Rose Mather: A tale

The people of Rockland had become somewhat accustomed to the “Rebel lion,” as they had playfully called Jimmie Carleton, and the latter could now go quietly through the streets without attracting attentions which at first had been vastly disagreeable to the sensitive young man. Gradually, as he mingled more with the people, they had learned to like him, and were fast forgetting that he had ever joined the ranks of the foe and struck at his mother country. With the rabble who had met him at the depot on his first arrival at Rockland he was vastly popular, for forcing down his pride, he had been very conciliatory toward them, and they still adhered to their olden promise of making him their next police justice, provided he would consent to run.

With his usual impudence, Bill Baker continued to annoy the proud Bostonian with his good-humored familiarities, some of which Jimmie permitted, while others he quietly repulsed, for Bill’s constant allusions to the past were exceedingly disagreeable, and as far as possible he avoided his quondam associate, who, without the least suspicion that his manner was disgusting in the extreme, would hail him across the street, addressing him always as “Corp’ral,” and if strangers were in hearing, inviting him to “call ’round and see a fellar once in a while for old acquaintance sake.”

At the Mather mansion matters remained about the same as when Jimmie first came home. Mrs. Carleton was still there, waiting for her other son, and Rose, as usual, was ever on the alert, seeking ways and means by which the soldiers might be benefited, compelling Jimmie to be interested in all her plans, dragging him from place to place, sending him on errands; and once, when in a great hurry to get a box in readiness for the hospitals at Washington, actually coaxing him into helping tie a comfortable, which was put up in her back parlor, and which she “must send immediately, for some poor fellow was sure to need it.” “Jimmie could learn to tie as well as herself,” she said, when he pleaded his ignorance as an excuse for refusing his services. “She didn’t know how once, but Widow Simms and Annie had taught her a heap, and Annie would teach him, too. All he had to do was to put the big darning needle through twice, tie a weaver’s knot, cut it off, and the thing was done; besides that, ’twas a real pretty quilt, made from Annie’s calico dress, which she used to wear last summer and look so sweetly in. Annie was tying on one side and Jimmie must tie on the other; he needn’t be so lazy. He ought to do something for the war.”

By the time Rose had reached the last points in her argument, Jimmie had closed the book he was reading, and concluded that there might be duties required of him a great deal worse than tying a soldier’s comfortable with Annie to oversee! It was strange how much teaching he needed, and how often Annie was called to the rescue. The needle would stick so in the cotton, and he could not remember just how to tie that knot. So Annie, never dreaming that he knew how to tie the knot as well as she, would come to his aid, her hands sometimes touching his, and his black curls occasionally brushing her pale, brown braids as he bent over her to see how she did it so as to know himself next time! There was a world of mischief in Jimmie’s saucy eyes as he demurely apologized to Mrs. Graham for the trouble he was giving her, but Annie never once looked up, neither did the color deepen in the least upon her cheek, and when Jimmie, on purpose to draw her out, suggested that “he was more bother than help,” she answered that he “had better return to his reading, as she could get on quite as well alone.”

After this, Jimmie thought proper to learn a little faster, and soon outstripped his teacher, who rewarded him with no word of approval save a cool “Thank you,” when the comfortable was done and taken from the awkward frames. And this was a fair specimen of the nature of the intercourse existing between Jimmie and Annie. Secure now in the belief that she would never be recognized as the “Pequot of New London,” Annie regarded Jimmie as any ordinary stranger, in whom she had no particular interest, save that which her kind heart prompted her to feel for all mankind. She could not dislike him, and she always defended him from the aspersions of the widow, who could not quite conquer her repugnance to a Rebel, and who frequently gave vent to her ill will toward Jimmie, whom she thought so proud.

“Stuck-up critter!” she said, “struttin’ round as if he was good as anybody, and feelin’ above his betters. Of course he felt above her, and Susan, and Annie, she knew he did; and if she’s Annie she vummed if she’d stay there, and be looked at as Jim looked at her.”

Although making due allowance for the widow’s prejudice, these remarks were not without their effect upon Annie, who, imperceptibly to herself, began to feel that probably Jimmie did regard her as merely a poor dependent on his sister’s bounty, and she unconsciously assumed toward him a cool reserved manner, which led him to fancy that she entertained for him a deep-rooted prejudice on account of his past error. Twenty times a day he said to himself he did not care what she thought of him, and as many times a day he knew he did care much more than was at all conducive to his peace of mind. Where this caring might end he never stopped to consider. He only felt now that he respected the Quaker-like Annie more than he ever respected a woman before, and coveted her good opinion more earnestly than he ever remembered to have coveted anything in his life, unless, indeed, it were his freedom when a prisoner in Bill Baker’s power.

