“To-morrow, if you desire it.”

“Very well: now give me your attention and I will tell you what is to

be done. The paper of which I spoke is this,” taking a folded document

from his pocket. “You see this is a map.”

It is not necessary to enter into details in regard to this map.

Besides it might not be advisable to unfold any portion of the secret

history of the “Great Rebellion” at this time when some of the actors

in the scenes we are now describing are yet living.

“This,” continued the General, “is to be delivered to a gentleman by

the name of Beall.”

“What is his address?” asked Mildred.

“That I am not able to give you at present,” responded Gen. A. “He

changes his quarters frequently; but there are five hotels at which he

stops, and you will find him registered in one of them.” The General

here informed her how she could identify Beall, with whose melancholy

history our reader is probably acquainted. “This paper must be put into

the hands of Captain Beall,” continued Gen. A., “and no one else.”

“Yes, I understand,” said Mildred.

“The principal danger,” the General went on, “lies in this. If

you should be arrested with this paper on your person or in your

possession, your fidelity to your country will cost you very dearly,

you understand.”

“Yes, sir, my life will be the price.”

“When you meet Beall,” coolly resumed Gen. A., “he will give you

another paper which you are to bring to me. Of course I will have to

leave some of the details to your own good sense and tact. If you

should get into any difficulty, do not lose your presence of mind and

self-possession. Keep cool under all circumstances, and I think you

will soon come back to us in safety.”

After some further directions and explanations, which can be omitted

without detriment to our story, the General said:

“Now, you fully understand what is to be done; are you still willing to

go?”

Mildred looked appealingly at her father, but he said not a word.

“What do you say, father?” she again asked.

“I candidly confess,” he replied at last “that I dislike to see my

daughter subjected to exposure of this sort. Probably the result may

be such as makes me shudder to think about it, and then my gray hairs

would be brought in sorrow to my grave. In that case, I never could

forgive myself for not having forbidden her to go.”

“Well,” said Gen. A., “I shall not even now insist upon her going.

She can still decline if she wish. The danger is just what I have

represented it. If,” turning to Mildred, “you shrink from it, you would

better decline at once.”

“It is not the danger I dread,” answered Mildred. “I am willing to

serve my country in any way I can, even to the extent of shedding

my blood, but I dislike to do anything that will cause my father to

suffer. But I have already told you I would go, and so I will unless my

father sees proper to exercise his parental authority and forbids it.”

“I shall not forbid,” said the Doctor. “I want you to consult your own

feelings and judgment and act accordingly.”

“Then General,” said Mildred with firmness, “I shall start in the

morning. There is no use of any further discussion.”

“God bless you!” exclaimed General B., who had not taken any part in

the conversation. “I thought I could not be mistaken in your character.

I knew your religious training had developed those very traits which

peculiarly qualify you for this perilous undertaking. May God protect

and crown the undertaking with deserved success.”

As the officers were riding away, Gen. B. said:

“What a pity it would be if that noble girl should be arrested and--”

“Hanged?” spoke up Gen. A., finishing the uncompleted sentence.

“Yes; it would be terrible,” answered Gen. B.

“Well,” said Gen. A. deliberately, “war signifies bloodshed. If the

young lady falls a victim, does not the occasion demand the sacrifice.”

And the two officers rode on.

[Illustration: Decoration]

CHAPTER XI.

A BRAVE GIRL.

It might seem strange to the reader who is unacquainted with the nature

of war, that a young, intelligent, and accomplished lady should have

undertaken such an enterprise as that partly described in the previous

chapter. But it must be remembered that war introduces customs and

modes of thought which would be subversive of our notions of propriety

in times of peace. The women of the South were frequently thrown by

the force of circumstances into strange and unusual situations during

the dark and stormy days of the “Great Rebellion.” They had to perform

many duties which would have been palpable violations of the laws of

etiquette under different circumstances. Besides, we are all creatures

of habit, and our character depends upon our education. This fact is

our authority for the assertion, that in our social relations there is

scarcely anything, if there is really anything, proper or improper

_per se_--anything inherently absolute. Many of our terms are merely

relative: they have no fixed definition. No absolute rules can be laid

down that shall determine whether a given line of conduct is modest

or immodest. Circumstances only can determine. An angel, for instance

could use language in the pulpit which ordinary ministers of the

Gospel would not dare to employ. One nation regards a thing as proper,

which another considers improper. Hence, there can be no fixed code of

propriety.

Bearing these facts in mind, we can understand why it was that Mildred

could see no impropriety in undertaking to make her way alone into

Washington--which she did in less than forty-eight hours after the

interview with the two Confederate Generals. The statement of this

fact is sufficient, without entering into particulars in regard to the

difficulties which she encountered. She remained in the city three days

till she found the unfortunate Captain Beall, to whom she delivered

the papers, and from whom she received others for Gen. A. Her mission

having been successfully accomplished, she returned, and reported to

the Confederate officer. His rather stern face assumed a smile, as he

took her by the hand and congratulated her upon her success.

“Here is a check for a thousand dollars,” he said as she finished her

report.

“But I did not expect to be paid, General,” she said. “I undertook the

mission because I love my country, and desire to do something in the

struggle for independence.”

“You are not a soldier,” replied Gen. A. “We have no right to your

services without compensation. This is only a partial reward for what

you have done.”

“I do not ask any remuneration.”

“You have been in danger,” said Gen. A. “Besides, I will want you to go

on a similar mission in a few days, and I have no right to your time. I

am aware that the salary of ministers is small, and funds do not come

amiss. You have earned this money, and I insist upon your taking it. It

is yours.”

“I can do with it as I please?” asked Mildred after a short pause.

“Certainly you can.”

“Then,” said Mildred, “I will take it. I know how I can use it to good

purpose.”

“Well,” said the General, handing her the check, “can you go on a

similar mission?”

“To the same place?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, sir; I will go.”

“When can you start?”

“To-morrow, if necessary.”

“I am truly glad,” said Gen. A. “for I have another paper which ought

to be in Washington now. I was afraid to entrust it to you till you had

proved that it was practicable to go in and out of the city. But since

you know now exactly what to do, I feel that there will be little risk.”

“It, too, is a dangerous paper, is it?”

“It is, and if you are detected with it, the death of another party

will be the consequence. If you can manage to give it to Capt. Beall

there will be no danger to you.”

“I can do that,” replied Mildred. “I know how to find him.”

“You see,” said Gen. A. “I have written the message on this pocket

handkerchief so that you can conceal it in your clothing.”

“Yes, sir,” said Mildred, taking the handkerchief, “I can conceal this

so that it will escape the most rigid search.”

“I can trust you for that,” said the General.

“If nothing providential interferes,” said Mildred, “I shall start in

the morning.”

“Thank you,” answered Gen. A. “When you return, you shall receive your

reward.”

“We will talk about that when I get back,” she said, as she took her

leave.

Accordingly, the next morning she again started for the city of

Washington, without the slightest misgiving or premonition of evil.

Indeed what had she to fear? She knew exactly how to proceed. She,

therefore, boldly entered the city, after having complied with

such military requisitions as were necessary in those days. It was

frequently the case that the most elegant ladies of the South, mounted

upon bales of cotton in an ox-wagon, went shopping in cities that were

under Federal jurisdiction. Some had to take the oath of allegiance

to the U. S. Government, and others, by their extreme cleverness,

managed to “get through the lines” without compromising their fealty

to the Confederacy. It is not necessary to describe Mildred’s military

maneuvers in order to secure both ingress and egress. But more light

will be thrown on this subject as the story proceeds.

Again Mildred was in Washington. She registered at the very same hotel

at which she had put up before. This was the first mistake that she

had made. For even her first visit had aroused the suspicions of

the head clerk. However, without manifesting the least surprise, he

assigned her to a room, remarking that it would be half an hour before

the chamber would be ready for occupancy.

“You can sit in the parlor for that length of time?” he asked with a

bland smile.

“Certainly,” replied Mildred.

“Thanks,” he said, bowing politely. “Please step this way.”

Mildred followed him to the elegant parlor, and seated herself on one

of the luxurious sofas.

“I will return in a short time,” said the urbane clerk, “and have you

shown to your room. Please make yourself comfortable.”

He bowed himself out of the apartment, and was gone about twenty

minutes. Seating himself, he manifested a disposition to engage in

conversation--at which Mildred exhibited surprise as well as aversion.

“You have no friends in the city, lady?” he said half inquiringly and

half declaratively. She could construe it either way.

“Sir?” said Mildred in a tone that plainly indicated disinclination to

talk.

“I made a remark about your friends,” said the clerk, “but it does not

matter. You have been to the city before have you not?”

“I have, sir,” answered Mildred in a frigid tone. “Is my room ready?”

“Not quite, ma’am. The chambermaid will be in presently. How long will

you want the room?” asked the clerk.

“Why do you wish to know?”

“O, merely to know. Sometimes we like to know how long our guests will

remain--it is a matter of--of--convenience.”

