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"Ah, but what sublime order genius can evoke out of chaos!" Tom answered, carelessly, as he put on his coat. "The only trouble is, which of my grand schemes shall I astonish the world with developing."

estness of will, no strong purpose of accomplish- | to be vividly portrayed by the condition of this ing in its expression. I rose from my seat, moss- room-so choked up with useless trash that one cushioned and daisy-tapestried as it was, with a must almost go on a voyage of discovery to find faint and weary feeling, as though life with its the useful articles of furniture." numerous calls and duties was already a burden. The glory of the day had departed, though sunset clouds began to golden, though purple curtains began to fall before the fading light. I felt a chill in the balmy air, and saw behind Fonthill the misty giants rising and wavering in the steps of the dying day. They seemed to beckon me with their vaporous arms, and to fan my brow with their chill damp breath till I reached the rectory door.

"Say, rather, which kind of nonsense will you waste your summer upon," I answered, in an unsympathizing tone. "You ought to be studying now for an advanced class. As you have lost all the opportunities of this term by your own folly, I should think you would feel bound to make it up."

"And so I will, Milly," he answered, as we left the room. "Can't you understand a fellow's devotion to a great idea and yet studying too? I mean to study, of course."

"And if you would only hear little Frank St. Clair's lessons," I went on, eagerly, “you might have something laid up against the fall."

"Now, Milly, that's a little too much," answered Tom, with quite an injured air. "Do

About a week afterward, as I passed, equipped for a walk, Tom called me into his room. He presented a rather curious spectacle at the moment, as if ready for execution, though the oilskin cap which he wore to protect his glossy brown curls from dust and danger was not drawn far enough down. He never forgot in his most absorbing occupation what he considered the chief duty of man-to look as handsome as possible, and enjoy himself. Besides this cap, which gave him somewhat the appearance of a peeled onion, Tom sported a most remarkable dressing-you think I'm adapted to teaching stupid little gown. It had once been a gorgeous Cashmere brats? Do you think I could spend my time strewn with Oriental palms; but it was now so hammering ideas into a wooden-headed younkspattered and smeared with various chemical er. No, I thank you. I would rather meassubstances that the original tints had left in dis- ure ribbons, if you please; it is far more entermay, and the palms had run riot into a most taining and easy." fantastic vegetation, one yawning chasm being | burned therein by sulphuric acid. Small explosions were frequently heard in Tom's room, and fearfully pungent odors made their way through the keyhole, and diffused their baneful presence through the house. His genius not being of the common order, which presents but one object to the soaring mind, he gave himself to many schemes, and felt equal to achieving greatness in either. Mechanics, art, and science alike tempted him from the beaten path of duty with their seductive blandishments, and all were represented in the various lumber that crowded the room. His brain teemed with great ideas—perhaps impossible to embody, or already in use amidst the votaries of science.

"Just come in and wait a minute, and I'll walk with you," he said. “I don't mind your seeing every thing, as it isn't likely you'll get any idea of my invention, and have the affair patented before me."

"Well, what's the invention now?" I asked, rather impatiently, as I made my way with difficulty amidst chips and shavings and dislodged a bottle of ether from the only chair.

"Oh, I've got half a dozen," Tom answered, laughing. "If it was only one I might succeed. Now your common minds can only contain one idea. My brain is over-fertile. I really can't tell which to take up, for either would make me famous."

"I wish, Tom, that you could only invent something that would make you prudent and diligent at your studies: such an invention would be truly invaluable. Your mind seems

"And yet, Tom," I answered, with a throb of pain at my heart, "I have this to do. I have to retrace all the dusty and dry paths of elementary knowledge that you think so terrible.”

"Ah yes!" answered Tom, conceitedly; "but you are a woman, and women somehow adapt themselves so easily to circumstances. Now I have not the least adaptation to such things. I'd rather hang myself than be a school-teacher." I was silent. I knew a better name than adaptation to apply to that readiness with which a true woman assumes burdens that a stalwart man would find intolerable. It was self-sacrifice.

yet.

