 
 variety in the quiet life of the Hall. Uncle John was if possible 
 a more frequent visitor there than ever. He missed his daily 
 visit to the cottage, and quite as much as this he missed the 
 organ, whose deep tones he was accustomed to hear as he passed 
 along the streets, and for which he still frequently found himself 
 involuntarily listening. Next to her mother, he missed Agnes 
 more than any one else. Mr. Cameron felt in the child's death 
 the bitterness of disappointment in having a coveted treasure 
 snatched from him as soon as he had possessed himself of it; but 
 to Uncle John, as to the mother, there was a painful vacuum, 
 the absence of something to which he had long been daily ac- 
 customed, and which had become almost as much a part of his 
 life as the very air that he breathed. When he and Grace were 
 together, Agnes formed their only theme of conversation. They 
 
CAMERON HALL. 455 
 
 loved to talk of her ; and to remember her music was like its own 
 echo, sweet jet sad, a pleasure and vet a pain too, because the 
 birth of the echo necessitates the death of its parent-sound. 
 
 It was late in April, and one evening, about sunset, Uncle 
 John and Julia were sitting upon the porch reading letters from 
 Charles and Eva. They were both quite absorbed, and were 
 startled as the sound of the organ stole out upon the quiet air. 
 It had never been opened since Agnes's death, but silent and 
 lonely it stood a sad memorial of the child with whom it was so 
 identified. They looked at each other for a moment, and then 
 arose simultaneously, with a vague, undefined hope of realizing 
 the impossible, and finding the child seated there as she used to 
 be. But it was only her mother, who had been drawn there from 
 a desire to be near Agnes, and a sort of shadowy idea that there, 
 if anywhere on earth, the spirit of the child would love to linger. 
 In life the music of the organ had been the medium through 
 which she expressed her feelings, and it was a sweet maternal 
 fancy which now imagined that it might still be her voice speak- 
 ing to her mother from the spirit-world. Strangely enough she 
 could not remember the last strain that she had heard Agnes 
 play. That was a farewell, and in her heart now there was a 
 •welcome instead of a farewell. She felt as if she and Agnes 
 were now united after a long separation, and the strain that she 
 played was the one in which the child had poured out her thanks- 
 giving for her safe return, after her long absence, to her home 
 and her mother. Her listeners had expected a dirge for the 
 dead, but they heard instead a strain as bright and cheerful as 
 Agnes ever played when her heart was lightest and happiest. 
 
 " What does it mean ?" was the expression upon both faces as 
 they entered the room, though neither spoke. Grace interpreted 
 the look, and replied : 
 
 "Agnes seems very close to me now, and I am happy !" 
 
 From that day, whenever the mother felt most lonely, she went 
 to the organ, and it became to her a companion and comforter. 
 Much of the music that Agnes used to play was engraved upon 
 her memory, and as it was no borrowed harmony, but emphati- 
 cally the language of the child's own heart, no wonder that the 
 mother felt specially near her when she was at the organ. 
 
 Time passed on, and spring had merged into summer. The 
 country was momentarily quiet, but it was only the lull that pre- 
 cedes the storm. The two great armies who were about again 
 to make a battle-ground of Virginia soil, and Richmond their 
 point of contention, now threatened each other, but had not yet 
 ventured upon an open battle. With bitterness intensified by 
 former disappointment, the Xorth was now more determined than 
 
456 ^ CAiMERON HALL. 
 
 ever to plant tbe stars and stripes upon the Confederate capital. 
 For months she had prosecuted her plan with vigor and energy. 
 Men and money had been lavished without stint, and the mar- 
 shaled hosts were now placed under a leader whose name alone 
 was considered a prestige of victory. Satisfied with the dis- 
 astrous result of the attempt to reach Richmond by Manassas, 
 General MeClellan determined to try another route, and, taught 
 by the experience of his predecessors in command that he had to 
 contend against a foe neither insignificant nor cowardly, he reso- 
 lutely shut his ears to the urgings of an impatient government 
 and the clamors of a captious press, and refused to take one de- 
 cided step toward the grand result until he considered success 
 beyond a peradventure. 
 
 Meanwhile the South listened calmly to the boasting threats 
 of overwhelming numbers and speedy annihilation, and, while 
 straining every nerve and exerting every energy to meet the 
 coming foe, she still awaited the result with a quiet trust and a 
 resolute courage. 
 
 And now the heart of the nation stood still as it awaited in 
 breathless suspense the tremendous blow. All eyes were turned 
 to Richmond, and all knew, or imagined that they knew, how 
 bloody and desperate would be the impending battle, how fearful 
 and determined would be the struggle for the coveted city. 
 
 Hopedale and the surrounding country, though still debatable 
 ground, was not occupied by either army. Every soldier belong- 
 ing to both sides was at the front, and there were no stragglers 
 wearing either uniform, to remind the quiet citizens that there- 
 was war in the land. 
 
 Just at this time Willie and Eva returned. The joy of the 
 latter at being at home again was far more than counterbalanced 
 by the pain of approaching separation from her husband, who, 
 now entirely restored to health and strength, was on his way, 
 full of animation and hope, to resume his soldier life. He only 
 allowed himself two days at the old Hall, so full of pleasant 
 memories and so identified with the one great happiness of his 
 life; and on the morning of the third, true to her promise, with- 
 out one complaining word, without one expressed wish that he 
 might stay wiih her only one day longer, and with a self-control 
 that she had never attained before, his young wife sent him 
 
 away. 
 
 "Don't forget the miniature, Eva," he said, as he was busy 
 with his preparations on the morning of his departure. " Don't 
 let me go without that." 
 
 She put a ribbon through the little gold locket and fastened it 
 
 rouud his neck. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 457 
 
 " Like you, and yet not like you, Eva," he said, looking long 
 and searchingly, first at the daguerreotype, and then into her 
 face. "It has your features, but it wants the expression, the 
 soul, that is in the original. However, this is better than nothing, 
 and will comfort me more than aught else could do except your 
 own self," 
 
 He was gone, nor was there, after his departure, a single mur- 
 mur or a complaint of the hardship of separation ; and Julia 
 looked with mingled surprise and admiration at the sister, so 
 lately an impulsive, unrestrained child, now a self-controlled, 
 submissive woman. 
 
 Weeks passed by, but brought not the expected battle. The 
 two nations were weary with expectation, and while they dreaded 
 the bloody fray, they were at the same time surprised and disap- 
 pointed at the unaccountable delay. But at length the tidings 
 came. Day after day the combat raged, and the telegraph wires 
 flashed the news of successive battles and the continuous repulses 
 of the Federal army. In an agony of hope and fear, of suspense 
 and dread, the nation awajted the final issue. Thousands crowded 
 the telegraph offices day after day, first to hear the result of the 
 last battle, and then with sickening fear to ask the price of vic- 
 tory. But not until it was all over, not until the contest for 
 Richmond had been for this time also abandoned, did the wires 
 begin to bring their messages of sorrow and of joy, and then 
 Uncle John brought to the hearts at the Hall, worn out with 
 waiting and watching, the blessed tidings of the safety of their 
 loved ones. 
 
 A few days after, came long letters from Willie and Walter. 
 Their fearful descriptions of the scenes of blood and carnage 
 through which they had passed unhurt, while they curdled the 
 blood of those who read them, at the same time awakened a 
 deeper gratitude for the mercy which had spared them where so 
 many others had fallen. Charles wrote only a hasty and almost 
 illegible scrawl, scribbled with a pencil in the hospital, during 
 one of the brief intervals between his duties. He said that he 
 had work enough to keep him busy day and night as long as he 
 could bear the strain and fatigue, but he promised to write again 
 the first leisure moment. 
 
 Three weeks then passed away, bringing several letters fi'om 
 Walter and Willie, but neither letter nor message from Charles. 
 Julia had waited until the days had lengthened into weeks, and 
 these almost into a month, and now her suspense became in- 
 tolerable. She did not express her fears to those at home, and 
 she wrote to him as usual with no reference to her torturing 
 anxiety, and only alluding to his silence as a necessary result of 
 
 39 
 
458 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 his constant occupation, but she felt all the time well assured that 
 this could not satisfactorily account for it. 
 
 She was standing one evening upon the porch looking out 
 vacantly and absently upon the lawn. A vehicle drove in at the 
 gate, but she did not notice it, for poor Julia felt now that 
 nothing except that longed-for letter, which did not come, could 
 excite even a passing interest or awaken a desire. As the Tehicle 
 a[)proached the house, she saw, with surprise, that Uncle John 
 was seated beside the driver, and then all at once an undefined 
 dread seized her. Her eyes were riveted and her lips were 
 sealed, and she neither moved nor spoke, but with a strange sort 
 of fascination she watched, as two horseman dismounted, and, 
 assisted by Uncle John and the driver, lifted out of the carriage 
 a mattress, on which was extended a form, wliose wasted features 
 and closed eyes convinced her that it was only Charles's lifeless 
 body that they were bringing back to her. 
 
 As Uncle John passed by, he cast a compassionate glance 
 upon her white face as she clung to the column for support, and 
 when he had deposited his burden in ^he house, he returned to 
 her, and without a question being asked or a word of explanation 
 oflered, he took her by the hand, and said, sadly: 
 
 "He is still alive, my daughter." 
 
 He then led her to Charles's couch. She could not tell whether 
 it was sleep or exhaustion or unconsciousness, but he neither 
 moved nor opened his eyes, as kneeling beside him she held his 
 hand in a convulsive grasp, until at last he was so xeTy quiet 
 that her heart stood still with the thought that perhaps he might 
 be already dead. But there was still a feeble pulse, and a gentle 
 breathing, but beyond this not another sign of life. When the 
 physician came, Julia saw, with a shudder, that well-remembered 
 expression which his face had worn when he came that last night 
 into Agnes's sick-room. She watched beside him all night, and 
 the next morning, when her father and Uncle John insisted that 
 she should take a few hours' rest, she begged that she might be 
 allowed to remain, but at last yielded to their positive commands, 
 after having exacted a promise that if any change should take 
 place, she should be immediately summoned. She went to her 
 room, but neither to sleep nor to rest. Every noise and every 
 footstep that passed her door sent a thrill through her heart, and 
 she felt that it was a mistaken kindness that had banished her 
 from that room. 
 
 She had been gone a long time when Charles awoke from his 
 stupor, and looked nronnd. His eye wandered all over the room, 
 and rested first upon Mr. Cameron and then upon Uncle John, 
 but there was no recognition. There was evidently a painful but 
 
CAMERON HALL. 459 
 
 an unsaccessful effort to think and to recollect, and then, without 
 seeming conscious that he was asking a question, and, indeed, 
 without apparent volition, he murmured almost iuaudibly : 
 
 "Where am I?" 
 
 Mr. Cameron bent over the couch so that he might see him 
 distinctly, as he answered : 
 
 "You are at Cameron Hall, Charles, — Julia's home." 
 
 There was a momentary gleam of intelligence in the eye as if 
 he understood, but it was gone in an instant. The mind refused 
 to act, and, with a heavy sigh of weariness, and an expression 
 of pain upon his face, he closed his eyes again, ani sank into his 
 former stupor. 
 
 The physician had watched him with painful and eager interest, 
 but when he saw the eyes close again, he said, in a low voice of 
 disappointment and ^orrow : 
 
 " I hoped that this was the crisis, and that he was about to 
 rally. If he cannot be aroused from this stupor before midnight, 
 I am afraid that he will then sink rapidly." 
 
 " If that be so," said Mr. Cameron, " I will not keep Julia 
 away any longer. Poor daughter ! poor daughter !" 
 
 He went to her room, and as soon as she saw him, Julia, whose 
 nerves were strung to the highest pitch of excitement, sprang up, 
 ajjid with a stifled scream seized her fatlier and clung to him for 
 support. She asked no question, but looked inquiringly at him, 
 and stood trembling and shivering. 
 
 " He is no worse, my daughter," Mr. Cameron hastened to say, 
 "but I have come to take vou back to him." 
 
 " Send for Mr. Derby, papa," was her only reply. 
 
 Her father went out to do it, and she returned to Charles's 
 room. 
 
 There was no sleep that night at Cameron Hall. Physician 
 and minister, as well as those more nearly interested, watched in 
 anxious suspense as hour after hour dragged wearily by, and the 
 dreaded time approached when the doctor had said that his fate 
 would probably be sealed. 
 
 It was almost midnight when his eyes opened again, and this 
 time they rested first on Julia's face, and were riveted there. At 
 first it was a vacant stare, but gradually her image seemed to im- 
 press itself upon his mind, and then, as if doubtful whether or 
 not he was awake, he said : 
 
 "Julia!" 
 
 She pressed a kiss upon his fevered lips, as she answered ; 
 
 "Charles!" 
 
 This was enough, and, quite contented, his eyes were closiiig 
 again, when the physician whispered anxiously : 
 
460 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " Keep him awake. Don't let him siuk into that stupor again. 
 Everythiug depends upon it." 
 
 Yigorously and faithfully they worked under the physician's 
 directions, until at last their efforts were crowned with success, 
 and Charles was thoroughly awake and conscious. He asked no 
 questions : there was no expression of surprise upon his face at 
 finding himself at Cameron Hall, but his eye glanced from one 
 to the other with unmistakable satisfaction, and finally rested upon 
 Julia with unutterable tenderness. 
 
 He had been lying so for two hours. Julia was sponging his 
 face and hands with ice-water, and he had been for some time 
 looking intently at her, but had never spoken one word to her. 
 
 "Julia," he said, suddenly, "listen." 
 
 She bent down to listen to the feeble voice which said : 
 
 " I am about to die. Will you do something for me ?" 
 
 "Yes, Charles," she whispered, "anything to comfort you." 
 
 "Let me leave you my name ; let me die your husband. You 
 promised it. Will you?" 
 
 " I will," she answered. 
 
 She explained his wishes to her father, and said : 
 
 "May I, papa? I am his wife already in all but the name." 
 
 "Yes, my daughter," he answered. "If it will comfort either 
 _ of you I cannot, under the circumstances, object." 
 
 "Doctor," she whispeied, "will it injure him? Will it — will 
 it hasten his end ?" 
 
 " ^0, Julia, I do not believe that it will." 
 
 That was a strangely solemn wedding in the depth of midnight 
 at Cameron Hall. The bridal and the grave were in startling 
 proximity, and instead of smiling faces and a festive scene, there 
 were tearful eyes and aching hearts and hushed voices, for the 
 . young girl who knelt in crushing sorrow by that couch was about 
 to become a bride, only that she might have the sad privilege of 
 mourning as a widow. There was a meaning, a present signifi- 
 cance in the words, "until death us do part," such as they seldom 
 bear when uttered by the strong, manly. voice of the self-reliant 
 bridegroom, who, full of life and strength, feels himself able to 
 redeem his promise to love, cherish, aud protect. aSow Death 
 seemed to stand just before him ; indeed, he appeared already to 
 have laid his grasp upon him, and Charles thought with a bitter 
 pang of the ties sundered almost with the breath that formed 
 them; of the life surrendered just as it became immeasurably 
 valuable. 
 
 Her promise was fulfilled, and on the threshold of the grave 
 
 J Julia had become Charles Beaufort's wife. The solemn wedding 
 
 over, they resumed their sad and quiet watch, looking with aux- 
 
CAMERON HALL. 461 
 
 ious earnestness into the doctor's face whenever he felt the pulse, 
 and responding with a sigh of relief as they read there that the 
 patient had not yet begun to sink. All night long he lay calm 
 and motionless, but perfectly conscious, with his hand resting -con- 
 tentedly in Julia's nervous grasp. At daylight the doctor arose 
 and motioned Mr. Cameron to follow him. Julia started in 
 alarm, but when she looked at him, she saw something in his ex- 
 pression which completely reassured her. 
 
 " The crisis is over, sir," he said to Mr. Cameron, when they 
 were out of hearing of the sick-room. " With careful nursing, 
 and without a relapse, he will probably get well." 
 
 ** Thank God 1 Thank God for Julia's sake !" was the father's 
 earnest response. 
 
 He then went back to the door of Charles's room and beckoned 
 to Julia. When she came out he led her into her own room and 
 shut the door; then putting his arm around her, he drew her close 
 up to his heart, but his trembling voice could only say : 
 
 "He is safe, my daughter." 
 
 There was no need to shut the door so that Charles might not 
 hear her cry of joy. She said not one word, but, sinking upon her 
 knees, her overcharged heart found its first relief in a flood of 
 silent tears, and her father left her still kneeling and thanking 
 God that she was not that moment a widow. 
 
 Charles's return to life was almost like a recall from the grave, 
 and the gradual recovery of his faculties seemed rather like a 
 resurrection of them from actual death than an awakening from 
 a temporary suspension. It was several days before he asked a 
 question, and there was something so like apathy in his speech- 
 less, motionless quiet, that Julia, while she C€uld not but rely 
 upon the doctor's assurance that he was doing well, still felt a 
 half-defined dread that all could not yet be right. Had she real- 
 ized how near extinction the vital spark had been, she would not 
 have wondered that it should still have trembled and flickered, 
 before it could again spring up into the clear, unwavering flame 
 of a recovered life. 
 
 Julia had watched and nursed day and night for a week. Xone 
 could take her place, and Charles was so weakened in mind and 
 body that he did not now see what, at another time, would have 
 caused him great anxiety. He did not seem to remember that she 
 could be wearied, and he was always restless and unhappy when she 
 was out of sight. The doctor had insisted so much upon quiet, and 
 the absence of all excitement, that when Julia saw how unwilling 
 he was for her to leave him, no entreaties could persuade her to 
 take any rest. Medical skill and careful nursing had effected 
 much for him during the past week, and though still entirely 
 
 39* 
 
462 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 prostrate, yet the disease was subdned ; but care and anxiety, 
 sleepless nights and days of toil, had left their impress upon 
 Julia. 
 
 The sun had set after a parching August day, and she threw 
 open all the blinds to admit the pleasant evening breeze. As &he 
 stood by the western window, louking out upon a magnificent 
 sky, the light fell clearly and distinctly upon her face, and Charles 
 saw, for the first time, how wan and wearied she looked. 
 
 " Come here, Julia," he said. 
 
 She sat down in her chair by his couch, but he said : 
 
 " Not there. Sit here close by me. I want to look at you./' 
 
 She sat down on the bedside, and he gazed earnestly upon her 
 face, so pale and tired looking, 
 
 " You are worn out," he said, " and I have done it. How long 
 have I been here ?" 
 
 "Just a week." 
 
 "Who has nursed me all that time, — you?" 
 
 "Everybody has done something for you," she answered, eva- 
 sively. 
 
 "How many nights have yon stayed with me?" 
 
 "I have been with you every night." 
 
 "And how many days have you been in this room ?" 
 
 "Every day since you came." 
 
 "Now, Julia," he said, with something of his old earnestness 
 and decision, " why did you do this ? Why wear yourself out in 
 doing for me what another might have done, if not so well as 
 you, at least well enough ? You have done wrong, Julia," he 
 said, decidedly, "very wrong." 
 
 "And you are doing worse," she answered, "to become excited 
 about it. The doctor insists upon your being kept perfectly 
 quiet, and physicians and nurses, you know," she added, smiling, 
 "must be obeyed. So I positively prohibit another word." 
 
 " But I must and will speak, Julia, when I see you looking as 
 you do now, and know that I have caused it. If physicians and 
 nurses must be obeyed," he added, with a wan smile, " husbands 
 must be too. That was a part of your vow," 
 
 "And I am ready to fulfill it this moment if you will only be 
 quiet. I will agree to do anything if you will not talk any more. 
 I am so much afraid of a return of fever." 
 
 " Then promise not to stay in this room another night until I 
 give you permission." 
 
 " Yery well," she answered, "I consent if it will satisfy you. 
 You are mistaken, however, as to the cause of my appearance. 
 Distress and anxiety leave a more painful impress upon the face 
 than bodily weariness. It is grief and suspense that you see, not 
 
CAMERON HALL. 463 
 
 fatigue. However, I will obey your commands. I will not nurse 
 you another night until you give me permission." 
 
 When she came in next moroing, she still looked so weary and 
 haggard that he positively refused to allow her to do anytliinff 
 gr him but making her seat herself in the arm-chair, he sent for 
 -bva, and asked her to relieve her sister that day 
 , , 'T;^^^^ ^ ^^'^jd gladly have done long ago," she answered, 
 It sister would have consented, but she said it was a privilege 
 and a pleasure that she could not resign to another " 
 
 Eva proved herself so good a nurse that Charles told her that 
 skm ^"^"^^^"^ ^^"^ ^^^^^^' ^"^ ^^^^^ w^ere she learned her 
 
 "It does not require much skill," she answered. "It only needs 
 to be very much interested in the patient to be a good nurse " 
 
 Ihat is a mistake, Eva,"said Uncle John. " I was very much 
 interested both in Willie and Charles, but I could not have 
 nursed them as you girls did. I think that to be an efficient 
 nurse, quiet and yet active, attentive yet not officious, is one of 
 the most valuable talents which a man or woman can have, and 
 one with which comparatively few are gifted. And, Eva, since 
 Charles says that you have proved yourself such a nur-se to-day 
 see here, — here is your reward I" 
 ^^ She sprang up, and seizing the letter eagerly, tore open the en- 
 
 " Charles " said Julia, "you must dismiss your nurse now She 
 caMot read that letter anywhere except by the side of Willie's 
 
 1^' Oh,^yes I can," said Eva. " I can read it here very well " 
 JNo, said Julia, "there is no reason why you should not read 
 It there as you always do. Charles can spare you very well now 
 ana i can wait on him while you are gone." ' 
 
 '' Yes, my little sister," he said, "go read your letter, and when 
 you have done, come back and teU us the news from Wiilie " 
 
 Eva hurried down stairs with her treasure, and after she was 
 gone. Uncle John said : 
 
 " Jhat child has disappointed me very much. I declare, Julia 
 She bears her separation with as much womanly fortitude as yoJ 
 yourself could do." ^ 
 
 "Yes, sir " she answered, "she is very patient and submissive, 
 and I sometimes wonder if she can be the same impetuous child 
 
 «nUi.' ^^l ^' ^^^ ^»?- ^^^ y^^" '^^ ^dded, with a sigh, 
 a hough she is so lovely and gentle, and the discipline of the 
 past few months has given strength and stability to her character, 
 yet Uncle John, I sometimes find myself longing for the gay 
 frolicsome child, unconscious of care and unacquainted with sor- 
 
464 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 row, who used to make the old Hall ring with her gay laugh, and 
 resound with her rushing step. Now she is as quiet as I am. 
 Poor child !" she said, thoughtfully and sadly, " whenever I look 
 at her I seem to see a shadow over her." 
 
 " Now, Julia," exclaimed Uncle John, " I am beginning to lose 
 my patience with you. It is only of late that I have ever known 
 you to indulge such gloomy fancies. Now, I don't know anybody 
 whose future wears a brighter aspect, and is more full of promise 
 than that child's." 
 
 "That is true, sir; but all our lives are overshadowed now. 
 I sometimes think- that it would be better if none of us expected 
 a great deal of happiness, since there are so many causes at work 
 around us to disappoint us. But Eva and Willie expect so much, 
 and have painted their future in such glowing colors, that a sha- 
 dow upon their life would be deeper and darker from contrast 
 with their anticipations." • 
 
 Grace now came into the room, and Charles calling her to him, 
 said : 
 
 " Julia tells me that you too play on the organ. Will you do 
 so for me now ? It will be a sweet reminder of Agnes." 
 
 Grace acquiesced, and soon the music came rolling with trem- 
 ulous sweetness into the room. To an invalid, who is weak 
 though not suffering, and who is quiet and languid, there is no- 
 thing so soothing as low, sweet music ; and organ music, so deep, 
 so penetrating, so full of soul, reaches the heart as none other 
 can, through the dull, heavy ear of sickness. 
 
 Charles closed his eyes, and the blind child seemed to be before 
 him, and he felt almost as if the strain had wafted him to the 
 spirit-land, where he had found Agnes again. 
 
 When it ceased, he opened his eyes, and said, regretfully: 
 
 " I am sorry that she is done. I never realized before that 
 sight and sound are so closely allied. I could scarcely have felt 
 nearer that child or have seen her more distinctly if she had been 
 sitting before me. What a sweet memorial of a friend is music I 
 How pleasant to have the sweetest of earthly sounds, and the one 
 nearest akin to heaven, to bring up, as in a moment, the form, 
 the feature, the expression of the loved one !" 
 
 "And such," said Uncle John, "is our memory of the blind 
 child. Not more instantly or more correctly does the sunlight 
 daguerreotype the human face, than does a sweet strain of organ 
 music recall Agnes. Yes, Charles, it is indeed a pleasant memory !" 
 
 "Her mother," said Julia, "loves to think of her as enjoying 
 the glorious light of heaven. Her mind dwells upon the thought 
 of the child no longer blind, in a world of unclo)lued day ; but I 
 love best to think of our little musician in a world of harmony 
 
CAMERON HALL. 465 
 
 without discord I I often wonder if in all that happy throng 
 there is one spirit which will drink in more bliss from the harmo- 
 nies of heaven than will our child-musician." 
 
 "If her mother's thoughts of Agnes in heaven," said Uncle 
 John, " are identified with light, her memories of her on earth 
 are certainly associated with music ; for A^nes herself scarcely 
 loved that organ more than Grace does now." 
 
 " Yes," said Julia, "and she is sure to be there at this hour of 
 the evening, and she never ceases until it is quite dark. Twilight 
 and music are now identified with the thought of Agnes." 
 
 "No inappropriate reminder," said Uncle John, "of our little 
 blind musician." 
 
 "Surely, Julia," said Charles, "Grace cannot have been at the 
 organ every evening since I have been here ! I certainly could 
 not have been so stupid and apathetic as not to have heard 
 music !" 
 
 "No, Charles, she would not touch it for fear of disturbing 
 you." 
 
 " So far from that, I have never been so sick that it would not 
 have been soothing and pleasant. I wish that she had not 
 stopped now." 
 
 "She will be very willing to resume it, Charles," said Julia, 
 "if it will be agreeable to you." 
 
 " Shall I ask her ?" said Uncle John. 
 
 "Yes, if you please." 
 
 Uncle John found Grace, as Julia had said, more than willing 
 to gratify the invalid. Indeed, it had been a self-denial during 
 the past week to keep away from the organ, and the few minutes 
 that she had just spent there, seemed like a hurried glimpse of 
 Agnes, which she was only too glad to prolong. Charles thought 
 that she was playing merely to give him pleasure, but she was in- 
 deed talking to her child ; and it was the earnestness, the affec- 
 tion that she threw into the music, which gave it so much depth, 
 so much pathos in the ear of her listener. 
 
 When she had ceased to play, the bright moonlight was stream- 
 ing full into the room. Neither spoke for several minutes after 
 the music had died away, for both were reluctant to break the 
 spell. After awhile, Julia said : 
 
 "Charles, I have been afraid to talk to you or to ask you any 
 questions ; but if you feel strong enough now, I would like for 
 you to tell me how long you have been sick, and all about your- 
 self until you were brought to the Hall." 
 