In this state of affairs it required all Rose’s tact to sustain anything like sociability between her brother and Annie, and the little lady was perfectly delighted when the joyful tidings was received that Tom was coming home. Annie would like Tom, for everybody did; besides, Tom had written as if he were almost a good man himself, and Annie was sure to be pleased with that; they, at least, would be fast friends; and secure on this point. Rose, with her usual impulsiveness, plunged into the preparations for Tom’s reception. Even Annie did not think any reasonable honor too great for him, particularly after Isaac wrote from Washington to his mother, telling her of Tom’s generous sacrifice, and how he might have been home long before if he had not chosen to stay and care for a poor, sick boy. How the widow’s heart warmed toward the Carletons, taking the whole family into its hitherto rather limited dimensions. Even Jimmie was not excluded, the widow admitting to Mrs. Baker, between whom and herself there had been many a hot discussion touching the so-called Rebel, that when he laughed, “he was uncommon handsome for a Secessioner,” and she presumed that “at the bottom he was as good they would average.”

But if the widow were thus affected by Tom’s kind act, how much more were the mother and sister pleased to know how noble and good he was, while Annie, amid the tears she could not repress, said to Rose,

“You should be proud of such a brother! There are few like him, I am sure!”

How Jimmie envied Tom, as he heard, on all sides, praises for his noble unselfishness, and the resolution to welcome him and Isaac with military honors. Once more in his element, Bill Baker industriously drilled his clique, who were to answer no earthly purpose save to swell the throng and prolong the deafening cheers. Bill began to feel related to the Carletons, and regularly each day he called at the Mather mansion to keep Rose posted with regard to the progress of affairs. They were to bring out the new gun, he said, and as it was minus a name, the villagers had concluded to call it the “Thomas Carleton,” asking “how she thought the ’Square would like it, and how many times it ought to be fired. The band would serenade Tom in the evening,” he said, “and we shall have bonfires kindled in the streets,” talking as if instead of being merely cannon-tender, he were head manager of the whole, and that all the responsibility was resting on himself. Rose understood him perfectly, and with the utmost good nature listened to his suggestions, and scolded Jimmie for calling him her prime minister and confidant.

From the cupola of the Mather mansion the Stars and Stripes were to be hung out, and on the morning of Tom’s expected arrival, Jimmie and Annie climbed the winding stairs and fastened the staff securely to its place. There were tears in Annie’s eyes as the graceful folds shook themselves to the breeze, for she remembered the coming of another soldier when this same banner was wrapped around a coffin. Across the valley and beyond the confines of the village she could see where that coffin with its loved inmate was buried, and as the past came rushing over her, she suddenly gave way, and sitting down beneath the flag wept bitterly, while Jimmie, with a vague idea as to what might have caused her tears, stood looking at her, wishing he could comfort her. But what should he say? As yet they had scarcely passed the bounds of the most scrupulous politeness to each other, and for him to attempt to comfort her seemed preposterous, while to leave her without a word, seemed equally unkind. Perhaps it was the beautiful glossy braids of hair which brought him at last to a decision, causing him to lay his hand involuntarily upon the bowed head, while he said:

“I am sorry for you, Mrs. Graham, for I know how much the contrast between my brother’s return and that of your husband must affect you, and gladly would I spare you the pain, if I could. I am not certain but the good people of Rockland, in their intended kindness to Tom, are doing you an injury, and surely Lieutenant Graham, having been a resident of this place, should receive their first thought with all pertaining to him.”

There was no mistaking the genuine sympathy which thrilled in every tone of Jimmie’s voice, and for a moment Annie wept more passionately than before. It was the first time he had ever spoken to her of her husband, and his words touched a responsive chord at once.

“It is not that so much,” she answered, at last. “I am glad they are honoring your brother thus; he richly deserves it for his noble adherence to his country in her hour of peril, and for his generous treatment of poor Isaac Simms. I would do much myself to show him my respect; but oh, George, George, I am so desolate without him!” and covering her face with her hands, Annie wept again, more piteously than before.

