blood. It needed only the letter that
lay beneath to make everything clear.

"Dear Bob," the letter began in the unmistakable neat hand we had read
on the top of the box, "I cannot leave you without this word. I cannot
explain--my brain is on fire, I think--but try to judge with lenience.
Blood-poisoning set in, and my father died in hospital last week. On
his dying bed I swore to him that I would never raise my hand against
his country. I can't repeat all he said, but he's right, Bob, the
South is wrong! Secession is wrong. I brought the body home, but
mother could not come to the funeral. She is not at all violent, but
she will never be the same again--she didn't know me, Bob. I can't
describe how pitiful she is. Uncle James was her twin brother, you
know, and they were everything to each other. When we heard of Fort
Sumter she was nearly wild, and I promised her with my hand on her
Bible never to fight the South. I meant it then--my friends, my home
and you all. But I would have got her to release me if I could. But
she couldn't release me now, and I would die before I broke that
promise, the way she is now. I can't stay here. I couldn't look
anybody in the face. I wish I could be shot. I may be, yet. I am going
to Italy to see about those silk-worms for the plantation, that
father was interested in. The war can't last much longer and it will
be something to do. Mother is well looked after and I can't stay in
this country--it's not decent. Can you write to me, Bob? I don't ask
much--just write a line. What could I do? Write, for God's sake.

"LOCKWOOD LEE PRYNNE."

Below this signature, in a different hand, was scrawled:

"I return this letter. I have nothing to say.

"R. S. L."

Alas, alas, the pity of it! The grey moss and the blue forget-me-nots
grow together now over many a nameless grave, and Northern youth and
Southern maid pull daisy petals beside the sunken cannon ball; but the
ancient scar ploughed deep, and old records like this have heat enough
in them yet to sear the nerves of us who trembled, maybe, in the womb,
when those black lists of the wounded trembled in our mother's hands.

What a hideous thing it is! Can any bugle's screaming cover those
anguished cries, or any scarlet stripes soak up the spreading blood?
Bullets are merciful, my brothers, beside the cruel holes they pierce
in hearts they never touched.

Roger lai