arge as that!--Tell
you what, Judith. D'ye remember 'Woodstock' and Cromwell in it? Well,
Stonewall Jackson's like Cromwell--of course, a better man, and a
greater general, and a nobler cause, but still he's like him! Don't you
fret! Cromwell had to listen to the truth. He did it, and so will
Stonewall Jackson. Such damned stuff and nonsense! It hurts me worse
than that old bayonet jab ever could! I'd like to hear what Edward
says."

"He says, 'Duck your head and let it go by. The grass'll grow as green
to-morrow.'"

"You aren't crying, are you, Judith?--I thought not. You aren't the
crying kind. Don't do it. War's the stupidest beast."

"Yes, it is."

"Cousin Margaret's with Richard, isn't she?"

"Not with him--that couldn't be, they said. But she and Miriam have gone
to Merry Mount. It's in the lines. I have had a note from her."

"What did she say?--You don't mind, Judith?"

"No, Rob, I don't mind. It was just a verse from a psalm. She said, _I
had fainted unless I had believed to see the goodness of the Lord in the
land of the living.... Be of good courage and He shall strengthen thy
heart._"

Later, in her room again, she sat by the window through the greater part
of the night. The stars were large and soft, the airs faint, the jasmine
in the garden below smelled sweet. The hospital day stretched before
her; she must sleep so that she could work. She never thought--in that
city and time no woman thought--of ceasing from service because of
private grief. Moreover, work was her salvation. She would be betimes at
the hospital to-morrow, and she would leave it late. She bent once more
a long look upon the east, where were the camp-fires of Lee and
Stonewall Jackson. In imagination she passed the sentries; she moved
among the sleeping brigades. She found one tent, or perhaps it would be
instead a rude cabin.... She stretched her arms upon the window-sill,
and they and her thick fallen hair were wet at last with her tears.

Three days passed. On the third afternoon she left the hospital early
and went to St. Paul's. She chose again the dusk beneath the gallery,
and she prayed dumbly, fiercely, "O God.... O God--"

The church was fairly filled. The grey army was now but a little way
without the city; it had come back to the seven hills after the seven
days. It had come back the hero, the darling. Richmond took the cypress
from her doors; put off the purple pall and tragic mask. Last July
Richmond was to fall,