 " That will be impossible, for I remember very little that has 
 happened in the last four or five weeks. I was taken sick about 
 four days after I wrote you that note, when the battle of Malvern 
 
466 CAMERON nALL. 
 
 5ill liad virtnally ended the siege of Richmond. I was exhausted 
 then, for I had been constantly busy during all those battles ; but 
 the horrible duties of four successive days and nights after the last 
 one, prostrated me in mind and body. I have little recollection 
 of time, but I do not think that I could have been sick more than 
 two or three days, when the idea seized me that you must not 
 know it; so I sent for Walter, and told him that he and Willie 
 must not mention me at all in their letters, and requested that if 
 I should be very ill I might be sent to the Hall if possible. I 
 wanted to die here. Since then I really remember nothing dis- 
 tinctly until our solemn marriage. Then I was thoroughly awake, 
 and keenly alive to feelings of the most intense pleasure and the 
 severest pain. You can never know the strange commingling of 
 bliss and agony, of hope and fear, with which I looked first upon 
 you, and then upon the death apparently so near and so inevitable. 
 One minute to feel that you were mine, forever mine, and the next 
 to remember that that forever, so far as earthly possession ex- 
 tended, might perhaps be comprised in a few brief hours, or even 
 moments ; to grasp with a dying hand the treasure that in life I 
 had so coveted and hoped for and longed for, — oh, Julia, you will 
 never know what I suffered that night ! I did not die ; but in- 
 deed I passed through the worst of death's agonies. But even 
 already I am compensated for it all ; even now, while I lie here 
 weak and helpless and dependent upon you for the care and pro- 
 tection which I promised to give you, I thank God for the sick- 
 ness, the suffering, for anything that has given you to me now, 
 a present possession, instead of that future one which necessarily 
 involved uncertainty. Now no chance or accident can sever us. 
 Ko human power, no earthly circumstances can take you from 
 me. God alone can separate us now. We belong to each other : 
 you to me and I no less to you. I will guard, protect, and love 
 you ; nay, more, I wish that the old Saxon word of the English 
 service, with its strong, deep meaning, had been retained, and I 
 had promised to * worship^ you. And it shall be your part to 
 influence and encourage me to do what is right. That is both 
 the duty and privilege of a wife ; and of all the women that I ever 
 knew, you seem to me most capable of doing it." 
 
 " May God give me the ability, Charles, as He has given me 
 the desire to be to you all that you expect or wish. If He will 
 enable us to be to each other what we ought to be, that solemn 
 service the other night will prove indeed far more than an earthly 
 tie, and its influence will extend beyond that grave on whose 
 brink we seemed then to be standing. Ours was indeed a solemn 
 wedding. May its peculiar circumstances help us to realize the 
 solemnity of our union, our promises, our obligations 1" 
 
 i 
 
CAMERON HALL. 467 
 
 Eva now came back with her letter crushed tightly in her 
 hand. She did not speak ; and when Charles called her, she went 
 np in silence to his bedside. The moon shone full upon her face, 
 and he saw traces of tears in her eyes and upon her cheeks. 
 
 "You have been crying, child," he said, tenderly ; " I hope that 
 Willie did not write you a sad letter ?" 
 
 " He wrote cheerfully, as he always does," she answered, 
 meekly; "but sometimes my burden gets so heavy that I break 
 down under it. Generally, however, I bear it very well — at least 
 sister thinks so." 
 
 "Indeed, I do, Eva," said Julia. "When Charles leaves me, 
 I expect to learn a lesson of patient submission from you. What 
 does Willie say ? Anything of a flying visit home ?" 
 
 " Oh, no I nothing of that kind. He told me when he left, 
 that I must not ask that or even think of it. He said that he had 
 been so many months away from his post, that he could not think 
 of asking a furlough for a long, long time. In our letters we 
 never allude to his coming back, except in some of our bright 
 pictures of peace. Willie and I live in the future now, we never 
 speak of the present at all. All our happiness, all our hopes are 
 garnered up in the future — the blessed future !" 
 
 Julia sighed, as she always did now when she heard Eva talk 
 about the future; and as Charles looked upon the young, earnest 
 face before him, and thought of the "many changes and chances 
 of this mortal life," which, like a wide gulf, separated her from 
 that blessed future, as she called it, he too sighed in his heart, 
 although his lips were silent. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Charles's recovery progressed gradually though steadily, and 
 Julia's time was no less completely occupied after he had passed 
 the dangerous stage of his illness than it was when his life trem- 
 bled in the balance. All her ingenuity and resources were brought 
 into requisition to render less irksome to him the period of con- 
 valescence, that neutral-ground between sickness and health, so 
 trying to the patience of the invalid, who can claim neither the 
 indulgence of the one nor the immunities of the other. So sud- 
 denly and unexpectedly had the events of the past few weeks 
 been precipitated upon her, and so closely had the most absorb- 
 
468 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 ing duties and interests imposed by her new ties followed upon 
 their formation, that Julia scarcely had time to realize that she 
 was indeed a wife. Charles's awakening to a full sense of his 
 happiness had been during the gradual process of recovery, when 
 by degrees he had become accustomed to see Julia about him, 
 performing those gentle offices which are a wife's prerogative; 
 but her complete realization did not come until those ministra- 
 tions were ended, the object of them restored to health and 
 strength, and his departure for the scene of his labors and duties 
 had left her time and opportunity to think. Then she knew and 
 felt it all. Then she realized that she had indeed taken the 
 final step, that she had entered beyond recall or retreat upon the 
 duties and affections of the highest and holiest earthly state. 
 
 Charles was gone, and exf^ept that in Grace Mr. Cameron had 
 found another daughter, and the girls another sister, the aspect 
 of the Hall was such as it had been in years gone by, with this only 
 difference, that the two sisters who before had been light-hearted 
 maidens were now anxious wives, and with all their efforts not 
 to let the shadow upon their own individual hearts darken the 
 spirits of others, they could not quite conceal it. None knew 
 the effort that it cost Julia to.be serene and cheerful, but none 
 could help seeing with pain and sympathy Eva's constant but 
 unsuccessful attempt to hide her anxiety in her own bosom. The 
 nervous grasp with which she seized the newspapers, and the 
 trembling haste with which she glanced down their columns ; the 
 troubled face, the start of alarm at every unusual noise for days 
 after she had read the ominous paragraph, " a battle is imminent 
 and may be expected at any moment;" and withal her effort to 
 be quiet and patient, were very touching: and her father often 
 turned away in sorrow from looking at the child upon whom he 
 felt sure that the burden and anxieties of life had been laid before 
 she was old enouq:h to bear them. 
 
 The sisters were together in the library. For several days 
 Eva had been in a state of alarm and dread, for the newspapers 
 on both sides were clamoring for another decisive engagement 
 during the early autumn, on which they had entered, before the 
 rainy season should have put an end to all military movements. 
 Some unaccustomed noise in the yard sent the blood from Eva's 
 cheek, and pressing her hand upon her heart she uttered a stifled 
 scream. Julia was at her side in a moment, and the first touch 
 of a gentle, sisterly hand 'broke down all her calmness, and the 
 poor child laid her head upon Julia's shoulder and cried as she 
 used to do, but never since she had become a wife. Julia stroked 
 her hair tenderly, and her own tears fell fast upon the young 
 head bowed before her. 
 
 /•■■' 
 
CAMERON HALL. 469 
 
 It was a long time before Eva could speak, but at last she 
 said, plaintively, as she wiped her eyes: 
 
 " I will feel better now. Oh, sister, you don't know how hard I 
 have to try to bear my burden all alone ! If I only had some- 
 body to help me 1" 
 
 ''And why not, my poor child," said Julia, compassionately, 
 "why not come to me as you used to do? I am your sister 
 still, Eva, and you have the same claim upon me for sisterly sym- 
 pathy and support as you had before we were married." 
 
 " I cannot have the heart to burden you with my troubles," she 
 answered, "when yours are just as heavy, and besides, sister, your 
 quiet submission makes me ashamed to confess what a tempest is 
 raging in my heart all the time. How long," she exclaimed, pite- 
 ously, ''oh ! how much longer must it last?" 
 
 Julia's tears flowed now for Eva as they seldom did for her 
 own sorrow. Presently she said, in a tone of gentle reproach : 
 
 "Eva, do you know, darling, that I think you are doing very 
 wrong ?" 
 
 "How, sister?" she asked, quickly. "Oh if you only knew 
 how very hard I am trying to do right !" 
 
 " I do know it, child ; but you have a mistaken idea of what is 
 right, and are doing yourself and all of us a great wrong. You 
 have imposed upon yourself a restraint for which you are un- 
 fitted by nature. You are impulsive, and the feelings of such a 
 temperament must have a vent; otherwise, like smouldering fires 
 within, they will burn out the heart and life. A good hearty cry 
 is a great relief to you now as it always was, and yet instead of 
 thus getting rid of your feelings you are striving all the time to 
 smother them. You have always felt better when you brought 
 your troubles to me, and you have just acknowledged that you 
 longed to go to somebody for help and sympathy, and yet you 
 lock up all your anxieties in your own heart, and do not give me 
 the privilege of sharing them or comforting you, if indeed I am 
 able to do it. Yes, Eva, you have done wrong to me as well as 
 to yourself." 
 
 " Oh, sister!" she exclaimed, hastily, "it is not that I thought 
 you were changed, that you were either less able or less willing 
 to comfort and sympathize than you used to be. That is not the 
 reason why I did not come to you. It was only, as I told you 
 just now, because you have your burden too, and instead of adding 
 to yours I am trying to learn from you to bear mine in patience 
 and in silence." 
 
 "And think you, Eva, that because you did not confess it 
 in words that therefore I did not know that there was sorrow in 
 your heart ? Think you that I have yet to learn to interpret 
 
 40 
 
470 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 your restless eye, your haggard cheek, your languid step ? Ah, 
 no 1 I can read you too well for that; and it adds no little to my 
 own individual sorrow to know that the child who has always 
 leaned upon me for support and comfort has at last found a 
 trouble which she cannot or will not bring to her sister. Surely, 
 Eva, you have not yet to be told that there is no burden, however 
 heavy, no trial, however great, that will so absorb me in my selfish 
 feelings as to leave no room in my heart for you !" 
 
 "But, sister," she said, simply, "I am trying to be a woman 
 now. Willie told me to do it; and you know submission and 
 fortitude belong to a woman." 
 
 "My poor little child-woman!" said Julia, smiling sadly 
 through her tears. " You may try to be a woman, but after all 
 you will still be a child, the same loving, dependent, trusting 
 child that you have always been, and God forbid that you should 
 ever cease to be I Xor did Willie mean that you should, Eva. 
 He did not intend that you should be unnatural, lie only meant 
 to encourage you to bear what he knew would be a sore trial to 
 your young heart, a heart which has made its first acquaintance 
 with anxiety and sorrow through its great yearning love for 
 him." 
 
 " I have tried too, sister, to keep all my trouble to myself on 
 papa's account. Indeed everybody seems to have now just as 
 much individual sorrow as they can bear. While your husband's 
 life was so uncertain, and I saw you often look, as you went on 
 your patient round, as if one additional pang, one more anxiety 
 would kill you outright, it would have been cruel to have bur- 
 dened you with what after all were only apprehensions. Grace, in 
 her desolation, has quite enough sorrow of her own, and it would 
 seem the part of humanity to offer her sympathy rather than re- 
 quire it of her; and papa looks so troubled and anxious all the 
 time that I could not go to him. I promised to write cheerfully 
 to Willie, so that I have even been denied the support that I 
 had a right to expect from him. There remained, then, nothing 
 for me to do but to bear it as best I could without human sym- 
 pathy or aid. And yet, sister," she added, reverently, " I have 
 not been altogether friendless or comfortless. I have often found 
 peace when I have gone in a tumult of anxiety, and comfort when 
 I have been in an agony of distress." 
 
 " There indeed, Eva, you need never be afraid to go. That 
 Sympathy is inexhaustible, and therefore cannot be too heavily 
 taxed; that Compassion is infinite, and therefore capable of satis- 
 fying the largest demands. But for all that, you need not and 
 ought not to deny yourself that human sympathy which God Him- 
 self has not thought insignificant, even though His own sustain- 
 
CAMERON HALL. 471 
 
 ing power and comfort are sufficient. And if my individual cares 
 and duties were a barrier in your way before, they need be so no 
 longer. Charles is gone, and I am no longer occupied with him, 
 and since our relations and ties are the same, so must be our ap- 
 prehensions and anxieties, and therefore I will be able to enter 
 into all your feelings. So hereafter, child, you will come to your 
 sister as of old, won't you ?" 
 
 '* Yes, and thank you for the privilege. But how is it that you 
 are able not only to bear your own trouble, but to help me too ? 
 Indeed I cannot understand it. Oh, sister, how I wish that I 
 were only like you I Then Willie would have a wife indeed !" 
 
 " Willie would be sorely grieved at the change," replied Julia, 
 smiling, ''and I not less so. No, Eva, it is better as it is. Our 
 temperaments are different by nature, and different circumstances 
 have moulded our characters. The motherless child earlv learned 
 to bear her little troubles silently and without complaint, while 
 you, more fortunate, always had a sister's ear and a sister's heart, 
 scarcely less willing than a mother's, to listen and to comfort. 
 So let it be still, and until you have your husband with you 
 again, be contented to lean as heretofore upon your sister." 
 
 From that day Julia felt that still another duty devolved upon 
 her, and that she must sustain Eva as well as herself, and the 
 clinging dependent heart of the young wife found a precious stay 
 and support in her sister's love. 
 
 The autumn passed away without another dreaded conflict. 
 Eva, who loved the month of October, with its deep-blue skies, 
 its pure, bracing air, and its glorious sunshine, now for the first 
 time in her life longed for its departure, and welcomed with 
 heartfelt satisfaction the bleak winds and murky skies of Novem- 
 ber, sure harbingers of that rainy season that would put an end 
 to military movements. And when still later Willie wrote that 
 the army had actually gone into winter quarters, with a joyous 
 outburst like her former self she read the joyful news, and from 
 that moment a mighty weight seemed lifted from her heart. 
 Gradually the light returned to her eye, the elasticity to her 
 step, and the sunshine to her spirit. She never dreamed that 
 Willie could be sick. All that she dreaded for him was the 
 cannon ball, the bullet, or the shell; and now that he was for 
 some months at least safe from these, her heart rebounded from 
 its long depression, and her father and Julia saw with unmingled 
 pleasure that she was becoming almost the Eva of old, the light 
 and life of the Hall. All through the winter the letters came 
 regularly, and they were always messengers of cheerfulness and 
 hope. They contained no evil tidings, no lamentations, no com- 
 plaints; and at last even Julia, who, unlike Eva, feared disease 
 
472 CAMERON HALL. , 
 
 more than the cannon ball, began to rest quietly and securely in 
 the assurance of Charles's enjoyment of perfect health. 
 
 Eva and Carlo had never ceased to be friends, but it was long 
 since they had been companions. For a long while Carlo used 
 often to come up to her and look wistfully in her face, as if to 
 implore one of those frolics which had once been a mutual pleas- 
 ure, but his silent pleadings were unheeded and himself unnoticed, 
 except with a passing caress, which had in it as much of sadness 
 as of affection. Now, however, as her spirits revived, so did her 
 love of those out-door pleasures which he used to share, and the 
 exercise in the open air served to bring back the roses to her 
 cheek and vigor to her frame. Winter though it was, every 
 day when the sun was bright she and Carlo rambled through 
 the leafless grove and along the winding brook, and she always 
 spent a few minutes upon the rock under the old walnut-tree 
 where her destiny had been sealed. 
 
 Never before had her young sister been so dear to Julia's 
 heart as she was this winter, and ever afterward she thanked 
 God for its precious memories of peace and love. If Eva had 
 herself shrunk from the duties and responsibilities of woman- 
 hood, Julia had no less deprecated them for her. While she 
 knew that her sister could not always remain a child, and that 
 she must at some future day "put away childish things," Julia, 
 like Eva, wanted to postpone it as long as possible. Eva's joyous 
 disposition was peculiarly suited to childhood, and while it seemed 
 that she, better than another, could have worn its graces far into 
 maturity, it was a source of mingled surprise and regret to Julia 
 that circumstances had laid upon her the burden of womanhood 
 while she was still a child in years as well as in feeling. 
 
 Julia had been afraid that in becoming a woman Eva would 
 altogether cease to be a child, and in the first few months after 
 her marriage these fears had been painfully realized. She seemed 
 indeed to have lost forever the sunshine of childhood, and anxiety 
 and suspense had clouded her heart and weighed down her spirits. 
 Now, however, she had regained all that is bright and attractive 
 in childhood without losing the strength of character that she 
 had acquired in the process of womanly development. Her 
 character was now a beautiful commingling of the child and the 
 woman, with the gentleness, the dependence, the loving trust of 
 the one, and the patience and fortitude of the other. Eva had 
 once been the light of Julia's heart, now she was its comfort and 
 treasure ; and to watch day by day the gradual unfolding of those 
 inward principles, whose development is revealed in the outward 
 tempers and actions, was to Julia an unfailing source of pleas- 
 ure. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 473 
 
 In this world of uncertainty and change, Julia had never per- 
 mitted herself to arrange plans for the future, upon whose fulfill- 
 ment her happiness must depend, and especially did she endeavor 
 to guard against it at a time when the strongest foundations on 
 which to build hopes and plans were as unstable as the shifting 
 sand or the treacherous wave. But now she found, to her sur- 
 prise, that Involuntarily and almost unconsciously she had come 
 to a quiet determination never to be separated from Eva. She 
 knew tliat Charles's and Willie's homes were widely severed, and 
 she did not at all see clearly how she could accomplish what she 
 wished and designed; but in this instance, Julia, more like Eva 
 than like herself, resolutely shut her eyes to all difi&culties, ob- 
 stacles, and impossibilities, and determined that she never would 
 consent to be separated from that sister in whom her heart was 
 becoming every day more completely bound up. 
 
 Nor was Julia less necessary to Eva, who now became sud- 
 denly aware that there was no longer any barrier of age between 
 herself and her sister, whom she had been accustomed to regard 
 rather with that reverential love due to a mother than with the 
 equalizing and familiar affection of a sister. Eva had always 
 looked upon herself as a child and her sister as a woman, and 
 had imagined that the same gulf would always separate them. 
 Now, however, she most unexpectedly found herself upon a per- 
 fect equality with her, — her companion, in the full sense of the 
 word, and not such a one as the child is to the mother. And 
 from the stand-point of womanhood which she had just reached, 
 she could now, more fully than ever, appreciate Julia's character. 
 She found that what before she had looked upon as a sort of un- 
 approachable goodness with which Julia had in some way been 
 remarkably endowed, but which was unattainable by most of her 
 sex, was indeed nothing but the rich flowering of a deeply-rooted 
 Christian principle, nothing but the development of the best traits 
 of that common womanhood which was alike open to all, and 
 which any others might attain if they would seek them as earn- 
 estly and conscientiously as she did. , 
 
 And so the sisters grew daily more dependent upon each other, 
 and if Julia's enjoyment of her sister's companionship was some- 
 times marred by the lingering dread that, in spite of her determ- 
 ination to the contrary, circumstances might hereafter compel 
 their separation, no such fears disturbed Eva, but in her bright 
 dreams of "the blessed future," her sister and her sister's hus- 
 band combined with Willie to make her happiness complete. 
 
 In Grace, Julia and Eva had found a sister indeed. She was 
 not more kind and affectionate than she had been for many years, 
 but all that restraint, that shrinking from them which Eva had 
 
 40* 
 
474 CAMERON HALL, 
 
 not noticed, but which had so much annoyed Julia, was now- 
 gone. Ideutitied witli them, and feeling for the first time as if 
 she had a right to that kindness which heretofore she had re- 
 ceived as a stranger, Grace was now thoroughly and truly the 
 daughter and sister., and while Julia rejoiced, for her sake, that 
 she had found in her desolating bereavemeut the shelter and 
 sympathy of home, she was also thankful for her own, that in her 
 gentle, patient sister-in-law, she could always have access to a 
 friend and counselor in whom she could trust. 
 
 From the beginning, Mr. Cameron had placed Grace upon a 
 footing with his other daughters, and with a delicacy which had 
 avoided so much attention on the one hand as to make her feel 
 that she was not one of tbem, and so little on the other as to in- 
 dicate that she did not occupy the same place in his affections as 
 they did, he had continued to make her feel perfectly at home and 
 to establish betweeu her and himself the same unreserved inter- 
 course which he had always allowed his children. 
 
 Mr. Cameron was not, and never could again be what he had 
 been. The sting planted in his heart by a recreant son could 
 not but rankle and fester as long as he lived, and there was 
 always a shadow upon his spirits. Like his elder daughter, he 
 tried to keep all his troubles to himself, and thinking that there 
 was enough of sadness at the Hall without his adding to it, he 
 assumed for the sake of others a cheerfulness which he did not 
 feel. But Julia could not be deceived. She watched him more 
 narrowly and understood him more thoroughly than the others, 
 and the cloud which, for their sakes, he tried to hide, and which 
 was invisible to them, was very evident to her. She devoted her- 
 self more closely to her father than ever, and the tender sympathy 
 which she dared not express in words overflowed in a thousand 
 little delicate attentions which a daughter can bestow, and a 
 father can appreciate. 
 
 Uncle John was always bright. His old age seemed to re- 
 verse the usual picture of human life, and the nearer his sun ap- 
 j)roached the horizon, the fuller and brighter and clearer it shone. 
 Such a genial, pleasant old age is as beautiful as it is rare. He 
 never forgot that he had been young, and therefore he could 
 enter into the feelings of the young and be their companion. He 
 never forgot that he was old and had but a brief time left where- 
 in to do life's duty, and therefore he was constantly on the alert 
 to seize every opportunity for doing good or conferring happi- 
 ness. The smile always upon his face was but the reflection of 
 the contented spirit within, and his beaming countenance and 
 cheerful voice, and his singular talent for finding and exposing 
 to view the bright side of every circumstance and event, made 
 
CAMERON HALL. 475 
 
 hied always a welcome visitor and an invaluable friend. Besides 
 all this, Uncle John had a peculiar way of his own in expressing 
 sympathy. It was not in the formality of words or in any osten- 
 sible act. It was a certain nameless something in the expres- 
 sion of his eye, the grasp of his hand, the tones of his voice, 
 that spoke right to the heart, and needed no words to interpret. 
 He did not wait to know the trouble or to be told what the bur- 
 den was. Where he was interested, his eye was quick to detect 
 it if there was anything wrong, and just as quick to say, by its 
 unmistakable glance, that he would like to comfort if he could. 
 He was at the Hall almost every day, and it must indeed have 
 been some unusual press of business which could compel him to 
 deny himself for several successive days this, the only social pleas- 
 ure of his lonely life. He came afc all hours, and was always 
 alike welcome. Sometimes he came to breakfast, sometimes to 
 spend the night, and not uufrequently would ride up to the house, 
 and calling the girls out upon the porch, would talk to them a 
 few minutes, and then go away without dismounting. 
 
 So the winter passed away, calm and quiet, in spite of all dis- 
 turbing causes. There was, it is true, much reason for anxiety 
 and disquietude ; but then, too, there was much cause for thank- 
 fulness, and there were many comforts which, fortunately for the 
 peace of all, were gratefully received and appreciated. There 
 were no murmurings or repinings at privations, no useless long- 
 ings for the luxuries of other days, no complaints because the 
 ease and indulgence of their former life had now to be- exchanged 
 for care and labor. They all patiently accepted these things, 
 and each one, by trying to bear with fortitude individual troubles, 
 sustained and comforted the rest. 
 
 But there was more than mere calmness, mere tranquillity at 
 Cameron Hall ; there was peace, sweet peace in some of the hearts 
 there. There is a peace which, while it cannot make us indiffer- 
 ent to sorrow and anxiety, can nevertheless enable us to rise 
 above them ; a peace, which strikes so deep into the soul, that 
 storm and tempest cannot uproot it ; a peace, like the golden 
 sunlight behind the cloud, which, while it cannot altogether 
 pierce its darkness, may at least gild its edges. Such a peace 
 can only result from the uprightness of an honest Christian heart 
 which tries "to think and do always such things as are right," 
 and, conscious of its own integrity of purpose, can, like the obedi- 
 ent and loving child, trustingly commit its all to the protection 
 and guidance of that Father who "doeth all things well." 
 
 Again the spring returned, the soft, beautiful spring, with its 
 life-giving sunshine and gentle showers to recall from the*grave 
 of winter the resurrected life of inanimate nature, and, alas 1 to 
 
476 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 send too to the grave from which there is no yearly resurrection, 
 thousands of stalwart forms and brave and generous hearts. As 
 soon as the winter was gone, all was again astir in the camp and 
 in the army, and active preparations were made on both sides 
 for the prosecution of a vigorous campaign. All was astir, too, 
 in the thousands of throbbing hearts in our Southern homes, not 
 the eager bustle, the animating excitement, the restless activity 
 of preparation, but the unnoticed and unknown pang of the 
 aching heart which sits in quiet waiting, and in sickening sus- 
 pense, with none but God to witness and to know whatsit suffers. 
 Ah ! there is a heroism which no blood-stained battle-field re- 
 veals to the gaze of an astonished world, which no pen engraves 
 upon the historic page for the admiration of future generations 1 
 Amid the smoke of battle, the clash of arms and the thunders 
 of artillery, the hero and the patriot win for themselves a shrine 
 in the hearts of a grateful nation ; but the recording angel finds 
 nothing worthier of a place on his tablet than the uncomplain- 
 ing submission of some patient wife or mother, who has given 
 her all to her country, who would not recall the gift, and who 
 sits in the quiet of her own home for weeks and months and 
 years, with torturing fear, and agonizing dread, and racking sus- 
 pense for her companions ! 
 