“I will notify you when I am ready to vacate it,” said Mildred coldly.

“O, yes, of course, you can retain it as long as you wish. I meant no

offence. Have you heard the news?”

“What news?” asked Mildred.

“Why, a terrible battle has been fought--it was on yesterday at ----:

an awful fight.”

“No, sir, I have not heard of it,” answered Mildred changing to a more

gentle tone, yet expressive of indifference.

“You do not seem to take much interest in military affairs?” remarked

the clerk. “I thought everybody was eager to hear of the success of our

arms. The Rebels received a fearful chastisement yesterday.”

“They did?” asked Mildred, trying to appear indifferent under the

searching gaze of this impudent clerk.

“Indeed, they did. You will hear the guns booming presently in honor

of the great victory. There were ten thousand rebels killed, yes,

left dead on the field. Wasn’t it glorious? Wasn’t it glorious?” he

exclaimed rubbing his hands in glee.

“I see nothing glorious in shedding human blood,” replied Mildred.

“Don’t you rejoice at hearing of the defeat of the rebels, and that so

many thousands were killed?” inquired the clerk.

“God forbid,” exclaimed Mildred with more warmth than she intended to

manifest, “that I should rejoice at the death of any human being.”

“But the rebels have got to be killed, you know, in order to bring the

war to an end and to restore the Union.”

“That may be so,” answered Mildred, drawn into a conversation in spite

of herself, “but I dislike to hear of wholesale murder. The great God

did not put His intelligent creatures here to butcher each other. I

cannot, therefore, but think that war is a sin.”

“No doubt, the aggressive party is guilty,” answered the clerk. “The

rebels brought on the war. Don’t you think, then, that the rebels are

responsible for all the blood that has been, and may be shed?”

“I was speaking on general principles,” answered Mildred. “It does not

become me to measure the degree of guilt that may attach to either

party. It is a sin to commit murder; it is a violation of God’s

commandment.”

“Is it, when done in self-defence?”

“I suppose,” replied Mildred, “that if homicide is absolutely necessary

to the preservation of one’s life, it would be justifiable. But in the

case of war, who is to determine which party is fighting purely in

self-defence?”

“In the present war,” said the clerk, “I don’t see how there can be any

doubt about it. The rebels fired the first gun, and dishonored the flag

of our country.”

“Yet,” said Mildred, “the rebels claim that they are fighting in

self-defence.”

“Do you sympathize with the rebels?” asked the clerk, looking narrowly

into her face, as though he would read her thoughts. “Probably you may

be a Copper-head?”

“I did not say I sympathized with either party,” answered Mildred

quietly.

“No; but one would infer that you leaned toward the rebels.”

“I do not know upon what you could base such an inference,” rejoined

Mildred, “for I have not used an expression that could be construed

into sympathy for either side. I told you I was speaking only on

general principles.”

“Do you mind telling with which party you do sympathize?” quoth the

clerk.

“I am neither politician, nor soldier, nor am I regarded as a citizen

by the law,” answered Mildred. “You will, therefore, please excuse me

from any expression of opinion on this subject. Why should you wish to

know?”

“Why should you mind expressing an opinion?”

“It is not necessary, is it?” asked Mildred.

“No, ma’am; it is not a matter of life or death,” replied the smiling

clerk, “but I can imagine no good reason why you should be so extremely

cautious--that is, unless you have come upon some illegal business.”

For an instant Mildred seemed startled at this insinuation.

“I’m sure I asked a civil question,” said the clerk.

“Certainly,” answered Mildred with a little birdlike laugh, intended to

ward off suspicion, “but I should like to know by what authority you

propound questions to me.”

“O,” said the clerk, breaking into a laugh, “I am no court of

inquisition. I questioned you only by the authority of social

etiquette. It is no breach of politeness, I hope, to ask ordinary

questions in a common conversation. We sometimes ask questions merely

for the sake of vivifying conversation.”

“The authority of social etiquette,” replied Mildred, “is sometimes

insolent, and even ordinary questions may in times of public

disturbance lead to grave consequences.”

“I had no intention of making so serious a matter of it,” said the

clerk. “I asked the question more for the sake of saying something than

anything else. Certainly, if you wish to conceal your opinions and

sentiments, I’m no inquisitor to try to force you to reveal them. I,

however, admire your prudence, since you are a stranger in the city.”

Mildred suddenly laughed outright.

“What do you see in my remark,” inquired the clerk very soberly, “to

excite your risibility?”

“I was laughing at your making so serious a matter out of nothing,”

answered Mildred. “You speak of my prudence, as if I were some astute

diplomatist who had come to Washington to negotiate a treaty of peace,

or some other important business. The whole of my prudence consists in

not directly answering questions that might lead to the discussion of

unpleasant topics.”

“Why is the war such an unpleasant subject?” asked the clerk. “It ought

to be agreeable to all loyal people to hear about the destruction of

rebels. I wish I could kill some of them myself.”

“If you have such a blood-thirsty disposition,” said Mildred a little

contemptuously, “I think you could easily find opportunities to gratify

it.”

“You may be sure, if I could stand the exposure which camp life

involves, I should have gone out at the first tap of the drum. Besides,

I have a family.”

“There are soldiers on both sides who have families,” said Mildred.

“I only wish I had physical strength,” said the clerk. “Nothing would

delight me more than to kill rebels.”

Mildred could not suppress a smile of derision, for the clerk was a

large, well-developed man, presenting every aspect of perfect health.

This exhibition of contempt did not escape his notice, since he closely

watched her throughout the entire interview. He felt provoked at her

insinuations, but he was too polite to manifest his vexation.

“But here comes the chamber-maid,” he said, “who will show you to your

room. I hope you may have a pleasant time in the city, if the business

upon which you have come will permit you to seek pleasure.”

“How do you know that I have come upon any business?” asked Mildred.

“Strangers generally have business, when they visit the city,” said the

clerk significantly, as Mildred thought. But she concluded that she

would say nothing more. Rising, she silently followed the chamber-maid.

The clerk walked back to his desk in a thoughtful mood; and this is

what was passing through his mind:

“That is one of those proud Southern women, and she is bent upon

mischief. Well, if she is not very cautious, I shall trap her as I have

done others. She seems to be an intelligent, accomplished woman, but

what is she doing here alone? If she is a spy, as I begin to suspect,

and is detected, what a fate awaits her!”

CHAPTER XII.

IN PRISON.

As soon as the chamber-maid’s footsteps had died away, Mildred locked

the door, and sat down to think. Suffering herself to be drawn into an

interview with a stranger was her second blunder, as she now perceived.

Why had the clerk manifested such a sudden interest in her affairs?

Did he not suspect her? What made her so foolish as to engage in a

conversation with him? She could not but feel a little uneasy and

anxious, and she determined to transact her business as quickly as

possible, and leave the city. As soon as she would rid herself of Gen.

A.’s message she would be out of danger. She must find Beall at once.

She then rose from her seat, and looked around the room, and even

under the bed. She cast her eyes up to the ceiling, and as she did

so imagined that she heard a sudden, but slight movement overhead.

A small bit of plaster dropped to the floor. She at once made the

discovery that about two feet square of the plaster had fallen off, or

at least was gone. This fact, under ordinary circumstances, would have

made no impression upon her mind, but now it awakened her suspicions,

and she narrowly examined the unsightly blemish. Why should it not

have been repaired? But it may have been recently done. To discover

whether this might be so, she examined the carpet immediately under

it, but she saw only a few grains of sand, and the little lump that

had just fallen. Perhaps Sir Isaac, in the same length of time, did

not study more profoundly in regard to the descent of that famous

apple which revolutionized philosophy, than Mildred did about that

insignificant bit of rubbish. Was its fall, too, due simply to the

law of gravitation, or was it caused by some eavesdropper? After

reflecting for some moments, a new thought seemed suddenly to flash

into her mind, for she partially disrobed herself, as if to rest, and

lay upon the bed, pretending to fall into a deep sleep. She was, in

fact, wide awake, listening with all her ears. An hour passed away, and

she arose. Taking a pair of small scissors from her pocket, she cut

a small aperture in the lining of her dress so that she could secure

easy access to the General’s manuscript pocket-handkerchief. This done,

she drew her chair to the window where she could look down upon the

busy street. She gazed at the crowds rushing along in pursuit of the

varied objects that occupy the attention of the inhabitants of a gay

city, like the capital of the United States. She beheld officers of

every grade walking among the throng with proud, military step, who

appeared to glory more in their magnificent _physique_ and splendid,

spotless uniform, than in the deeds of valor they had performed on the

field of battle. In this gay, beautiful city, she felt a keen sense

of loneliness. There was, so far as she knew, only one person in all

the place, whose sympathies were like her own, and she had no intimate

acquaintance with him. This person was Capt. Beall. She now determined

to find him at once, deliver the General’s document, and immediately

start homeward. Accordingly, she rose from her chair, donned her

cephalic attire, and opened the door. She started back in amazement

and horror! There stood before her a policeman, a woman, and the

head-clerk with whom she had conversed not more than two hours since.