Here was a point which Jimmie could not touch, and an awkward silence ensued, broken at last by Annie, who, resuming her usual calm demeanor, frankly offered Jimmie her hand, saying:

“I thank you, Mr. Carleton, for your sympathy. It has made me believe you are my friend, and as such I would rather consider you.”

“Your friend! Did you ever deem me other than that?” Jimmie replied in some surprise, involuntarily pressing the little hand which only for an instant rested in his, and then was quietly withdrawn just as Rose from the foot of the stairs called out to know “what they were doing up there so long.”

It was strange how differently Jimmie felt after this incident, and how fast his spirits rose. The few words said to him by Annie up in his sister’s cupola had made him very happy, for he felt that a better understanding existed between himself and Annie, that she did not so thoroughly despise him as he had at first supposed, and that the winning her respect was not a hopeless task.

As early as two the crowd began to gather in the streets, and half an hour later Rose’s carriage, with Jimmie in it, was on its way to the depot. Mrs. Carleton did not care to go, and so Rose, too, remained at home, and mounting to the cupola, watched for the first wreath of smoke which should herald the approach of the train.

“I see it,—he’s coming!” she screamed, as a feathery mist was discernible over the distant plains, and in a few moments more the cars swept round the curve, while a booming gun told that Bill Baker was faithful to his duty.

There was a swaying to and fro of the throng at the depot, a pushing each other aside, a trilling of fife, a beating of drums, and then a deafening shout went up as Tom Carleton and John Simms appeared upon the platform, carefully supporting the tottering steps of the weak, excited boy, who stood between them. At sight of Isaac, there was a momentary hush, and then, with a shriek such as a tigress might give when it saw its young in danger, the Widow Simms rushed frantically forward, and catching the light form of her child in her arms, tried to bear him through the crowd, but her strength was insufficient, and she would have fallen had not Jimmie relieved her of her burden, which he sustained with one hand, while the other was extended to welcome the stranger who came near.

Half bewildered, Tom looked around upon the multitude, asking in a whisper what it meant. He could not think they had come to welcome him, and when assured by Jimmie that such was the fact, his lip quivered for an instant, and his tongue refused its office. Then, in a few well-chosen words, he thanked the people for the undeserved surprise, so far as he was himself concerned. Isaac was more worthy of such welcome, he said, and more than half of it was meant, he knew, for their townsman, who had shown himself equally brave in camp, in battle, and in prison, while, had they known that Lieutenant Simms, too, was coming, he was sure they would not have thought of him a stranger to them all.

The brief speech ended, and Rose, listening at home, clapped her hands in ecstasy as she heard the terrific cheers and caught the name of “Carleton” mingled with “Isaac Simms.”

“Poor boy!” she said, “I wonder how he’ll get home? I wish I had told Jimmie to drive that way, and take him in the carriage.”

She need have given herself no uneasiness, for what she had forgotten was remembered by Jimmie, who, after a hurried consultation with Tom, insisted that both Isaac and his mother should take seats in the carriage, while he and Tom mingled with the crowd.

“And your other son, there’s room for him,” he said, looking round in quest of John, who, at the last moment, had obtained permission to visit his bride, and so came on with Isaac.

At a glance his eye had singled out Susan, and the young couple were now standing apart from the rest, exchanging mutual caresses, and words of love, the tall lieutenant kissing fondly the blushing girl who could not realize that she stood in the presence of her husband. After a little it was decided that Tom and Jimmie, Mrs. Simms and Isaac, should occupy the carriage, while John and Susan walked, and so from her lofty stand-point, Rose watched the long procession winding down the streets, amid the strains of music and the cannon’s bellowing roar. It was very exciting to Isaac, and by the time the cottage was reached he was glad to be lifted out by Jimmie, who bore the tired boy tenderly into the house and laid him down on the soft, warm bed he had dreamed about so many nights in the dark, filthy prison corner. How faint and weak he was, and how glad to be home again! Winding his arms around his mother’s neck, he sobbed out his great joy, saying amid his tears, “God was so kind to let me come back to you.”

It was a very happy group the villagers left behind in that humble cottage, and neither John nor Susan thought it out of place when the mother called on them to kneel with her and thank the Giver of all good for his great mercy in granting them this blessing.

Meantime the procession passed on until it reached the Mather mansion, where, with three cheers for Captain Carleton, the crowd dispersed, leaving Tom at liberty to join the mother and sister waiting so impatiently for him, one on the steps, and the other in the parlor just where she had welcomed Jimmie.

