clue. The sudden breaking
down of her hope was terrible. The conductor placed her in care of a
gentleman going her way and left her sobbing. At the next station the
conductor came to ask her about her baggage. She raised her head to try
and answer. "Don't cry so, you'll find him yet." She gave a start, jumped
from her seat with arms flung out and eyes staring. "There he is now!" she
cried. Her husband stood before her.

The gentleman beside her yielded his seat, and as hand grasped hand a
hysterical gurgle gave place to a look like Heaven's peace. The low murmur
of their talk began, and when I looked round at the next station they had
bought pies and were eating them together like happy children.

Midway between Jackson and Vicksburg we reached the station near where
Annie's parents were staying. I looked out, and there stood Annie with a
little sister on each side of her, brightly smiling at us. Max had written
to H., but we had not seen them since our parting. There was only time for
a word and the train flashed away.

FOOTNOTES:
[33] On this plantation, and in this domestic circle, I myself afterward
sojourned, and from them enlisted in the Confederate army. The initials
are fictitious, but the description is perfect.--G.W.C.

XII.

VICKSBURG.

We reached Vicksburg that night and went to H.'s room. Next morning the
cook he had engaged arrived, and we moved into this house. Martha's
ignorance keeps me busy, and H. is kept close at his office.

_January 7th, 1863_.--I have had little to record recently, for we have
lived to ourselves, not visiting or visited. Every one H. knows is absent,
and I know no one. H. tells me of the added triumph since the repulse of
Sherman in December, and the one paper published here shouts victory as
much as its gradually diminishing size will allow. Paper is a serious
want. There is a great demand for envelopes in the office where H. is. He
found and bought a lot of thick and smooth colored paper, cut a tin
pattern, and we have whiled away some long evenings making envelopes. I
have put away a package of the best to look at when we are old. The books
I brought from Arkansas have proved a treasure, but we can get no more. I
went to the only book-store open; there were none but Mrs. Stowe's "Sunny
Memories of Foreign Lands." The clerk said I could have that cheap,
because he couldn't sell her books, so I am reading it now. The monotony
has only been broken by letters from f