What awful thoughts now came crowding into her mind! It is impossible

to describe them. Persons who have been in similar situations remember

how active is the mind in the first moment of surprise. The sense of

danger, the line of defence, the means of escape, all are discussed

in a few seconds. Thoughts such as these, and a hundred others of a

different character, flashed in the most rapid succession through

Mildred’s mind. Among other things Gen. A.’s cautions came vividly to

her memory. He had told her how necessary is self-possession, and she

was now making the most desperate efforts to be calm. The trio stood

watching her face, as she gazed steadily at them. As they said nothing,

she presently, in a quiet tone broke the silence.

“I am patiently waiting to learn the object of this intrusion,” she

said with dignity.

“We are not guilty of intrusion,” replied the clerk, “we are merely

standing before the door.”

“If that is all,” said Mildred calmly, “please let me pass, and you can

enjoy your harmless pleasure to your heart’s content.”

“Not so fast, sarcastic lady,” spoke the clerk. “You must give a

better account of yourself than you did a while ago. I suspected your

disloyalty to the Federal Government sufficiently to induce me to make

an effort to ascertain if my suspicions were correct.”

“What effort do you propose to make?”

“Would you object to being searched?”

“For what?” asked Mildred with inward trepidation, as she perceived

treachery gradually unfolding. For one moment the most bitter hatred

toward that deceptive clerk sprang up in her heart, and she felt that

she could have taken his life. But it was only for a moment.

“We wish to see if you have anything contraband,” replied the clerk.

“I suppose you intend to search me anyhow, whether I consent or not?”

“We don’t like to resort to force,” answered the clerk, “and we hope

you’ll readily give your consent. Indeed, a willingness on your part to

submit will be taken as evidence of your loyalty to the government.”

“I do not see it in that light,” said Mildred as quietly as possible.

“What have I done to arouse your suspicions?”

“That does not matter, lady,” replied the clerk. “I have no feeling of

malice toward you. I sincerely hope that I am mistaken, and that you

may prove as innocent of any sinister intentions towards the government

as the angels of heaven. I was prepossessed in your favor by your

general appearance and your conversation. But if you have come to the

city with any dark purpose, it is but natural that you should oppose

being searched.”

“Can you not see,” asked Mildred, speaking slowly, “that it is a

personal indignity to be subjected to a search?”

“Not in such times as these,” said the clerk. “It is generally the

case, that, when innocent people are suspected, they demand an

investigation, instead of shrinking from it.”

“That depends upon circumstances,” replied Mildred coolly. She was

endeavoring to prolong the conversation as much as possible in order

to think what was best to be done. If she could avoid this search,

she would be safe. A score of schemes rapidly presented themselves

during these few moments. She thought of bribery; but that would be

an acknowledgment of guilt. If there had been a fire in the room, she

would have hastily thrown the dangerous kerchief into it; in that case

all that the authorities could do would be to imprison her for a while

as a suspicious character. But there was no fire, and she did not have

even a match. If Mildred had only known it, all her scheming was to no

purpose, for she had been watched. That wiry, pert little woman, one

of the trio had been in the room over-head, which had been prepared

for suspicious characters. When Mildred had suddenly looked up to the

ceiling, in her examination of the room, the woman involuntarily drew

back, and in so doing had caused the lump of loose plaster to fall. She

saw Mildred make the rent in the dress, and that was enough. Mildred

at last came to the conclusion that it would be advisable to submit

with the best grace possible, and trust to Providence for protection.

Sending up a silent, but earnest prayer, she said:

“I suppose you have brought this lady to do the work? If so, it is

useless to discuss the matter. So proceed.”

“That is right,” said the clerk. “You can both go into the room, and

close the door. This officer and myself will await the result in the

hall, here.”

Accordingly the little woman, with eyes, as Mildred thought, keen

enough to see through a mill-stone, entered the apartment, and closed

the door.

“Well, what do you wish?” asked Mildred.

“Let me have your dress first, please.”

“You wish me to take it off?”

“Yes, take it off.”

“What do you expect to find?” asked Mildred. “You can feel the dress

anywhere, and you will discover no papers.”

“Take it off,” said the woman sharply. “I don’t know what I will find.

I’ll show you when I am through searching.”

Mildred deliberately removed the garment, and while so doing, made

two or three unsuccessful attempts to withdraw the treacherous

kerchief unobserved; but the diminutive woman was watching with an

Argus-eyed vigilance that would have instantly detected any suspicious

manipulation. The little lady took it, turned it inside out, and

stretched it upon the bed. In an instant her keen eyes fell upon the

fatal rent. Mildred felt a choking sensation when she perceived the

nimble fingers deftly close upon the General’s handkerchief.

“O, heaven! what shall I do?” was her inward exclamation as she saw the

kerchief quickly jerked out. She felt a sickening sensation creeping

over her. She tried hard to preserve her equanimity. Would falsehood

avail in this instance? or should she tell the truth, and meet death

with Christian resignation?

“Ah! what is this?” exclaimed the little woman, holding up the kerchief

by two corners, and gazing at it with a most provoking air of triumph.

Mildred’s first impulse was to snatch the terrible document from her

hands, and thrust it in the fire, but alas! there was no fire in the

room.

“It may be some old rag,” said Mildred in a hoarse, trembling voice,

“put in to thicken the lining.” It was the first time in her life that

she had practiced prevarication, and the words seemed to blister her

tongue.

“Hardly probable,” said the Lilliputian lady with an ironical smile.

“Hardly probable; it is almost new, don’t you see? But I will give it

to Mr. Twombly, and let him examine it while I continue the work.”

Accordingly, she opened the door, gave the kerchief to the clerk, and

resumed the search. But a half hour’s further investigation revealed

nothing else of a suspicious character. The woman said:

“Well, unless that handkerchief contains evidences of disloyalty you

will go free. Put on your clothing. I will assist you.”

In a little time Mildred was again presentable, and the door being

re-opened, the two men entered without ceremony. The little woman was

the first to speak.

“That’s the only suspicious article I’ve been able to discover.”

“And that is enough,” said the clerk. “Alas! young lady, we are forced

to arrest you as a spy. I am sorry for you.”

“I do not need your sympathy,” said Mildred indignantly. “I would

rather be anything than a detestable informer, showing a ‘Devil’s

purpose with an angel’s face’--sneaking among your unsuspecting

guests, smiling and fawning upon them in order to convert their blood

into gold. ‘I’d rather be a dog and bay the moon than such a Roman.’

Yes, I’d rather die a thousand times than act the base part of a

contemptible hypocrite.”

“High! wrathful lady,” exclaimed the clerk without betraying any

symptoms of vexation and annoyance, “how can you blame me for

discharging my duty to my country?”

“Don’t you remember that King Philip said he loved the treason, but

despised the traitor? That is the case with your masters; they love

your treachery, but they hate you. Every honest man heartily execrates

a cold-blooded, villainous informer,” cried the enraged Mildred.

“Nevertheless, young lady,” coolly said the clerk, “it is our duty to

arrest you as a spy.”

“I am no spy,” exclaimed Mildred. “I have not come to Washington to

find out anything of a military character. I call God to witness that I

have not come here for any such purpose.”

“Why, don’t you know the contents of this document?” asked the clerk.

“God in heaven, who sees me, knows that I never read a single word, or

syllable of it.”

“Then,” said the clerk in surprise, “you know not what a dangerous

handkerchief you have been carrying.”

“Yes, sir; I knew it was attended with some sort of danger, but I do

emphatically deny being a spy. All I had to do was to deliver the

handkerchief to a certain person, and go back home.”

“And that person is named here,” replied the clerk. “I wouldn’t given a

snap of my finger for his life.”

Mildred turned pale on hearing this, and on re-calling the fact that

General A. had told her that if she were detected, a third party would

be compromised.

“Notwithstanding your unnecessary abuse of myself,” said the clerk, “I

hope your excuse will be considered sufficient to procure your release.

Your friends have made a mere tool of you for the accomplishment of

their own purpose. But I must take you to head-quarters. If you will

promise to go along quietly, I will accompany you myself; if you are

not, I will turn you over to the police.”

“I will go with you,” said Mildred, who was now ready almost to faint.

The clerk and Mildred descended to the street, and entered a passing

hack. In a few moments they alighted at the head-quarters of Gen. ----,

to whom the clerk delivered the handkerchief. He read it over twice and

said:

“A pretty kettle of fish is this! Are you the bearer of this, young

lady?”

“I am, sir.”

“She had it carefully concealed in her clothing, General,” spoke up the

clerk. “I suspected her, and had her watched.”

“You have done your country a great service,” replied the General.

“Have you arrested the other party?”

“No, sir, I thought it best to deliver that article to you first.”

“Very well,” answered the General. “I thank you heartily for what

you have done. Now, young lady,” continued the General, turning his

attention to Mildred who was pale but calm, “how came you with this

document?”