“If Will were only here, it would be the happiest day I ever knew,” Rose said, as, seating herself on Tom’s knee with her chubby arm around his neck, she asked him numerous questions concerning her absent husband. Then, as she saw in him signs of weariness she said, “You are tired, I know. Suppose you go to your room till dinner-time. It’s the one right at the head of the stairs,” she continued, and glad of an opportunity to rest, Tom went to the room where Annie Graham just then chanced to be. She had discovered that the servant had neglected to supply the rack with towels, and so she had brought them herself, lingering a moment after they were arranged, to see if everything were in order. She did not hear Tom’s step, until he opened the door upon her, and uttered an exclamation of surprise and apology. He had no idea who the little black-robed figure was, for though he knew the wife of George Graham was an inmate of his sister’s family, he had her in his mind as a very different person from this one before him. Mrs. Graham was young, he supposed, and possibly good-looking, but she did not bear the stamp of refinement and elegance which this graceful creature did, and fancying he had made a mistake and stumbled into the apartment of some city visitor, he was about to withdraw, when Annie came toward him, saying:

“Excuse me, sir, I came in to see that all was right in your room. Mr. Carleton, I presume?”

This last Annie spoke doubtingly, for in the tall, handsome stranger before her there was scarcely a vestige of the “greyish haired, oldish, fatherly-looking man” she had in fancy known as Captain Carleton, and but for the eyes, so much like Mrs. Mather’s, and the unmistakable Carleton curve about the mouth, she would never have dreamed that it was Tom to whom she was speaking. As it was, she waited for him to confirm her suspicions, which he did by bowing in the affirmative to her interrogation, “Mr. Carleton, I presume?”

Then holding the door for her to pass out, he stood watching her till she disappeared at the extreme end of the hall, wondering who she was, and why a mere visitor should take so much interest in his room. Once he thought of Annie Graham; but this could not be a widow, though the deep mourning dress told of recent bereavement. Still Annie Graham was a different personage, he knew; and thus perplexed, Tom, instead of resting, commenced his toilet for dinner, determining, as soon as it was completed, to go down and have the mystery unravelled.

Restless and impatient to know just what his brother thought of his late treachery to the Federal Flag, Jimmie paced the parlors below until he could wait no longer and knowing by the sounds which came from the chamber above, that Tom was not trying to sleep, he finally ran up the stairs, and knocking at the chamber door, was soon closeted with Tom. It was an awkward business to speak of the past, but Jimmie plunged into it at once, stating some reasons which had led him to abjure his own government, expressing his contrition for having done so, and ending by saying he hoped Tom, if possible, would forget that he ever had a rebel brother.

It had taken Tom a long time to recover from the shock of meeting his brother in the Virginia woods, and knowing he was a traitor to his country, but the same generous feeling which led him to refrain from any allusion to that meeting in the messages sent to his mother and sister from his Richmond prison, now prompted him to treat with kind forbearance the brother whom he had loved and grieved over since the days of his mischievous boyhood.

“I should have found it very hard to forgive you if you had staid in the Southern army,” he said, “but as it is we will never mention the subject again.”

Jimmie knew, by the warm pressure of Tom’s hand, that he was forgiven, and with a burden lifted from his mind he was about leaving the room, when Tom, with a preliminary cough, said:

“By the way, Jimmie, who has Rose got here,—what visitor, I mean?” and Tom tried to look vastly indifferent as he buttoned his vest and hung across it the chain made from Mary’s hair.

But the ruse did not succeed. Jimmie knew he had seen Annie, and with a sudden uprising of something undefined he answered in apparent surprise:

“Visitor! what visitor! He must have come to-day, then. Where did you see him?”

“I saw her in here,” Tom replied, and Jimmie laughingly rejoined:

“A pretty place for a her in your quarters! Pray, what was she like?”

“Some like Mary, as she used to be when I first knew her,—a little body dressed in black.”

“With large, handsome, blue eyes?” interrupted Jimmie, while Tom, without suspecting that his brother’s object was to ascertain how closely he had observed the figure in black, replied:

“Yes, very handsome, dreamy eyes.”

“And pale, brown curls?” was the teasing Jimmie’s next query, to which Tom quickly responded:

“Curls, no. The hair was braided in wide plats and twisted around the head, falling low in the neck.”

