he will take us
again to her bosom. I will pray to Earth, that I may have rest on her
tranquil breast."

The schoolmaster passed on, and the sad little dreamer arose with
difficulty, and passed for the last time from the light of the sun.

When the schoolmaster walked by next morning the door stood open. The
little girl looked in, and then ran away as if afraid. Did she see with
her child vision the face of death? The Schoolmaster, perhaps fearing to
compromise his character by any association with this singular being,
hurried on after the little girl, and did not turn around or look back
till he had set foot over the sill of the little log school-house on the
hill. His heart was beating very wildly. He had said nothing, he had
heard nothing, he had seen nothing. But somehow the man's heart was
beating with a strange terror, and he wanted to turn back and enter the
cabin, and speak once more to the lonely little sufferer.

The man called his school to order, however, took off his coat, hung it
up behind the door, ran his two hands through his hair, time and again,
but failing to pacify himself by this means, called out a little boy,
and flogged him soundly.

He afterwards remembered that there was a black cat sitting in the door
as he passed, quietly washing her face, yet at the same time looking
intently at him out of her green eyes.

The heroes of the world are women. The women, as a rule, have done the
great deeds of valor. Men, however, have written the histories and
appropriated a great deal indeed to themselves.

I know very well that in a certain kind of noisy heroism man makes a
great mark, and instances of valor, even in a quiet way, where man
fights his battle alone and in the dark, without the observation or
applause of the world, are not wanting. But the great battles, in
darkness and disgrace, where death and ignominy waited, the small-great
battles, the heart the battle-field, where no friend would come, where
no pen should chronicle, these silent fights have been fought and won by
women.

Understanding all this I can understand why the Widow chose to bear all
the reproof, and let her friend, the refugee, the dreamer, the "Poet,"
live and die unknown and in peace.

The next morning as the Schoolmaster came by, with the little girl
sliding up close to his legs, on the opposite side from the cabin, the
Widow with a face of unutterable sadness was outside trying to tie a
piece of something black to