Mildred had concocted a falsehood which might have obscured her

connection with the affair with a shadow of dubitation. But in early

life the little story of George Washington and the cherry tree had made

a deep, ineffaceable impression upon her mind, and neither could she

“tell a lie.” If she spoke at all, she determined to tell the truth,

let the consequences be what they might. So she answered:

“I brought it to a certain person in this city.”

“What is his name?”

“I cannot tell,” she replied. “You can do as you please with me, but I

shall not compromise others.”

“It does not matter,” replied the General. “His name is Beall. I shall

have him arrested in an hour or so. He is an important character, it

seems. Do you not know, lady, that you are acting the spy?”

“No, sir. I deny being a spy.”

“I pity your ignorance,” replied the officer. “You are exactly in the

attitude of a spy. The penalty--do you know what it is?”

“Death, is it not?” replied Mildred calmly.

“Death, and death by hanging.”

“O, General!” exclaimed Mildred, whose feelings were alternating

between trepidation and tranquility. “Can you not pardon me when I was

ignorant that I was acting in such a capacity?”

“I never knew a spy to be pardoned,” said the General thoughtfully.

“There was universal sympathy for the unfortunate Major Andre,

and Washington would have saved him, if possible. But the law is

inexorable. I have no power to do anything. You will have to be tried

by a military court, and you can easily imagine what will be the

result. A spy always takes his life in his hands, well knowing the

consequences of detection. If you are ignorant of these consequences, I

am truly sorry for you. You will,” he continued, turning to the clerk,

“give the lady a room in your hotel, and I will send a guard to stand

at the door to prevent escape. I do not care to send so elegant a lady

to a common prison. Give her a room from which there is no practicable

egress except through the door.”

“I understand, General,” replied the clerk. “The corner room of the

fourth story is perfectly safe.”

“General,” said Mildred who had been trying to be brave, “may I write

to my parents?”

If the officer had spoken harshly, she could have borne her misfortune

more courageously, but he spoke kindly, and the womanish heart would

betray itself. Under such circumstances, without tears, she would have

been untrue to her sex. The General was touched, as nearly all men

are, by the sight of a beautiful woman down whose cheeks are flowing

the evidences of her distress. When the grim old General looked at

the innocent truth-telling face of this magnanimous girl, upon whose

features God had stamped the seal of honesty, and especially when

she broke down at the thought of the distress of her parents, and

Ernest, all the better feelings of his heart were touched. His chivalry

prompted him to release her, but the claims of duty were paramount.

He, at the time, thought that surely no court-martial would deal with

her as with one of the “rougher sex.” Her innocence, beauty, and

intelligence would be her defense, and, under all circumstances, would

be a greater protection than a Roman shield. He, therefore, replied:

“Certainly, you may. This gentleman,” turning to the clerk, “will see

that you have everything that you want. Remember, sir, she is a lady,

and treat her accordingly.”

“She herself will testify, General, that I have extended to her the

treatment which every lady deserves, notwithstanding the fact, that she

abused me roundly for simply discharging my duty.”

When they again entered the hack, such a sense of the awfulness of

her situation came over Mildred that she covered her face, and sobbed

audibly. Her woman nature strongly asserted itself, and she yielded.

For the first time a sense of shame reddened the cheeks of the clerk,

sitting silent in front of her.

“Confound it,” said he to himself, “what great deed have I done? She is

nothing but an innocent girl, ignorant of her own danger. If it were

some sharp man, I might feel self-complacent. The man to whom she was

to deliver that handkerchief is really the guilty party. But it is too

late now. I must obey orders.”

They soon reached the hotel, and in ten minutes Mildred found herself

in the corner room of the fourth story. And she sat down, and wept

bitterly.

[Illustration: Decoration]

CHAPTER XIII.

A DESPERATE MAN.

The army to which Ernest belonged was encamped on the banks of the

historical river ----. The year was drawing to a close. To Ernest

the days dragged heavily by, as there are few amusements in military

camps that are sufficient to divert one’s mind from introspectional

processes. It was this prolonged subjectivity--this constant brooding

over one’s own thoughts, inseparable from camp life, that produced

_ennui_, or more frequently, that exquisite _nostalgia_, which often

terminated in death. Ernest had kept up a regular correspondence with

Mildred, which occupied much of his time, and made his own thoughts

pleasant companions. She had not written a word in regard to her visits

to Washington, and he, of course, supposed that she was at home.

One morning a letter was delivered to him, post-marked from

Mildred’s office, but directed in a chirography which was not hers.

This circumstance at once aroused, in his mind, the most fearful

apprehensions. He thought of a hundred calamities, in a few moments,

that might have overtaken her--probably she had suddenly died--she

might be sick--she had married someone--the enemy had made a raid and

carried off the whole family, and this thought made him clench his

hand and grind his teeth. Why did he not open the epistle at once, and

end his suspense? Because he was endeavoring to prepare his mind for

the reception of distressing news, like a man who sees the avalanche

coming, and braces himself against the nearest rock that promises

to offer successful resistance against the coming shock. The first

Lieutenant of his company was in the tent, to whom Ernest, holding up

the letter, said:

“I fear this will put an end to all my fondly cherished hopes.”

“Is it from _her_?” inquired the Lieutenant.

“No, not from her,” said Ernest, “but it bears the post-mark of her

office.”

“Well, why don’t you open it?”

“Because it appears to me like a Pandora’s box, and I dread the evils

it contains.”

“Hope was left behind, you know.”

“Yes; but I fear that hope, in this instance, will be the first to wing

her flight away from me,” said Ernest.

“Never climb the hill till you get to it,” said the Lieutenant. “Why

allow yourself to suffer the pangs of imaginary evils?”

“It is foolish, Lieutenant.”

Ernest slowly opened the envelope, took out the folded sheet, and

glanced at the subscriber’s signature. It was from Dr. Arrington. The

Lieutenant noticed that a deathly pallor spread over his face, and his

hands trembled violently, but he said nothing till Ernest had finished

the letter. He was transformed into the very embodiment of despair.

“What is the matter?” kindly and anxiously asked the Lieutenant, his

personal friend.

“I cannot tell,” Ernest almost groaned out. “There, read for yourself.”

The Lieutenant carefully read Dr. Arrington’s account of the arrest and

imprisonment of his daughter.

“It is terrible news,” said the Lieutenant, “and there is no use

disguising it. Yet as long as there is life, there is hope.”

“Oh! Great Heavens!” exclaimed Ernest, springing to his feet, “the

villains may have already executed her! You know how hurriedly they

do these things. If they have--,” shaking his head and grinding his

teeth--“If they have, I will be avenged. Yes, they shall pay for her

blood. I shall have only one object to live for--to avenge her death.

In the next battle, Lieutenant, I desire you to command the company. I

want a gun--I must have a gun. I cannot stand still while there will be

such opportunities for spilling their blood. Yes, sir, I will make them

pay dearly for such shameful, diabolical murder.”

“Now, come, my friend,” said the Lieutenant, “you will try to ascend

the mountain before you reach it. Sufficient unto the day is the evil

thereof. You have no proof whatever that the execution has taken place,

and your surmises may be without the shadow of foundation. Besides,

you are a Christian--a follower of the meek and lowly Lamb, who when

He was reviled, reviled not again. Does it become you to be talking of

revenge? ‘Vengeance is mine,’ saith the Lord. You must not murmur at

the dispensations of divine providence.”

“What!” interrupted Ernest, “do you call this a dispensation of

providence? Do you believe that God would deliberately bring about such

a dreadful event as that?”

“Why not that as well as any other event? Don’t you believe that God

has something to do with this war?”

“Yes, I suppose He has, in a sort of general way.”

“General way?” exclaimed the Lieutenant. “Why, generalities are made up

of particulars. How can there be a general providence, as some people

call it, without special acts? Well, this misfortune of yours, as you

regard it, is one of the events of the war. It is not a mere accident.”

“Do you pretend to say,” asked Ernest in an agitated manner, “that God

selected my loved one especially for the purpose of being sacrificed?

Do you say that?”

“Why not her as well as anybody else, granting your premises? But you

are a little too fast, my friend. You have no reliable information that

she has been sacrificed. You’re assuming too much.”

“She will be treated as a spy,” said Ernest, “and you know what that

means. I can never forgive Gen. A. for inveigling her into such an

affair. Why did he not get me, or some other man to go?”

“You do not know what Gen. A.’s reasons were,” said the Lieutenant.

“Captain, you need to be taught a lesson of humility, if you will

pardon me for saying it. God says, ‘love your enemies,’ and here you

are, wishing to murder yours, and are manifesting an unforgiving spirit

even toward your friends. I believe you are a Christian, but I fear you

will have to be chastened by sorrow and suffering. You would better ask

God to give you meekness of spirit and resignation to His will, before

you are made to bow by calamities. Your rebellion will be punished. The

Scripture says, ‘Whom the Lord loveth, He chasteneth.’ Submit, before a

‘worse thing happen unto thee.’”