“Not a very white neck, was it?” Jimmie continued, with imperturbable gravity.

“Indeed, it was,” Tom said, industriously scraping his thumb nail with his penknife. “White as snow, or looked so from the contrast with her dress. Who is she?”

“One question more,—had she big feet or little, slippers or boots?” and this time Jimmie’s voice betrayed him.

Tom knew he was being teased, and bursting into a laugh, he answered:

“I confess to having observed her closely, but not enough so to tell the size of her slipper. Come now, who is she? Some lady you spirited away from Secessiondom? Tell me,—you know you’ve nothing to fear from steady old Tom.”

For an instant the eyes of the two brothers met, with a curious expression in each. Both were conscious of something they were trying to conceal, while a feeling akin to a pang shot through Jimmie’s heart as he thought how much more worthy of Annie Graham’s respect was steady old Tom than a rollicking young scapegrace like himself.

“From your rather minute description I think you must have stumbled upon the Widow Graham,” he said. “Rose has taken her up, you know, and as a word of brotherly advice, let me say that if you wish to raise Rose to the seventh heaven you have only to praise her protégée. We, that is the widow and I, do not get on very well, for she is a staunch patriot, and until this morning I verily believe she looked on me as a kind of monster. She’s a perfect little Puritan, too, and if she stays here long, will make a straight-laced Methodist of Rose, under the garb of an Episcopalian, of course, as she is the strictest kind of a church woman.”

“I shall not esteem her less for that,” Tom said, and in rather a perturbed state of mind, as far as the Widow Graham was concerned, he went with Jimmie to the parlor, half hoping his brother had mischievously misled him, and that the stranger would prove after all to be some visitor from Boston.

But the first object he saw on entering the parlor was the dainty figure in black, standing by the window, and on the third finger of the hand raised to adjust the heavy curtain glittered the wedding ring. Tom knew now that Jimmie had not deceived him, and with a feeling of disappointment he addressed Mrs. Graham, when introduced by Jimmie, making some playful allusion to their having met before, but saying nothing to her then of George, for remembering his own feelings when Mary died, he knew that Annie would not thank him, a stranger, to bring up sad memories of the past by talking of her husband. Still, in his manner toward her there was something which told how he pitied and sympathized with her, and Annie, grateful always for the smallest kindness threw off her air of quiet reserve and talked with him freely, asking many questions concerning Isaac Simms and the condition of the Richmond prisoners generally.

“She was going round after dinner to call on Isaac,” she incidentally said, whereupon Tom rejoined that wishing to know how Isaac bore the journey and the excitement, he had intended going there himself, and would, with her permission, time his visit to suit her convenience, and so accompany her.

Instantly Jimmie’s black eyes flashed upon Annie a look of inquiry, which brought the bright color to her cheeks, for she knew he was thinking of the night when she had refused his escort, and she felt her present position a rather embarrassing one. Still the circumstances were entirely different. There was a reason why Tom should call on Widow Simms, while with Jimmie there was none, and bowing to Captain Carleton, she replied that “she presumed Mrs. Simms would be glad of an opportunity to thank him for his kindness to Isaac, and that, though not in the least afraid to go alone, she had no objection to showing him the way.”

“What! going off the first night, and they are coming to serenade you, too? You must not go, Tom. Shall he, mother?” cried Rose, who at first had been too busy with her duties as hostess, clearly to comprehend what Tom was saying to Annie.

“It will look as if you do not appreciate the people’s attention,” Mrs. Carleton replied, while Jimmie vehemently protested against the impropriety of the act, and so Tom was compelled to yield, thinking the while that a walk to the Widow Simms’ might possibly afford him quite as much satisfaction as staying at home for a serenade.

“I always surrender to the majority,” he said, playfully, while Jimmie’s spirits rose perceptibly, and Annie had never before seen him so witty or gay since he came home from Washington as he was during the dinner.