 With returning spring, all Eva's anxieties returned. She tried 
 hard to keep them down, she prayed and longed to attain that 
 implicit trust which casteth out /ear. Ah, Eva! religion cannot, 
 nor would it if it could, render you less human, less a woman I 
 It is not designed to exterminate our fears, but only to teach us 
 where to carry them ; not to crush out our cares, but lovingly to 
 invite us to cast them all upon Him, " for he careth for us. " 
 
 It did not require many weeks of her renewed anxieties to fade 
 the roses which the respite oi' the winter had brought out upon 
 her cheeks. Again her step gradually lost its buoyancy, and her 
 figure its contour of health and vigor. Care and sorrow, while 
 they purified her spirit, did their work upon her bodily frame, and 
 the hopeless struggle of her life wasted her energies and con- 
 sumed her strength. There was no visible disease ; nothing that 
 medical skill or remedies could reach. The effect was upon the 
 body, but the cause was deep seated in the mind, far beyond the 
 reach of the healing art of man. Willie did not know it. Her 
 letters were to him the same cheerful messengers that they had 
 ever been, and while there was in them less of the future thaa 
 there used to be, he did not regret it, since it only left the more 
 room and the more time for her to pour out the full, deep tide, 
 fuller %nd deeper than it had ever been, of her love for him. 
 His letters were still full of the future, of home, and peace; but 
 
CAMERON HALL. 477 
 
 while heretofore her heart had responded to his in hope and glad 
 expectation, now she always folded his letters with a quiet sigh, 
 for she felt assured that the only home of peace that they would 
 ever enjoy together would be in that world where "there shall 
 be no more war." She often wondered if she ought not to write 
 to Willie and tell him so, and sometimes feared that she was 
 treating him cruelly thus to permit him to live upon hopes which 
 could never be realized ; but then she remembered that he could 
 not be spared now ; that nothing, however urgent, could obtain 
 for him at this time leave of absence even for a few days. She 
 recollected that he had charged her never to forget that she was 
 a soldier's wife, and begged her to accept with fortitude its priva- 
 tions and trials. Above all, she remembered her promise to en- 
 courage him to be faithful to his duty, instead of tempting him to 
 neglect or abandon it. This last thought never failed to convince 
 her what her duty was, and she always dismissed the subject with 
 the determination : 
 
 " Willie cannot come to me, and he shall not know that I need 
 him." 
 
 The only exercise that she was now capable of taking was a 
 short walk upon the lawn, before the sun grew hot. This time 
 she always spent lingering among the flowers, the same roses that 
 she used to gather every day for Willie's sick-room, and she al- 
 ways returned to the house with a handful of them which she 
 placed in a vase upon the little table beside Willie's sofa, on which 
 she now spent most of the day. 
 
 Julia watched her gradual decay with a painful certainty of the 
 result, but not so her father and Uncle John. Man's heart is 
 slow to see and to acknowledge an impending blow. It repels the 
 idea of an inevitable calamity, and strong in its own power to 
 control and to protect, it clasps tightly the object of its love, and 
 refuses to believe that what is so essential to its comfort and hap- 
 piness must be surrendered. So it was now with Mr. Cameron. 
 He could not or would not see what was so evident to others. 
 He felt the profoundest sympathy and pity for the child who could 
 not bear up, like her sister, under the burden of life, but he did 
 not dream that her vital energies were wasting away under its 
 weight. He endeavored constantly to divert her mind by pleasing 
 pictures of what they would do, and how happy they would be, 
 when Willie should come home on a visit, and tried to incite her, 
 for his sake, to efforts at exercise which she felt herself incapable 
 of making. She saw that her father was deceived, and she was 
 glad that it was so. 
 
 "He cannot detain me," she thought, "and with him as with 
 Willie, 'ignorance is bliss.'" 
 
478 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 It was the evening after the battle of Sharpsburg, and Charles 
 Beaufort was staudiug, kuife in hand, at the door of the hospital. 
 He had been laboring almost without cessation for more than 
 twenty-four hours, and heart and body were alike exhausted with 
 the sickening toil. With the assistance of another surgeon he 
 had just completed a most painful and delicate operation, aud 
 was now leaning wearily against the door, looking out upon the 
 peaceful evening scene, such a refreshing contrast to the objects 
 of pain and suflfering with which he had been so long engaged. 
 But Charles did not see its beauty. His thoughts had wandered 
 to the neighboring battle-field, and he was wondering, with a 
 feeling of sickening dread, what had become of Willie, of whom 
 no tidings had been heard since the close of the battle. Walter 
 and one of Willie's comrades had gone out that morning to search 
 for him, and had not yet returned. The day was nearly gone, 
 and Charles, whose doubts and fears had now almost settled down 
 into gloomy certainty, was straining his eyes to see if he could 
 not descry in the distance the returning messengers. Suddenly 
 a voice from within summoned him again to his distressing work. 
 
 " Come, Beaufort, we want you here. This poor fellow has 
 just been brought in, and must be attended to at once." 
 
 He turned and went in, and a groan of agony escaped him as 
 in the mangled form before him, covered with dust and gore, he 
 recognized the active, stalwart figure, all sinew and muscle, which 
 Willie had borne into the battle on the preceding day. 
 
 " Not on this case 1 not on this case !" Charles murmured, as he 
 sank upon a seat and covered his face with his hands. " Get 
 somebody else to help you, and for God's sake be quick !" 
 
 "He is beyond the reach of human skill," said one of the sur- 
 geons gently, as he went up to Willie, and looked with compas- 
 sion, first upon him and then upon his fellow-surgeon, who seemed 
 scarcely to suffer less. "We need not torture him." 
 
 Another groan burst from Charles, and the words, "Poor Eva!" 
 struggled involuntarily from his lips. 
 
 At the sound of that name the closed eyes opened, and gazed 
 with a dreamy look all around. Everything was strange; the 
 room, the faces, the victims of torture around. There was no- 
 thing familiar, nothing pleasant; and with a sigh of disappoint- 
 ment, he wearily closed his eyes again, aud murmured : 
 
CAMERON HALL. 479 
 
 " It was only a dream. I thought somebody called Eva. Give 
 me water." 
 
 Charles sprang up, and going to Willie, he moistened his 
 parched lips, and poured some water into his mouth. Then he 
 said : 
 
 " Look at me, Willie I Julia's husband, Eva's brother !" 
 With a smile of pleasure he tried to take Charles's hand and 
 something fell from his relaxed grasp and rolled upon the floor 
 The other hand still held something else as with a miser's clutch* 
 Charles took up from the floor the little gold locket contaioinff 
 Eva's picture, tied by the long ribbon with which she had secured 
 It around his neck. Xow, soiled with dust and wet with his own 
 heart's blood, he had grasped it still, and the last effort of his 
 expiring strength was to fix one more loving look upon that young 
 lac e . 
 
 "Let me see it again," he said. 
 
 Charles held it up before him. The fast-glazing eyes strained 
 to take It in, and the last of earth on which they lingered was 
 that bright, joyous face, beaming with love and unclouded by 
 sorrow. ^ 
 
 "I cannot see it any longer," he murmured. "It is all dark 
 now." 
 
 Charles closed the locket, and stood waiting, with an aching 
 heart, to see the end so close at hand. 
 " Where are you, Charles ?" he asked. 
 
 "He clasped the cold hand, and received Willie's dyine mes- 
 sage to Eva. "^ ° 
 
 "Tell Eva that I have done my duty. Tell her that my life 
 thus cut off in its prime, is not thrown away ; if I had another I 
 would offer that to my country too. Tell her that I wore her 
 picture upon my heart while I lived, and that it shall still lie 
 there when that heart is cold and still in the grave. Tell her that 
 I loved her to the end; that the last thing I looked upon was 
 her face ; but above all, tell her that I have tried to fulfillray bap- 
 tismal vow ; I have tried to be ' Christ's faithful soldier and serv- 
 ant unto my life's end;' I have served my country, I have tried to 
 serve my God, I am not afraid to die. God bless my young wife 
 my precious Eva I God grant us to meet in that world of peace 
 where there shall be no more war I God bless, God protect God 
 comfort my Eva, for Christ's sake I" r , 
 
 The prayer ceased. The life had ebbed away with the blood 
 of that brave, young heart, and soldier eyes were not ashamed of 
 the soldier tears that fell upon that crushed and lifeless form 
 
 Charles took one more long, lingering look at the bright, happy 
 face which would nevermore be bright and happy, and murmuring 
 
480 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "Poor Eva I" he reverently laid the yonng wife's picture upon the 
 husband's heart, before it had yet grown cold in death. He then 
 unclasped the clinched hand, and fourid what had once been a 
 long, rich curl, now a tangled mass, clotted with gore. 
 
 In the quiet of midnight, and in the subdued and feeble twi- 
 light of the starlit skies, a waiting group stood around an open 
 grave. The stars seemed to look shrinkingly upon the tield of 
 blood and carnage beneath them, and it was a pale and sickly 
 light that they shed upon it, as if ashamed to reveal its gory iior- 
 rors. Strangely, unnaturally quiet was the night. The thunders 
 of artillery, the rattle of musketry, the shout and yell of battle, 
 were all hushed now. Even Death himself seemed satisfied with 
 hi§ harvest, and not unwillingly allowed a brief respite to his 
 messengers of destruction. Surrounded on every side by death 
 in all its unmitigated horrors, with its stillness, its coldness, its 
 helplessness, the words of the solemn burial service, "in the midst 
 of life we are in death," sounded like a warning voice from the 
 thousands of dead who strewed the red field, in whose veins the 
 life-blood had, the day befoVe, coursed as rapidly, and whose 
 hearts had throbbed as hopefully as if they were never to die. 
 Now the blood had ceased to flow, the heart was still, and there, 
 in that vast graveyard of unburied dead, one was now laid away 
 to rest, with the sad words of commitment: "Earth to earth; 
 ashes to ashes ; dust to dust." 
 
 It was done. The young "soldier slept a profound, dreamless 
 sleep, which would nevermore be disturbed by the din of battle 
 and the clash of arms. His brother-soldiers lingered a moment 
 after their work was done, looked sadly upon that fresh mound, 
 and then turned and went away to the active duties and bustling 
 scenes of their daily life. Only one remained; and as Charles 
 Beaufort stood with folded arms at the head of that newlv-made 
 grave, his heart was far away, and his thoughts were painfully 
 busy in picturing the agony of that sweet, childlike heart, on 
 which the blight of widowhood had so early fallen. 
 
 That same night, at Cameron Hall, Eva tossed, feverish and 
 restless, upon her sleepless bed. It was not that her anxieties 
 had been sharpened, or that her fears were greater than usual; 
 it was not that she dreaded for Willie any special calamity: it was 
 only one of those unaccountable heart-longings which sometimes 
 seize us when separated by death or absence from those we love ; 
 when reason's voice is unheeded ; when impossibilities are ig- 
 nored; when -even obligations of Christian submission and pa- 
 tience are, for the moment, forgotten, and the heart, like the 
 mother of old, refuses to be comforted, and in its desolation and 
 loneliness cries out for the object of its desire. So it was that 
 
CAMERON HALL. 481 
 
 night with Eva. All that she knew or felt was that she wanted 
 Willie, that her heart needed him, and that she must have him. 
 She did not rebel, she did not even murmur, but she could not 
 subdue the painful longing, and she lay there in the silence and 
 darkness of midnight, wheYe all else was peaceful except her heart, 
 all else was still except its restless beating. Sad and lonely, 'and 
 unable to compose herself to sleep, she at last thought of awak-* 
 ening her sister, who slept on a couch beside her bed. For 
 awhile she refused to yield to the S'elfish desire. Her sister had 
 lain awake a long time with her, and had only given herself up 
 to repose when she thought that Eva had fallen asleep. Now 
 she was resting sweetly and quietly, and Eva knew that, like her- 
 self, Julia's only respite from corroding and wearing anxiety was 
 in the blessed unconsciousness of sleep. For awhile she tossed 
 and groaned, struggling against the temptation that was becoming 
 every moment more irresistible; but at last, with a mingled fuel- 
 ing of helplessness and self-reproach, she called her sister. Julia 
 sprang up in an instant, and hastily asked what was the matter. 
 
 " Nothing really, sister," answered Eva, in a penitent tone. 
 "I am ashamed to disturb you, and still more ashamed to ac- 
 knowledge that I have done it for no better reason than because 
 I cannot sleep and want company." 
 
 "Never mind disturbing me," answered Julia, kindly. "That 
 is nothing in comparison with my relief to find that yoa are not 
 sick." 
 
 "No, sister, not sick," she answered, plaintively, "but lonely, 
 inexpressibly lonely ; sick at heart if not in body. Never in all 
 my life before have I felt such a longing to see Willie. It is 
 always the paramount wish of my heart, but to-night it is the ab- 
 sorbing one. Always before, the thought of home and of the 
 love of you and papa has mingled with a subduing influence in 
 the sorrow of my separation from him. But to-night all this 
 seems as nothing. I cannot even find any comfort in the thought 
 of these blessings, great as they are. Oh, sister 1 I don't want to 
 be ungrateful for the tenderness of the best of fathers, the best 
 of sisters, but I want Willie. Nobody else can satisfy me now I" 
 
 Julia listened in silent sorrow. She had no encouraging 
 hopes to offer Eva, for she knew how impossible it was for him 
 to come now, and she felt assured that unless he did come soon, 
 he would never see his wife again. 
 
 Eva talked all night, and her burden was her longing to see 
 Willie. At last, with a weary sigh, she said : 
 
 " Oh, for the sweet forgetfulness of sleep ! I am so tired, and 
 ray head is so confused. It is not pain, but it is a feeling worse 
 than pain." 
 
 41 
 
482 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 It was nearly daylight when she fell into an uneasy slumber, 
 which at length settled down into profound sleep. 
 
 The morning was far advanced, and the sun was bright and 
 hot, when Uncle John caine in, his face glowing with heat, and 
 as he gave Julia two letters, he said : 
 
 "I could not wait until the evening to bring them, for I knew 
 that you children were so anxious, and that they would be so 
 welcome." 
 
 Julia flew up stairs and looked into Eva's room. She was 
 awake, and asked, languidly : 
 
 *• What time is it, sister ?" 
 
 ■" It is almost twelve o'clock. See here I I have brought you 
 a pleasure next to that of seeing Willie." 
 
 With a faint cry of joy, Eva seized the letter, and tearing 
 open the envelope, sat up in bed to read it. It was written hope- 
 fully and cheerfully as usual on the eve of their departure, to 
 what destination he did not know, but he felt sure that it was to 
 active service. The telegraph had since revealed the object to 
 be the invasion of Maryland and Pennsylvania. The sisters were 
 quietly reading their letters, when a sudden scream startled not 
 only Eva, but Julia, too ; and Lucy rushed into the room, wring- 
 ing her hands, and exclaiming, in wild affright : 
 
 "Oh, Lord! Miss Julia 1 Master Willie's killed! He was 
 killed the other day in a big battle !" 
 
 With a piercing shriek of agony that absolutely stilled Julia's 
 heart, Eva sank back upon the bed in wild delirium. The sud- 
 den shock had been too much for her shattered nerves, and scream 
 followed scream, until they all wondered how her exhausted frame 
 could bear such intense excitement. She was perfectly ungovern- 
 able, and when, at last, she became quiet from sheer exhaustion, 
 there was a wild, unnatural gleam of her eye, so different from 
 its usual soft expression, that Julia feared that her reason was 
 hopelessly gone. Her whole face was distorted, and she tore 
 out her hair by handfuls and strewed the floor with her long, 
 beautiful curls. She heeded not father or sister or Uncle John. 
 Indeed, she did not seem to recognize any of them. Grace alone 
 could soothe and quiet her; and Julia went off to her own room 
 to pray earnestly for the privilege of laying in the grave that 
 sister from whom but a few short months ago she had resolved, 
 in her own short-sighted ignorance, that nothing should ever 
 separate her. 
 
 Medical treatment was of no avail. Her head was shaved and 
 blistered, but it did not abate her violence. She was perfectly 
 uncontrollable for days, and then, as if from mere physical pros- 
 tration, the paroxysms became less violent and less frequent. So 
 
CAMERON HALL. 483 
 
 it went on for weeks, and from intense excitement there was a 
 slow and gradual sinking both of mind and body into hopeless 
 apathy. She never mentioned Willie or made the slightest allu- 
 sion to him, and, indeed, she rarely spoke at all, except to make 
 known her physical wants. Grace and Julia never left her. 
 The only emotion which she ever showed was a dread of being 
 left alone ; and now, since the violence was all gone and she had 
 become perfectly quiet, her old, clinging love for her sister had 
 returned, and she was not willing for her to leave her side for a 
 single moment. Julia, with the patience of a mother with her 
 little child, devoted herself entirely to Eva, and tried hard to 
 recall her wandering intellect. She was always devising and 
 planning something pleasant to engage her attention, and she 
 hoped and longed for her to mention Willie. This, Julia regarded 
 as the lost balance-wheel of her mind, and she clung to the belief 
 that if Eva could only be thoroughly aroused to a sense of her 
 bereavement, that all would be right again. She was afraid to 
 mention him herself, but by talking of the past, and by leading 
 Eva's thoughts into those channels which would most naturally 
 suggest Willie, she tried to awaken her memory and to make her 
 speak the name which she herself dared not utter. But day after 
 day and week after week Julia had hoped and waited in vain. 
 Neither word nor look betrayed that Willie was not the same in- 
 different stranger that he was when Uncle John had brought him 
 to the Hall. Not even the flowers which, more than anything 
 else were associated with him, could now recall him ; and Eva 
 watched her sister as she often arranged them in the same vase 
 and on the same table that used always to stand beside his sofa, 
 with the same quiet indifference that she saw her do everything 
 else. 
 
 One morning Julia came into the library with a handful of 
 magnificent roses sparkling with dew-drops. She called Eva's 
 attention to their uncommon beauty, and received in reply the 
 casual glance and the indifferent response to which she was now 
 quite accustomed. While she was arranging them in the vase, 
 Julia took up a splendid white rose, half blown, and laden with 
 dew. She held it up and was looking at it in silent admiration, 
 when all at once Eva said, extending her hand : 
 
 "Give it to me, sister; it reminds me of Willie. He loves 
 flowers." 
 
 With a thrill of pleasure and of awakened hope, Julia looked 
 earnestly into her sister's face as she gave her the flower. The 
 wildness was all gone from the eye, and in its stead was an ex- 
 pression of patient suffering, but there was still a dreamy, wan- 
 dering, inquiring look, as if the mind were vainly searching for a 
 
484 CAMERON "hall. 
 
 lost link, a key to some painful mystery. But this was all. The 
 tangled skein baffled the feeble efforts of the impaired reason, 
 and while now Willie all at once resumed his long-lost place in 
 her thoughts, and she talked of him all the time, it was with a 
 strange admixture of consciousness and ignorance. It was a pain- 
 ful yet a sweet hallucination which mingled, as only an unsettled 
 reason can, the sense of bereavement with an utter ignorance of its 
 cause. She seemed to know and yet not to know that she was 
 a widow. Every morning she dressed herself in her widow's 
 weeds and gathered up beneath the folds of her widow's cap the 
 soft, silvery hair, with which the fearful shock had replaced her 
 brown, clustering curls; but every evening the cap was removed, 
 the white hair was curled, a wreath of flowers, such as she wore 
 at her wedding, encircled her brow, and, robed in her white muslin 
 dress, she sat for hours on the porch watching with patient ex- 
 pectation for Willie's return. And when twilight had deepened 
 into night she would go into the house again, with a look of sad 
 but uncomplaniing disappointment, and would say : "Willie is not 
 coming to-night, sister, but he will be here to-morrow ?" Theji 
 the bridal wreath and the white dress were laid aside to be worn 
 again on the morrow. Day after day she followed the same 
 routine. Continued disappointment did not wear out her hope ; 
 no word of surprise or impatience that Willie did not come ever 
 escaped her lips, but quietly and patiently she watched for him 
 every evening, to be every evening as surely disappointed. 
 There was something inexpressibly touching in her appearance 
 as she thus waited for him. Her complexion, always fair, was 
 now almost dazzling in its whiteness, and unrelieved by the slight- 
 est tinge of color. There was something singular but by no 
 means unpleasing in the efl'ect of those curls of soft, silvery hair, 
 that fell around her sad, young face, and seemed to mingle in 
 one touching picture the griefs and troubles of old age with the 
 freshness of early youth. And while she still expected Willie's 
 return, with strange inconsistency she was neither surprised nor 
 disappointed that she did not hear from him. For a long time, 
 Julia carefully concealed Charles's letters, neither reading them 
 in her presence nor making any allusion to them for fear that it 
 would awaken anxiety and wonder that she too no longer re- 
 ceived the letters to which she had so long been accustomed. 
 Her caution, however, was wholly unnecessary. One day Eva 
 came suddenly upon her sister while she was reading a letter 
 from Charles. Julia tried to hide it, but Eva recognized it at 
 once, and only asked if Charles was well and if he mentioned 
 Walter. She seemed to know that he could tell her nothing of 
 Willie. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 485 
 
 The care and attentioQ of the family were now concentrated 
 upon Eva. She was the constant thought of the household by 
 day and by night, and, while as they looked upon the sad wreck 
 of a joyous life, a loving nature, and a young heart, they could 
 not wish to detain her here in her sorrow, they still clung to the 
 patient sufferer with a yearning, tender love, stronger even than 
 they had felt for her in her days of happiness. Julia seemed only 
 to live for her. To wait upon her and talk to her, to plan for 
 her comfort, to interest and amuse her were her employment and 
 her sad pleasure. 
 
 After a time Eva's strength began again to fail, and Willie's sofa 
 was generally her place all day until the evening, when she always 
 dressed herself to meet him. Heretofore she had gathered her 
 own flowers from Willie's favorite rose bushes, twined her own 
 wreath and dressed herself, but now she was not strong enough 
 for such an exertion, and it became Julia's daily duty. Never 
 before was there so painful and trying a task as now devolved 
 upon poor Julia. To sit with tearless eyes and listen to Eva's 
 expectations that he would certainly come this time ; to hear 
 unmoved her admiration of the wreath that she was making, and 
 her assurances that it would meet with Willie's approval; to 
 hear her childlike expressions of that love which, in her young 
 heart, was emphatically stronger than death,— required a degree 
 of self-control far beyond anything that she had ever attempted 
 before, and to which even her habits of discipline scarcely enabled 
 her to attain. Often in spite of all her efforts her hands trembled 
 so that the flower dropped from them, and sometimes she had to 
 turn hastily away to prevent the unbidden tear from falling upon 
 the wreath. 
 
 Not unfrequently, when Eva was dressed ready to meet Willie, 
 she would say: 
 
 "He will certainly come this evening; don't you think so, 
 sister?" And Julia, believing that in such a case the slight 
 equivocation could not be wrong, would reply : 
 
 "I trust so, my darling." 
 
 Then Eva would pass out to her pleasant dream of hope and 
 happiness that was never to be realized ; and Julia, sinking into 
 a chair, would seek relief in those tears which for her sister's sake 
 she had before restrained. 
 
 The only thing that ever awakened the light in Eva's eye or a 
 beam of pleasure upon her face was the organ-music. She 
 specially loved it at the hour when she was waiting for Willie, 
 because, as she said, she wanted him to hear his glad welcome 
 home long before words and smiles could reach him. Grace 
 gratified her, and so day after day the young wife and the music 
 
 41* 
 
486 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 prepared together their welcome for him who was never to re- 
 ceive it. 
 
 It was now late in October. The chill evening air could not 
 drive Eva from her seat on the open porch, and neither argu- 
 ment nor entreaty could prevail upon her to exchange her muslin 
 dress for one of warmer texture or even to throw around her a 
 protecting shawl. 
 
 " No," she said, " Willie likes this dress best, and he must see 
 me first in this." 
 
 One evening Julia had been much longer than usual gathering 
 the flowers for Eva's wreath. They were now almost gone and 
 she had considerable difficulty in finding enough. As soon as 
 she entered the room, Eva exclaimed, glancing at the clock : 
 
 " Come, sister, make haste ! We are later than usual. I 
 ought to have begun to dress half an hour ago." 
 
 "It is quite time enough, Eva," said Julia, wishing to put it 
 ofiF as long as possible, for every day she grew more and more 
 anxious about her sister's long exposure to the cold evening air. 
 
 " No, sister, we are too late," she answered, nervously. "Willie 
 is certainly coming now, and I would not for the world have him 
 come and not find me waiting. Please, sister, let us make 
 haste." 
 
 Thus urged, Julia could not delay. Eva watched the grow- 
 ing wreath with more than her usual interest, and frequently 
 stopped to admire the flowers as she handed them to her sister. 
 
 "What a beautiful bud this is 1" she exclaimed. "I know that 
 Willie will admire this particularly. He loves flowers," she 
 added, dreamily, "and told me, when he went away so long ago, 
 that if there should be a flower in the pit or in the garden when 
 he came home I must wear it to meet him. I am going to meet 
 him now, and I must wear the flowers as he told me. He used 
 to say that I always ought to wear them, — that flowers and Eva 
 seemed to belong to each other." 
 
 And so she talked on, partly to her sister but more to herself, 
 while Julia placed the wreath upon the fair young brow on which 
 the white hair was smoothly parted to fall on each side in its 
 silvery curls. 
 
 " Certainly coming 1 Certainly coming now !" were the last 
 words that Julia heard as Eva went out to her evening watch. 
 
 At first the bright rays of the setting sun rested like a halo 
 upon her head, and then, as the shadows lengthened and she still 
 sat there in her quiet, patient expectancy, with her white face, 
 her white dress, and her white hair, she looked in the deepening 
 twilight as if she might have been a white-robed messenger from 
 the spirit-land. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 487 
 
 Wben she went back into the house her face did not wear its 
 usual expression of sad disappointment. It was bright with hope 
 and confidence; but her step was languid, and throwing herself 
 upon the bed, she said, wearily : 
 
 "I am tired, sister, very tired." 
 
 Yes, she was tired : tired of watching, tired of waiting, tired 
 of longing, tired of hoping ! In a few minutes she was fast 
 asleep in her bridal dress and her bridal wreath, and the young 
 wife, unconscious of her widowhood, was dreaming sweetly of 
 meeting Willie. 
 
 The next morning the sounds of awakened life, the bright sun- 
 shine, and the singing of the birds could not disturb Eva. She 
 slept sweetly, calmly. Her face was very white and very still, 
 but it wore a sweet glad smile, the smile with which she at last 
 met Willie I He did not come to her, but she had gone to him I 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 Eva had been dead but a few weeks when rumors again reached 
 Hopedale of the proposed occupation of the town by the Federal 
 army during the approaching winter. Julia was now sorely 
 tried. To be shut up within the enemy's lines and cut off from 
 all communication with her husband was an intolerable thought, 
 and to leave her father alone in his sorrowful old age was quite 
 as impossible. Mr. Cameron was now rapidly growing old, for 
 trouble silvers the hair, paralyzes the energies, wrinkles the brow, 
 and wastes the strength faster than old age or disease. Julia 
 pondered her duty long and earnestly. She knew full well to 
 what wearing anxiety she would subject herself if she decided to 
 stay at home, and she knew too that it would condemn her hus- 
 band to the same burden ; but when she looked upon her gray- 
 headed stricken father, there was something that appealed irre- 
 sistibly to a daughter's feelings, and deep down in her heart she 
 heard a low but distinct whisper: '^ Honor thy father.''^ 
 
 And now came a letter from Charles, bidding her escape with 
 eager haste, and begging her not to linger until retreat should 
 be impossible. In her answer there was no hesitation. She 
 pictured the old man's loneliness and sorrow, and told her hus- 
 band that she could not consent to leave her father. It was a 
 painful letter both to herself and to Charles. She closed it with 
 a pang, as she thought that perhaps with her own hand she had 
 
488 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 sealed their final separation on earth ; and he, after he had read it, 
 refolded it with a sigh, and murmured : " It is hard, but she is 
 right." 
 
