ar hymns in the high soprano of white women--sang wild, plaintive
lyrics in the liquid contralto of negresses. Men were repairing fences,
and doing other Winter work in the fields, and from the woods came the
ringing staccato of choppers. She met on the road leisurely-traveling
negro women, who louted low to her, and then as she passed, turn to gaze
after her with feminine analysis and admiration for every detail of her
attire. Then came "Uncle Tom" looking men, driving wagons loaded with
newly-riven rails, breathing the virile pungency of freshly-cut oak.
Occasionally an old white man or woman rode by, greeting her with a
courteous "Howdy?"

The serenity everywhere intoxicated her with a half-belief that
the terrible Rebel army at Murfreesboro was only a nightmare of
fear-oppressed brains, and in her relief she was ready to burst out in
echo of a triumphant hymn ringing from a weaving-shed at her right.

Her impulse was checked by seeing approach a figure harshly dissonant to
Arcadian surroundings.

It was a young man riding a powerful roan horse at an easy gallop, and
carrying in his hand, ready for instant use, a 16-shooting Henry rifle.
He was evidently a scout, but, as was usual with that class, his uniform
was so equally made up of blue and gray that it was impossible to tell
to which side he belonged. He reined up as he saw Rachel, and looked at
her for a moment in a way that chilled her. They were now on a lonely
bit of road, out of sight and hearing of any person or house. All a
woman's fears rose up in her heart, but she shut her lips firmly, and
rode directly toward the scout. Another thought seemed to enter his
mind, he touched his horse up with his heel, and rode by her, saying
courteously:

"Good morning, Miss," but eyeing her intently as they passed. She
returned the salutation with a firm voice, and rode onward, but at
a little distance could not resist the temptation to turn and look
backward. To her horror the scout had stopped, half-turned his horse,
and was watching her as if debating whether or not to come back after
her. She yielded to the impulse of fear, struck her mare a stinging
blow, and the animal flew away.

Her fright subsided as she heard no hoof-beats following her, and when
she raised her eyes, she saw that she was approaching the village of
Lavergne, half-way to Murfreesboro, and that a party of Rebel cavalry
were moving toward her. She felt less tremor at this first sight of the