Tom was silent a moment, and then said, "I say, Milly, I haven't written to Merrion How are we going to arrange it?" It was rather odd that Tom should say "we," as though he had the remotest share in the arrangement. He accepted favors in a lordly style, and was generally too well-bred to allude to them at all. His gratitude might be defined as "a lively sense of benefits to come." "You had better go to New York at once," I said. "You can see Mr. Merrion and settle

it."

So Tom's mind being fully relieved he strayed off to some lounging acquaintance on the river-bank, and seemed to become oblivious to my presence. I hastened home, for a chill, mist-like rain began to fall. Into this vaporous gulf Tom disappeared a few hours later, with a buoyancy and exhilaration of spirit at the prospect of his trip, in nowise dampened by the rain.

All the next day dull and leaden clouds

moved heavily over the sky. At last, in the afternoon, the dome of cloud-granite was riven and a glory glimmered through. The elms in the garden shone dewy bright, like the resplendent trees of a fairy tale, where every leaf is a jewel. Far off the misty Titans were rolling up their ponderous bulks before the king of day. I watched the earth and sky with a restless feeling that I could not define, and at last I took up a book for relief. Perhaps because my life was full of effort, self-sacrifice, and trial, I turned to "The Lotus-Eater," which chants the luxury of dreamful ease, with the vexing refrain, "Why should life all labor be?" It shut out for a time the work-day world with its everencroaching materialism, and gave me glimpses of a glorious land filled with repose-a land of glancing streams falling in sheets of foam-a land flushed with unfading sunset-a charmed sun that lingered ever with a rosy flame-a land where all things remained the same, nor submitted to the laborious law of change.

But I was suddenly recalled to the actual by the opening of the garden gate and the entrance of Rose, who held up a letter toward me. Slowly I stepped down the aerial spaces from the cloudy sphere of fantasy. At the same time I walked down the material stairs of the housetook the letter, opened, and read:

with a hearty interest in passing events-than when he had spent his life in groping among the bones of a dead past. Even Rose forgot some favorite finery in reading aloud stirring editorials on the war, or writing long letters to Tom, which he perused eagerly by the campfire with a warmth about his heart never felt before. He had suffered some privation, and borne it like a man; but it made him value his humble home more than ever, and any token from that charmed spot grew doubly precious. He learned to suffer and be strong; and it seemed to me that to some the war was a great educator, terrible in its lessons, but thereby enduring. It took men away from selfish or wasted lives, and gave them a noble principle for which to suffer or even die. It drew into its vast training-school even the sickly Sybarites of fashion, and taught them that “to do and to suffer" was better than simply "to be." It gave a worthy object to objectless lives; it made people read who never read before; it struck out sparks of sympathy and benevolence from cold and niggardly hearts. It lighted the fires of philanthropy and universal love to the suffering; it called out self-devoted women who had never found their true life-work till they stood with ministering hands by the sick and dying. Ah! I thought there is good as well as evil in the war; and I followed my young soldier in thought on his weary marches, and by the flaming camp-fire, even to the battle-field, where the "ranks are rolled in vapor, and the winds are laid with sound."

"I can see your eyes dilate with surprise, dear Milly, when you open this epistle. I left Fonthill with the full expectation of returning to the paternal fold to-day. I made many resolutions on the way of being such a good boy, in hopes that I might some time find a plum in the pie of my future, like little Jacky Horner of Mother Goose memory; but I shall never have my finger in that pie, I The nation trembled on the eve of a great am sure. There is a tide in the affairs of man,' you battle. Hearts turned sick and cheeks blanchknow, Milly, the rest may be found in Shakspeare--hauled at the prospect. "We must win," said the

