mortality. The sun was rising in the
east, but his soul was far beyond it; and the sunlight came in and
kissed the quiet pale face, that looked so peaceful and so happy there
could be no lamentation over it.

That day came his parole; the parole which we had so exerted ourselves
to obtain that he might go home to get well; and now it had found him
far beyond the captivity of bar or flesh--a freed spirit, 'gone up on
high.'

The kindness of the Government induced us to ask one more favor, which
was granted us. They let us take him home to Washington and bury him in
the place he had always wished to be buried in; and some Confederate
prisoners were given permission to attend his funeral. So he was buried
as a soldier should be buried, borne to the grave by his comrades, and
mourned by the woman dearest to him. He lies now on the sunniest slope
in that green graveyard, where the waters rush near his resting place,
and the trees make a shade for the daisies that brighten above him.

He died as the sun rose on the first of June; we buried him early on the
morning of the fifth. That night I left Washington, glad that it was to
be no longer my place of residence, glad that my family would soon
follow me to make another home where I could be stung by no
associations. The old house passed into the hands of my elder sister,
who is married to a Congressman from the West. But during this winter I
have been so often homesick, and this early spring has been so chill and
bleak compared with the May days of Washington, that I was fain to come
back for a brief hour; and I have chosen to come in these last May days,
that the first of June might find me here, true to the memory of the
past.

There is nothing left of the old days; the place is changed from what it
once was; the streets swarm with soldiers and strange faces; the houses
are used by Government, or are dwelt in by strangers; there is scarcely
a trace in this Sodom of the Sodom before the flood. No, there is
nothing left for me now, of the things I used to know, except the little
wren, whose song broke my heart this morning; and there is nothing here
for me to care for, except that young grave in Georgetown, whose white
cross bears but the initials and the date. I must now try to make myself
a new life elsewhere, and to-morrow I go forth, shaking off the dust
that soils my garments; hoping for the promise of the rainbow in this
storm--and sure of the strength that will not