It was joy at his brother’s return, she thought, never suspecting that Tom’s decision had anything to do with it, and Jimmie hardly knew himself that it had. He only felt relieved that Tom was not to receive a favor which had once been denied to himself, and glad also that Annie was to spend the evening with them. But in this he was mistaken. There was no necessity for Annie’s deferring her visit. The serenade was not for her, and with that nice sense of propriety which prompted her to shrink from anything like intrusion, she felt that on this first night of their reunion, the Carleton family would rather be alone. This rule would apply also to Mrs. Simms, but Annie knew she was always welcome to the widow, and wishing to see the boy who had led her husband from the battle-field, she went to her room, and throwing on her cloak and hood, stole quietly down stairs just as Jimmie was crossing the hall. He guessed where she was going, and coming quickly to her side, said,

“I supposed you had given up that call, but if you persist in going, it must not be alone, this night of all others, when the streets are likely to be full of men and boys. You accepted my brother’s escort, you cannot, of course, refuse mine,” and seizing his hat from the hall stand he led her out upon the steps and placed her arm in his with an air of so much authority that Annie had no word to offer in remonstrance.

It was not a very comfortable walk to either party, or a very sociable one either, but ere it was ended Annie had reason to be glad that she was not alone, for as Jimmie had predicted, the streets were full of men and boys, following the band up to the Mather Mansion, and as they met group after group of the noisy throng, Annie timidly drew closer to her companion, who pressed more tightly the arm trembling in his own.

“I am glad you came with me,” she said, when at last the friendly gleam of the widow’s candle appeared in view, “but if you please I think you had better not go in to-night. You are so much a stranger to the family, and Mrs. Simms’ boys have but just returned. John will see me safely home, and I’ll excuse you now. You must feel anxious to rejoin your brother.”

But Jimmie was not to be disposed of so easily. He had no intention of entering the house, but he should wait outside, he said, until Annie’s visit was over. Annie had no alternative save submission, and parting from Jimmie at the gate, she hurried up the walk and was soon bending over the couch of the sick boy, whose eyes beamed the welcome his pale lips could scarcely speak. How many questions she had to ask him, and how much he had to tell her of that day when her husband received his fatal wound. Altogether it was a sad interview, and Annie’s eyes were nearly blistered with the hot tears she shed while listening to Isaac’s touching account of George ere the woods were gained, and Tom Carleton generously gave up his seat to the bleeding man, thereby becoming himself a prisoner. Much, too, was said in praise of Tom, and Annie felt that she could not do too much for one who had shown himself so generous and brave. Talking of Tom reminded her of Jimmie stalking up and down the icy walks, waiting patiently for her, and when at last the music of Tom’s serenade had ceased she arose to go, wishing to get away ere the band came there, as she knew they were intending to do. As John arose to accompany her, she had to say that “Jimmie Carleton was waiting for her by the gate.” Instantly the sharp eyes of the widow shot at her a curious glance, which brought the hot blood to her cheek, while John and Susan exchanged a smile, the meaning of which she could not fail to understand. Poor Annie! How her heart throbbed with pain as she guessed of what they were thinking! Could they for a moment believe her so heartless and cold? The mere idea made her dizzy and faint, and scarcely articulating her good-night, she hastened out into the cool night air, feeling half tempted to refuse outright the arm offered for her support. If she only dared tell him to leave her there alone,—leave her to flee away through the dark, lonely streets to the still more lonely yard, where on George’s grave she could lay herself down and die. But not thus easily could life’s heavy burden be shaken off, she could not lay it down at will,—and conquering the emotions which, each time she thought of John Simms’ significant smile, threatened to burst out into a fierce storm of passionate sobs, she apologized for having kept Jimmie waiting so long, and taking his arm left the cottage gate just as the throng of serenaders turned into that street. Jimmie knew she had been crying, and conjecturing that she had been talking of her husband, he, too, began to speak of George, asking her many questions about him, and repeating many things he had heard in his praise from the Rockland citizens. It seemed strange that this should comfort her, but it did. The hard, bitter feeling insensibly passed away while listening to Jimmie, and by the time the Mather Mansion was reached the tears were dried on Annie’s cheeks, and outwardly she was cheerful and patient as ever.

After that night Rose had no cause for complaint that Jimmie was rude to Annie, or Annie cool toward him, for though Annie talked to him but little, she did not forget the sympathy so delicately manifested for her, and treated him with as much respect as she awarded Tom, who grew each day more and more interested in the black-robed figure, reminding him so much of his lost Mary. Jimmie knew he did, and watched narrowly for the time when she would know it, too; but such time did not come, for Annie had no suspicion that either of the brothers regarded her with the shadow of a feeling save that of ordinary friendship. As much of her time as possible was spent with the Widow Simms, and a great part of Isaac’s visible improvement was owing to her gentle care and the sunshine of her presence. John’s furlough had expired, and now that he was gone, the disconsolate Susan turned to Annie for comfort, while Isaac watched daily for the sound of the little feet coming up the walk, and bringing with them so much happiness to the lonely cottage.