over the book, and when found make a note on't. Well, I met the tide just as I turned Fulton Street, and Bertrand Merrion sailing on it with the serene composure of a clam at high-water. There was so much martial music in the air, so many star-spangled banners about, that somehow patriotism seemed to be infectious-I found I was Hail Columbia' all over. though I never thought of it before; but Bertrand Merrion, he's overflowing, you know, he looks daggers and talks nothing smaller than grape-shot -he's a regular steam-boiler, full of indignation and na. tional pride, ready to explode at a touch-none of your conservatives like father, but a real out-and-outer. He's my Captain, Milly, for I enlisted at once. We're off to the Capital to-morrow. Break it to them at home as gently as possible. You know I'm twenty, and if I don't go now, I should certainly one day be grafted into the army. Don't fret about my education, Milly. I'm in the right school now. I'm Second Lieutenant to begin with, and shall graduate in a higher class. I couldn't take a more honorable degree than U.S.V. in Uncle Sam's noble army of volunteers. Don't fear I shall cover myself with glory.' Lock my room so that no enterprising genius may put his inquisitive nose in and smell out my new invention. Good-by. I'll send your diamond back by Express. Bertrand won't listen to any payment now. Love to all. TOM KEITH."

That was all. So ended my work and the need of it-I might stay at home now in inglorious case-as far as related to Tom. My father was brought back to the actual by his son's departure. He laid aside the early Fathers and sought the latest newspaper. He became more alive to the present-to the great drama which was enacted around him—more a man of the time,

national voice; but deep throbbing in the national heart the question rankled like a poisoned arrow, "What-what if we should lose?" Restless feet trod the streets of Fonthill, and anxAt the ious groups talked at the corners. Rectory we talked little; even Rose's merry laugh was hushed. With bated breath and aching hearts we waited till toward twilight, when the evening paper usually came. Then a nervous and impatient anxiety sent us out to meet the news rather than await its coming. We met it at last. Terribly the tide of disaster swept by-on every side we heard the muttered thunder of the fearful storm. "Great defeat; terrible repulse; frightful loss of life; utter demoralization of the army; strange panic," etc. No need to repeat the bitter story; for what American can ever forget the first battle of Bull Run? I seized the paper, and tried to pick out something more from the meagre but fearful sentences; but there was nothing-no word of comfort-no retrieval of utter loss. Where was Tom?

We found his name in the newspaper list, three days after, "Seriously wounded."

We went at once to Washington. Rose, sobered by sorrow, presided at home with the sedateness of a matron, and made ready for the expected invalid. The parishioners were full

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of kindness.

"Is that elegant expression part of your late college course ?"

"I'm afraid the dialect of the army is not quite as choice as might have been heard in the groves of Athens," answered Tom. "But I can tell you I've learned something better than choice phrases. When a fellow's cast away in the sea of a large army, isolated and homesick, he's apt to remember home care and affection, and to value the sympathy which he once took with as much indifference as his daily bread and butter. I thought of many a thing, Milly, in the lonely night-watches by the camp-fire; and my past life, so useless and aimless, often came before me as it does before drowning people. Strange how different it all looks in that light!"

A new tie seemed to bind them to the Rector's family-now that we were tried by the same fiery ordeal through which many of their hearts had passed and grown tenderer by the trial. When, after weeks of weary waiting by the bedside, we brought back a pale attenuated figure, who looked out from hollow, cavernous eyes with an eager glance to catch the first glimpse of his beloved home, it was hard to recognize in this worn and wasted man the handsome, careless Tom. Even the coldest critics among our people melted into sincere sympathy at the sight; for some of them had loved ones in the army, who might one day be struck with the same withering blight, or-woe-up ful thought!-receive the cold and deadly bullet into their young hearts, and be left to the brief, fierce agony of the death-struggle alone.