“It is difficult for me to believe just as you do,” answered Ernest in

a gentler tone. “You belong to the Presbyterian Church that holds to

the doctrine that God ordains whatsoever comes to pass. I confess that

I am disposed to believe the theory, but somehow I cannot bring it into

the practical affairs of life.”

“You remember what Nebuchadnezzar was punished for?” asked the

Lieutenant. “It was for denying the Divine Sovereignty. God punishes

men for the same offence now. He tells us He is a jealous God; He

demands that we shall recognize His hand in all our affairs.”

“I wish I could fully and firmly believe as you do,” said Ernest

thoughtfully. “I can see that the doctrines of the Presbyterian Church

are better adapted to the necessities of man’s nature than those of any

other Church. I notice too, that Presbyterians seem to bear up under

misfortunes better than other people. And this I must attribute to the

comfort they find in their doctrines.”

“There is much truth in what you say,” replied the Lieutenant. “I was

not reared a Presbyterian, but after I was grown, I was particularly

struck with their quiet way of doing things--a way destitute of

boisterous zeal and ostentatious fussiness. Then when I investigated

their doctrines, I found them Scriptural. I confess I do not see how

any man can fail to believe these doctrines, with the Bible in his

hands. Do you not think that the doctrine of the Divine Sovereignty is

taught in the Bible?”

“It does seem to be,” said Ernest; “but this doctrine of election does

not, at times, appear to be consistent with justice.”

“Where is the inconsistency?”

“Why, that Jesus died for some men, and left the rest of mankind to

perish in their sins, and then to hold these men responsible for what

they could not help.”

“Who advocates such a view as that?” asked the Lieutenant, who was a

pious and intelligent member of the Presbyterian Church.

“Why, do not you Presbyterians believe that?”

“No, sir; we believe that Christ tasted death for every man, as the

Scriptures declare. He made an atonement sufficient to save every son

and daughter of Adam. No man is lost on account of any limitation or

defect in the atonement, nor on account of an eternal decree. All

could be saved, if they only had the will. It is nothing but the

perverse will in men that prevents their salvation. But I should like

to ask what you believe in regard to the atonement? You may as well be

thinking about this as brooding over your troubles.”

“Yes; let us have a discussion--anything to keep my mind off this

misfortune till I am prepared to think calmly about it. In reply,

then, to your inquiry, I say I scarcely know what to think. It would

seem reasonable to me, though, that Christ died for all precisely

alike--for one just as much as another. All were on the same level. By

His death He removed the obstacles placed in the way by original sin

or Adam’s transgression. He thus made salvation possible to all men.

Christ provided the means, and left it to man’s choice whether he would

use the means or not. That would seem just and right.”

“So it might at the first glance,” answered the Lieutenant, “and it is

the way men would like to have it. Nothing could be more agreeable to

the carnal heart. But let us calmly examine your position. You think

then that Jesus died for no individual in particular, but for the whole

race of men in general?”

“That seems to be reasonable,” replied Ernest, “and no one could

complain.”

“Yes, reasonable according to man’s notions,” rejoined the Lieutenant,

“and according to the principles of mere human philosophy. But the

main objection to it, is that it is in diametrical opposition to the

Scriptures. For they emphatically declare that Christ gave Himself for

the Church. All through the New Testament we find such expressions as

‘died for His people.’ Jesus, Himself repeatedly spoke of ‘His people’

for whom He would give His life.”

“But does not the Bible say ‘He was made a propitiation not only for

our sins, but for the sins of the whole world?’ What does that mean?”

“Well, suppose Christ had not died at all, how many would have been

saved?”

“None at all,” said Ernest.

“Then the answer is that Jesus died _sufficiently_ for all the world,

but effectually for His own people. He made such an atonement that

every one could be saved who wanted to be. And this is the meaning of

every passage of Scripture which is similar to the one cited by you.”

“But,” asked Ernest, “what was the use of dying _sufficiently_ for all,

when it was known that all would not be saved?”

“Christ had to die for the elect,” replied the Lieutenant, “and in so

doing He died sufficiently to save the entire world. If the atonement

is sufficient to save all, that throws the responsibility of the

damnation of those who are lost upon themselves. But how much broader

do you want the atonement, if it takes in all who want to be saved? Why

should you want Christ to make an effectual atonement for those who do

not want to be saved?”

“I confess that is a puzzling question,” answered Ernest.

“Besides,” continued the Lieutenant, “your position is contrary to

sound philosophy.”

“How is that?”

“You say it is left to men to choose their own destinies. Now suppose

that not one of the human race had accepted Christ, would not the

atonement have been a failure? Would not Jesus have died in vain?”

“It does seem so,” said Ernest.

“Do you suppose,” continued the Lieutenant, “that the Lord was trying

experiments?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean this,” answered the Lieutenant. “if God was experimenting, He

virtually said: ‘Son, go into the world, and make an atonement for

the sins of all mankind; perhaps, some may avail themselves of the

provisions of this scheme which we have adopted, but we do not know

that a single individual will be saved.’ Do you not suppose that God

had some definite purpose to accomplish in the atonement? If not, He

was less wise than men are. Even we, weak human beings, never go to

work without some plan and some object.”

“Of course,” said Ernest, “I admit that God had a definite purpose in

view.”

“Do you not believe that God’s purpose will be achieved?” asked the

Lieutenant.

“Certainly, it will.”

“Then,” said the Lieutenant, “if the Lord intended to save all men, why

are they not saved?”

“Because they will not be.”

“You are then driven to the conclusion,” replied the Lieutenant, “that

men are more powerful than God. He wants to save them, and intends to

save them, but they will not allow Him. They defeat God’s intentions.”

“No; I do not mean that exactly,” said Ernest.

“Well, what do you mean?”

“Why,” answered Ernest, “I mean that God made equal provisions for all,

and determined to treat all alike.”

“Then all the plan you admit was, that Christ made a sort of general

atonement, but determined nothing in regard to the salvation of any

particular individual? It was not certain that any would be saved?”

“O, of course, He knew that some would be saved, and some lost.”

“Yes,” replied the Lieutenant, “He knew that some would be saved, and

some lost--just put it on that ground; now, Christ died _effectually_

for those who He knew would be saved, and yet sufficiently to save

those who He knew would be lost; and this is the election which my

Church advocates, that is, leaving out fore-knowledge as the ground

upon which the scheme of redemption is based; for God’s choice of the

elect does not depend upon anything in the creature. But I am showing

that your own position leads to a kind of predestination. Do you not

see that your position also runs into the broadest universalism?”

“How does it?” asked Ernest.

“Why, your idea is, that God, to be impartial, must treat all

alike--give all the same opportunities, and bring the same influences

to bear upon all. Now let us see how that will work. Mr. A. is

convinced by the Holy Spirit, and is converted, as we may say: he is

saved; Mr. B. his neighbor, must be treated in the same way, or God

would be partial.”

“God gives both the same opportunities,” said Ernest, “but one resists

and the other yields.”

“Then,” said the Lieutenant, “you have mankind divided into two

classes--one resists, and is certain to be lost, and the other yields,

and is certain to be saved. What is that but predestination?”

“I mean,” said Ernest, “that God gives each class sufficient grace to

save them, if they would use it.”

“It is well,” replied the Lieutenant, “that you brought in that ‘if.’

Certainly, ‘if’ they would use it. The grace is sufficient, do you not

see, to save one class, but not the other? So here is predestination

again. The line is drawn between the two classes, and one class can

never be saved, because the grace given is not sufficient to induce

them to make an effort to secure salvation.”

“Well,” said Ernest, “do you not make God unjust in not giving them

sufficient grace?”

“If He did give every man sufficient grace to save him,” said the

Lieutenant, “then every man would be saved. What is that but the

broadest universalism?”

Ernest made no reply.

“But you are not a universalist,” continued the Lieutenant. “If

not, you must believe the doctrine of election; there is no other

alternative. The difference between us is this: I affirm that God

elects His people upon a principle with which He has not acquainted

us; you say that the election depends upon men themselves; and

you divide men into two classes, and the individuals of one class

are so constituted that it is certain they will resist all sacred

influences, and consequently will inevitably be lost. This is as rigid

predestination as ever John Calvin advocated.”

“You have a way of making me say things I do not mean, Lieutenant.”

“No,” answered the Lieutenant, “I merely followed out the proposition

you laid down to its legitimate consequences. I do not see how you can

escape these consequences, and I would be glad if you would show me how

to avoid them. For, I confess that there is something about it which

sorely puzzles me, and troubles me.”

“I thought you professed to fully understand it,” said Ernest.

“On the contrary, I do not understand it. I merely take the Bible at

what it says. But I never pretended to reconcile election with human

free agency. We can go to a certain point, and there we must stop.”

“What is it that perplexes you so?”

“Well,” answered the Lieutenant, “some people assert that God desires

and wills every human being to be saved. Now, if He does, why does

He not save them? Why does He not accomplish His own will? He,

undoubtedly, has the power.”