“I wish you’d stay home more; we miss you so much, and it’s so dismal without you. Mother nods over her knitting, Tom just walks the floor, or reads some stiff Presbyterian book, while Jimmie thrums the piano and teases my kitten awfully,” Rose said to Annie one night when the latter came in from a tour of calls, the last of which had been on Mrs. Baker, now a much happier, better woman, than when we first made her acquaintance. “It’s so different when you are here,” Rose continued, as Annie came and sat down by her side. “Tom is a heap more entertaining, while Jimmie is not half so mischievous and provoking.”

“I did not suppose my absence could affect your happiness, or I would certainly have staid with you more,” Annie replied; and Rose continued:

“Well, it just does, and now that both Tom and Jimmie are going so soon, I shall need you to oversee the things I must get ready for them.”

“Captain Carleton and Jimmie going away soon!” Annie repeated, in some surprise. “Where are they going? The Captain’s furlough has not yet expired.”

“I know it,” Rose continued, “but as he is perfectly well, he thinks it right to go back, and has fixed on one week from to-day.”

“Yes, but Jimmie. You spoke of his leaving, too,” Annie said, and Rose rejoined:

“Jimmie is going with Tom to join the Federal Army on the Potomac, and, as he says, retrieve, if possible, the character he lost by turning traitor once.”

“Oh, I am so glad! and I like him so much for that!” Annie exclaimed, her white face lighting up with a sudden animation, which made it seem very beautiful to the young man just entering the door.

“I would brave the cannon’s mouth for another look like that,” was Jimmie’s mental comment as he stepped into the room, and advanced to the ladies’ side. “So you are glad I am going?” he said, half playfully, to Annie, who answered frankly:

“Yes, very glad.”

“And won’t you miss me a bit? Folks like to be missed, you know, if they are ever so bad. It makes one think better of himself, and consequently do better if he knows that his absence will cause a feeling of regret, however slight, to the friends left behind,” Jimmie remarked, while in his eyes there was a peculiar expression which Annie failed to see, as he stood looking down upon her.

She would miss Jimmie, she knew, for she had become accustomed to his merry whistle, his ringing laugh, his teasing jokes at Rose’s expense, and his going would leave them very lonely, and so she frankly admitted, adding that “it was not because she wished to be rid of him that she was glad; it pleased her to see him in the path of duty, even though that path led to danger and possible death.”

“Oh, don’t, Annie, don’t talk of death to Jimmie!” Rose cried, with a shudder. “You can’t begin to guess how it makes me feel, or how terrible it would seem if either he or Tom should die!”

“Can’t I?” Annie asked, with such a depth of mournful pathos, that Rose’s tears flowed at once.

Of course Annie knew how it felt, and every fibre of her heart was bleeding now, as she remembered one who left her as full of life and hope as either Tom or Jimmie, but who came back no more, save as the dead come back, shrouded and coffined for the grave. But Annie would not give way to her own feelings then. She would comfort Rose, and encourage the young man, who, she felt, shrank from the perils spread out before him. So she told how few there were, comparatively, who died on the battle-field, while the chances for life in the hospitals were greater now that better care and skill had been procured.

“Annie,—excuse me, Mrs. Graham?” and Jimmie spoke vehemently, while his eyes kindled with a strange gleam. “Why don’t you go as nurse? You might be the means of untold good to the poor fellows who need such care as you could give.”

“I have thought of it,” said Annie, while Rose exclaimed:

“You turn hospital nurse,—ridiculous! You never shall, so long as I can prevent it. Shall she, Tom?” And she appealed to the latter, who had just come in. “Shall Annie go into those horrid hospitals?”

“I am not Mrs. Graham’s keeper,” Tom replied, “but I should be sorry to see her acting in the capacity of hospital nurse, even though I know that some of our noblest, best women are engaged in that work.”

“Yes, old chap,” and Jimmie laughed a merry laugh. “It’s mighty easy talking that way now, but suppose you Captain Carleton, are some day among the terribly wounded, thigh shot through, arm splintered above the elbow, jaw-bone broken, and all that, wouldn’t the pain be easier to bear, if the nurse should happen to be Mrs. Graham, or somebody just like her?”

“Undoubtedly it would,” Tom answered. “Still I should be sorry to have her there amid the sickening horrors.”