But deeper than the mere physical was the change in Tom. The ghastly pallor that replaced the flush of health, the wasted hollows where all was firmly rounded, the weakened limbs bereft of their athlete strength, were not more changed than the self-pleasing disposition, the careless demands on the time of others, the indifferent acceptance of any sacrifice that had marked him when in health. Short and severe as the schooling had been, it had effected more than the quiet training of years. He had found that "knowledge by suffering entereth;" for never till he had suffered himself had he felt a care for others. All through the languid August days he lay and thought. Now that he must lie there supine and indolent he felt the nobility of work; he was tortured with schemes of helpful action. One day he said:

"Milly, as soon as I am well enough I shall burn that new invention."

"Yes, Tom."

"I've been a confounded drag to you all, Milly. If I should go now you would all do better."

"Oh, Tom !" I cried, with a sudden burst of tears, "you are getting better; don't talk in that way."

"You are worn out with watching me; you have lost your roses in taking care of me. You must go out every day now, or I shall rebel and not take my medicine."

When had Tom cared for my comfort before, or considered any one but self? It was so sweet and unusual that I could not speak.

"If I get well, Milly-and I hope I shall, that I may reverse the order of things and do something worthy of living—I shall take care of you all. Merrion says I'm sure to be promoted for gallant conduct in the hour of battle: so you shall have every comfort. You needn't leave your home now for strangers. I despise myself that I ever allowed it."

"Well, Tom, you're young enough to begin anew; sponge out the old record and try again."

Tom was silent for a while, and then he said: "Milly, do you know that being with Bertrand Merrion was one thing that brought me to my senses. His active, manly life, so full of energy and purpose, was a constant rebuke to my own self-indulgence. You saw how he visited the hospital-how he wore himself out for those men. He could hardly sleep at night; he had the whole company on his mind." "I should think they might have proved something of a nightmare."

"But I needn't sound his praises to you," said Tom, slyly; "for I think you know all about it. Once I told him what a good sister you were, and how you gave me the diamondring on his account."

"Did you tell him that, Tom?"

"Why don't you ask me what he said ?" "Well, what did he say ?"

"That if you would give me the hand on his account he would be the happiest of men. I saw as soon as you came that it was love at first sight."

I could not answer. I looked out of the open window where the sultry August sun streamed over the landscape like a pallid flame. Tree and shrub drooped in its fierce ray, and there was not breeze enough to stir the languid grass.

"You have given me so much, could you not give me your hand for my best friend ?" "No, Tom."

"Why," exclaimed Tom, with some of his old petulance, "there never was a better fellow." "Because I have already given it to himself," I answered, as I ran out of the room.

Then Tom was happy. Serene and contented in heart, he grew rapidly better. He was filled with longing once more to be on the foeman's ground. He was ready to give up home comforts so lately precious, and home love more truly estimated than ever, for the tented field and the fierce strife of battle. But not before "It was my own choice," I interrupted; "you the frost had given its sharp but healthful blessshall not blame yourself for that." ing to the enervating Southern air did he go. "Well, I'm burning to do something for you. Then with proudly-beating heart he received the I should like to sacrifice myself in some way,' "deserved and expected promotion, and took a said Tom, with a faint smile. "When you get higher rank in the wondrous training-school of married I shall give you the jolliest blow-out!" the army.

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SHERIDAN'S BATTLE OF WIN. and throw them back in confusion on our line of advance; lastly, to ruin us by pushing his strong left through our right, and reaching the

CHESTER. the morning of the 19th of September, mouth of the gorge so as to cut off our retreat.

marching at the of my To cffect this purpose his army was mo

company along the narrow and wooded gorge through which the Berryville and Winchester pike winds between the Opequan Creek and the town of Winchester. My regiment belonged to the Second Brigade of the First Division of the Nineteenth Army Corps, and formed a fraction of the army of Major-General Philip Sheridan, which, at two o'clock that morning, had quitted its intrenched position near Berryville.

For a month Sheridan had been watching his opportunity. He had advanced to Front Royal, and retreated to Halltown; he had manoeuvred in face of a superior enemy with curious and happy dexterity; he had guarded himself, where it was necessary to make a stand, with miles of field-fortifications; he had parried Early's threatened second raid upon Washington and Pennsylvania; and now, when his antagonist was weakened by the departure of Kershaw's division, he promptly resumed the offensive.