 She did not tell her father what she had done; and a few 
 mornings after she had dispatched this letter, Mr. Cameron sum- 
 moned her and Grace to the library. He looked sadder and 
 more troubled than ever, and Julia wondered what new cause of 
 sorrow he had found. Without a single word of preface or ex- 
 planation, he only said : 
 
 " My daughters, you must both leave me I" 
 
 Grace looked up in speechless surprise, and Julia, without a 
 moment's reflection and with an impulsiveness that painfully 
 recalled Eva, replied, hastily: 
 
 "Xever, papa, never!" 
 
 Her father looked at her with a moistened eye, and said : 
 
 " You will go, my daughter, if your father thinks it necessary, 
 if he particularly requests it, — will you not?" 
 
 " Yes, papa, if you bid me go I must obey, but I will not 
 voluntarily leave you. You cannot do without me now. Charles 
 and I have already settled that matter, and I am to stay with 
 you." 
 
 " God bless my children for their unselfishness!" he answered; 
 " but I will not require the sacrifice of them. I will not separate 
 you. You are young and I am old. You need each other; I 
 can get along alone the brief remnant of my life." 
 
 "But, father," interposed Grace, " why send me away? Julia's 
 ties and duties may call her elsewhere, but mine are here. A 
 wanderer for so many long years, I have just found a home and 
 a father, and my worn-out heart longs for 'rest. Don't send me 
 away among strangers; let me stay with you." 
 
 "God only knows, Grace, how I wish that it could be so. 
 Without my children I will be lonely and desolate indeed, and 
 yet it is for my own comfort as well as for your sake that I now 
 send you away. We live in the country, and we cannot tell to what 
 annoyances and insults you may be exposed. You remember to 
 what the girls were subjected before ; and when I came home and 
 found them in the power of that Yankee rufiBan, I resolved that 
 they should never again be exposed to anything like that. I 
 would rather be separated from you for years, yes forever, than 
 to see you in the power of their lawless and brutal soldiers. Now, 
 to such insults as they received before, and perhaps worse, you 
 would be liable all the time. I should be miserable in view of it 
 by day and by night, and it is to rid myself of this intolerable 
 burden as well as to insure your safety that I ask you to go 
 away." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 489 
 
 "But, papa," said Julia, earnestly, "do you go with us. Let 
 us all go together, and then there will be no cause of anxiety left 
 behind. There are so few of us left now," she added, as her eyes 
 filled, " and so many dangers to be encountered, that we ought to 
 stay together." 
 
 "This is my home, daughter," he answered, "the only home 
 that I have ever had. I was born here, I have lived here, and 
 here at the old Hall I want to die. Young people can bear 
 transplanting, but when the fibers of the old heart have struck 
 deeply and become firmly rooted, it will not do to tear them up. 
 No, I cannot leave my home. And besides, Julia, what would 
 then become of the old Hall ? If we abandon it, the enemy will 
 desolate and ruin it. Think of your home, your mother's, Eva's 
 home a desolation, a ruin ! You could not bear that." 
 
 "It would be very hard to bear," she answered, sorrowfully, 
 " but you cannot prevent it by staying. If they choose they will 
 lay it waste, and if they should, it would be better for you to 
 be where you could not see it. We were all at home before and 
 our presence neither delayed nor restrained the work of plunder 
 and devastation. But, papa, there is a stronger reason yet why 
 you should go with us; think of the oath of allegiance, that 
 fearful oath ; you cannot subscribe to that I" she added with a 
 shudder. 
 
 " Never, my daughter I May God in mercy paralyze my tongue 
 before He ever permits me to perjure myself. But they may not 
 administer the oath, at least for some time." 
 
 " We have no right to expect exemption from their uniform 
 custom. When they occupy a place they always do administer 
 it, if not to the citizens generally, at least to a selected number, 
 of whom you would most probably be one. If you refuse, the 
 penalty will be banishment; banishment either North or South. 
 If South, it would be the very same exile that you now fear, ex- 
 cept that you would probably be sent off at a moment's warning, 
 whereas if you go now you can go at your leisure, and take with 
 you whatever comforts you please. But if you should be sent 
 North to a prison, or at best among strangers and enemies, with- 
 out friends, old and infirm, and broken down in mind and body, — 
 oh, papal what would become of you, what would become of me 
 then ?" 
 
 "I have thought it all over, my daughter," Mr. Cameron re- 
 plied, sadly but firmly, "and I have decided to stay. I must keep 
 the old Hall, Julia, if I can, not so much for myself as for you 
 and Walter. I shall not need it much longer myself; but what 
 would you children do without a home ?" 
 
 " We would rather do without it, papa, than to have you 
 
490 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 try to take care of it for us at such a sacrifice. Your life, your 
 health are worth more to us than all these broad acres, more 
 than the old Hall, dear as it is to us !" 
 
 "Ah, my child!" he answered, shaking his head sorrowfully, 
 "you may think that you do not need a home; but, thank God, 
 you do not yet know what it is to be without one ! You may 
 think that you can do without the means to support life; but you 
 do not know what poverty means. All my life I have tried to 
 shield you from it, and I intend to try and do so to the end." 
 
 " I am not afraid of poverty, papa," she answered, tirmly. 
 "I have enjoyed our luxurious style of living, and I would like to 
 enjoy it still; but if this may not be, I hope to be able to sur- 
 render it without any vain and sinful regrets. All that concerns 
 me now is your safety, your comfort, and I will promise to submit 
 to anything, nay, more, to welcome anything, if I can only have 
 my father with me!" 
 
 Mr. Cameron was deeply moved, but his purpose was still un- 
 shaken. He shook his head, and only answered: 
 
 " It cannot be, my daughter, it cannot be. We must not all 
 desert the old Hall." 
 
 Julia was silent a moment, and then suddenly a new thought 
 struck her, and she exclaimed : 
 
 " Then, papa, do you go and leave Grace and myself to take 
 care of the Hall. If there is any manliness in the Federal army, 
 it will protect rather than injure both the persons and the prop- 
 erty of two defenseless women." 
 
 " I should think that experience had already taught you, 
 Julia, how much manliness is in them, how much courtesy to ex- 
 pect at their hands ! No, no I Not for all the homesteads in 
 Yirginia, not for all in the Southern Confederacy would I leave 
 you here in the country alone and unprotected. I have listened 
 to your arguments, my daughter, rather for the purpose of grati- 
 fying you than with the expectation of hearing anything which 
 has not already suggested itself to my mind. This is no sudden 
 whim or caprice of mine, I have long ago pondered what I 
 should do in case of a Federal occupation. It only remains now 
 for you to say if you will acquiesce in my decision." 
 
 '• Yes, sir," she answered, " I will certainly do what you think 
 best, and what will most conduce to your comfort." 
 
 "How soon will you go, my daughter?" 
 
 "Just as soon, papa, as you wish it." 
 
 " Can you go to-morrow ?" 
 
 "To-morrow!" she exclaimed. "Oh, papal not so soon 
 as " 
 
 A glance at her father's face of agony stopped her short ; and 
 
CAMERON HALL. 491 
 
 while she was vainly trying to give utterance to her willingness 
 to go, he murmured, sadly: 
 
 *' Yes, to-morrow. The sooner it is over the better for us all ! 
 Go, my children, go at once," he continued, every word costing a 
 struggle, ''and get ready to leave to-morrow." 
 
 Julia went up to her father in silence, pressed a kiss upon his 
 quivering lips, and then rushed out of the room. 
 
 Kis eyes followed the retreating figure of this, his last child, 
 and when she was out of sight, the desolate old father sank back 
 in his chair and wept bitterly. 
 
 As Grace passed the little organ-room, she paused a moment 
 at the threshold and looked wistfully at the open instrument. 
 She had no time to play now, and brushing away the tear from 
 her cheek and hastening on to her duty, she murmured: 
 
 "Agnes's grave, and Agnes's organ ! Two strong ties to bind 
 my heart here. God help me to go willingly !" 
 
 When Julia reached her room, the first thing that she did was 
 to throw herself upon the bed and let her tears relieve her bur- 
 dened heart. She had done this so much oftener of late than ever 
 before, that she began to fear she was losing her self-control; 
 but whatever experience of the discipline of life Julia might have 
 had before, her troubles were now both heavier and more numer- 
 ous than they had ever been, and this new and most unexpected 
 one had made her cup full. For the time she forgot everything; 
 forgot even that she would be accessible to her husband. The 
 one absorbing thought was that she was going to leave her old 
 and sorrow-stricken father alone, and that, too, at a time when he 
 would most need the sunshine of home and the solace of its ties 
 to counterbalance the depressing influences around him. In the 
 midst of her distress the door opened, and Mammy Xancy came 
 in. She paused a moment in surprise, and then going up to the 
 bed, said, compassionately: 
 
 " What's the matter, Miss Julia ? What you cryin' for, honey ? 
 I ain't used to seein' you cry. I thought for a minute that 'twas 
 my t'other child, till I remembered that she was whar she can't 
 cry no more, thank God ! What's the matter?" she repeated, as 
 Julia buried her face in the pillow, and sobbed afresh. 
 
 As soon as she could speak, she answered : 
 
 "I am going away to-morrow. Mammy." 
 
 " Goin' away, child ! and whar is you goin' to ?'* 
 
 " Going far away; to b'e gone a long time, and " 
 
 " Goin' to leave me and old master by ourselves !" interrupted 
 the old woman in amazement. " One of our children in the 
 grave, the t'other one in the war, and you, the only one left, goin' 
 away from your old father, your old mammy ! I didn't believe 
 
492 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 that you would have the heart to do sich a thing as that ! What 
 is you goin' for, child ? You ain't goin' to find no sich another 
 father, and no sich another old mammy as you leaves behind." 
 
 "I know that, Mammy," sobbed Julia. "I know that well 
 enough. I don't want to leave you, and I know that my heart 
 will ache many a time to see you both before I come back." 
 
 " Then what makes you go, child?" 
 
 " Papa wants me to go. The Yankees are coming again, not 
 to stay a few hours, but the whole wiuter. You know how badly 
 they behaved when they were here before, and " 
 
 "I reckon I do!" she interrupted. "I reckon that Til never 
 forgit that pile of blazin' meat while thar's breath left in my 
 body ! Good sound bacon, the like of which them Yankee 
 rascals never seed before, smoked with hickory wood, and with 
 all them hams sewed up in bags by my own hands ! Lord, Lord !" 
 she exclaimed, impatiently, "whenever I thinks of that meat I 
 gits riled all over!" 
 
 Mammy's indignation had now quite overpowered her sym- 
 pathy and compassion, and forgetting everything except her 
 wrath, as she always did whenever she recollected that scene of 
 destruction, she went on in a tirade of mingled lamentation and 
 abuse, until she was recalled to the present by a deep sigh from 
 Julia. In turn her anger was as quickly forgotten, and intent 
 only on comforting the young mistress, whose distress was the 
 more painful because it was so unusual, she said: 
 
 " Tell master. Miss Julia, that you don't want to go away, 
 and then I'll be bound he won't send you. He never could cross 
 you hisself, and he wouldn't let nobody else do it, from the time 
 that you was a baby in the arms, and I know he can't do it now, 
 when you is a woman grown." 
 
 " I have told him that I don't want to leave him; but he says 
 that he will be better satisfied if Grace and I are' out of the way 
 of the Yankees." 
 
 " Miss Grace I Is she goin' too ?" 
 
 "Yes, Mammy, we are both going." 
 
 The old woman shook her head sadly, and murmured, rather 
 to herself than to Julia: 
 
 "Poor old master! Poor old master! I remember the time 
 when he had a young wife and his children all around him, and 
 when thar wasn't no time 'twixt sun-up and sun-down that you 
 couldn't hear the children laughin' and rompin' in the yard. 
 Now wife dead, children some dead, and t'others gone, and he 
 left by hisself in his old age ! Poor old master!" 
 
 For this Julia had no reply except a fresh burst of tears ; and 
 Mammy's thoughts wandered back through long years, when the 
 
CAMERON HALL. 493 
 
 DOW sad and silent Hall was lightened by children's happy faces 
 and gladdened by their innocent mirth. They were both silent 
 for several minutes, and then all at once Mammy's thoughts with 
 a sudden rebound came baclx to the present emergency with its 
 pressing necessities. 
 
 " To-morrow I" she said, thoughtfully. "You give yoQrself 
 mighty little time, Miss Julia. 1 must take my old bones out of 
 this cheer," she added, rising to go, " and git down stars to my 
 business. It'll be all I can do to git Lucy ready to go by to- 
 morrow. She's got all her clothes in the tub now. I 'spose in 
 course you is to take her along?" 
 
 "I should like to do so. Mammy, if you are willing." 
 
 " Willin', child !" she replied, stopping short and looking at 
 Julia in amazement. " What's the reason I wouldn't be willin' ? 
 Did you ever hear of my sayin' that I wasn't willin' for Lucy to 
 go anywhar 'long with you?" 
 
 "No, Mammy, never; but times are different now." 
 
 " How different. Miss Julia ?" 
 
 "You know, Mammy, that when the Yankees come, they say 
 that they are going to set you all free, and then you need not go 
 anywhere with your master or mistress unless you want to. I 
 will not force Lucy to go with me now, I will not take her 
 unless you and she are both perfectly willing." 
 
 " I'll answer for us both. I'm willin', and so is Lucy, and if 
 she ain't, I'll make her so. And as to them Yankees, Miss 
 Julia," she added, contemptuously, "don't tell me nothin' at all 
 about them and their freedom. I don't believe nothin' they say, 
 for people that ain't got no better sense than to burn up good 
 sound bacon, ain't got no better principles than to tell lies ! 
 That's the gospel truth 1" 
 
 So saying, she closed the door with a most decided emphasis, 
 and disappeared. 
 
 Julia was in the act of rising from the bed to commence pack- 
 ing, when Mammy's head again appeared at the door. 
 
 " You is goin' to Dixie, in course ?" she said. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Well, ain't you goin' to take nothin' at all to eat ? Folks 
 tells me that it's mighty nigh starvation out thar !" 
 
 " Yes, Mammy, I am going to take plenty to eat, and I want 
 you to attend to that for me. Get out of the pantry what you 
 think will be necessary to last us several days, and tell Aunt Sally 
 to cook her best for me. It is the last time," she added, choking, 
 " that she will do anything for me in a long time." 
 
 " Did you send Sally word to put on a ham ?" she asked. " It 
 ought to be bilin' this minute." 
 
 42 
 
494 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " No, I do not intend to take a ham. There are only two left, 
 and I want papa to have thera." 
 
 "You shall have a hara, honey," she answered, with a con- 
 scious look, " and master shan't miss none, neither. This old 
 nigger didn't stand close by that burnin' pile and watch it for 
 nothin'I You shall have a ham." 
 
 "Very well. Mammy, I leave it all to you. Have a plenty for 
 us, but don't be extravagant. Remember that papa is going to 
 stay at home, and provisions are not so abundant as they used 
 to be." 
 
 " You'll have enough, child, certain," she replied, closing the 
 door, "if old Mammy fixes it! I always did believe in havin' 
 plenty to eat." 
 
 " Send Lucy here. Mammy," called Julia. 
 
 The old woman came deliberately back, and shutting the door 
 as if afraid of being overheard, she walked up close to Julia, and 
 said, in a decided tone : 
 
 "Let me tell you one thing, child. When Lucy comes up 
 here, don't you ax her if she is willin' to go 'long with you. 
 Jest tell her to wash and iron her clothes and put 'em in her 
 trunk, for she's got to go away with you in the mornin'. Don't be 
 puttiu' no new-fkugled notions in Lucy's head. She's a nigger 
 now, she's got to be a nigger all her life, and all the Yankees 
 under heaven can't make her nothin' else, and 'tain't no use to 
 make her believe that she's while and free !" 
 
 When Uncle John came in the afternoon, great indeed was 
 his surprise at this most sudden and unexpected arrangement. 
 
 " Who is to be your escort, Grace ?" he asked. 
 
 "Uncle Billy," she answered, "is to act in the several capaci- 
 ties of escort, protector, and driver." 
 
 " Now, that shall not be !" he exclaimed, positively. " I am 
 not going to have you two knight- erranting through the country 
 at such a time as this. I will go with you myself (irst." 
 
 " Indeed you will not. Uncle John," said Julia. " The weather 
 is too cold, and there is really no necessity for it. I am not 
 afraid to go with Uncle Billy." 
 
 "Nor need you be, my daughter," said her father. "Billy is 
 old and steady and faithful, and will take as good care of you 
 as I could. If I did not know this I would not trust you with 
 him." 
 
 "Very well, girls," said Uncle John, smiling, "you are wel- 
 come to my services if they would be agreeaole, but, of course, 
 you are at liberty to decline them." 
 
 When he went away, he said : 
 
 " I like to put off disagreeable things to the last moment, and 
 
CAMERON HALL. 495 
 
 therefore will not say good-bj to-night. You will pass thi^ough 
 town to-moiTow, and you may stop at my gate and we can say 
 farewell then." 
 
 Early the next morning, Mr. Cameron was at the stable exam- 
 ining the carriage and harness, and giving minute directions to 
 the old driver, into whose care he was about to commit his 
 daughters. 
 
 " I have trusted you often before, Billy," he said, " and you 
 have never disappointed me, and I expect you to be faithful 
 now. You will take good care of your young mistresses, won't 
 you ?" 
 
 " Don't give yourself no uneasiness about 'em, master," he 
 said. " If these two old mules will hold out, Billy will too, and 
 if I don't take 'em safe, it'll be the fust time that I ever come out 
 wrong end foremost." 
 
 Mr. Cameron took leave of his daughters in the library. In 
 all his other sorrows Julia had never seen him so overpowered, 
 and she painfully realized how broken he was in spirit and energy 
 thus to yield so unresistingly to his grief. 
 
 The servants all gathered round the carriage to say farewell, 
 and Mammy encircled Julia in her arms, and pressing her to her 
 bosom, kissed her repeatedly, while her tears fell fast. 
 
 "Mammy," sobbed Julia, "don't go to the Yankees when they 
 come. Don't leave papa, the old Hall, and your two last chil- 
 dren. It would break my heart to come back and not find my 
 old Mammy 1" 
 
 "Go to the Yankees, indeed !" she answered, wiping her eyes 
 and bristling with indignation at the bare suggestion. " They may 
 fool some of these young creturs, but they'll find Nancy too old 
 for 'em. No, indeed ! When I leaves my master it'll not be to 
 go with any fool that burns up meat !" 
 
 They were gone. As far as she could see the old house, Julia's 
 eyes were- strained to catch a last glimpse of it, and when it was 
 finally hidden from her view and she had turned her back upon 
 her childhood's home, not knowing that she would ever return to 
 it again, or if she did, that she would find her father and his ser- 
 vants there as she had left them, she sank back in the carriage 
 and wept bitterly. When she raised her eyes again they were 
 passing through the grove, and the first thing that she saw was 
 the rock under the old walnut-tree, so identified with memories 
 of her childhood, and her childhood's companions, Walter and 
 Eva. She did not look up again until they had stopped before 
 Uncle John's gate, where he was standing, with gloves on, and 
 whip in hand. 
 
 " Where are you going, Uncle John ?" she asked. 
 
496 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "With you, my daughter. You do not look able to take care 
 
 of yourself, nor does Grace.'' 
 
 "Indeed, Uncle John," she answered, "I cannot consent to 
 any such arrangement. It would be selfish for me to do so." 
 
 "Your consent, Julia, will not affect my decision. I know," 
 he added, smiling, "that it is contrary, both to etiquette and to 
 custom, for a gentleman thus to persist in intruding his society 
 upon ladies when it is so manifestly disagreeable ; but I think that 
 the present circumstances will justify it. Drive on, Billy; I will 
 follow." 
 
 So saying, he sprang into his buggy, and they began their 
 journey. 
 
 It was a wild, unsettled country through which they traveled. 
 The road had once been a highway, but had for years yielded its 
 importance to the railroad. It was now bad everywhere, and in 
 many places almost impassable. Swollen streams without bridges 
 or ferries, and deep and dangerous ruts and mud-holes, rendered 
 the journey not only difficult and fatiguing, but perilous, too, 
 especially to travelers unacquainted with the country; and Uncle 
 John felt anxious all the time, and the old driver kept his eye far 
 ahead, looking and hoping for a better road, and more than once, 
 during the first day, he muttered to himself: 
 
 " I promised master to take 'em safe, but it looks like I ain't 
 gwine to do it I I didn't bargain for no sich roads as these." 
 
 It was the afternoon of the second day, verging toward night- 
 fall, and they were still several miles distant from the house where 
 they expected to spend the night, and a dark and dreary wood, 
 where the road was entangled by brush and undergrowth, had 
 still to be traversed. The poor tired mules had been coaxed 
 and urged on until it seemed cruel to make them quicken their 
 lagging steps, and yet the travelers had had such descriptions 
 of this forest that they were extremely anxious to get through it 
 by daylight. They were worn out as much by apprehetision and 
 anxiety as by fatigue; but rest was still far off, and they looked 
 with dread, first upon the edge of the wood, which now'became 
 visible in the distance, and then at the sun, which was approach- 
 ing the horizon far too rapidly for their wishes. 
 
 The carriage and buggy had just safely passed through a deep 
 and dangerous mud- hole, and, with a sigh of relief, Julia threw 
 herself back in the carriage as she heard Uncle Billy crack his 
 whip and urge his mules to greater speed. They were not des- 
 tined, however, to go on without further trouble, and their prog- 
 ress was at once arrested by shouts and screams from Bob, whose 
 baggage-wagon was stuck fast in the mud. 
 
 " Get up, Yank I Pull up, Confed I" he shouted. "Go 'long, 
 
CAMERON HALL. 497 
 
 boys!" he repeated, accompanying his exhortation with a blow 
 to each that made their ribs resound. ''Pull up, you lazy ras- 
 cals 1" 
 
 But entreaties, blows, and reproaches were alike lost upon the 
 incorrigible mules, who only reared and floundered at each blow, 
 sinking deeper and more hopelessly at every plunge. 
 
 The difficulty now threatened to be a serious one. Deeper and 
 deeper sank the wagon, and Bob now exchanged his words and 
 blows to his mules for entreaties to Uncle Billy to come to his 
 relief. But the old man did not move. He stood up in his seat 
 on the carriage and looked over the top of it with wrath and 
 contempt blazing in his eyes, and muttering inaudibly to himself. 
 After waiting a few minutes, Uncle John seconded Bob's entrea- 
 ties, and said : 
 
 "Can't you help him, Billy? "We must not waste time here. 
 Night is coming on, and the ladies are very tired and anxious to 
 get to their stopping-place." 
 
 Thus exhorted, old Billy, without a word of reply, got down, 
 unharnessed his own mules, and with their assistance the wagon 
 was, with great difficulty, extricated from the mud, and once 
 more placed on terra firma. The harness was broken in several 
 places, and he proceeded in silence to tie it up with strings and 
 ropes. But the old man's gathering wrath could no longer be 
 controlled, and stopping suddenly in his work, he looked fiercely 
 at Bob, and rolling his eyes at him, exclaimed : 
 
 " You stupid, obstinate, leather-headed, punkin-faced " 
 
 He paused, either for want of invectives or because he thought 
 that the unfortunate object of his ire was unworthy even of abuse, 
 and turning to Uncle John, he said : 
 
 "Master John, would you b'lieve it, sir? would you b'lieve 
 that on top of the ground thar was a big enough fool to 'spect a 
 Yankee and a Confed to pull together in the same harness ? And 
 yit, sir, jest sich a fool as that stands thar before you," he added, 
 pointing with the utmost scorn to Bob, who stood with a down- 
 cast, sheepish look, afraid to open his mouth in reply; "a thick- 
 skull'd nigger that didn't have no more brains hisself, and when 
 I told him better he wouldn't pay no attention, but thought that 
 old Billy's sense had done wore out wid age. Xow, sir, I told 
 him not to harness them two together. I told him that jest as 
 sure as he hitched Yankee and Confed together, the very fust 
 tight place he got into, one or t'other would be sure to kick up 
 and leave him and the wagon stalled. And sure enough, here 
 it is!" 
 
 Uncle John could not help laughing, as he replied : 
 
 42* 
 
498 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "And so that is the difficnlty, Billy, is it ? Bob has harnessed 
 a Yankee and a Confederate together!" 
 
 "Yes, sir," he answered, waxing more and more indignant; 
 " that is jest it, and I tell you that if them trunks in that wagon 
 hadn't belonged to them thar ladies that I promised master to 
 take care of, that chap and his mules might have stuck in the 
 mud till judgment-day before old Billy would have helped 'em 
 out I And," he added, looking at Bob as if he were about to 
 seize hira, " I've a great mind to pitch you back in thar anyhow ! 
 If I only had somebody else to drive the wagon, I'd do it sure, 
 and leave you thar till I come along agin. Maybe by studyin' 
 Mjout it for three or four days in a mud-hole on a empty stom- 
 ach, you'd find out better next time than to 'spect a Yankee 
 and a Confed to pull the same way, you leather-headed rascal, 
 you !" 
 
 Uncle John was heartily amused, and even his companions, sad 
 and tired as they were, could not help joining in the laugh. But 
 old Billy was in sober earnest. 
 
 " Don't laugh. Master John," he said. " Sich stupidness as 
 that ain't no laughin' matter." 
 
 "And yet, Billy," answered Uncle John, "Bob is not the only 
 fool in the world. I know some statesmen who, at this very day, 
 believe that a Yankee and a Confed can be made to pull to- 
 gether." 
 
 " Some who, Master John ?" 
 
 "Some statesmen, Billy." 
 
 "And who is they ? Is they white people ?'^ 
 
 "Yes, Billy, white men." 
 
 "Well, the Lord help 'em I" said the old man compassionately. 
 "If they never finds out before what fools they's been, they'll find 
 it out in the fust mud-hole that they come to, sure I One or 
 t'other '11 kick up, sartain I" 
 
 The harness was now mended, and everything in readiness to 
 resume their journey, but old Billy, with the loquacity of his race, 
 showed no disposition to stop talking until he was again reminded 
 by Uncle John of the lateness of the hour. He mounted on his 
 seat, and gathering up the reins, flourished his whip with appar- 
 ent carelessness, but with so accurate an aim, that the end of 
 the lash came into stinging contact with Bob's hand. Thus ad- 
 monished, he quickly found his place, and the travelers proceeded 
 on their journey. 
 