“We might answer,” replied Ernest, “that God will not destroy their

free agency.”

“Is it so important and necessary to preserve free agency that men

must suffer eternal torment for it?” asked the Lieutenant. “Would it

not be better to destroy their free agency than to permit men to use

it to their own destruction? We cannot deny that God could save every

man if He really desired and willed to do so. He could speak to them

with an audible voice or show them a great light, as He did Paul, and

in this way bring the entire human race into the fold of the Lord

Jesus Christ. But it is as clear as anything can be, that God never

intended to save all men. If He did, what was there to defeat the

divine intention? If you say that men will not let Him save them, then

men have more power than God. In fact, any position you may take that

is not in harmony with the Westminster Confession of Faith will end

in confusion and darkness. Why not, then, take the plain Scriptures on

the subject? All through God’s word the two classes, the lost and the

saved, are spoken of. You may account for the damnation of sinners on

any principle you please; you may say that God has nothing to do with

it, if you will; you may say that men are perfectly free agents; that

there is no such doctrine as election in the Scriptures; you may blot

out predestination, but nevertheless the fact stares you in the face

that there are the Saved and the Lost. We must judge of God’s purpose

by what takes place. Men are saved every day. Men are lost every day.

Now, all this is in accordance with the divine will or opposed to it;

one or the other. If it is in accordance with God’s will, this is the

election for which we contend. But if it is opposed to the divine will,

we are forced to the conclusion that God has not sufficient power to

accomplish what He wants.”

“As I told you, Lieutenant,” said Ernest, “I am inclined to the

doctrine of the Presbyterian Church. I can see that there is more

comfort in it than the opposite, and it is certainly more Scriptural.”

“The opposite is too vague and loose,” answered the Lieutenant. “The

believer has too little security. According to the view of some people,

the Christian may be in a state of grace to-day, and to-morrow in a

state of condemnation. If I believed that, I should be miserable, for I

should never know whether I was safe or not. I prefer to believe God’s

own declaration, which is that He will complete the good work He has

begun, and that His people shall never perish.”

“I believe that, myself,” said Ernest. “I have been talking on this

subject more to keep my mind off my misfortune than for anything else,

but it is in vain. How can I help thinking of it? My mind is now like

a volcano in a state of activity. I cannot stand this. I cannot lie

here in camp doing nothing, while she is languishing in prison. Good

heavens! it is enough to drive me mad.”

“Let us pray to God for direction.”

“With all my heart,” answered Ernest. “Please pray for me.”

They both knelt down, and the Lieutenant in a low voice prayed

earnestly for his friend, that God would sustain him and bring him in

triumph out of all his troubles. When they arose, the Lieutenant said:

“Now let us have faith in God, but that does not mean that we are not

to be active ourselves. What course do you intend to pursue?”

“I must go into Washington City,” said Ernest.

“How can you do that?” inquired the Lieutenant.

“I do not know, but I must go. Perhaps Gen. A. can assist me. He ought

to do so, since he is the cause of the calamity. I shall go to him at

once. The train will be here in two hours. I cannot stay here; I will

desert first.”

And Ernest dashed out of the tent and rushed off like a mad man.

[Illustration: Decoration]

CHAPTER XIV.

DARK HOURS.

The rapid pace of Ernest soon brought him to the quarters of his

Brigadier General, a man whose name is inseparably connected with the

battle of Bull Run. After the Brigadier had heard the touching story of

Mildred’s arrest and incarceration, he gave, without hesitation, the

distressed young man a permit to visit Gen. A.

In less than two hours after this, Ernest was thundering along toward

Gen. A.’s headquarters, which he reached about four o’clock in the

evening. After the ceremony necessary to secure access to a General, he

entered the little farm house to which allusion has already been made,

and introduced himself. There is never much social intercourse between

the higher and subordinate officers of an army. There is a great gulf

between them which is rarely crossed. In visiting a high officer, it

is not expected that the subaltern shall make familiar remarks about

the weather or any other ordinary topic. He must come to business _in

medias res_.

“Well, sir, what can I do for you?” asked Gen. A. in that impatient

military tone which indicates that the applicant must talk fast and to

the point.

“Some days ago, sir,” said Ernest, stung by his frigid reception, “you

sent a young lady of this neighborhood into Washington, where she was

arrested and will probably be doomed to death, if she has not already

been.”

“Well?”

“Well!” exclaimed Ernest, vexed at the General’s coolness and seeming

indifference, “she is my affianced.”

“Well, go on.”

“Are you not going to make some effort for her relief,” cried Ernest,

warming into boldness, “or do you propose to let her perish?”

“I should like to know what I can do?” quoth Gen. A.

“I do not know what you can do,” cried Ernest in desperation, “but you

ought to do something, since you are the cause of her misfortune.”

“Am I to be held responsible for all the calamities which the war may

bring upon citizens and soldiers?” broke out the General. “If so, I

shall resign my position at once. The young lady herself will not hold

me to such responsibility. She went with a full knowledge of what she

would have to encounter.”

“Suppose she did, sir, does that make it any the less necessary that

efforts should be made to save her?”

“I would save her, if I could,” said the officer.

“General,” cried Ernest, overcome by his conflicting emotions,

“something must be done for her relief. It seems to me that you are too

indifferent about it.”

The General looked at him in surprise and with an expression of

sternness, but Ernest was now deeply agitated, and he met the official

_coup d’oeil_ without the slightest indication of servility.

“I cannot stay here in camp,” continued Ernest, “when the being who is

dearer to me than life is in such imminent danger. You cannot expect me

to be a good soldier under such circumstances.”

“Well, what do you want?” asked Gen. A.

“I must do something,” replied Ernest. “Can you aid me in getting into

Washington?”

“If you were there, what could you do?”

“I do not know what, General, but I am willing to risk my life in the

attempt to save her.”

“I cannot see,” said the General, whose feelings were beginning to

soften at the sight of the young man’s distress, “what you could do if

you were in the city.”

“General, I must go.”

“If you do go, you are liable to be arrested as a spy yourself.”

“I will have to take that risk. General. How did you enable her to go

into the city?”

“O, that is managed easily enough.”

“Then, General, in heaven’s name, let me go,” exclaimed Ernest, “let me

go. If I do not save her, I will return and devote my life to avenging

her death. I will be the bravest soldier in your army.”

“Very well, sir, you can try it.”

“Thanks, General, ten thousand thanks. I shall never forget your

kindness as long as I live. When can I start?”

“Whenever you please,” said Gen. A.

“Then I will go at once,” said Ernest, “I do not want to lose a

moment.”

Gen. A. immediately gave Ernest the necessary directions. It is no

part of our story to explain how Gen. A. enabled people to go in and

out of Washington. It is sufficient to say that he did it. As we have

already remarked, the real history of the war has never been written,

and never will be. The most thrilling portions of it will remain in

eternal obscurity. Many stirring incidents will linger for a while in

individual memories, and will enliven the fire-sides of families for

a few years, and then perish forever. Not many ever knew how Ernest

made his way into Washington, but the next day he saw the capitol of

the United States. This, however, was the least of his difficulties.

How could he find Mildred? And what could he do after finding her? But

he determined to make every effort in his power, trusting to chance to

furnish opportunities. Fortune soon seemed to favor him. For the next

day after his arrival, he was standing on a certain street, which it

is not necessary to name, gazing about in a vacant way, while thoughts

were revolving in his mind, connected with the object of his visit.

He was opposite the hotel at which he was stopping. Accidentally,

it seemed, casting his eye upward, he beheld a lady at the window

of the corner room of the fourth story. She was looking down on the

crowds below as they went hurrying along the street. Ernest, after

a moment’s examination, recognized her. He waved his hand till, at

last, he attracted her attention. Mildred gazed at him earnestly for

a moment, and waved responsively in token of recognition. Ernest

placed his fingers upon his mouth in a significant manner, which she

understood. He stood for a brief space in profound study, but suddenly

disappearing, crossed the street, and entered the hotel. He ascended

to the fourth story where his own room was located. Mildred was on the

same floor in the corner room. He had noticed the guard at the door,

but till now, knew not who the prisoner was. Approaching the sentinel,

he spoke in a tone sufficiently loud for Mildred to hear:

“Whom are you guarding?”

“It seems to be a leddy,” replied an Irishman, “but how shud I know who

she be?”

“What are your instructions?” asked Ernest.

“Why, to let no one in nor out, to be shure.”

“Is the door locked?” asked Ernest.

“Faith is it, and the kay is gone.”

“Who has it?”

“The Capting, I guess.”

“What is the lady confined for?”

“Narry bit do I know.”

“Will you not let me speak to this lady through the keyhole?” asked

Ernest.

“Och! what would ye be afther doin’? Do ye want me to be a traitor to

my counthry?”

“No, no; I do not want you to be a traitor,” said Ernest in a low tone.

“Are you a married man or not?”