“Please stop, I can’t bear to hear about it!” Rose exclaimed. “I know it would be nice to be a Florence Nightingale, and Annie would make a splendid one, but I’ll never let her go, unless you, or Jimmie, or Will are wounded, and then we’ll come together, won’t we, Annie?”

There was no response from Annie, until Jimmie said:

“Say, Mrs. Graham, if I am ever wounded, and you hear I am suffering in some dismal hole, will you come and care for me?”

He did not join Will’s or Tom’s name with his own. It was “Jimmie Carleton” whom Annie was to nurse. But it did not matter. Lifting up her head so that her soft, blue eyes looked into his, Annie answered, unhesitatingly:

“Providence permitting, I will, and I would do the same for any brave fellow who follows, as my husband did, where duty to his country leads.”

“So you see you will fare no better than I, after all,” Tom laughingly rejoined, while Jimmie thought within himself:

“Why need she always bring that husband in? It’s bad enough to know she’s had one, without eternally hearing about him.”

Foolish Jimmie. It was folly for him to lie awake so long as he did that night, or to dream, when at last he slept, of hospital walls expanding into a palace as an angel form with hair and eyes like Annie’s bent over his feverish pillow, while soft, white hands dressed some gaping wound where the enemy’s bullet had been. Sheer folly, too, was it for “dignified old Tom,” to watch from his window the young moon, until it set in the western sky, thinking of Mary, as he tried to make himself believe, wondering why it was that Annie reminded him so much of her, and why he should be so deeply interested in one who, until a few weeks past, had been to him a stranger.

To Annie, Captain Carleton and Jimmie were nothing more than friends, and if, during the week preceding their departure, she was quite as busy as Rose, and apparently as much interested in the various preparations for their comfort, it was only because they were soldiers, and not, as Widow Simms once suggested to Susan, “because they were Carletons, and handsome and rich, and,—and,—well, there’s no tellin’ what will happen, when a widder’s young and handsome, but this I know, I’ve never married, and my man’s been dead this nineteen years! Nobody need tell me she’d be so busy for anybody but them Carletons. If ’twas the Cap’n, I wouldn’t mind, but that sassy-faced Jeems. Ugh!” and in her ire at Annie’s supposed preference for “sassy-faced Jeems,” the widow spilled more than half of the spiced chocolate she was carrying to Isaac.

Never was the widow more mistaken. Annie Graham would have done for Eli, John, and Isaac Simms, or possibly William Baker, the same offices she was doing for “the Carletons,” and her voice would have been just as sweet and hopeful when she bade them farewell, as it was that bright spring morning, when, in the parlor of the Mather mansion, Tom and Jimmie were waiting to say good-bye.

At the very last moment Bill Baker had announced his intention of going too.

“Thirteen dollars a month and dog’s fare was better than layin’ round hum,” he said; “and livin’ on the old gal, who was gittin’ most too straight and blue for his notions. Besides that, he felt kinder ’tached to the Corp’ral, and wanted to be where he could see him and wait on him like any other nigger.”

Jimmie would gladly have dispensed with such a singular attaché, but Bill could not be shaken off, and as he did in various ways evince a strong regard for his former captive, Jimmie was forced to submit to what he termed “his thorn in the flesh,” giving from his own purse money for Billy’s outfit, and furnishing the mother with means to repair her dwelling and make it far more comfortable than at present. This he was sure pleased Annie, and no sacrifice was too costly if it won her regard. She had prayed for him, he knew, for Rose had told him so, and prayers like hers, though they did not avail to save her George’s life, would surely shield him from danger. He should come back again when the war was over,—come back to find an older grave by Rockland’s churchyard gate, while the wife, who daily watered that grave with tears, would be as young, as beautiful, and far more girlish-looking than now, when, in her widow’s weeds, she offered him her hand at parting, bidding God speed to him and the noble Tom, who stood beside him.

There were tears, and kisses, and blessings from Rose and her mother, a few low-spoken words of sympathy and good will from Annie, and then the two young men were gone.

Half an hour later, and the eastern train thundered through the town, bearing away to the fields of bloody carnage, three more young, vigorous lives, and leaving desolate two homes, one the lonely cottage, where Bill’s mother wept alone, the other the Mather mansion, where Mrs. Carleton and Rose sobbed bitterly, while Annie strove in various ways to comfort them.