 Just at sunset they reached the wood. It was already night 
 in its dark and gloomy recesses, and as he was about to enter, 
 old Billy drew up for an instant, and glancing at a scarcely- 
 defined road, beset with stumps and undergrowth, he muttered : 
 
CAMERON HALL. m 499 
 
 "A feller who's gwine to drive over that road for the fust time 
 in the night, ought to stop right here and say his prayers. Them 
 stumps looks like they was planted thar jest a purpose to make 
 a man upset 1" 
 
 The road wa-s indeed a diflScult and dangerous one, and it often 
 seemed as if with all his watchfulness and skill, the careful old 
 driver could not get through safely. Before long, thick, black 
 night settled down upon them, and they could not see their 
 horses' heads. Billy, who was in advance, now stopped and 
 called out: 
 
 "'Tain't no use to try, Master John. A owl couldn't see 'long 
 here, and I can't drive another step widout a light. I never 
 could see no sense," he grumbled, "in makin' any sort of a car- 
 riage widout lamps. If this here barouche had lamps I could 
 strike a light and go on, but I ain't willin' to risk it in the dark 
 with these ladies." 
 
 "I have candles and matches, Uncle Billy," said Julia. "You 
 shall have a light in a minute." 
 
 "But I can't do nothin' with it, Miss Julia, when I gits it. 
 Thar ain't no lamps, and the wind would blow it out in a minute." 
 
 "But I will get out and carry it in front of the carriage so that 
 you can see how to drive." 
 
 "Now, Miss Julia," he said, "you know that's impossible. The 
 last thing master said to me was, that he trusted you to me, and 
 I must take good care of you, and I promised to do it. It 
 wouldn't look like it, sure, for me to let you git out of the car- 
 riage in the dead o' night and walk along to light the road. You 
 walkin' and me ridin' ! No, no, that won't do." 
 
 " Well, let Lucy do it, then," said Uncle John. " She can carry 
 a candle." 
 
 "That's the very idea !" exclaimed old Billy in delight. " Git 
 out of that carriage, Lucy," he said, in a tone of authority, " and 
 tote that candle, and tote it steady toa, and let it go out if you 
 dar." 
 
 Lucy took the candle, and walked on a few minutes, when a 
 gust of wind extinguished the feeble light, and left them in utter 
 darkness. 
 
 Old Billy was furious. 
 
 "You blockhead, you I" he shouted. "That candle never 
 would have blowed out in my hand I Lord ! Lord !" he added, 
 wonderingly, as if trying to account for the superior wisdom of 
 which he felt himself possessed, "what is the reason that niggers 
 has to git most old enough to die 'fore they has any sense at 
 all ?" 
 
 "Never mind, Uncle Billy," said Julia, soothingly, "we will 
 
500 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 try again. Lucy and I will each take a caudle, and then if one 
 should be blown out the other will be left." 
 
 This time he made no objection to the proposition, and watched 
 her in silence as she lighted the caudles ; but when he saw her 
 wrap her shawl tightly around her as she shivered with cold, he 
 shook his head and said, deprecatingly : 
 
 "'Tain't right, Miss Julia; sure as you're born, 'tain't right 1 
 I hope master won't blame me for this, for indeed I don't see 
 nothiu' else to be done. If I don't have a light I'll have to stay 
 right here all night, that's sure !" 
 
 "And this is a great deal better, Uncle Billy," she answered 
 cheerfully, "than staying here all night. Drive on now, and we 
 will soon be over this bad road." 
 
 So saying, she and Lucy walked on in front, and their candles 
 lighted the road so that he could drive safely. They shielded 
 them carefully with their hands, and for a little while they burned 
 brightly and steadily, but another unexpected blast extinguished 
 them both at once, and again they were left in darkness. 
 
 The company of her mistress fortunately saved Lucy this time 
 from censure and invective ; but, obliged to lay the blame some- 
 where, Billy now began to abuse the candles. 
 
 ** Caudles ain't no account nohow, and never was !" he mut- 
 tered ; " I'd rather have one good blaziu' pine torch than all the 
 candles in old Yirginny !" 
 
 " That is a good idea, Billy," said Uncle John, "and I will act 
 upon it. You shall have pine torches." 
 
 They were soon procured, and now the bright, red glare blazed 
 up high, and lighted the road some distance ahead. The mules 
 were urged on, and Lucy and her mistress found it difficult to 
 drag their aching limbs along fast enough to keep ahead of the 
 carriage. 
 
 The road seemed interminable, and when, to their great relief, 
 they emerged from the wood on the other side, it was still found 
 impossible to drive over it without a light. For three weary miles 
 the patient guides dragged themselves along without murmur or 
 complaint, and it is not surprising that in this, their first experi- 
 ence of exile, they should have thought wistfully aud longingly, 
 and it may be tearfully too, of the rest and shelter and comfort 
 of that home so far behind. At last, faint with exhaustion and 
 benumbed with cold, they reached the expected shelter, whose 
 repose and refreshment were not merely acceptable, but were now 
 absolutely necessary to the worn-out travelers. 
 
 On the evening of the fourth day they drove into the little vil- 
 lage that was the end of their toilsome journey. Julia, more 
 dead than alive, was leaning back in the carriage with her eyes 
 
CAMERON HALL. 501 
 
 closed, when she was suddenly aroused by Uncle Billy's voice 
 exclaiming : 
 
 " Jest look yonder, Miss Julia ! Sure as you're born, yonder 
 is Master Charles standing on them steps I" 
 
 The carriage stopped at the door of the hotel, and there, on the 
 steps, sure enough, stood Charles Beaufort. Julia uttered a low 
 cry of joy, and was received, almost fainting, in his arms. 
 
 The next morning Charles accompanied Julia and Grace to 
 Kichmond, where his father was to meet them and take them to 
 his home in South Carolina. 
 
 The parting with Uncle John was opening their wounds afresh. 
 Encompassed with so many unusual dangers and uncertainties, 
 the farewells of friends at that time were no ordinary adieus, 
 brightened by the anticipation of coming reunion. They were 
 more like the mournful separations of death and the grave, and 
 when hearts and families were sundered, then the bitterness of 
 parting was intensified by the painful uncertainty that overhung 
 all the future. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 • 
 
 A FEW days after Uncle John reached home the enemy came 
 into Hopedale, and their active operations in making themselves 
 comfortable argued indeed a long sojourn. The most eligible 
 situations in and around the town were selected for encampments; 
 tents were pitched, and soldiers busy in bailding chimneys, whose 
 fuel was to be partially supplied by the fences of the town and 
 the plantation fence-rails of the adjoining country. Lists were 
 taken of all the property holders of secession principles, and in 
 some instances the family were ordered to leave their home, which 
 was appropriated by Federal oflficers, and in others they were all 
 confined to two or three rooms, and the remainder of the house 
 occupied by the enemy. As soon as they were settled in the 
 town, as naturally as water seeks its level, the soldiers of the 
 Federal army sought theirs in the society of the kitchens and 
 negro cabins of the Southern gentlemen. Nor was this confined 
 to the rank of private. Straps and stars were not unfrequently 
 to be found in close, familiar conversation with the negro upon 
 the street, or sitting cosily by the kitchen fire, apparently most 
 agreeably entertained by their sable companions. Arguments, 
 
502 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 entreaties, persuasions, and the most alluring promises were all 
 brought to bear upon the credulity of the negro, and in most 
 cases succeeded in persuading hira, under the name of freedom, 
 to leave the home where he had been reared, and to exchange the 
 old master, who thoroughly understood his habits and disposi- 
 tion, for a new one, who was unacquainted with his nature, and 
 could make no allowance for his peculiarities. 
 
 Uncle John's house was speedily appropriated. A flippant 
 young officer came to take possession of all the vacant rooms, 
 and thinking the gray-haired rebel a suitable mark for his youth- 
 ful wit, he indulged it accordingly. Uncle John did not often lose 
 his dignity, and for some time he listened in placid silence ; but at 
 last even his patience and forbearance were exhausted, for as yet 
 all this was new to Uncle John, as well as to other Southern men, 
 and it required months of pressure beneath the iron heel to teach 
 them to bear in silence Yankee impertinence and oppression. 
 When at length he did speak, there was both in his tone and words 
 something so biting] y caustic, so keenly sarcastic, that it stung to 
 the quick, and if his boyish enemy had dared, his revolver would in 
 an instant have sent a ball through his heart. As it was, he said 
 not a word in reply, but only glared savagely at him, and instantly 
 left the house. The next day. Uncle John was officially notified 
 that his entire house was required for the use of the United 
 States Government. He was allowed one hour to remove his 
 effects, which gave him ample time, since he was not permitted to 
 take anything away except his wearing apparel. Furniture, plate, 
 and books were all ordered to be left ; and when he walked into 
 the library at Cameron Hall, with a valise of clothing in one 
 hand and his umbrella and cane in the other, he laughingly showed 
 Mr. Cameron all his worldly possessions, and asked him if he 
 could give food and shelter to a homeless wanderer. 
 
 Mr. Cameron, while he could not but regret the cause that had 
 brought Uncle John to the Hall, was nevertheless compelled to 
 rejoice in the result, for his first few days of lonely solitude had 
 made him realize to what an intolerable life he was now con- 
 demned. There is no loneliness so oppressive as to sit alone in 
 a large house which was once accustomed to resound with the 
 merry laugh and the cheerful voice, now so still that the beating 
 of one's own heart can be heard, or to wander through its empty 
 halls and deserted rooms, listening to the echo of one's own 
 footsteps. Often at his solitary meals, or as he sat hour after 
 hour alone in the library, or wandered over the plantation with 
 no companion but Carlo, who was himself a continual reminder 
 of other and happier days, Mr. Cameron had felt convinced that 
 he could not bear this long, and therefore it was that Uncle John, 
 
CAMERON HALL. 503 
 
 always welcome at the Hall, had never been in his life half so 
 welcome as when he appeared with his valise in his hand. 
 
 " Welcome, my dear sir, welcome !" was the hearty response to 
 his laughing petition for food and shelter. " Never did a forlorn 
 and lonely prisoner pine more for fresh air and freedom than I 
 have done for a companion. The Yankees have done you a 
 great wrong, Uncle John, but I am constrained to admit that 
 they have at the same time conferred a favor upon me." 
 
 " Don't let the obligation burden you, my dear sir," he answered, 
 smiling, "for, as the Irishman said when he was thanked for a 
 kindness, 'You're welcome to it, man, but faith I didn't mane itP 
 I have no idea that the Federals were looking out for an oppor- 
 tunity to oblige you when they turned me out of my house." 
 
 Several weeks had passed since then, and the two gentlemen 
 had thus far remained personally unmolested at Cameron Hall ; 
 but every day parties of straggling soldiers came out on pillaging 
 expeditions, and to persuade the negroes to accept that freedom 
 which they were sent to offer them. Some needed no persuasion 
 but eagerly accepted the offered boon, and with that improvidence, 
 which is as much a characteristic of the negro in old age as it is 
 in childhood, they would throw their bundle of clothes across 
 their shoulder and turn their backs upon their old homes, going 
 they knew not where or to what, except that they were " gwine to 
 freedom/" But others who were less credulous and ignorant 
 had to be plied with stronger arguments and more persevering 
 efforts. No means were left untried, no objections unanswered, * 
 no expectations without a promise of complete and speedy ful- 
 fillment. The work was prosecuted with an energy and constancy 
 of purpose worthy of a better cause, and in most cases finally 
 triumphed. Many who at first turned a deaf ear alike to their 
 persuasions and promises were at last overcome, for negro sim- 
 plicity, credulity, and ignorance cannot contend successfully 
 against Yankee cunning, craftiness, and duplicity. But while 
 they thus succeeded in alluring many away from their homes, 
 they still found themselves unsuccessful in the main object of 
 enlisting negro recruits. However anxious to be free, the negro 
 still had an unconquerable aversion to being shot; and although 
 his ear and heart were open to the pleasant imaginary pictures 
 of the wealth and luxury that awaited him in his future state of 
 freedom, yet when he was told that these had to be purchased 
 by the risks and dangers of the battle-field, the glittering bait lost 
 much of its luster. There was something so real, so palpable, so 
 terrifying in the cannon's yawning mouth, the keen-edged bayo- 
 net, and the exploding shell, that these present horrors generally 
 quite obscured the ease and enjoyment of the elysium that lay 
 
504 CAMEROX HALL. 
 
 beyond. Thus it was that the enlistment progressed slowly, and 
 finding their persuasions so long in taking effect, and the winter 
 gradually passing away, they finally determined at once to con- 
 script a negro regiment, and by constant and careful dililing to 
 prepare it for service in the approaching spring campaign. 
 
 The negroes now finding that their so-called friends were re- 
 solved to use force in compelling them to a service for which 
 they had no inclination, resorted to every subterfuge and device 
 to elude the conscription. They feigned sickness, physical disa- 
 bility, and infirmity of every kind; and when these failed, they 
 tried concealment, and it not unfrequently happened that a family 
 would be all at once startled by a negro (sometimes one of their 
 own and sometimes a stranger) rujhing into the house and 
 beg;;:ing for a place to hide from the Yankees who were in pur- 
 suit of him. 
 
 It was late in January, one of those wintery days of clear, 
 bright sunshine, when the earth, bleak, sterile, and ice bound as it 
 is, wears almost a spring smile. Mr. Derby sat in his study look- 
 ing through the window upon the scene without. There was 
 nothing of beauty in the wintery landscape, nor would he have 
 seen it if there had been, for his thoughts were otherwise oc- 
 cupied. His countenance was sad, his heart heavy, his spirit 
 worn and weary with the struggle to preserve his Ciiristian temper 
 amid these trying scenes and circumstances ; for Mr. Derby, though 
 a sincere Christian, was still a man, and his human nature often 
 rebelled and chafed with the feeling of helplessness under tyranny 
 and wrongs, and he needed the voice of God speaking to him 
 from the pages of His own book to subdue the impatience and 
 to quell the tumult in his heart. His prayer-book lay open be- 
 fore him at what had of late become its accustomed page. He 
 often read and pondered the fourth selection of psalms, wiiose 
 inspired words seemed dictated specially to meet the peculiar 
 circumstances and temptations by which he was surrounded. 
 
 When forbearance was exhausted, and he was sick at heart 
 with the wrong, and robbery, and insult all around him, his im- 
 patience was quelled by the gentle admonition : " Fret not thy- 
 self because of the ungodly, neither be thou envious against the 
 evil-doers, for they shall soon be cut down like the grass and be 
 withered even as the green herb. Hold thee still in the Lord 
 and abide patiently upon Him, but grieve not thyself at him 
 whose way doth prosper against the man that doeth after evil 
 counsels." 
 
 When anxiety had seized him, and looking upon his wife and 
 helpless children he wondered, with painful uncertainty, how and 
 where in that desolated and ravaged country he was to get bread 
 
CAMERON HALL. 505 
 
 to sustain their life, his apprehensions were lulled by those 
 words, so beautifully blending precept and promise : "Put thou 
 thy trust in the Lord, and be doing good ; dwell in the land, and 
 verily thou shalt be fed. The Lord knoweth the days of the 
 godly, and their inheritance shall endure forever. They shall not 
 be confounded in the perilous time, and in the days of dearth they 
 shall have enough." 
 
 When sometimes aggravated beyond endurance, and his human 
 passions triumphing for the moment, he longed with his own 
 hand to avenge the tyranny and oppression which bound his soul 
 " fast in misery and iron," he was taught to wait patiently by 
 God's own assurance: "The arms of the ungodly shall be broken. 
 Their sword shall go through their own heart, and their bow 
 shall be broken." 
 
 Now as ever heretofore, the words of promise and of comfort 
 had stolen down deep into the minister's heart, and brought with 
 them, for the time being at least, quiet and peace. 
 
 He was suddenly startled from his reverie by an exclamation 
 of alarm, as his servant Charles rushed into the room, saying : 
 
 " Hide me, master ! for God's sake, hide me I The Yankees are 
 coming after me." 
 
 Before Mr. Derby could answer, his wife followed the servant, 
 saying : 
 
 " Come here, Charles, and I will tell you where to go." 
 
 She whispered something in his ear, he darted out of the room 
 like an arrow, and the whole scene was so like a lightning-flash, 
 that Mr. Derby could scarcely believe that it was realit}^. Before 
 he had quite recovered himself, a violent ring at the bell an- 
 nounced the arrival of Charles's dreaded pursuers, whom Mr. 
 Derby himself went to receive. 
 
 " Good morning, gentlemen," he said, resisting that instinctive 
 impulse of the Southern gentleman to invite across his threshold 
 every person who comes to his door. " What will you have ?" 
 
 "You can guess what we want," was the rough response. 
 
 " Indeed," said Mr. Derby, willing to prolong the parley, so as 
 to giv^e Charles time to reach his hiding-place, wherever it might 
 be, "indeed I will be obliged to trouble vou to tell me the ob- 
 ject of your visit. You know," he added, smiling, "that we 
 Southerners do not profess to be as skillful at 'guessing' as your 
 nation." 
 
 " Look here. Bill !" exclaimed one of them, "what is the use of 
 bartering words with that old man ? We've no time to waste that 
 way. Now, old fellow," he said, squaring himself before Mr. 
 Derby, and striking his sword with a clang against the floor, 
 "we've come for that colored man who ran in here a few minutes 
 
 43 
 
506 CAMEROX HALL. 
 
 ago. Don't say that he isn't here, for we saw him come in, and 
 we are going to have hira. So be in a hurry, and deliver him up." 
 
 Here one of the number interposed, and seemingly ashamed 
 both of his mission and his comrade's roughness, said: 
 
 " We are sorry to intrude upon you, sir, in this way, but we are 
 acting under orders, which compel us to impress every able-bodied 
 negro man between the ages of eighteen and forty-five. I regret 
 my mission, sir, but it is 'a military necessity.'" 
 
 Mr. Derby could not forbear smiling at this convenient phrase, 
 with which he had now become so familiar, and which, most un- 
 like charity in every other respect, resembled it at least in this, 
 that it " covered a multitude of sins ;" but before he had time to 
 reply, he was prevented. 
 
 " Come, come, John, will you stop your talk and search these 
 premises? And see here, stranger, you had better produce that 
 negro forthwith, for if I do not find him here, I swear that I will 
 burn this house over your head. So bring him out, and be quick 
 about it too, for we have already wasted more time with you than 
 a rebel and a secesh nigger both together are worth." 
 
 Mr. Derby bit his lip, and made no reply, but looked with a 
 feeling of mingled pity and contempt upon this minion of despotic 
 power, and silently awaited their further movements. 
 
 " Will you give up that colored man or not?" 
 
 " Certainly not, if he has fled to my house or my premises for 
 protection." 
 
 " Then I will search your house ; every part of it, from the 
 garret to the cellar." 
 
 "Very well, sir, I cannot prevent it." 
 
 "And if I do not find him, you know what I will do to this 
 house." 
 
 "You have the power; I am defenseless." 
 
 " Will you give him up ?" 
 
 "I will not." 
 
 They now entered the house, went into every room, looked into 
 every closet and under every bed, and when the object of their 
 search was nowhere to be found, they recommenced their exam- 
 ination; and as if by way of compensation for their disappoint- 
 ment, thev re-enacted the same scene that Cameron Hall had once 
 witnessed. The contents of bureau-drawers and wardrobes were 
 tossed upon the floor, books were scattered all over the house, 
 and a wild scene of confusion disfigured that usually peaceful and 
 well-ordered household. 
 
 Mrs. Derby, with her frightened children clinging to her, fol- 
 lowed on in silence, watching with surprise and indignation this 
 strange invasion of the sanctities of her home. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 507 
 
 The last room that they visited was the study, and the minister 
 could scarcely repress an expostulation as he saw his valuable 
 theological books — valuable not only in their intrinsic worth to 
 him in his profession, but dear to him as counselors, teachers, 
 comforters, friends — tossed in wild confusion and irreverence over 
 the floor. Hitherto he had felt only indignant, but nov(^ he was 
 really distressed, and he involuntarily uttered a groan as his eyes 
 followed a magnificent volume cf "The Fathers," as it went spin- 
 ning and whirling across the room. 
 
 Just then the officer called out : 
 
 *' Come, my men, this is enough of this sort of work. The 
 negro is certainly not in the house, and while we are wasting 
 time here he may have escaped altogether. To the kitchen and 
 stable, boys ! Look for him there." 
 
 All the others rushed out, but the one whom they called John, 
 and who seemed to have a remnant of conscience and feeling still 
 left, lingered behind. He had not participated in the work of 
 destruction, but, standing apart, had looked on the scene, watch- 
 ing alternately his comrades and the minister. He had heard 
 Mr. Derby's groan, and now coming up to him, he said : 
 
 "I regret this extremely, sir, and would most gladly keep 
 away from all such employment. I entered the army to fight 
 against rebels, and not to insult and injure innocent men and 
 helpless women and children. I have not assisted in this work, 
 and if I could, I would have immediately withdrawn from those 
 who were engaged in it. Our orders were to conscript negroes, 
 and not to upset households and frighten women and children. 
 This whole scene is outrageous and disgraceful, and I am ashamed 
 of it." 
 
 Mr. Derby could not doubt the man's sincerity, for his face 
 expressed his feelings more plainly even than his words. He was 
 about to answer him, when aloud scream announced that Charles's 
 hiding-place had been at last discovered. Hastening to the 
 place of arrest, Mr. Derby found him vainly struggling between 
 two soldiers. 
 
 When his master reached him, Charles grasped him with both 
 hands, beseeching him to protect him, and protesting that he did 
 not want to go. 
 
 " My poor boy," said Mr. Derby, sadly, "how willingly would 
 I protect you if I could I But, Charles, I cannot help you any more 
 than you can help yourself. If they choose to take you away, I 
 cannot prevent it." 
 
 "Oh, yes you can, master ! You can make 'em let me go. I 
 won't leave my wife and children, my home and master, to fight for 
 Yankees." 
 
508 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 "You are not going to fight for Yankees, Sambo," said one 
 of them, jeeriugly. " You are going to fight for your own free- 
 dom, and the Yankees are going to help you do it. That is the 
 way of it." 
 
 " I don't want no more freedom than I've got already," said 
 Charles, doggedly, " and I ain't goin' to fight for it neither I" 
 
 " You won't, won't you ? AVell, Sambo, we'll soon see about 
 that. Here boys, tie his hands." 
 
 " Not yet, master !" he pleaded piteously, " not yet ! Jest let 
 me talk to you a little while fust." 
 
 Not unwilling to prolong the scene, that he might still longer 
 enjoy the agony of his helpless victim and his no less distressed 
 master, the soldier answered : 
 
 " Well, talk on. I am ready to hear what you have to say." 
 
 With that accurate knowledge of human nature which the 
 negro possesses instinctively, Charles had perceived in an instant 
 that his air of sullen defiance would rather aggravate than modify 
 his present distress and danger, and so exchanging it at once for 
 an expression of abject submission and humility, he replied : 
 
 "I only wants to argufy the pint a little, master. Will you 
 please, sir, to tell me whose notion it is to set all we colored 
 people free ?" 
 
 " Mr. Lincoln, the President of the Fnited States, has already 
 done it. He has proclaimed you all as free as he is himself, or as 
 that man standing there who calls himself your master." 
 
 " What made Mr. Lincoln take sich a pertikelar fancy to our 
 color? No white man never done that before." 
 
 '' Because there are not many people in the world as good as 
 Mr. Lincoln. He thinks that it is high time for you al' to be 
 free, and sees no reason that you should be slaves just because 
 your skin is dark. All good people are tired of seeing you op- 
 pressed and trampled upon by your cruel secesh masters, who 
 think no more of separating husbands and wives and parents and 
 children than if you were a parcel of dogs." 
 
 " Master, what is you gwine to do wid me now ?" asked Charles, 
 not seeming to heed this last remark. 
 
 " We will send you to cam.p, where you will be taught to 
 fight, and then you shall have the privilege of fighting for your 
 freedom." 
 
 " Is you gwine to let me take my wife and children to 
 camp ?" 
 
 " Not exactly," replied the soldier, laughing. 
 
 " Then, master," said the negro, ** Mr. Lincoln will be the fust 
 one to separate me from my wife and children. It ain't never 
 been done before by my secesh master." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 509 
 
 This seemed for the instant rather unanswerable; but in a 
 moment the soldier recovered himself, and replied : 
 
 " Not at all. White soldiers do not take their wives and chil- 
 dren to camp. They wait until they have done fighting, and 
 then go home to their families proud and happy." 
 
 " But 'spose they gits killed, what then ?" 
 
 " Then they die a glorious death, and are buried in a soldier's 
 grave," 
 
 Charles shook his head as if, in his estimation, the glory by no 
 means counterbalanced the awful event; but he did not answer. 
 Presently he said, suddenly ; 
 
 " So, then, master, if I understands you, Mr. Lincoln's done 
 offered us all freedom." 
 
 "Yes, all without exception, — men, women, and children." 
 
 "It's mighty good in him," replied Charles, thoughtfully, "and 
 I, for one, am mightily obliged to him ; but what's offered'to you, 
 you ain't bound to take unless you wants it. i!^ow let them what 
 wants freedom go to freedom; but, master, if you please, I'd 
 rather stay whar I is." 
 
 Charles finished his argument with a quod erat demonstran- 
 dum air, that under other circumstances would have been inde- 
 scribably ludicrous ; bat at present his vain expedients to per- 
 suade and reason with his captors only added a keener pang to 
 the severance of the tie that bound him to his master's heart. 
 He was only a few years younger than Mr. Derby, and had been 
 born and reared in his childhood's home; and when the young 
 master had left the paternal roof to make his own way in the 
 world, of all the family circle, his servant alone could accom- 
 pany him. Together they had traveled thus far on the journey 
 of life. No thought of separation except by death had ever 
 entered the mind of either master or slave. Their interests were 
 identified, and Charles always spoke, as his master did, of "our 
 children," "our house," "our garden," as if he were joint pro- 
 prietor, and so he felt himself to be, and indeed was, in all save 
 expense and responsibility. Mr. Derby had performed the cere- 
 mony when Charles was married, had baptized and buried his 
 children ; and in the tie that bound him to his servant, the min- 
 istet realized what the Apostle meant when he exhorted Phile- 
 mon to regard Onesimus " not as a servant, but above a servant, 
 a brother beloved." 
 
 The master now stood looking on this remarkable scene with 
 a darkened brow and a bitter feeling of helplessness which he 
 had never before experienced. The disrespectful word, the con- 
 temptuous sneer, he had received with a quiet smile ; the intru- 
 sion upon the privacy of his home and the wanton destruction 
 
 43* 
 
510 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 of his property he had witnessed without a word of complaint or 
 an entreaty to desist; but this was atrial harder to bear than 
 personal insult or loss of property. The excited Southern blood 
 boiled in his veins, and his indignant heart swelled almost to 
 bursting, as he crushed back the words of bitter reproach that 
 struggled to his lips, and which he would, at the instant, have 
 given worlds to utter. But he restrained it all, and like his 
 Master, the minister "answered nothing." 
 
 The only reply that Charles received to that conclusion of 
 his argument which was so entirely satisfactory to himself, was 
 the imperative command, enforced by a rough touch upon the 
 arm: 
 
 "Come along, Sambo, we're going now." 
 
