been
presumption--and God wills that you shall undergo bitter affliction--it
is a fearful awakening! What glory have we ever rendered to God that we
should expect him to be so merciful to us? Are not all things His, and
is not He infinitely more tender and compassionate than we deserve?

We have deceived ourselves wilfully about both. After the first dismay
on hearing of Gibbes's capture, we readily listened to the assertions
of our friends that Johnson's Island was the healthiest place in the
world; that he would be better off, comfortably clothed and under
shelter, than exposed to shot and shell, half fed, and lying on the
bare ground during Ewell's winter campaign. We were thankful for his
safety, knowing Brother would leave nothing undone that could add to
his comfort. And besides that, there was the sure hope of his having
him paroled. On that hope we lived all winter--now confident that in a
little while he would be with us, then again doubting for a while, only
to have the hope grow surer afterwards. And so we waited and prayed,
never doubting he would come at last. He himself believed it, though
striving not to be too hopeful lest he should disappoint us, as well as
himself. Yet he wrote cheerfully and bravely to the last. Towards the
middle of January, Brother was sure of succeeding, as all the prisoners
had been placed under Butler's control. Ah me! How could we be so
blind? We were sure he would be with us in a few weeks! I wrote to him
that I had prepared his room.

On the 30th of January came his last letter, addressed to me, though
meant for Lavinia. It was dated the 12th--the day George died. All his
letters pleaded that I would write more frequently--he loved to hear
from me; so I had been writing to him every ten days. On the 3d of
February I sent my last. Friday the 5th, as I was running through
Miriam's room, I saw Brother pass the door, and heard him ask Miriam
for mother. The voice, the bowed head, the look of utter despair on his
face, struck through me like a knife. "Gibbes! Gibbes!" was my sole
thought; but Miriam and I stood motionless looking at each other
without a word. "Gibbes is dead," said mother as he stood before her.
He did not speak; and then we went in.

We did not ask how, or when. That he was dead was enough for us. But
after a while he told us Uncle James had written that he had died at
two o'clock on Thursday the 21st. Still we did not know how he had
died. Several letters tha