“Faith no, but I expect to be, as soon as this whar is over, which I

hope wont be a ghreat toime; an’ then I’ll be marrhid to one of the

moust beautiful geerls in the whoul city.”

“Then listen to me, my friend. You are engaged to be married, and so

am I. Now suppose your girl were confined in that room, and I should

be standing guard in your place, and you should come up, and ask me to

let you speak one little word to her through the keyhole, and I should

refuse, what would you think of me?”

“Faith, I’d take you to be a mane rascal.”

“Well,” said Ernest eagerly, “the girl you have in that room has

promised to marry me. I have not spoken to her for several months. Now,

will you drive me away without letting me speak to her?”

“Och; that’s it, is it? By the houly St. Pathrick, I cud niver find it

in me heart to deny a feller that small a favor. Biddy would call me

a mane dog, ef I was to do as dhirty a trick as that. It’s spaking to

her, is it? Well spake, but be as quick as you ken.”

“Thank you, thank you, my good friend,” said Ernest, as tremblingly he

applied his mouth to the key-hole.

“Mildred? Mildred!” he called.

“O, Ernest, is it you?” she asked, drawing her chair to the door.

“Yes; are you well?”

“I am, except heart-sickness.”

“I do not know how you have stood it.” replied Ernest. “But what are

your prospects?”

“O! they are dark, Ernest, so dark at times. But how came you here?”

“I came to find out about you.”

“Are you not in danger?” she asked.

“I do not know. I never thought of any personal danger. O, Mildred, you

cannot imagine what I have endured. But the worst has not come.”

“Try to be brave,” she said. “There is a God who rules in the affairs

of men. I have not lost faith in Him. I am in His hands, and I know

He can raise up friends to aid me in the darkest hours of misfortune.

I spend the most of my time in prayer, and were it not for my belief,

I fear I should lose my mind. I try so hard to be reconciled to God’s

will, but sometimes, when I think of my parents and sisters, it is hard

to keep down the spirit of rebellion.”

“If anything worse than imprisonment happens to you,” said Ernest, “I

shall be tempted to doubt the goodness and justice of God.”

“Do not talk that way,” she said, as if horrified. “I would rather die

a thousand times than have one harsh thought of my God. Our times are

in His hands, and He has determined when and how we shall die, and He

will do right. I am distressed not so much on account of myself as of

my family.”

“You have no thought for me?” asked Ernest.

“Yes, I include you with the family.”

“O, Mildred!” he exclaimed in tones of anguish, “I love you better

than my own life. God knows if I could take your place, and restore you

to freedom, I would willingly and cheerfully do it.”

“I believe you, Ernest, but I could not ask you to make such a

sacrifice, even if it were possible. But the good Lord knows what is

best. I have no fears.”

“Do you have any hope of escape?”

“I cannot say that I have any particular hope. I have no plans at all.

I leave the matter in God’s hands. He has appointed the time, place and

manner of my death, and I cannot die till God’s time arrives. You know

in what faith my father has trained me. I will trust my God though He

slay me.”

“O, Mildred, I do wish I had such a firm faith as yours. It seems to

sustain you under the most fearful circumstances.”

“So it does. Sometimes,” she continued with tears of joy in her eyes,

“I feel happy at the thought of so soon going to the blessed mansions

which Jesus is preparing for them that love Him.”

“And, sometimes, Mildred, I hate myself for my spiritual infirmities.

While you can look upon death as a blessing, I cannot but see in it a

calamity--I cannot regard it as anything else--that you should be taken

from me and your family in the prime of life, especially--. I cannot

finish the sentence.”

“You were going to say,” replied Mildred with perfect calmness,

“especially if I should die such a violent death as makes you shudder

to contemplate.”

“Yes, yes,” said Ernest in an agitated manner, “it maddens me to think

about it. I can never forgive Gen. A. for bringing you into this awful

situation.”

“But you must do it, Ernest. God requires it at your hands.”

“O, Mildred, I cannot see the hand of a merciful providence in this

misfortune,” suddenly cried Ernest. “It appears cruel.”

“You are very rebellious,” rejoined Mildred gently, “and I am sorry to

see it. You will have to learn to guard your tongue and thoughts, or

God will mercifully subdue your proud spirit by a worse misfortune.”

“What can be worse than this?” cried Ernest bitterly. “I would be

better reconciled if I were in your place.”

“Then, perhaps, God is now causing you to pass under the chastening rod

by allowing the misfortune, as you call it, to befall me. The loss

of my life, at this time, may be necessary to the accomplishment of

some good purpose. Suppose I should die, the separation from my loved

ones will not be long. Thank God! We will all soon meet under brighter

skies, where no cannon roars, no tear is shed, no sickness comes, no

death invades, but where there is universal peace, joy and love.”

“O, Mildred,” exclaimed Ernest, “you are so much better than I am. You

are as pure as the angels, and I am not worthy of you. I I wish I could

believe this Presbyterian doctrine as you do. I can see that it is this

which enables you to bear up under the darkest trials, and in the face

of death.”

“I am not so good and pure as you seem to believe,” answered Mildred,

“but I am glad to say I fully endorse the doctrines of the Presbyterian

Church. Yet there are moments when the spirit of rebellion rises up in

me. Frequently I find myself shedding tears.”

“I do not see how you can help it,” said Ernest in surprise. “Surely

there is no rebellion in that.”

“I fear there is,” replied Mildred. “It seems like anticipating God’s

purposes. What is the use of grieving over a misfortune that may never

come? God may send deliverance in some very unexpected way. Nothing is

too hard for Him.”

“O, Mildred, I feel as helpless as a child. I have worked my way into

this city, and now, having found you, I can do nothing. You have had no

trial, I infer.”

“No, not yet.”

“You may have to languish here for months before they reach your case.

I know something about the military courts.”

“Probably you will put your own life in jeopardy by remaining here,”

said Mildred. “You can be of no advantage to me and you would better

return.”

“I would not be worthy of you, if I could not cheerfully risk my life

for you. Have you heard nothing from Gen. A.?”

“Not a word.”

“I feel as if I never can forgive him.”

“You are very wrong,” answered Mildred mildly. “Gen. A. could never

have persuaded me to undertake such a business if I had not wanted

to serve my country. My life is of no more value than the lives of

thousands of soldiers who fall upon every field.”

At this juncture the Irishman who had moved off several paces from the

door approached and said:

“Haven’t you talked long enough?”

“Do you ever become tired of talking to your girl?” asked Ernest.

“No, i’ faith,” replied the guard. “Biddy is a rose, she is, an’

she don’t give me much chance to talk--she has such a lively tongue

herself. But I’m afeerd for ye to stay here iny longer.”

“I will not impose upon you,” replied Ernest, “nor take advantage of

your kindness. I am so much obliged to you.”

“I hope ye’v hed a pleasint chat with the leddy,” said the Irishman.

“Yes, but let me bid her adieu.”

“Certainly ye may, an’ I’ll move mesilf off so’s I may’nt hear your

swate words. I know how ’tis with Biddy, mesilf.”

“Mildred,” said Ernest, “the sentinel will not permit us to converse

longer. I must leave you and I know not when I can see you again. The

next guard may not be as kind as this one.”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“Not far. My room is on this floor. I shall watch for any chance for

saving you that may arise. God bless you. Good-by.”

“Good-by. Pray for me.”

“I need to ask your prayers,” replied Ernest. The young man turned

sorrowfully away, went to his room, fell upon his knees, and cried to

God in anguish of spirit. He prayed that he might have the sublime

faith of Mildred. He felt humbled under a sense of his helplessness.

It seems to be natural to us to cry to the Supreme Being in the hours

of distress. The most immoral men will pray to God when misfortunes

come upon them. They have no faith in it, but the inner soul becomes

frightened; it almost proclaims its independence of its physical

environments, and expresses its wants through the reluctant organs of

the body. Therefore, wicked men pray in times of danger.

[Illustration: Decoration]

CHAPTER XV.

A REMARKABLE EVENT.

It was night. The stars looked down from their blue dome upon the

lamp-lit streets of Washington. Busy feet went hurrying along this way

and that. Small groups could be seen standing at different places,

discussing some question of an exciting character. If we draw near to

any of these groups, we will hear such expressions as “great victory,”

“hard fight,” “four hundred rebels killed.” But we are not now

specially concerned with this “glorious news,” which had come on the

telegraph wires.

Let us pause before that large hotel, standing on a certain street,

which shall be nameless. Then let us enter, and ascend to the corner

room of the fourth story. The door is locked, and on the outside stands

a sentinel with musket in hand. Inside there is a lady on her knees.

She has been informed that her trial will take place on the ensuing

day. Three days have passed since her interview with Ernest. Gen.

A. had told her what would be the consequence of detection with that

handkerchief in her possession. The result of the trial may, therefore,

be easily anticipated. The fate of a spy is “death by hanging.”