 "Goin' whar, master ?" 
 
 " Why, with us to be sure. That is what we came for, and 
 that is what you have to do." 
 
 "But, master, I don't want to go, I prefers to stay." 
 
 "That makes no difference; you will have to go." 
 
 "I won't go one step," he answered, his former sullenness all 
 returning, and struggling vainly to get away. "I won't go one 
 step. If you takes me, you'll have to tote me." 
 
 " There's a way of making you go without toting you, old 
 feller," said one of the men, clicking his pistol. " This little 
 article has never yet failed to make men walk, and walk fast, 
 too." 
 
 Mr. Derby now became seriously alarmed, for the pistol was 
 in the hands of a ferocious-looking creature by whom bloodshed 
 might be regarded as pastime, and so, approaching Charles, he 
 said: 
 
 "Go, my poor boy, go. It is useless to resist, and it will only 
 make your time the harder." 
 
 He extended his hand, which was eagerly grasped by Charles, 
 and, in a choking voice, Mr. Derby said : 
 
 " Good-by, Charles, — good-by, my faithful boy! God bless 
 you I and if we never see each other again in this world, may we 
 meet in that better one where — " he could not restrain the 
 words, they would force themselves out — "where tyranny and 
 oppression are unknown !" 
 
 " Hallo, there !" exclaimed he with the pistol. " That's 
 treason you're talking, and by " 
 
 The remainder of the sentence was lost in the mingled cries 
 and lamentations of Charles and the children, who just began to 
 realize that he was really going away. 
 
 His hands were crossed and tied, and with a guard on each 
 side, he was led away. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 511 
 
 " Oh, master I" he exclaimed, with a tone and look of reproach, 
 " is you gvvine to let 'em take me ofif, sure enough ?" 
 
 ^ " Charles, Charles," replied his master, stung to the quick, 
 "indeed I cannot help it. If I could, believe me that you should 
 never leave me." 
 
 "Won't you go to the gineral and git me off?" 
 
 "I will try, Charles, if you wish it; but it will do no good. 
 He wiil not let you come back to me." 
 
 "Yes, sir, he would. I know he would I Try, master, only 
 promise to try, and " 
 
 His entreaties grew fainter and fainter as he was borne away 
 from his master and his home ; but even after his words had be- 
 come inaudible, his pleading tones came back to his master's ear 
 and smote him to the heart. 
 
 "This is absolutely intolerable I" exclaimed Mr. Derby to his 
 wife, as the last one of the soldiers passed out of the gate. " If 
 I could only make him understand my helplessness ; if I could 
 only convince him that no entreaties of mine would avail any- 
 thing, I could bear it better ; but to see him go off believing 
 firmly that his master can control Yankee soldiers as easily as he 
 has ever governed him, and yet will not try to rescue him,— this 
 is intolerable, absolutely intolerable I" 
 
 When they returned to the house, they were at once reminded 
 of the necessity of action, and they had just succeeded in clearing 
 a space large enough for the dinner-table, when Mr. Cameron 
 came in. 
 
 He looked around, and only said: 
 
 " Yankee spoliation, of course !" 
 
 "Even so," replied Mr. Derby, sadly. " This seems bad enough, 
 but It IS nothing to the scene through which I have just passed 
 with my boy Charles, whom they have taken away." 
 
 "I saw the poor fellow in the street as I came along. His 
 wife and children had just heard the news, and were clin°ging to 
 him, crying and screaming, and refusing to be comforted by 
 Yankee promises of speedy reunion. When he saw me'he called 
 out, begging me to plead with the general, and to tell you to do 
 the same, and he seemed to feel sure that our united efforts would 
 be successful. I have just passed through the same scene on my 
 plantation, and I scarcely know what brought me to town unless 
 it was a heart-sick longing to change the scene ; but it has been 
 no change, for I find the same thins: going on here. Poor 
 negroes!" he added, thoughtfully, "victims of a so-called phi- 
 lanihropy, from my soul I pity them !" 
 
 "Yes," replied Mr. Derby, "they are truly to foe pitied. With 
 his attachment to home, his improvidence, his indolent nature, 
 
512 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 and his dependence npon 'master' for everything, the negro will 
 truly be an object of profouudest pity, when in a strange land he 
 shall have awakened from his golden dreams of freedom to find 
 himself naked, freezing, starving, and to long with unutterable 
 but hopeless longing for his old log-cabin, his blazing fire, his 
 * patch,' his poultry-yard, but above all, for his old master ! Were 
 any of yours, sir, willing to go ?" 
 
 " Oh yes ! A great many went not only willingly, but gladly; 
 others with stolid indifference ; and a few with a struggle that it 
 almost broke my heart to witness. For those who wanted to 
 leave me, I have neither a regret nor a feeling of sympathy, and 
 if ever I hear of their suffering, I will listen to the tale without an 
 emotion of pity." 
 
 " I differ with you there, Mr. Cameron. I feel profoundly 
 sorry for them all. Negroes, like children, are credulous, and 
 their imagination is easily caught by an attractive picture. Yoa 
 know what promises have been made them, — of farms, coaches 
 and horses, elegantly furnished houses, and the advantages of 
 education I Accustomed to be provided for, without forethought 
 or anxiety of their own, they do not stop to ask, as any other 
 race of beings would, who is to supply all these things; but they 
 repose quietly in the belief that Master Lincoln or some other 
 master will, for the mere love of them, give them all these promised 
 luxuries, just as their former master has supplied them with the 
 necessaries of life. Indeed, Mr. Cameron, taking into considera- 
 tion the nature of the negro, and the temptations brought to bear 
 upon him, I must acknowledge that I am neither surprised nor 
 indignant that so many should swallow the glittering bait." 
 
 " Under the circumstances, Mr. Derby, I am surprised. Credu- 
 lity I know is a ctriking characteristic of the race, and if the 
 Abolition army had never deceived them, I should not wonder at 
 their being misled by these alluring promises. But at the very 
 moment that they are promising them everything that their cu- 
 pidity can desire, the soldiers are pillaging their cabins and 
 stealing from them everything valuable that they possess, — some- 
 times even their 'Sunday-clothes.' Now, here is such a gross 
 and palpable contradiction between promises and actions, that it 
 would seem as if the most obtuse negro upon earth could not fail 
 to see the inconsistency; and when in spite of all this I see them 
 willing and even anxious to go off with their so-called friends, I 
 confess that I have no pity, but see them go with a sort of grim 
 satisfaction in the thought of what is certainly in store for them. 
 It is only for those who were torn away by force from me and 
 from their home, that I feel any pity; and their own helpless- 
 ness, together with that of the master upon whose protection 
 
CAMERON HALL. 513 
 
 they have always been accustomed to rely, and whose failure to 
 help them now they can never be made to understand, has been 
 to me this day the severest struggle of my life. Xever before 
 have I been called to bear anything like it; and when I saw those 
 negroes dragged off, and heard their piteous cries for the help 
 which I could not give them, I confess, sir, that for the moment 
 I felt more like a demon than a man, and if my power could then 
 have been made commensurate with my will, and my arm nerved 
 with omnipotence, the w^hole Yankee nation would have been 
 annihilated in an instant." 
 
 "It is very hard to bear sir, — very, very !" repeated Mr. Derby, 
 as if every word came from the very bottom of his heart, 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Derby," said his companion, "how much sickly senti- 
 mentalism has been wasted upon the oppression of the poor slave, 
 and especially upon the merciless separation of families ! but you 
 and I, slaveholders as we are, and have been all our lives, have 
 seen more of it during the reign and rule of their Yankee friends 
 than we ever saw before. Oh, Philanthropy! Oh, Religion!" 
 he added, bitterly, "how much wrong, and robbery, and injustice 
 are often perpetrated under your sacred names I" 
 
 " Unfortunately, that is true, Mr. Cameron ; and this war is a 
 painfal illustration of how much ivrong may be done under the 
 name of right, how much oppression under the name of liberty. 
 Whatever fictitious and specious titles may have been given to it 
 to insure its sanction in the eyes of the world, the facts have at 
 last developed it to be nothing more nor less than a crusade 
 against the slaveowner. To liberate the slave from a cruel 
 bondage is now its avowed purpose ; to despoil and impoverish 
 his master is its real object; and to effect this, the slave himself 
 is unhesitatingly sacrificed." 
 
 " Yes, Mr. Derby, and to prove this truth you need only point 
 to the position assigned the negro brigades before Yicksburg, 
 and elsewhere, where they have been made literally breast-works, 
 behind which their loving white brethren intrenched themselves 
 and protected their own more valuable lives. Ah, sir ! for how 
 much woe and weeping, for how much misery and bloodshed, for 
 how much tyranny and oppression, is Puritan fanaticism responsi- 
 ble in beginning and carrying on this fearful war!" 
 
 "Truly," replied Mr. Derby, thoughtfully, "Puritanism has 
 much to answer for in this matter." 
 
 "It is responsible for it all, sir," said Mr. Cameron, with 
 earnestness. "This war can all be traced to that bigotry and 
 fanaticism which would bind the galling chains of its own no- 
 tions and prejudices upon the hearts and consciences of the whole 
 world. Now, sir, if slavery be a sin, that is our business, not 
 
514 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 theirs. We are responsible to God, and not to them for it ; we are 
 the transgressors, and on our heads would the penalty rest; and 
 if their godly precepts, enforced by the power of their stainless 
 example, cannot persuade their blind and erring brethren to leave 
 off their great transgression, then let these pious Puritans con- 
 tent themselves with removing far away from the contagion, and 
 like the Pharisee of old, with uplifted heart and eye, thank God 
 that they are not as other men, nor even as the Southerner ! Ah, 
 Mr. Derby! if these Puritans would only imitate their Divine 
 Lord, and temper their pretended zeal for His cause with that 
 gentleness which Himself enjoined ; if they would only in the 
 lesser matter follow the example which He has set them in the 
 greater, and propagate their opinions as He did His religion, 
 by argument and entreaty, instead of compelling men by fire and 
 sword, then perhaps we might listen; and even if unconvinced, 
 we would at least believe in their sincerity and respect their 
 honesty. But such a course, however sanctioned by the Holy 
 Redeemer, comports not with Puritan sanctity and Puritan 
 bigotry. Individuals, nations, the world, nay, even the Word 
 of God itself, must be amended to suit Puritan notions, and 
 whoever dares believe that slavery is right, when the Puritan 
 has pronounced it wrong, must be punished for his presumption 
 and impiety. May God in His great mercy defend our nation, 
 regenerated in the baptism of blood, from all admixture of Puri- 
 tanism ! May He save our Southern Confederacy from all Puri- 
 tan influence in Church and State I Everywhere, and in all times 
 and circumstances, may He defend us from the moral taint of 
 Puritanism!" 
 
 The minister, while he responded heartily to every word of his 
 friend, could not forbear smiling at his mingled bitterness and 
 earnestness. He saw that Mr. Cameron was greatly excited, and 
 even in the midst of his own depression Mr. Derby could not 
 resist the temptation to indulge in that quiet humor which he 
 always enjoyed. So he said, with a smile, but in a serious tone : 
 
 "You are hard, Mr. Cameron, upon the descendants of the 
 crew of the May-Flower; those noble Pilgrim Fathers, whose 
 heroism, fortitude, courage, and, above all, brave determination 
 to have 'freedom to worship God,' have been, since the founda- 
 tion of the Republic, held up to the love and reverence of South- 
 erners ; first in the picture-books of the nursery, then in the school- 
 books of our academies and colleges, and finally in the poetry, 
 painting, and sculpture which form the more elevated pleasures 
 of our maturity. Indeed, sir, you ought not to speak so disre- 
 spectfully of our Puritan Fathers!" 
 
 Mr. Cameron looked up in surprise. Such sentiments were 
 
CAMERON HALL. 515 
 
 not what he expected from his friend ; indeed, he felt sure that 
 they quite contradicted what he had often heard hira express 
 before; but he now spoke so seriously, that Mr. Cameron was 
 for the moment completely baffled. Meanwhile, Mr. Derby en- 
 joyed his perplexity, and watched, with a subdued twinkle of the 
 eye, his increased excitement, aggravated, as it evidently was, by 
 his own most unexpected want of sympathy. 
 
 "No fathers of mine, sir!" answered Mr. Cameron, hastily. 
 "Thank God, there is neither a drop of Puritan blood in my 
 veins nor a particle of Puritan spirit in my nature ! If I know 
 myself, I am willing to accord to others that liberty of thought 
 and action which I demand for myself, and instead of trying to 
 bind upon my neighbors my own private notions and prejudices, 
 I rather try to square my own life and conduct to the principles 
 of truth and justice. No, sir!" he added, "I claim neither part 
 nor parcel in the Pilgrim Fathers." 
 
 Mr. Derby now laughed outright, and said : 
 
 " It is a pity that you are not an artist, Mr. Cameron. If you 
 were, I would at once employ your skill upon a picture to hang in 
 my study. I should like very much to have an embodiment of 
 your idea of a Puritan." 
 
 "If my skill in execution, Mr. Derby, only equaled my accu- 
 racy of conception, you would have a picture true to the life. I 
 would bring out upon the canvas the self-sufficiency which ac- 
 knowledges no equal ; the sourness which curdles the milk of 
 human kindness in the heart; the bigotry which allows to none 
 other the liberty of thought that it arrogates to itself; and the 
 fanaticism which dares to sit in judgment upon all decrees, both 
 human and divine, which do not square with the 'higher law' of 
 its ovrn devising. How would you like such a picture for your 
 study ?" 
 
 "It is quite too grim and sour," answered Mr. Derby, laugh- 
 ing, "to be the presiding genius of my sanctum. When I em- 
 ploy your artistic skill, it must be upon a more pleasing subject. 
 When I proposed this, I did not suppose that the picture would 
 be all shadow. I thought that you would find something to 
 lighten it." 
 
 "Well, sir, tell me something. I want to do him justice. If 
 you will only tell me any characteristics that will relieve those 
 shadows, I will gladly add them to my picture." 
 
 " Then, sir, don't you think that we can at least accord to the 
 Puritan a stern, unrelenting honesty and consistency ? These I 
 believe are generally conceded to his character." 
 
 "He has not shown them, Mr. Derby, in the conduct of this 
 war. You see that I proceed upon the principle that we are in- 
 
516 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 debted to the Puritan for the commencement of the war, and to 
 Puritan influence for its prosecution. Let us look first at the 
 honesty which he has shown. There was in the beginning a 
 great hue and cry about the Constitution. To preserve this in its 
 integrity, to guard this time-honored legacy of our forefathers, this 
 safeguard of our rights, was the avowed purpose of the war. 
 Now, however, it is becoming every day more and more appar- 
 ent what its real object is, and has been from the beginning. A 
 portion even of that same Puritan press which was at first loudest 
 and fiercest in its cries for the support of the Constitution, now 
 openly acknowledges it to be a war for the abolition of slavery ; 
 while the Democratic party, finding itself hopelessly entangled in 
 a war upon false pretenses, inveighs with bitter denunciation 
 against the Yankee cunning and the Puritan dishonesty which 
 combined to deceive them. So much for Puritan honesty. Now 
 let us look at its consistency. While the war was commenced 
 for the avowed purpose of supporting the Constitution, in the 
 prosecution of it every right guaranteed to the people by that 
 instrument has been disregarded, every safeguard thrown down, 
 every restraint upon executive power utterly ignored. Nor is 
 this inconsistency any less remarkable now since the real object 
 of the war has been acknowledged to be the abolition of slavery. 
 Puritan philanthropy sickens at the name of slave. His tender 
 heart and enlightened conscience give him no rest until he has 
 come to burst the negro's fetters; to make him a glorious free- 
 man; to bid him stand forth the equal of his master, the com- 
 panion of his oppressor ! Oh, glorious cause ! Oh, magnani- 
 mous champion 1 He comes to release from ignoble bondage the 
 stalwart, well-fed, happy negro ; and a few weeks later, — oh, beau- 
 tiful consistency ! — he places that same negro between the can- 
 non's mouth and himself, and as the freeman is blown to atoms 
 he bids him rejoice that he does not die a slave ! No, Mr. Derby, 
 honesty and consistency certainly cannot lighten my picture. You 
 must think of something else." 
 
 "You are embittered now, Mr. Cameron," replied the minis- 
 ter. " You are writhing and smarting under wrongs, and perhaps 
 incapable of doing our oppressors justice." 
 
 "Smarting under wrongs I certainly am, Mr. Derby; but I 
 trust that even this would not blind me to the good if there were 
 any. On the contrary, I would like to find it, like to look at it 
 even in an enemy ; for, believe me, it is neither my habit nor my 
 pleasure to picture human nature so dark." 
 
 " I know that very well, Mr. Cameron, and my knowledge of 
 your character and disposition only convinces me how intolerable 
 must be your grievances thus to have embittered you. I confess, 
 
CAMERON HALL. 517 
 
 sir, that it is very hard, nay, perhaps impossible, for unassisted 
 human nature to bear patiently the trials and indignities to which 
 we are now subjected. For my own part, I have found, long ago, 
 that my only safeguard was to look beyond and above these human 
 instruments, to Him who sitteth on the heavens, and holdeth the 
 nations in His hand. When I think of them, the fiercest pas- 
 sions of my nature are stirred ; when I remember that * the Lord 
 is King,' I can trust myself, my family, my nation in His hand, 
 satisfied that He will, in the end, work out this difficult problem 
 satisfactorily to us all. He is scourging our nation now most 
 severely; but if we receive the chastening as coming from Him, 
 and faithfully and honestly try to learn the lessons that He is 
 teaching, I believe that this Southern people will come out of the 
 furnace as 'silver that is purified seven times in the fire.' The 
 furnace is hot, but He sitteth as the refiner and purifier, and His 
 purpose is to purge and not to consume." 
 
 "In a great national calamity like this," replied Mr. Cameron, 
 "there are so many lessons to be learned that I should think it 
 would be almost impossible to remember them all." 
 
 " That is true, and perhaps in the experience of individuals the 
 lessons may be as varied as the difl'erent circumstances and dispo- 
 sitions; but I refer particularly to the great national lessons, those 
 that are so patent that 'he who runs may read.' It seems to me 
 that God is dealing very plainly with us now, and is at once re- 
 buking our national pride and teaching us dependence." 
 
 "Dependence 1" exclaimed Mr. Cameron. "Indeed, my dear 
 sir, I should rather think that we are being taught self-dependence ; 
 for if ever I saw a nation struggling with all its determination 
 and energy to help itself, it is the Southern Confederacy at this 
 moment." 
 
 " That is true, Mr. Cameron. Kight nobly and manfully, and 
 right successfully, too, is our country struggling ; and yet, in the 
 retreating waves of the Red Sea, in the manna rained upon the 
 desert, in the smitten rock and the sweetened waters, I scarcely 
 recognize a more direct interposition of Providence than in the 
 successful manner in which we have been thus far enabled to re- 
 sist an invading foe. If ever a nation upon earth has been taught 
 that God's blessing and favor can equalize all odds, and compen- 
 sate for all deficiencies, that nation is our own ; and if by our ex- 
 ample we afford encouragement to others to try and help them- 
 selves under all disadvantages, and against all adverse circum- 
 stances, we are no less a monument to the nations, that against 
 God's protection and favor arms and munitions of war are of no 
 avail. Without arms or equipments, without even the necessary 
 clothing for the army, without the sympathy, assistance, or even 
 
 44 
 
518 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 countenance of the other nations of tlie earth, alone and unbe- 
 friended by human aid, we found ourselves opposed to an enemy 
 richly abounding in everything necessary for conquest. Surely 
 our experience thus far in this unequal contest ought to have 
 taught us Who it is that giveth victory in the day of battle. 
 Surely we ought to have learned by this time to put our trust 
 neither in chariots nor in horses, but in the name of the Lord our 
 God. I confess, Mr. Cameron, that when I hear the self-confi- 
 dent boasting that talks about an invincible people, a nation that 
 cannot be conquered, a proud, high-spirited, chivalrous race that 
 may be exterminated but never subdued, I tremble, not for the 
 final result, but for fear that, like rebellious Israel, it may be de- 
 creed that none of this generation shall enter into the promised 
 rest of freedom and independence. But when on the other hand 
 I read the words of reverent acknowledgment wherewith our 
 great and honored Lee ever announces a victory to the chief 
 magistrate of the nation : ' God has again crowned our arms with 
 success ;' ' God has granted us another victory,' — then, sir, I ac- 
 knowledge that I feel as thankful for the message as I do for the 
 event which it announces. A single victory is by no means a 
 pledge of ultimate success ; but such a spirit of reverent depend- 
 ence upon God animating our leaders, and infused by them into 
 the people, seems to me a sure harbinger of the final result. I 
 believe that the nation is learning its lesson of dependence. I 
 have watched anxiously from the beginning to see what moral 
 efi'ect this struggle was to have upon the peopje, and I think it is 
 very evident that among all classes, from our rulers down, there 
 is now a much stronger reliance upon God for success, and a 
 much more grateful acknowledgment of His interposition in the 
 hour of victory, than there was at first. Especially is this to be 
 remarked in the army. Now, if we will only prove ourselves as 
 ready and willing to learn our other lesson, and surrender our 
 national pride, then indeed we may hope that our chastening has 
 not been in vain." 
 
 "National pride!" repeated Mr. Cameron. "Indeed, sir, I 
 cannot believe that this feeling is wrong. Who could help being 
 proud," he added, enthusiastically, "of such a country, such a 
 people, such an army ? Who would not be proud to belong to a 
 nation that has shown so much determination, so much energy, 
 so much fortitude, so much valor? Mr. Derby, all my life long I 
 have loved to hear myself called a Southerner; but I tell you, sir, 
 that in these, my country's darkest days, I love it better than ever. 
 It alwavs makes me stand two inches taller." 
 
 Mr. Derby smiled, as he replied : 
 
 " I find no fault with that sort of national pride, Mr. Came- 
 
CAMERON HALL. 519 
 
 ron. Indeed, it can scarcely be legitimately called pride, for the 
 proper appreciation of any blessing whatsoever is rather a duty 
 than a sin, and up to a certain point your feeling is not only nat- 
 ural, but right. The only danger is of allowing it to run into the 
 extreme of self-sufficiency and self-reliance. But I refer to that 
 sort of national pride (or vanity, rather, for that is the more cor- 
 rect term) which has made the United States a by-word among 
 other nations ; that vanity which found nothing anywhere upon 
 earth, whether of natural scenery, of the useful arts and sciences, 
 of luxury and elegance, of literature or the fine arts, superior or 
 even comparable to what it had at home. Nor did this feeling 
 stop here ; otherwise it would have been a harmless vanity which 
 would only have made its possessor ridiculous, and awakened a 
 mingled feeling of pity an.l contempt. But it swelled into a self- 
 reliance, self-importance, and self-satisfaction which often made 
 us insolent and overbearing in our intercourse with other nations, 
 and worse still, sometimes tempted us to aggression and unjust 
 acquisition of territory, because we felt secure in our power to sus- 
 tain ourselves in any course of action. This I believe to be one 
 of the sins of which we, as formerly belonging to the United 
 States, were guilty, and which, in the growth of our young na- 
 tion, we must earnestly try to exterminate." 
 
 *' Our national vanity was indeed excessive," replied Mr. Cam- 
 eron ; " but then, sir, you must admit that there was much in the 
 marvelous growth of our Republic to create and foster this feel- 
 ing. For a nation not yet a hundred years old to take its place 
 side by side in wealth, power, and greatness, with others that were 
 far advanced in civilization and refinement before its own vast 
 solitudes had ever been trodden by the foot of the white man, would 
 seem indeed cause enough to excite vanity. The fable of Min- 
 erva springing from the head of Jupiter in full, vigorous matu- 
 rity, and even armed with the weapons necessary to make her 
 strength respected and feared, is the only counterpart of the 
 American nation that the world has ever known, either in truth 
 or fiction. Indeed, sir, I do not wonder that, as a nation, we were 
 vain." 
 
 " The temptation was a strong one," replied the minister, "but 
 this neither excuses nor palliates the sin." 
 
 " But, Mr. Derby, neither this nor any other national sin was 
 confined to our section of the country. How comes it, then, that 
 we are not only the only part of the nation that is punished, but 
 we are actually chastened by those who participated wiih us in the 
 sins, and are, to say the least, just as guilty as ourselves ? Are we 
 to receive all and they none ? It cannot be, for God is just." 
 
 "'Tarry thou the Lord's leisure,'" replied the minister, 
 
520 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 solemnly, "Our retribution for our portion of the iniquity has 
 come first, and for some mysterious purpose of His own, God has 
 allowed us to be chastened by those who were once our brethren; 
 but His anger only slumbers until, like Babylon of old, the North 
 shall have filled up the measure of her iniquities. He is using 
 the Abolition army to bring us to repentance, submission, and 
 dependence upon Him; but think you that their iniquities will 
 go unavenged ? To all their other sins they have now added 
 the inauguration and prosecution of a war which, for cruelty, 
 oppression, vindictiveness, and malignity, has scarcely its counter- 
 part in modern times. Think you tliat the tears and cries of the 
 thousands of helpless women and children, whose homes are 
 ruinous heaps of ashes and themselves homeless wanderers, will 
 go unheard and unheeded? Think you that the long line of de- 
 vastation and destruction, the charred and blackened homesteads, 
 that mark the progress of the Abolition army, and the thousands 
 of once contented and happy negroes, now lured away from their 
 homes to die of cold, starvation, or loathsome disease, uncared 
 for and often unburied, — think you that such things as these will 
 go unpunished ? I tell you no, sir ! Oppressed and suffering 
 and desolate . as the South is, I would rather be in our place 
 than theirs, for I believe tnat when their day of retribution does 
 come, it will be so awful, so tremendous, that the most revenge- 
 ful of those over whom they have tyrannized will be moved to 
 pity, and cry 'Forbear!'" 
 
