you and I could
leave this place forever, and begin again somewhere else."

She looked out of the little window across our pleasant valley to its
edge, where lay the little church of the Society of Friends. Then she
turned to me slowly, with a smile upon her face. "Whatever thee says,"
was her answer. "I shall not ask thee to try to mend what cannot be
mended. Thee is like thy father," she said. "I shall not try to change
thee. Go, then, thy own way. Only hear me, thee cannot mend the
unmendable by such a wrongful marriage."

But I went; and under my arm I bore a certain roll of crinkled, hairy
parchment.

This was on the morning of Wednesday, in November, the day following the
national election in the year 1860. News traveled more slowly then, but
we in our valley might expect word from Washington by noon of that day.
If Lincoln won, then the South would secede. Two nations would
inevitably be formed, and if necessary, issue would be joined between
them as soon as the leaders could formulate their plans for war. This
much was generally conceded; and it was conceded also that the South
would start in, if war should come, with an army well supplied with
munitions of war and led by the ablest men who ever served under the old
flag--men such as Lee, Jackson, Early, Smith, Stuart--scores and
hundreds trained in arms at West Point or at the Virginia Military
Institute at Lexington--men who would be loyal to their States and to
the South at any cost.

Our State was divided, our valley especially so, peace sentiment there
being strong. The entire country was a magazine needing but a spark to
cause explosion. It was conceded that by noon we should know whether or
not this explosion was to come. Few of us there, whether Unionists or
not, had much better than contempt for the uncouth man from the West,
Lincoln, that most pathetic figure of our history, later loved by North
and South alike as greatest of our great men. We did not know him in our
valley. All of us there, Unionists or Secessionists, for peace or for
war, dreaded to hear of his election.

Colonel Sheraton met me at the door, his face flushed, his brow
frowning. He was all politics. "Have you any news?" he demanded. "Have
you heard from Leesburg, Washington?"

"Not as yet," I answered, "but there should be messages from Leesburg
within the next few hours." We had no telegraph in our valley at that
time.

"I have arranged with the postmaster to let us all know