The army at this moment was engaged in the perilous movement of filing through a narrow gorge and deploying in face of a strongly-posted and veteran enemy. The road was crowded with artillery, ammunition-wagons, and ambulances, all hurrying forward. On each side of it a line of infantry in column of march stumbled over the rocky, guttered ground, and struggled through the underbrush. The multitudes of men who belong to an army, yet who do not fight the cooks, the musicians, the hospital attendants, the quarter-masters' and commissaries' people, the sick, and the skulkers-sat on every rock and under every bush, watching us pass. Here, too, were jammed the troopers of the cavalry advance, who, for the present, had finished their fighting, having cleared the passage of the Opequan Creek, and opened the way thus far for the infantry and artillery. Presently we met litters loaded with pale sufferers, and passed a hospital-tent, inside of which I saw surgeons surrounding a table, and amputated limbs and pools of blood underneath it. The stern and sad business of the day had evidently begun in front, although the sound of it was not yet audible to us, excepting an occasional boom of cannon, deadened to a dull pum pum by the woods and the distance.

The battle of Winchester was fought on this plan: A narrow ravine, winding among hills so steep and thickly wooded as to be impassable for any troops but light infantry, debouches into an irregular, undulating valley, faced on the south by an amphitheatre of stony heights, laid, with regard to each other, like detached fortifications. The object of Sheridan was to pass through this ravine, deploy in the valley, amuse the enemy's right, fight his centre vigorously, turn and force his left. The object of Early was to allow us to deploy up to a certain extent; then to beat in our attacking columns

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drawn up at right angles to the pike, but diagonally to it, so as to bring his left nearer to our vital debouching point. And this fatal stroke he attempted early in the day, with a strong column, pushed with remarkable vigor, and for a time with terrible promise of success.

At about ten o'clock the head of the Sixth Corps emerged from the ravine, took ground rapidly to the left, and advanced in two lines, the first of which presently carried a rifle-pit and wood that formed the outwork of the enemy's right. This right being refused, or held aloof, our extreme left had throughout the day, so far as I could learn, no very serious fighting. The opening struggle of supreme importance came in the centre, where it was necessary, firstly, to gain ground enough to bring up our second line; and, secondly, to hold the approaches to the ravine at no matter what cost of slaughter. I beg the reader to remark that if this was not done our striking right could not be deployed, and our retreat could not be secured; that if this was not done there could be no victory, and there must be-if the enemy pushed us with energy-calamitous defeat. Upon the Nineteenth Corps and upon Rickett's Division of the Sixth Corps devolved this bloody task. They were to sustain the principal burden of the battle during the long hours which would be necessary to let the Eighth Corps sweep around on its more enviable and brilliant mission of turning the hostile position. How the Nineteenth Corps performed its portion of the task is shown by its list of killed and wounded. Swept by musketry and artillery from the front, enfiladed by artillery from the right, pressed violently by the one grand column of attack which Early massed to decide the battle, it bled, but it stood, and, after hours of suffering, advanced.

Closely following the Sixth Corps-lapping its rear, indeed-Grover's Division emerged from the defile at a little before eleven o'clock, and forming in two lines, each consisting of two brigades, moved promptly forward in superb order. Steep hills and a thick wood, impracticable for artillery until engineered, rendered it necessary for the infantry to open the contest without the support of cannon. In face of a vigorous shelling the column swept over the hills, struggled through the wood, and emerged upon a broad stretch of rolling fields, on the other side of which lay the rebel force, supported by another wood and by a ledge of rocks, which answered the purpose of a fortification, with the semicircular heights of Winchester in the rear, as a final rallying base. As the lines of advance from the gorge were divergent, opening outward like the blades of a fan, General Emory found it necessary, in order to keep up a connection with the Sixth Corps, to hurry Molineux's brigade from the rear to the front. This was

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