 These were solemn words, to which Mr. Cameron made no 
 reply ; for there is something so appalling in the thought of a 
 nation or an individual falling into the hands of the living God 
 for vengeance, that all human wrath is at once stilled, and all 
 thirst for revenge is quenched, and the soul shrinks and trembles 
 with awful dread at the thought of that God who is a "coii- 
 suming fire I" 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 Mr. Cameron and Uncle John now led a quiet, monotonous 
 life. For some time after Grace and Julia left, their letters occa- 
 sionally found their way to the Hall, nobody knew how ; but of 
 late more rigid discipline and severer penalties had effectually 
 cut off all communication from the South, and no news reached 
 them from any quarter. From the time that the Federals entered 
 Hopedale the citizens had been constantly threatened with the 
 
• CAMERON HALL. 521 
 
 Oath of Allegriance, but as yet it had never been generally and 
 opeuly administered, nor was it positively known that anybody 
 had taken it, although some persons labored under the suspicion. 
 At first there had been no restriction upon the intercourse be- 
 tween the town and the surrounding country, and passports had 
 been freely granted to come and go; but of late this privilege 
 had been withdrawn, and now no one was allowed to leave 
 the town, under any pretext or in any emergency, without first 
 taking the oath. Mr. Cameron and Uncle John were therefore 
 strictfy confined at home, and instead of their former daily ride 
 to town they were now obliged to content themselves with such 
 exercise as the limits of the plantation allowed. Nor under the 
 circumstances did they object to the restriction, for all that had 
 once made those visits to town agreeable was now gone. There 
 was nothing to be heard of the movements of our army, and all 
 the reports that were circulated were carefully selected, so as to 
 depress as much as possible the Southern heart. Nor was there 
 any longer anything attractive in the appearance of the town. 
 Its once clean and nicely -paved streets, now torn up and slovenly ; 
 its fences either entirely gone or falling down in ruinous decay ; 
 its magnificent shade trees felled and barricading th ) streets ; its 
 citizens downcast and dejected, and wandering about as strangers 
 in the town which themselves had built, and which had always 
 been their home, and jostled upon the pavements by the officer, 
 or perchance the negro, in the uniform that, to the Southern eye 
 and the Southern heart, spoke only of subjugation,— there was 
 indeed little enough now in the aspect of Hopedale to make Mr. 
 Cameron and Uncle John desire to see it. They missed Mr. 
 Derby's society, however ; nor was it a less privation to the min- 
 ister, whose visits to the Hall were among his pleasantest relaxa- 
 tions, and who reckoned Mr. Cameron and Uncle John as among 
 his most valued friends. 
 
 The two gentlemen were smoking in the library one morning 
 after breakfast, when Uncle John, looking through the window, 
 exclaimed : 
 
 *' Some more visitors, Mr. Cameron ! Indeed, considering the 
 political sentiments of the Ha,ll, it is wondrously popular with 
 
 the Yankees." 
 
 " Yes," replied Mr. Cameron, smoking away quietly without 
 moving. "One part of the establishment is certainly a favorite 
 resort of theirs. They seem to have a great partiality both for 
 the comfort and the society of my kitchen." 
 
 " This time, however, sir, I think they are going to honor you. 
 At least they are riding up to the porch." 
 
 "If that be so," he answered, rising, *' I will receive them mj- 
 
 44* 
 
522 CAMERON HALL. * 
 
 self, since I prefer that their visit should be made at the door in- 
 stead of in the library." 
 
 So saying, he went to meet them. "When he opened the door 
 he found two soldiers, one of whom asked : 
 
 " Is this Mr. Cameron ?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "These, then, I believe, belong to this house." 
 
 Mr. Cameron received two yellow envelopes, one addressed to 
 himself and the other to Uncle John. 
 
 " Will you tell me, if you please, where I am to take this 
 one ? I was told that the gentleman lived in this neighbor- 
 hood." 
 
 Mr. Cameron directed him how to reach the house of his 
 neighbor, who lived on an adjoining plantation, waited to see 
 them ride through the gate, and then returned to the library. 
 He gave Uncle John his envelope, and at the same time opened 
 his own. 
 
 '' Just as I expected !" he said, as he glanced at the contents. 
 
 It was the Oath of Allegiance to the United States Govern- 
 ment, utterly renouncing all sympathy with, and refusing all aid 
 and support to, the "so-called Southern Confederacy," promising 
 full and unconditional allegiance in all time to come to the 
 Government of the United States, and pledging to assist and 
 support it to the extent of personal effort and influence in all at- 
 tempts to crush this infamous rebellion ; and all this " without 
 compulsion and without mental reservation." 
 
 Accompanying the oath was the order to report at headquar- 
 ters, in Hopedale, on the morning of the third day from date. 
 
 " Rather a binding oath, Mr. Cameron," said Uncle John, 
 "don't you think so? 'I solemnly affirm that I take this oath 
 of my own free will and choice, without comjmlsion and with- 
 out mental reservation.^ Pretty severe that, hey ?" 
 
 " Rather tight, I confess. Uncle John, — so very tight, that I do 
 not think I can bear the pressure. What say you ? Are you 
 ready to take it ?" 
 
 "Quite as ready, sir, as I ever have been. I presume that we 
 are allowed three days' grace in order that we may talk the mat- 
 ter over and encourage each other to subscribe to it ; but as far 
 as I am concerned, I would rather have been ordered to report 
 to-day than day after to-morrow. I want it over." 
 
 They went on talking seriously of what was now before them, 
 and wondering if the penalty would allow them the privilege of 
 going to their own people, or if it would condemn them to the 
 rigors of a Northern prison. All at once Uncle John exclaimed, 
 laughing : 
 
CAMERON HALL. 523 
 
 " Here comes Smithson, and from the Gilpin gait at which he 
 is riding I suspect that the yellow envelope is spurring hira on. 
 Poor Smithson ! his heart clings to those acres of his, and the 
 oath will sorely try hira." 
 
 Mr. Smithson came in, the picture of despair, and Uncle John, 
 whose humor could not be altogether extinguished, even in cir- 
 cumstances like the present, said, as he shook him by the hand : 
 
 "Good morning, Smithson. You look so cheerful that you 
 must have good news. Do give us the benefit of it, for Cameron 
 and I have a dull time shut up here in the Hall." 
 
 "Good news!" he replied, construing Uncle John literally. 
 "This is my good news." 
 
 So saying, he took the envelope from his pocket, and unfolding 
 the paper that it contained, gave it to Uncle John. 
 
 "I know all about it, Smithson," he replied, "for we have 
 just been similarly honored. It was scarcely to be expected that 
 such rebels as you and I should have been invited to head- 
 quarters," 
 
 " Confound their invitation 1" exclaimed Mr. Smithson, half 
 surprised and extremely annoyed at Uncle John's careless, in- 
 different view of the matter. "I tell you, sir, that this is a serious 
 thing, and involves serious consequences." 
 
 "There is no doubt of that, sir," replied Uncle John. "It is 
 indeed a grave question for consideration. A dilemma, whose 
 horns are exile and confiscation on the one hand, and treason or 
 perjury on the other, may indeed demand to be well pondered." 
 
 " Indeed, sir, you do take a grave view of the matter. Treason, 
 indeed I An oath extorted from you by arbitrary power is not 
 legally binding in any code of laws upon earth, and treason is an 
 overt act, not the breath of the lips. Indeed, sir, if I were to 
 take that oath forty times, it would not bind my conscience with 
 the strength of a wisp of straw. On the contrary, I should feel 
 conscientiously bound to break it the very first opportunity 
 that offered. To keep the oath would be treason ; to take it, 
 never I" 
 
 "I think, Mr. Smithson," said Mr, Cameron, "that you are 
 mistaken about the breath of the lips not being treason. The 
 United States Government certainly so regards it, and has proved 
 it by imprisoning and banishing men for sentiments uttered in 
 public speeches, and by closing newspaper offices for offensive 
 paragraphs. Yes, sir : to swear allegiance to any other govern- 
 ment than your own is certainly treason." 
 
 " Well, sir, even granting you this, there is still an open ques- 
 tion : Which is our own government ? We are in Federal lines, 
 subject to the laws of the United States and under their protec- 
 
524 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 tion. Now is it not true that whether we will or not, the fact 
 remains the same, and that as long as this country is occupied by 
 United States troops so long its government is ours, and may 
 we not lawfully swear allegiance to it until we are restored to 
 the protection and laws of our own ?" 
 
 '' I think not, sir. Your first allegiance is to your own State 
 of Virginia, which, in the exercise of her own sovereign power, 
 has seen fit to withdraw from that Federal compact, into which, 
 in the exercise of that same power, she entered in the beginning. 
 It is only by and through your allegiance to her that you can 
 owe allegiance to any other authority, and she has chosen to in- 
 corporate herself with the Confederate States. Therefore it seems 
 to me that your allegiance can rightfully belong only to the Con- 
 federate States, and allegiance to any other, whether voluntary 
 or extorted, must needs be treason." 
 
 " You and I differ altogether about this matter, Mr. Cameron. 
 I think that, externally, I am bound to be subject to the powers 
 that be. With my inner feelings and principles they have nothing 
 to do, and over them they certainly cannot exercise any control; 
 but if by force of arms or the exercise of arbitrary power they 
 extort from me an oath which my inmost soul abhors, I am not 
 responsible to God or man for it, nor will either expect me to 
 keep it." 
 
 "There is still another view of the question that involves grave 
 consideration, Mr. Smithson," said Uncle John. " Solemnly to 
 call upon God to witness the sincerity of an oath which you in- 
 tend to violate at the first opportunity is nothing less than per- 
 jury. It matters not whether you take it voluntarily or by com- 
 pulsion, the morality of the act remains the same. So then we 
 have now reached a choice between treason and perjury. We 
 may, in good faith, swear allegiance to the enemy of our country, 
 and thereby commit the act of treason ; or we may. swear falsely, 
 and thus perjure ourselves. For mj own part, even between these 
 two I could make a choice. If it were possible that any moral 
 force could be brought to bear upon me which would necessitate 
 a choice between the two crimes, I would choose the first. I 
 would be ashamed to be a traitor, but I would be afraid to be a 
 perjurer. I would take the oath and keep it. I would forswear 
 my country, and then, hiding ray head in shame and self-condem- 
 nation, would make up my mind to live and die a Benedict Arnold. " 
 
 " Then, sir," replied Mr. Smithson, thoughtfully, " I presume 
 that your decision is made, and that you do not intend to take 
 that oath." 
 
 ^ " Take it !" thundered Uncle John, with an energy that startled 
 his companion. '' Take it ! ]S^ever, so help me God 1" 
 
CAMERON HALL. 525 
 
 " You speak very positively, sir. This contest is by no means 
 ended yet, and our success, so far from being an accomplished 
 fact, is to my mind at least exceedingly problematical. What 
 if we do not succeed ? The oath will certainly be required of you 
 then. Will you still refuse ? For my part, I think that it is de- 
 cidedly the part of wisdom to weigh well all the contingencies 
 and possibilities. To lose my property now, rather than take the 
 oath, and then to be compelled hereafter to take it, would be 
 rather unpleasant, and I think wholly unnecessary." 
 
 "In the event of our defeat, Mr. Smithson, it is very evident 
 that the case would assume altogether another aspect. If we 
 are overcome, we shall then have no government, and where there 
 is no government there can be no treason. If our earnest strug- 
 gle for freedom and independence should prove a failure, then I, 
 along with the rest, must accept the result, and, a disappointed 
 and saddened man, I must submit. But, God helping me, I will 
 never be the one, either by word or act, to assist in bringing 
 about such a result. While I have a government trying to guard 
 my interests, and an army fighting for my rights, I will, like a 
 man, bear my portion of the burden, and lend my helping-hand 
 to sustain them, and when that government is dissolved, and that 
 army surrenders, it will be time enough for me to surrender too, 
 and I can then, without shame or remorse, though not without 
 deep sorrow, swear allegiance to that government under which I 
 find myself compelled to live." 
 
 "But then it may be too late to save yourself by the oath. 
 Heaven knows, it is disagreeable enough at any time, and if I am 
 to swallow the dose at all, I would rather do it in time to avail 
 me something." 
 
 " That is a utilitarian view of the question, which does not 
 enter at present into my argument. I am talking now of the 
 right of the act, and not of its expediency. ^^ 
 
 " Which latte»* is by no means to be ignored or overlooked, 
 sir. Expediency must always be taken into the account in 
 worldly matters. I should think that you were an old enough 
 man to have learned that." 
 
 " So I am, sir, and it is one of life's lessons that I learned 
 years ago. I do not undervalue expediency in its proper place, 
 but I object either to confounding it with principle or substitu- 
 ting it for principle." 
 
 " But, sir, the obstinate adherence to an idea, a chimera (as 
 this struggle will, in the event of failure, prove itself to have 
 been), may materially interfere with your future interests, and, it 
 may be, with your wishes too. I presume that in any event you 
 would prefer to spend the remnant of your life in this country. 
 
526 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 You are too old to wander now. May it not be the dictate of 
 wisdom so to modify any intemperance of speech, or the display 
 of any rabid or ultra feeling, that in case you should hereafter 
 want to retract you would be allowed to do so ? Has it never 
 been the case in political convulsions, that men have sometimes 
 wanted to renew their allegiance to their former government, and 
 have been denied ? That they have asked the oath, and received 
 banishment instead ?" 
 
 "Indeed, Mr. Smithson," replied Uncle John, laughing, "yon 
 are a man of wondrous prudence and forethought, and provide 
 not only for future possibilities, but, as it seems to my sanguine 
 hopes, for impossibilities too. Anybody would imagine, from 
 your train of argument, that the great issue was decided, the last 
 battle fought, and the South utterly vanquished. For my part, I 
 anticipate no such thing; but I will, for the sake of argument, 
 admit its possibility, and will look at the prospect through your 
 fears rather than through my hopes. But even in this event, I 
 should have no apprehensions whatever that the privilege of 
 taking the oath would be denied me. I do not acknowledge my- 
 self to be either a ral5fd or an ultra man. There is nothing which 
 I can, under any circumstances, retract. My opinions have not 
 been formed in the heat and excitement of passion, but they are 
 at this day the very same that they were before the first gun had 
 been fired, or the first sword unsheathed, in this unholy war. 
 They are calm and deliberate convictions, founded upon unalter- 
 able principles which are utterly independent of the success or 
 failure of this revolution. I always believed in the right of seces- 
 sion, and, at the beginning of this war, I was convinced of its 
 expediency too ; but I have never tried to force my belief upon 
 others. On the contrary, I have been throughout this whole con- 
 test a man of few words, and so far as I am a judge of my own 
 conduct, there has been nothing which can make me a proper 
 subject for banishment or confiscation now, or, in the event of our 
 subjugation, an object of suspicion to the Federal Government. 
 But even if the reverse were the case, I trust that I would not 
 allow apprehensions of the possible future to deter me from the 
 performance of present duty. But let me tell you one thin^, Mr. 
 Smithson; something that time-serving men are apt to overlook. 
 There is much truth in the old adage : ' Honesty is the best 
 policy,'' although I despise the maxim because it is degrading to 
 the noble principle to recommend it on such low and contempt- 
 ible grounds. Nevertheless, it is true ; in this as well as in all 
 other cases, honesty will be found to be not only right, but the 
 best policy too. Let two Southern men go together to-day to 
 headquarters, the one accepting the oath, and the other refusing 
 
CAMERON HALL. 527 
 
 it, with exile and confiscation staring him in the face. Now, I 
 believe that if the war should end next week in the subjugation 
 of the South, and these two men should apply to the United 
 States Government for the same office, if the gift of that office 
 were in the hands of an intelligent Northern man, one who un- 
 derstood human nature, and was acquainted with the past history 
 of both candidates, he would unhesitatingly give it to him who 
 had refused the oath. The reason is obvious. Men yield an in- 
 voluntary homage to him who plants himself firmly and squarely 
 upon his principles, and with manly courage and fortitude con- 
 sents to meet the consequences of them. Such a man is not only 
 respected, but he is trusted too. Do you know, sir, who, in the 
 event of subjugation, would make the best citizens of the United 
 States, and in what class of people that government would least 
 dread any remaining leaven of the revolutionary element ? It 
 would be in the Lees and the Johnsons, and the brave men who 
 followed them, in the Wilderness, and before Richmond, at 
 Atlanta, and at Kennesau Mountain ; and at home, those who 
 have been content to suffer privation and discomfort, loss of prop- 
 erty and personal risk, rather than yield one iota of principle. 
 It is such men as these that are battling now for freedom ; law- 
 abiding, order-loving men, who are not fighting from the mere 
 outburst of a discontented, factious, revolutionary spirit, but are 
 freemen, honestly and earnestly fighting for their rights, fighting 
 for pr^incij^le, and who, if overcome, will submit on principle. 
 Of such men as these the United States Government would not 
 be afraid. No garrisoned towns and standing array would be 
 necessary to keep down and quell such spirits as these ; but the 
 Federal Government would rightfully distrust those who had 
 been traitors to their own cause, and who, either from interest or 
 fear, or some other base and cowardly motive, had uttered with 
 their lips words to which every feeling of their nature gave the 
 
 lie." 
 
 There was a short pause, and then Mr. Smithson replied, 
 shaking his head sadly and thoughtfully : 
 
 " Ah, sir 1 fortunately for you, your case differs from mine. 
 You are not hampered by family ties, and are at liberty to follow 
 the dictates of feeling and conscience. You can go into exile 
 unburdened by a thousand torturing anxieties about those whom 
 you have left behind at the mercy of their enemies. But look at 
 me, sir. I have a wife and six children. To take them with me 
 is impossible, for I have not the means ; to go and leave them, for 
 an indefinite time, with no one to protect them and provide for 
 them, is equally impossible to a man calling himself husband and 
 father." 
 
528 ' CAMERON HALL. 
 
 " To that, Mr. Smithson, I can only answer as I did just now, 
 that we are discussing the moral right of the act, and not its ex- 
 pediency or agreeableness. It is so hard for men to separate 
 these two things, and to look at them independently of each 
 other. And yet, if amid the tortuous and perplexing paths of 
 life we would find the right one, we must needs do it; we must 
 put on, as it were, a blind ffridle, that shuts out everything ex- 
 cept what is right before us, and look at the morality of the act 
 as it stands alone, in its stern, naked ruggedness; for when once 
 we begin to look at results, then self-love, ease, convenience, and 
 profit all loom up in such vast and undue .proportions, that they 
 effectually throw into shadow the question that we originally pro- 
 posed to consider. Now, the difference in our situations may and 
 does affect the amount of sacrifice involved in doing right; but 
 the right itself it cannot alter. I admit that it will cost me far 
 less self-denial and sacrifice of feeling to be driven into exile than 
 it will cost you, inasmuch as I have no wife and children to leave 
 behind; but, at the same time, I also believe that ail the wives 
 and children upon earth cannot make the act of taking that oath 
 at this time anything less than treason or perjury. Such it must 
 of necessity be; and the only question remaining is, whether you 
 choose to stay and take care of your family, a traitor, or a per- 
 jured man, or prefer to leave them to suffer inconvenience, priva- 
 tion, or — if you choose to take an improbable extreme — even 
 want itself, with the name of the husband and father unstained by 
 dishonor and guilt." 
 
 " You use strong language, sir," replied Mr. Smithson, turning 
 restlessly in his chair, "and present a bitter alternative." 
 
 " Such it may be, Mr. Smithson, such, indeed, I admit that it 
 is ; but I only call things by their right names, and offer the 
 alternative as it stands. I am not responsible for it ; if I were, I 
 would speedily alter it, for I assure you that, personally, the 
 thought of banishment from home at my age is as unwelcome to 
 me as to any other man in the world. I am old now, and the 
 arm-chair, the corner of the fire-side, and all the little nameless 
 comforts of home, that I could once have done without, have be- 
 come necessities, and I would willingly pay any price for them, 
 except the sacrifice of principle. Believe me, sir, nothing but 
 stern, unalterable necessity would make me consent to go into 
 exile now." 
 
 "But I am not yet convinced that there is a stern, unalterable 
 necessity in the case. I do not agree with you that, in the de- 
 cision of any matter, consequences may be thus entirely ignored, 
 nor do I think it right to look only to myself and my own feel- 
 ings, and leave out of view the claims of wife and children. Be- 
 
CAMERON HALL. 529 
 
 sides," he added, with a slight degree of bitterness and sarcasm 
 in his tone, " I have no desire to make myself a martyr. There 
 is in my nature none of the stuff that martyrs are made of" 
 
 "Xow, Smithson," said Uncle John, laughing pleasantly, 
 "who is talking of martyrdom, or who would advocate it? Cer- 
 tainly not I, for my ambition never led me to aspire either to its 
 honors or its sufferings; but by calling such banishment as ours 
 will probably be, martyrdom, you call it by altogether too high- 
 sounding a title. If it be martyrdom at all, it is of so low a 
 type that it partakes only of its inconveniences and disagreeable 
 accompaniments, without any of that fame and admiration which 
 dignify the suffering and sweeten the pain." 
 
 Mr. Smithson was evidently ill at ease. Dissatisfied with his 
 own position, he was yet unwilling to accept Uncle John's. His 
 reason and judgment were almost convinced; but the thought of 
 home, family, and interest proved powerful weights in the op- 
 posite scale. 
 
 "Mr. Smithson," said Mr. Cameron, "there is still another 
 argument on our side of the question, which has not been urged. 
 It does not occupy the high moral ground of the others, and yet 
 it is one which must appeal to you as a man, and especially as a 
 father with a son in the Confederate army. Your son and mine 
 have not only left the comfort and ease of home, and gone into 
 voluntary exile, which is the thing that now seems so intolerable 
 to us, but, more than this, they are daily enduring privations 
 which it is not probable that we will be called upon to bear, and 
 they are hourly risking their lives,— and for what? For the 
 maintenance of those very principles which we are willing to 
 renounce and forswear, the very moment that a manly adherence 
 to them threatens the loss of property or brings upon us per- 
 sonal inconvenience. We encourage our sons to go, nay, we 
 push them out into the army; we bid them suffer, yes, and die, 
 for a cause which we ourselves are not willing to uphold by the 
 sacrifice of a little property or a little personal comfort. I do 
 not ask, Mr. Smithson, where is the consistency ; but I go further, 
 I ask where is the manhood, the paternal feeling of such conduct 
 as this ? I tell you, sir, that were I a soldier in that army, sacri- 
 ficing health, and perhaps even life itself, no defeat in battle, no 
 privations in camp, no suffering that I might endure, would so 
 effectually paralyze my arm, and weaken my energies, and dis- 
 courage my heart, as to know that the men for whom I was 
 fighting so little valued the precious boon which I was purchas- 
 ing at so tremendous a price, that, like Esau, they were willing 
 to barter the costly birthright for a mess of pottage. A nation 
 of such men would not be worth fighting for, for there would not 
 
 45 
 
530 "CAMERON HALL. 
 
 be soul enough in them to make freemen of! They would not 
 know how to value the liberty that others had purchased for 
 them, nor could they keep the sacred treasure when it was in- 
 trusted to them." 
 
 Mr. Smithson's face wore a deeper shade than ever. Mr. Cam- 
 eron's last argument had been a home-thrust to the father's heart; 
 but even then he was not willing to yield. The sacrifice was 
 too costly ; his property, now large and valuable, had been the 
 gradual accumulation of a lifetime. He had known what it was 
 to be straitened; and now, when he was growing old, and needed 
 the luxuries and comforts wliich his life of toil and self-denial 
 had accumulated, it seemed hard indeed to turn his back upon 
 them all and go out into the world a homeless exile. 
 
 Uncle John plainly saw the struggle that was going on in his 
 mind, and while he could not help feeling contempt for the man 
 who had not the moral courage and the manliness to do right, 
 still there mingled with it a compassion for his evident discom- 
 fort and restlessness. When he was going away, Uncle John 
 said, kindly : 
 
 "We differ, Smithson, in our views of this matter; but in cases 
 like this no man can decide what another must do. Each one 
 must do what his own conscience approves." 
 
 '• That is just my opinion," he replied, his face brightening. 
 " Only the individual himself can know all the little circumstances 
 which combine to shape his conduct, and to make that right for 
 him which would be extremely wrong for another." 
 
 With this convenient and soothing sophistry, Mr. Smithson 
 took his departure. Uncle John watched him as he rode down 
 the lawn, and said, in a tone half comic and half sad: 
 
 " Poor Smithson ! he came to the wrong place for comfort. 
 He is sorely tried. He dies hard, very hard, poor fellow !" 
 
 "I don't think that he is dying at all, Uncle John, or that he 
 intends to do so. It is very evident that he proposes to live on, 
 and to live here, too, and take care of his property." 
 
 "Yes, yes," answered Uncle John, musingly, "it is a hard 
 thing to part with property. There is no grasp like that with 
 which money seizes the soul ; there is no struggle so hard as 
 that with which its hold must be loosened! Poor Smithson! 
 I pity him." 
 
 Punctually at the appointed hour on the morning of the third 
 day, Mr. Cameron and Uncle John presented themselves at head- 
 quarters, where they met some six or eight other gentlemen, 
 among them Mr. Derby and Mr. Smithson. To an accurate ob- 
 server of human nature, the faces of the group there assembled 
 would have formed an interesting study. The general, in the 
 
CAMERON HALL. 531 
 
 plenitude of his power, looked with serene cojuplacency upon 
 those whose destiny was at the mercy of his arbitrary will; some 
 of them, with troubled and anxious faces, glanced first at one and 
 then at another of their companions, as if hoping to catch some 
 expression which would encourage them to do what inclination 
 and interest prompted, but which their sense of right condemned ; 
 and others were serious and thoughtful, but calm and quiet, in the 
 possession of that inward peace which every one must have in 
 obeying the voice of conscience, no matter how much sacrifice 
 that obedience involves. 
 
 The general opened the conversation by saying : 
 
 '' I suppose, gentlemen, that you have come prepared to take 
 the oath." 
 
 He addressed himself by word to them all ; but he looked 
 specially at Mr. Derby, who replied : 
 
 " I can only answer for myself, sir, that my conscience will not 
 permit me to do it." 
 
 '' If you would allow me the privilege of advising you, sir," 
 replied the general, " I would counsel you not to be too hasty in 
 your decision. It seems to me that your profession renders this 
 matter a graver question with you than with these other gentle- 
 men. With them it may be simply a choice between loyalty and 
 the penalty of disloyalty, but with you it assumes a more serious 
 aspect, and becomes a choice between political opinions and the 
 sacred duties which, as a Christian minister, you are. bound to 
 perform." 
 
 " That is a very unjust statement of the case, sir," replied Mr. 
 Derby, with dignity. " The question is not at all between politi- 
 cal opinion and official duty; it is simply whether I will allow 
 myself to be forced by arbitrary power to do what I know to be 
 a wrong act, in order that thereby I may be allowed to perform 
 ministerial duty." 
 
 At this moment a note was placed in Mr. Derby's hand. He 
 glanced at the contents, and his face wore an expression of pain 
 as he read the hasty summons to attend the death-bed of a valued 
 and beloved parishioner. He gave the note to the general, asking 
 to be paroled and allowed to perform the sad duty. 
 
 "Here is a case in point," replied the general, returning the 
 note. "This summons you to the fulfillment of a duty to which 
 you are solemnly pledged by your ordination vows. Now choose 
 between them ; you are free to act. Take the oath, and go your 
 way in obedience to the call of ministerial duty, or else refuse, 
 and prefer to be a traitor to your God rather than one to your 
 so-called Southern Confederacy !" 
 
