ness and pain!

During these days Stonewall Jackson was making one of his brilliant
campaigns in the Valley, the Valley of Virginia, the beautiful valley of
the Shenandoah. On the last morning in May, while reading the war news,
Anne found in one corner a little list of dead. And there, in small
letters, which grew to great size, and inscribed themselves on the walls
of the room, one succeeding the other like a horrible dream, was the
name, Ward Heathcote. "Captain Ward Heathcote,---- New York Volunteers."
She turned the sheet; it was repeated in the latest news column, and
again in a notice on the local page. "Captain Ward Heathcote,---- New
York Volunteers, is reported among the slain," followed by those brief
items of birth, age, and general history which appall our eyes when we
first behold them on the printed page, and realize that they are now
public property, since they belong only to the dead.

It was early. She was at home in the half-house. She rose, put on her
bonnet and gloves, walked to the station, took the first train to the
city, and went to Helen.

She reached the house, and was denied entrance. Mrs. Heathcote could see
no one.

Was any one with her? Miss Teller?

Miss Teller, the man answered, was absent from the city; but a
telegraphic dispatch had been sent, and she was on her way home. There
was no relative at present with Mrs. Heathcote; friends she was not able
to see. And he looked with some curiosity at this plainly dressed young
person, who stood there quite unconscious, apparently, of the atmosphere
of his manner. And yet Mr. Simpson had a very well regulated manner,
founded upon the best models--a manner which had never heretofore failed
in its effect. With a preliminary cough, he began to close the door.

"Wait," said this young person, almost as though she had some authority.
She drew forth a little note-book, tore out a leaf, wrote a line upon
it, and handed him the improvised card. "Please take this to Mrs.
Heathcote," she said. "I think she will see me."

See her--see _her_--when already members of the highest circles of the
city had been refused! With a slight smile of superior scorn, Simpson
took the little slip, and leaving the stranger on the steps, went
within, partially closing the door behind him. But in a few minutes he
hastily returned, and with him was a sedate middle-aged woman, whom he
called Mrs. Bagshot, and who, although quiet in manner, seemed decidedly
to outrank