aint, though Mrs. James has,
across the street, and is even now being carried into the house. Few of
us can see into the hearts of those women that day, and speak of the
suffering there.

Near the head of Mr. Blair's regiment is Tom. His face is cast down as he
passes the house from which he is banished. Nor do father, or mother, or
sister in their agony make any sound or sign. George is coming. The
welcome and the mourning and the tears are all for him.

The band is playing "Dixie" once more. George is coming, and some one
else. The girls are standing in a knot bend the old people, dry-eyed,
their handkerchiefs in their hands. Some of the prisoners take off their
hats and smile at the young lady with the chiselled features and brown
hair, who wears the red and white of the South as if she were born to
them. Her eyes are searching. Ah, at last she sees him, walking erect at
the head of his dragoons. He gives her one look of entreaty, and that
smile which should have won her heart long ago. As if by common consent
the heads of the troopers are uncovered before her. How bravely she waves
at them until they are gone down the street! Then only do her eyes fill
with tears, and she passes into the house.

Had she waited, she might have seen a solitary figure leaving the line of
march and striding across to Pine Street.

That night the sluices of the heavens were opened, and the blood was
washed from the grass in Lindell Grove. The rain descended in floods on
the distracted city, and the great river rose and flung brush from
Minnesota forests high up on the stones of the levee. Down in the long
barracks weary recruits, who had stood and marched all the day long, went
supperless to their hard pallets.

Government fare was hard. Many a boy, prisoner or volunteer, sobbed
himself to sleep in the darkness. All were prisoners alike, prisoners of
war. Sobbed themselves to sleep, to dream of the dear homes that were
here within sight and sound of them, and to which they were powerless to
go. Sisters, and mothers, and wives were there, beyond the rain, holding
out arms to them.

Is war a thing to stir the blood? Ay, while the day lasts. But what of
the long nights when husband and wife have lain side by side? What of the
children who ask piteously where their father is going, and who are
gathered by a sobbing mother to her breast? Where is the picture of that
last breakfast at home? So in the midst of the cheer which is saddest i