 Mr. Derby looked pained and distressed, not at the decision 
 
532 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 now offered him,, whose specious phraseology could not for an in- 
 stant obscure the true alternative, but he was grieved at the im- 
 mediate consequences of that decision. He thought of that death- 
 bed, which his presence as a friend, as well as a Christian minis- 
 ter, would soothe and comfort, and his face reflected the sadness 
 of his heart. For an instant his thoughts were busy elsewhere, 
 and he did not reply ; and the general, construing his silence into 
 a wavering purpose, said : 
 
 "You ought to think more upon this subject. A reconsider- 
 ation of it in all its bearings might perhaps alter your decision. 
 I am disposed to be lenient, and would be willing to give you 
 a few days more to decide; and, if you consent to that, I will 
 parole you now to obey this summons." 
 
 "I need no more time to reflect, sir," replied Mr. Derby. "I 
 have thought long and deeply upon this subject, even before I 
 had a personal interest in it. I have studied it by the light of 
 reason, of conscience, and of God's own Word ; and even this last 
 painful circumstance, coming upon me so unexpectedly, does not 
 in the least affect my decision. I am not responsible for this or 
 any other attending circumstance. My business alone is to decide 
 what is right, what is duty, and that I have done long ago, inde- 
 pendent of circumstances and of consequences. I repeat to you 
 what I said at first, that my conscience will not permit me to take 
 that oath." 
 
 "Very well, sir. You have, then, made your selection between 
 political opinion and minisierial duty?" 
 
 "I have made ray selection, sir, between the commands of God 
 and the dictates of man. He has said, ' Thou shalt not forswear 
 thyself;' and, as a Christian man, fearing His name and rever- 
 encing His authority, I dare not do it." 
 
 "Your decision, then, I presume, is final?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, it is irrevocable." 
 
 Turning to the others, the general now asked : 
 
 "And what have you decided to do, gentlemen ?" 
 
 "I, for one," replied Mr. Cameron, "Tiave decided not to take 
 that oath." 
 
 '•'Such, also, is my decision," said Uncle John. 
 
 One or two more gave the same answer, but Mr. Smithson and 
 the others asked for a few days longer to decide. 
 
 The faltering purpose betrayed iu the beginning by the troubled 
 face and anxious eye was now plainly avowed by the petition 
 for a longer time to reflect; and the wily general, seizing his op- 
 portunity, brought up an array of specious arguments, and gave 
 them double power by skillful and subtle appeals, to which he 
 well knew that their interests and inclinations would promptly 
 respond. 
 
CAMERON HALL. 533 
 
 The interview was closed by paroling these for a week, and 
 Mr. Derby, Mr. Cameron, and the others until further orders. 
 
 "Our doom is sealed!" said Mr. Derby to Mr. Cameron and 
 Uncle John, as they walked together down the street. "In a 
 few days, or, it may be, in a few hours, we will be officially noti- 
 fied of banishment, either North or South." 
 
 "Yes, sir," replied Mr. Cameron; "and what is to become of 
 your wife and children, Mr. Derby ?" 
 
 "Alas! sir," replied the minister, sadly, "God only knows! 
 That was my struggle, Mr. Cameron, and I assure you that it was 
 a hard one. I did not hesitate or falter, for my duty was too 
 plain for that; but it was the severest trial of Christian faith that 
 I ever had in my life, to consent to leave them under these cir- 
 cumstances. I tell you, sir, that it takes all of Christian man- 
 hood to meet an emergency like this with an unfaltering purpose. 
 For myself alone I do not care ; I could bear anything, but wife 
 and little children " 
 
 His voice faltered and he said no more, and at the next corner 
 he left them without a word, and hurried down the street. 
 
 "Poor Mr. Derby !" said Mr. Cameron, following him with his 
 eyes. "Ah, sir! his is a trial to which ours is as nothing." 
 
 "That is true," replied Uncle John; "and yet, in the differ- 
 ence between him and Mr. Smithson, how clearly defined is the 
 line which separates the man of principle from him who has none I 
 Their circumstances are the same, — no, not the same, either; for 
 although both would leave wives and children behind, yet Mr. 
 Smithson could provide for his family, in his absence, by many 
 means which are not accessible to Mr. Derby ; and yet the latter 
 stands up unflinchingly to what is right, while the other pleads 
 wife and children as the reason why he must do wrong ! Suppose, 
 Mr. Cameron," he added, with a twinkle of his eye, "that we tell 
 Mr. Derby not to be so anxious about his family. Neighbor 
 Smithson will doubtless take care of them." 
 
 "That is not probable," answered Mr. Cameron, smiling. "A 
 man who cannot take care of his own principles is not the one to 
 offer to take care of another man's family. My observation is 
 that liberality generally goes hand in hand with strength of prin- 
 ciple and honesty of purpose." 
 
 Two days passed quietly away, and nothing more was heard 
 from headquarters; but on the morning of the third an order 
 was brought to the- Hall, requiring Mr. Cameron and Uncle John 
 to report the next day at ten o'clock, in readiness to be escorted 
 to the Confederate lines. 
 
 " Thank God for that privilege !" exclaimed Uncle John, drawing 
 a long breath. " The thoughts of a Northern prison have weighed 
 
534 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 heavily npon me for these last two days. To-morrow at ten 
 o'clock; that is indeed short notice to a man who has any prep- 
 arations to make. Thanks to Yankee consideration and fore- 
 thought, however, I have nothing of that sort to do. They have 
 kindly relieved me of the trouble of making arrangements to 
 leave home, and it will not require either much time or much re- 
 flection to put away in my valise all the worldly effects of the old 
 rebel, Uncle John. But you, Mr. Cameron; you will have some- 
 thing to do before you go, and little enough time they have 
 allowed you for it." 
 
 " No, Uncle John," he answered, sadly. " I have nothing to 
 do ; nothing but to turn my back upon my home and all my 
 earthly possessions, and go out, in my old age, a homeless wan- 
 derer. And for what ?" he added, bitterly. " Not for any overt 
 act, not even for an outspoken word; but for feelings and princi- 
 ples that are in my heart, and that belong as naturally to my 
 moral nature as the bones and muscles do to my body. It seems 
 to me that it would be just as reasonable to punish me for loving 
 my children as for loving my country." 
 
 In the afternoon Mr. Cameron took a solitary ride over his 
 plantation. Many of his servants had already left him, and 
 many others were living in that complete idleness which is with 
 them synonymous with freedom. Only a few remained faithful 
 to their master, and obedient to his commands ; and already his 
 well-ordered farm began to show signs of decay and neglect. 
 Many of his fences had furnished fuel for camp fires, and the 
 fields which they had once inclosed were now a public highway. 
 The larger proportion of his valuable stock had been stolen, and 
 signs of ruin and desolation were all around. He sighed deeply 
 as he looked upon the wreck, and compared it with what it had 
 been a few months before, with what it would be when he should 
 see it again, if indeed that would ever be. 
 
 During the remainder of the day he was silent and thoughtful, 
 and soon after tea went to his own room, on the pretext of making 
 arrangements for his journey, but in reality to be alone. It was 
 with Mr. Cameron a severer struggle to leave his home than he 
 cared for even Uncle John to know. He loved the Hall not 
 only as the home of his manhood and married life, but there were 
 ties and associations connected with it which ran far back to his 
 childhood and infancy, and made it doubly dear to him. There 
 were memories in his heart of scenes and events there in which 
 he had participated, and of all those who had mingled in them 
 he alone now survived. The others had long slept in the grave, 
 and those memories, now become sacred, were awakened nowhere 
 else, and were completely identified with the old Hall. Like the 
 
CAMERON HALL. 
 
 535 
 
 heart of the dying Patriarch, which clung to the resting-place of 
 his Dead, and made such touching mention of the old cave: 
 " There they buried Abraham and Sarah his wife ; there they 
 buried Isaac and Rebekah his wife; and there I buried Leah;" 
 so now the heart of the old man, as he stood upon the threshold 
 of that exile which might be for years, or perhaps forever, turned 
 fondly to the graves of his household, and he longed to close his 
 eyes amid scenes so full of the memories of father, mother, wife, 
 and Eva, and to find his last resting-place beside them. 
 
 Tlie next morning the servants crowded round him to say fare- 
 well He shook hands with all the rest in silence ; but when he 
 came to Mammy Nancy, his children's nurse, ^m's nurse, he 
 could not go without a word to her. He wrung her hand, and 
 said, in a choking voice : 
 
 ''Don't leave the old Hall, Nancy; stay by it until you die! 
 Would to God that I could too !" 
 
 He flung himself upon his horse, buried the spur in his side, 
 and flew down the lawn, and along the road, leaving Uncle John 
 far behind. When he overtook him, the broken-hearted exile 
 was leaning against the old walnut-tree in the grove, crying like 
 a child. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIY. 
 
 If kindness and affection could have made Julia happy, she 
 would have been entirely so in Charles Beaufort's home, where at 
 first for his sake, and afterward for her own, she was beloved and 
 treated as a daughter and sister. In Charles's mother she 
 realized her ideal, and the knowledge was both pleasant and 
 painful : pleasant, inasmuch as she had at last found that ma- 
 ternal love for which she had so often and so vainly longed ; and 
 painful, inasmuch as it enabled her more fully to appreciate her 
 deprivation during all the period of childhood and youth. She 
 heard re^-ularly from Charles and Walter, and had received two 
 or three fetters from her father soon after she left home ; but for a 
 lono- time she had not received a line from him, and exaggerated 
 rumors of cruelties and outrages perpetrated at Hopedale, and in 
 its vicinity, kept her always anxious and distressed. 
 
 It was a beautiful afternoon in February, one of those soft, 
 bright days, which in the sunny South often come at this season, 
 as if the spring, impatient of delay, was constrained to give the 
 
536 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 earth a glimpse and foretaste of its soft air and balmy breath. The 
 gay crocus, wooed by the sunshine, had already burst its wintery 
 fetters, and might be seen, here and there, leaning its bright cheek 
 against the dull, dark earth ; and the buds of the yellow daffodil 
 and the hyacinth were drinking in the sunlight that was to paint 
 their petals and perfume their blossoms. 
 
 Julia had wandered through the garden, looking at the opening 
 flowers, and thinking of home. The sight of flowers always re- 
 called Eva: once, with her bright, happy face, twining garlands 
 by Willie's couch ; and afterward, with her pale, wan cheek, dec- 
 orating herself with his favorite roses, that they as well as her- 
 self might welcome him home. But there was something specially 
 to remind Julia of her sister now. This was the month in which 
 she had been married, and there was something in the brightness 
 and softness of the day that recalled her wedding day, and her 
 image rose before Julia with startling vividness, with that one 
 bright ray of golden sunshine streaming full upon her brow, as 
 she stood before the altar in her solemn happiness. Then Julia's 
 thoughts naturally pasged from Eva to her father, and she won- 
 dered if he had grown much older in heart and in appearance 
 since she left him. She was thinking sadly of his loneliness and 
 desolation, when all at once she found herself encircled in some- 
 body's arms, and held in a tight embrace, and when she looked 
 up and saw her father's face, unlike her quiet self, she screamed 
 out in her glad surprise. Then another pair of arms caught her, 
 and not less amazed was she to see Uncle John. 
 
 There was great joy that night in that family-circle ; and Uncle 
 John's almost boyish delight at finding himself where he had so 
 often longed to be, in the family-circle of William Beaufort, the 
 friend of his youth, made him forget for the time being the cause 
 that had sent him there. Nor was he less glad to see Grace 
 once more, for in this separation from her, not less than in that 
 other one three years before, he had found how necessary she 
 was to his happiness. Ever since the day that she had heard the 
 avowal of his feelings with a horror which he could,not then under- 
 stand, but which after circumstances had explained, he had tried 
 to content himself with her friendship, and during those three 
 years he believed that he kad succeeded in doing so. The last 
 few months, however, had taught him his mistake, and the antici- 
 pated pleasure of being once more with her had gone very far 
 toward counterbalancing the pain of banishment. 
 
 For awhile Mr. Cameron's face wore its old familiar smile, for 
 he, too, in the comfort of being with his children once more, 
 found a compensation for the pain of leaving home; but after- 
 ward, when he felt more like one of the home-circle, and began 
 
CAMERON HALL. 537 
 
 to exercise the freedom and unrestraint which belonged to him as 
 such, the change in her father became painfully evident to Julia. 
 Often in the large assembled circle, when the conversation was 
 general, and when he thought that his silence would pass un- 
 observed, he would relapse into a sad, dreamy abstraction, which 
 plainly revealed the farrows upon his brow, and the deep lines of 
 care and trouble about his mouth. Julia's heart ached as she 
 looked at her father so sadly altered. Sometimes she wondered 
 if he could indeed be the same person, whose bright, cheerful 
 spirit used to lighten her home, but over which the war had first 
 cast a shadow, afterward so deepened by a son's disgrace, and 
 then by a daughter's death. Mr. Cameron was truly but the 
 wreck of his former self. 
 
 Woman, born to endure, can long drag the weary burden of a 
 wounded heart; but when ouce the strong, self-reliant man is 
 broken in spirit, he sinks at once beneath the load. 
 
 As time passed on, Julia watched and hoped in vain to see her 
 father regain his cheerfulness. She devoted herself to him, and 
 used every artifice to divert his thoughts from home, and in this 
 she was warmly seconded by the kind friends whose guest he was. 
 He saw and appreciated their constant effort to promote his com- 
 fort. He knew that his pleasure was always considered, and that 
 they studied to make him feel at home. He was very grateful; 
 but the old man could not forget the Hall, could not forget that 
 he was an exile. He tried hard to keep it all to himself He 
 would not cloud the happiness of others, nor would he be so un- 
 grateful as to show that all the efforts of his warm-hearted friends 
 to make him comfortable and happy were in vain. He tried to be 
 cheerful and even gay, and strangers thought that his was a won- 
 derfully buoyant heart ; but Uncle John and Julia, who knew 
 him better, saw with a pang the effort that he made, for they 
 knew well the home-sick longing that was hidden beneath that 
 cheerful exterior. The exile was weary of his banishment; the 
 wanderer longed to go home. Day by day he grew perceptibly 
 older, and weeks seemed to do for him the work of years. His 
 hair rapidly silvered, his strength was soon all gone, his eye lost 
 its brightness, and Mr. Cameron had become an infirm old man. 
 
 Uncle John and Julia watched him anxiously, but in silence. 
 Neither spoke the fears which tortured both ; but they often 
 thought, with sad foreboding, of those words of his own, which 
 now seemed about to become prophetic : " the old heart will not 
 bear transplanting." 
 
 It was a sweet day in May, and Mr. Cameron was lying upon 
 the sofa beside an open window. He was looking out upon a 
 beautiful Southern landscape, but it was not a home-picture, and 
 
 46 
 
538 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 he sighed deeply as he remembered the mountains that encircled 
 Hopedale, the bright-green fields around the Hall, the grove, 
 and the little brook, whose glad, cheerful voice had seemed to him 
 alike in childhood, manhood, and old age, the very sweetest and 
 most musical ripple that waters ever had. 
 
 Julia sat by her father in silence. She was never away from him 
 now ; but she did not talk much to him. She generally watched 
 his pale and wasted and care-worn features, and a heavy weight 
 seemed crushing the very life out of her heart. 
 
 Presently he turned his eyes languidly away from the land- 
 scape, and fixed them upon Julia. 
 
 " Come here, my daughter," he said. " Come close to me." 
 
 He took her hand and held it fast, and looking at her with a 
 moistened eye, said, in a tone of plaintive sorrow that smote her 
 to her very heart : 
 
 "I cannot bear it, my child, and I knew in the beginning that 
 I could not. Friends are kind and I am grateful, but I want to 
 go home, daughter, — I want to go home !" 
 
 The last thought, the last word of the broken-hearted exile 
 was "home." He was right: he could not bear transplant- 
 ing! 
 
 His heart had yearned for home, but he found his last home 
 among strangers. Stranger-hands laid him away to rest, and 
 stranger-hearts mourned for him, and strangers laid the flowers 
 that he loved upon his grave. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXY. 
 
 About three weeks after her father's death, Julia read in the 
 newspapers the announcement of the evacuation of Hopedale by 
 the Federal troops, who were all being concentrated in the 
 Army of the Potomac, for General Grant's campaign against 
 Richmond. 
 
 She laid the paper down with a sigh, and murmured : 
 " Too late — too late for him ! but I must go home !" 
 She pointed out the paragraph to Uncle John, and said : 
 " When may I go. Uncle John ?" 
 
 "My child," he answered, "i would not advise you to go at 
 all. The evacuation may only be temporary, for Hopedale is 
 
CAMERON HALL. 539 
 
 Still within Federal lines, and may at any moment be occupied 
 
 again." 
 
 He paused a moment, thought of the probable ruin and deso- 
 lation of the Hall, and taking her hand, his voice trembled, as 
 
 he added : 
 
 " Daughter, the old Hall is changed now. It will not look like 
 
 home. I would not go." 
 
 She shook her head sadly, as she replied : 
 
 "I must go, Uncle John. I want to go home." 
 
 He looked at the quivering lip, the sunken eye, the pale cheek; 
 he thought of the burden of sorrow that had been laid upon that 
 young heart, which three years before had known grief and 
 trouble only by name ; he thought, too, of the exile on whose 
 now sealed lips he had so often heard the same words: " I want 
 to go home;" and it was not in Uncle John's heart to refuse her. 
 So he answered : 
 
 "You shall go, my daughter." 
 
 It was a bright May morning, when, after a weary journey 
 over the well-remembered road, the party came in sight of Cam- 
 eron Hall. The country through which they had passed on the 
 preceding day had somewhat prepared Grace and Julia for the 
 scene of desolation which awaited them at home. Ruined home- 
 steads, ravaged plantations, fenceless fields, and blackened walls 
 bore mournful witness to the desolating march of a relentless 
 and merciless foe; and when a turn in the road revealed the 
 Hall, still standing, with a sigh of relief Uncle John ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 '' Thank God ! the old house is still left !" 
 
 The sun was shining as brightly and the birds were singing 
 as merrily as they used to do, in the days of happiness and pros- 
 perity at the Hall; but all else was changed, sadly changed. 
 Not a word was spoken as they drove through the grove ; and as 
 soon as they had crossed the brook, Julia got out of the carriage 
 and walked alone along the familiar path. She was too much 
 oppressed for tears, and her heart ached with a new pang at 
 almost every step, for every feature of the scene was painfully 
 identified with her father, and Walter, and Eva, and with memo- 
 ries of her childhood's happiness. When she reached the walnut- 
 tree, she turned aside from the path, and a few steps brought her 
 to the little family burying- ground, in a quiet spot, under the 
 shade of a group of oaks. The iron railing that had once sur- 
 rounded it was lying in fragments upon the ground, the monu- 
 ments were broken and defaced, and the soft, green sward, that 
 had once covered the graves, had only invited the desecrating 
 tread of cattle. She turned away heart-sick, but as she was 
 
 r 
 
540 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 about to leave the spot her eye was attracted by a mound that 
 she knew was not there when she left home. It was just at the 
 foot of Agnes's grave, was covered with nettles and brambles, 
 and a rough head-board, with the sim])le word "Joe" rudely 
 carved upon it, was the only memorial of that aimless, hopeless, 
 joyless existence, which had always seemed much more like death 
 than life. One single flower smiled upon its dreary desolation, 
 and that had wandered from a running vine that grew upon 
 Agnes's grave, a frail memorial of the tie that, in life, had bound 
 together those two quiet sleepers. 
 
 When she reached the lawn, Julia found the fence gone, the splen- 
 did old trees felled, and the smooth velvet turf plowed by deep un- 
 sightly ruts. The graveled carriage-way was overgrown with grass, 
 and the flower-borders on each side were a tangled mass of wild 
 luxuriant weeds. No careful hand had pruned Eva's rose-bushes, 
 and their long ungraceful branches extended far over the walk. 
 Julia paused at the now empty pit. The sash, shattered and 
 broken, was hanging upon one hinge, fragments of jars and boxes 
 were scattered about, and dead stalks of heliotropes, azaleas, and 
 camellias were lying around. One jar alone remained, and the 
 wreck of a magnificent geranium, which had once been Eva's 
 pride, as it now stood there, with its crisp, dead leaves, the soli- 
 tary remnant of the luxuriant vegetation by which it had once 
 been surrounded, seemed a fitting emblem of the daughter and 
 sister returning alone to the wreck of her once happy home. 
 Whichever way she turned, all was silent and mournful desola- 
 tion. Is"ot even the familiar faces and voices of the servants had 
 come to welcome her; and oppressed as with a mighty weight, 
 she felt as she might have done if, after a long absence, she had 
 rushed to clasp to her heart her living father, and had suddenly 
 found herself instead clinging to his cold and lifeless corpse. 
 Yes, it was indeed but the corpse of her old home I 
 
 But if the scene without was sad, it was even more distressing 
 when she went into the house. Carpetless floors stained and 
 marred; broken furniture; walls covered with obscene and blas- 
 phemous language; shattered windows, from which the once hand- 
 some curtains hung in shreds, — all combined to form a chaos of 
 hopeless ruin. Julia wandered about like one in a dream. Even 
 while she looked upon the same scene repeated in every room, 
 she could not realize it. Her wildest imaginings had never pic- 
 tured anything like this ; and, stupefied with amazement and sorrow, 
 she passed from room to room with no settled purpose except to 
 avoid the library. All the other rooms in the house had separate 
 and distinct associations. In one, her father's image came up 
 clear and distinct before her; in another, she saw Eva; and in 
 
CAMERON HALL. 541 
 
 another, Willie : but the library was, as it were, the liome of her 
 home, the spot where all her pleasantest and most sacred memo- 
 ries were concentrated. There, father and children had been 
 most together; there, she specially remembered Eva and Willie. 
 It was the family shrine. No, she could not yet go into the 
 library, she could not yet bear to see upon that sacred spot the 
 traces of the spoiler's hand. Tw^o or three times she had gone to 
 the door, but had as often turned away with a sickening dread, 
 and murmuring " not yet," had passed to other parts of the house 
 as if trying to accustom herself elsewhere, to the sight that she 
 knew awaited her there. At last, without giving herself time 
 to shrink back, she rushed across the threshold and stood in the 
 room. 
 
 A uniformed soldier was there alone, with his back to the door, 
 his folded arms, his bowed head, his whole attitude expressive of 
 the deepest sorrow. Julia slopped in surprise, looked at him 
 doubtfully, and then advancing a few steps, was in an instant 
 locked in Walter's arms. And there they stood, the brother and 
 sister, the last of the family, looking in heart-broken silence upon 
 the desolation of their home, fit emblem of the desolation of their 
 hearts. Here indeed, as Julia had feared, ruin reigned supreme. 
 Willie's sofa was broken and defaced, and Eva's little chair, that 
 used always to sit beside it, was gone. Books were scattered 
 everywhere : some upon tables and chairs, and some upon the 
 floor ; while stray leaves were lying about, and some with half- 
 burned edges were upon the hearth. Mr. Cameron's writing- 
 desk was a total wreck, and fragments of it were in different 
 parts of the room. Julia reverently gathered them up, and felt, 
 while she was doing so, that same crushing, leaden weight which 
 was upon her heart when she stood beside her dead father. 
 There was nothing in all the house so peculiarly his own and so 
 identified with him. Julia knew that he regarded it with an 
 affection which partook of veneration. It had been his father's, 
 and after having been, as it were, the depository of his inmost 
 feehngs and most sacred treasures, it had descended to himself, 
 to be, through his life, the same trusted friend. Upon that old 
 desk his father had poured out to the woman ot his choice those 
 vows of love and protection which had won her young heart; and 
 afterward their son had, upon the same old desk, recorded his de- 
 votion to the woman who had promised to be his wife. To its 
 keeping, Julia knew that her father had always intrusted her 
 mother's letters, both before and after their marriage, and never, 
 until his exile, had they been withdrawn from its care. While 
 she was engaged in her sad work, all at once Mammy Xancy 
 burst into the room, and folding the brother and sister in her 
 
542 CAMERON HALL. 
 
 wide-spread arms, exclaimed, laughing and crying at the same 
 time : 
 
 " God bless my children ! God bless my children V\ 
 
 It was the first thing that Julia had seen that looked like 
 home, the first sound she had heard to welcome her; and the 
 tears which before had seemed frozen upon her heart, now 
 melted at once, and leaning her head upon the bosom of the 
 faithful old nurse, she sobbed and cried as if her heart would 
 break. 
 
 As soon as Grace entered the house she quietly escaped up 
 stairs, and in a few minutes stood before Agnes-'s organ. It was 
 the only thing in the house upon which no irreverent touch 
 seemed to have been laid, and the mother looked at it in silent 
 gratitude that the blind child's treasure had been respected 
 where all else had been despoiled. The old feeling was still in 
 her heart, and to her eye Agnes was now sitting there as of old, 
 and she saw the little blind face, first so full of the earnest 
 thoughts and feelings struggling to find expression, and then 
 radiant with the pleasure of having found for them their sweet 
 musical utterance. 
 
 Grace thought that she was alone ; and Uncle John stood be- 
 hind her several minutes before he could consent to interrupt her 
 pleasing reverie. 
 
 She was startled when he said : 
 
 ''You have come here, Grace, to be with Agnes." 
 
 "Yes, Uncle John," she answered. "I am always with her 
 while I am here." 
 
 She was so absorbed in her own thoughts that she did not 
 look at Uncle John, nor did she remark a strange agitation in 
 his voice and manner. 
 
 Presently he said, in a determined, resolute tone : 
 
 " I cannot live longer without you, Grace. To the child-angel 
 of my youth I owe all that is worth having in my character; to 
 the wife of my old age let me owe all the afi'ection that makes 
 that age tolerable. Oh, Grace !" he continued, in an excited and 
 hurried tone, " by the love that Agnes had for me, listen to me 
 now. Let me transfer to you the promise of love and protection 
 that I made to her, long years ago, and upon which her childish 
 heart rested with unwavering confidence until she died ; and if 
 you cannot, with your so much younger heart, love the old one 
 which is still young in its love for you, yet for Agnes's sake let 
 me love and take care of you. I will not ask you to love me 
 now; my devotion to you shall teach you to do it." 
 
 "I need no teaching, Uncle John," she faltered; "I have 
 already learned it." 
 
CAMERON HALL. 543 
 
 Uncle John was happy. He whose early life had been blighted, 
 and the ruin of whose youthful hopes and affections had been as 
 complete as the desolation now around him, stood in the midst 
 of that -chaos, serene and happy. The sunshine which generally 
 comes to the young had been reserved for him until now, and it 
 was all the brighter, and warmer, and more cheering, because it 
 came not altogether from without, but was partly the emanation 
 of his own kind, and affectionate, and unselfish heart. And 
 Grace was happy too, quietly happy in the secure possession of 
 a strong deep love, which her trusting dependent nature had 
 always needed but never had ; and not unfit was it that she, who 
 in the unconsciousness of childhood had recalled him from the 
 moodiness of a morbid despair, should find, long years afterward, 
 in his love, a blessed rest for a worn and weary heart. 
 
 THE END. 
 
«k 
 
RARE BOOK 
 COLLECTION 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 AT 
 
 CHAPEL HILL 
 
 Wilmer 
 306