me, on walls, floors and
court-house steps, the blood-spots where seven or eight of the feudists
have perished. I declined to go,--it is sad enough to know such things
exist, without seeing them face to face. Besides, I have enough that is
depressing in my own thoughts.

When I locked the doors of the old home day before yesterday, I felt as
a ghost may when it wanders forth from the tomb. For a year I had not
been off the place; it seemed I should never have the courage to go
again. For I am one whom death has robbed of everything,--not only of my
present but of my future. In the past seven years all has gone; and with
Mother's passing a year ago, my very reason for existence went.

And yet none knows better than I that this sitting down with sorrow is
both dangerous and wrong; if there is any Lethe for such pain as mine,
any way of filling in the lonely, dreaded years ahead of me, I must find
it. It would be better if I had some spur of necessity to urge me on. As
it is, I am all apathy. If there is anything that could interest me, it
is some form of social service. A remarkable settlement work being done
in the mountains of my own state recently came to my attention; and I
wrote the head-workers and arranged for the visit on which I am now
embarked. I scarcely dare to hope, however, that I shall find a field of
usefulness,--nothing interests me any more, and also, I have no gifts,
and have never been trained for anything. My dearest ambition was to
make a home, and have a houseful of children; and this, alas, was not to
be!

_Night._

Howard Cleves, a big boy from the settlement school, has just arrived
with the wagon--he says he had to "lay by" twenty-four hours on account
of the "tide"--and we are to start at five in the morning.

SETTLEMENT SCHOOL ON PERILOUS.
_Sunday, In Bed._

I have passed through two days of torture in that wagon. When we were
not following the rocky beds of creeks, or sinking to the hubs in
mudholes, we were winding around precipitous mountainsides where a
misstep of the mules would have sent us hundreds of feet down. Nowhere
was there an actual road,--as Howard expressed it, "This country is
intended for nag-travel, not for wagons." The mules climbed over logs
and bowlders, and up and down great shelves of rock, the jolting,
crashing, banging were indescribable, my poor bones were racked until I
actually wept from the pain and would have turned back long before noon