took a part in
battles near whatever place of refuge he had found for those dependent
on him. We note, for instance, that he helped in the Confederate attack
on Baton Rouge, together with General Carter, whose age had prevented
him from taking regular service.

A word more as to the author of this Diary, and I have finished.

The war over, Sarah Morgan knitted together the threads of her torn
life and faced her present, in preparation for whatever the future
might hold. In South Carolina, under Reconstruction, she met a young
Englishman, Captain Francis Warrington Dawson, who had left his home in
London to fight for a cause where his chivalrous nature saw right
threatened by might. In the Confederate navy under Commodore Pegram, in
the Army of Northern Virginia under Longstreet, at the close of the war
he was Chief Ordnance officer to General Fitzhugh Lee. But although the
force of arms, of men, of money, of mechanical resources, of
international support, had decided against the Confederacy, he refused
to acknowledge permanent defeat for Southern ideals, and so cast his
lot with those beside whom he had fought. His ambition was to help his
adopted country in reconquering through journalism and sound politics
that which seemed lost through war. What he accomplished in South
Carolina is a matter of public record to-day. The part played in this
work by Sarah Morgan as his wife is known to all who approached them
during their fifteen years of a married life across which no shadow
ever fell.

Sarah Morgan Dawson was destined to outlive not only her husband, but
all save three of her eight brothers and sisters, and most of the
relatives and friends mentioned in the pages which follow; was destined
to endure deep affliction once more, and to renounce a second home
dearer than that first whose wreck she recorded during the war. Yet
never did her faith, her courage, her steadfastness fail her, never did
the light of an almost childlike trust in God and in mankind fade from
her clear blue eyes. The Sarah Morgan who, as a girl, could stifle her
sobs as she forced herself to laugh or to sing, was the mother I knew
in later years.

I love most to remember her in the broad tree-shaded avenues of
Versailles where, dreaming of a distant tragic past, she found ever new
strength to meet the present. Death claimed her not far from there, in
Paris, at a moment when her daughter in America, her son in Africa,
were powerless to reach h