Mildred well knew what she had to expect, but strange to say, the

dark prospect excited no alarm. Probably she could not make a reality

of the impending danger. This is what the world would say. We are

creatures of hope, and we do not yield to despair till the last chance

is gone. But the Christian is sustained in the most awful calamities

by something higher than any human hope of deliverance. In the darkest

hours of trial, a mysterious influence pervades the Christian’s breast,

produces a holy calm, a sacred joy, and elevates the soul in triumph

above earthly sufferings and sorrows. Unbelievers may pronounce it a

delusion, but, nevertheless, it is a delusion which brings happiness;

and if this be so, the delusion is just as useful and comforting as

though death should put an end to the entire man--both body and soul.

After arising from her knees, Mildred seated herself at the window,

and gazed down upon the scenes below. At that moment she felt not a

particle of fear or mistrust. She was perfectly resigned to the will of

the Heavenly Father, let it be expressed in what aspect it might. She

gave herself up to this ecstatic sense of security, feeling as if she

were nestling, like a timid bird in the Omnipotent Hand. Were “coming

events casting their shadows before?”

While in this strange state of feeling, she was startled by a gentle

rap on her door. This was so unusual that she waited for a repetition

of the signal. There was a louder tap.

“What is wanted?” she asked.

She heard the click of a key, and the door stood open. Her lamp threw

its rays upon the form of a young man dressed in the Federal uniform.

He took off his cap, bowed, and looked straight at Mildred. She glanced

at his face, and with a little cry of joy sprang toward him.

“O, Will, can it be you?” she exclaimed.

“It is I, cousin Mildred.”

Without another word, she threw her arms around his neck, and pent-up

tears flowed without restraint. The officer brushed the drops from his

own eyes, and said:

“Come, cousin, you’ll make me ashamed of myself. It is weakness in a

soldier to cry. Sit down and let me look at you. I have not seen you

for five years. Upon my word, you’ve got to be right good-looking.”

“Why have you not called to see me before?”

“Now don’t begin to scold before I’ve had time to say ‘howdy’;” said

the officer gaily. “I didn’t know you were here. My company has been

guarding you too, but I did not see you, nor hear your name called.

To-day I happened to be in the room where they are holding court, and I

heard one of the officers say that the case of Mildred Arrington would

come first to-morrow morning. I ascertained the charges against you,

and I’ve come to see whether it was my cousin Mildred; and sure enough

it is. But I never expected to find you in such a place--at least, in

such a predicament. It seems you are a spy.”

“That I deny, cousin Will, if I know what it is to be a spy.”

“Well, it amounts to the same thing. Your accomplice was tried to-day.”

“Who.”

“You know--one Capt. Beall.”

“And what?” asked Mildred.

“Why, he will hang next Friday--that’s all.”

We may here remark that it is a matter of history that Capt. Beall was

executed as a spy, and met his dismal fate with an undaunted courage

that excited the admiration, and pity of his enemies--I say pity,

because we all dislike to see a brave, noble man put to an ignominious

death.

“I am very sorry,” said Mildred.

“No doubt, you are; but what is to become of yourself, my pretty

cousin?”

“Why, has not God sent you to release me?” asked Mildred with the

simple faith of a child.

“O, you old blue-stocking Presbyterian!” cried Capt. Benner, breaking

into a laugh. “That is so like you. You get into an ugly scrape, and

ask God to help you out of it, and a kind-hearted young fellow calls to

see you, and you forthwith jump to the conclusion that the Lord sent

him to save you. What a faith you do have. But don’t be too fast,”

continued the officer, with a merry twinkle, “you are a rebel, and I

am a union man. I don’t know whether I ought to have called at all

or not. But how do you expect me to save you? Do you want me to be a

traitor? Do you want me to release a dangerous spy? Say, now?”

“No, cousin. If it endangers you, let me be. I am ready to be

sacrificed on the altar of my country,” said Mildred.

“O, ho! you want to be a martyr, do you?”

“No; I have no ambition in that way,” replied Mildred. “I would prefer

to go home to my family; but I do not want you to take any risks to

save me.”

“Do you suppose I could release a prisoner without taking risks? To be

sure, my fair cousin, I will have to take risks.”

“Then, leave me alone,” said Mildred.

“Leave you to be hanged, you mean?”

“Yes, if that is the penalty.”

“And after that deplorable event,” said the officer, “could I ever look

my mother in the face? Could I see Uncle Arrington again, and good Aunt

Jennie? After the war, when I go down South again, and call at uncle’s,

and I should hold out my hand, he would start back and say, ‘No, I

cannot touch that hand; it is stained with poor Mildred’s blood.’ And

aunt would say, ‘Leave me, Will, I cannot bear to look at you.’ How do

you suppose I would feel, eh? I guess I should go off like Judas did,

and hang myself--I think I would.”

“Well, let us be serious, Will. I am in no humor for sport now. Do not

keep me in suspense. What have you come for?”

“Didn’t you say, just now, that God sent me? I wish I could think it.

It would be a great relief to my conscience.”

“How is that?”

“Why, don’t you see, I’ve got to play false to my government and my

country, if I give you freedom?”

“Is that painful to your conscience?”

“If I say yes, then you will become stubborn, and refuse to accept the

boon of freedom. So, that you may have no scruples, I will tell you

that I have a convenient conscience--one that will stretch. I never was

raised, like you, a regular, old blue-stocking Presbyterian. Sometimes,

though, I wish I had been. For there is no doubt in my mind that the

Presbyterian is the most solid and substantial Church on earth.[2] My

mother, you know, is a Presbyterian, and my father belongs to the ----

Church. I notice that she is the firmer character, and I can say with

truth, more consistent, religiously. I take after my father; and that,

I guess, is a good thing for you.”

“Why is it?” asked Mildred.

“Why, don’t you see, if I were a rigid Presbyterian, I should hesitate

about giving you liberty? I should be afraid of doing violence to my

conscience. Waiving that, however, I think I have been a faithful

servant of my government, and they might allow me to release one

wretched prisoner.”

“Why could you not get a pardon for me, and thus save your conscience?”

asked Mildred.

“How green you women are! Don’t you know there is no pardon for a spy?

Don’t you remember Maj. Andre, of the Revolutionary war? Washington

would not even let the poor fellow select his own mode of quitting

‘these low grounds of sorrow.’ The punishment for this great sin of

espionage is death, and death by hanging.”

“Can you free me,” asked Mildred, “without compromising your own

safety?”

“I will have to take some risks, of course, but you needn’t give

yourself any uneasiness on my account, my fair cousin. Can you make

your way home, if you were out of this building? Can you go alone?”

“Certainly, but it will not be necessary.”

“What! you’ve got another accomplice?”

“I shall not conceal anything from you, Will, since you are so kind,”

replied Mildred, while a deep blush spread over her features. “I am

engaged to be married to a young man who is here. His room is on this

floor.”

“Indeed! what a pretty, romantic scrape you have got into! It would

do to go into a novel. But you have made such an honest confession,

though, that I can’t have the pleasure of teasing you. Is he a Rebel

too?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Wouldn’t it be patriotic, if I were to have him arrested, and tried as

a spy? Two romantic lovers hanged on a sour apple tree!”

“You might call it patriotic,” said Mildred, “but what would I call it?”

“O, treacherous, mean, diabolical, and the like. But we’ve got to act

now,” taking out his watch. “What do you want me to do? Can you and the

young man who is so interesting, manage the matter if you can get out

of the city?”

“Certainly.”

“When can you see him?”

“I suppose he is in his room,” replied Mildred.

“What number?”

“No. 18.”

“I’ll go see him at once.”

Accordingly, the officer went to the designated number, and tapped

on the door. A footstep was heard inside, and the door was opened

by Ernest. Seeing a Federal officer standing before him, he was

disagreeably surprised. The first thought that entered his mind was

that he had been watched, and this man had come to arrest him. The

prospect was enough to make him turn pale. Benner observed his alarm,

and said with a smile:

“Is your name Edgefield?”

“Who told you that I bore such a name?” asked Ernest, in ill-concealed

surprise.

“It does not matter who told me, is the information correct?”

“I do not like to answer questions in regard to myself till I

understand your object.”

“My object is, to establish your identity.”

“For what purpose?” asked Ernest.

“If you know what is for your own good,” replied Benner, “you will

answer candidly.”

“Supposing that to be my name, what then?”

“If that’s your name, come with me.”

“Where,” asked Ernest.

“To that lady in the corner room.”

Ernest looked more astonished than ever, on hearing this, but thought

it best to obey in silence. Both entered the room, and Mildred said:

“Allow me to introduce, Capt. Edgefield, my cousin, Capt. Benner.”

Ernest, at first, appeared puzzled and bewildered, but he soon took in

the situation, and his feelings vibrated to the opposite extreme. He

was elevated from the depths of darkness to the pinnacle of light. Of

course, he thought the young man had come to bring deliverance to his

kinswoman. At that moment, too, a sense of his ingratitude toward God

flashed into his mind. In a subdued tone he inquired how Capt. Benner

had discovered his cousin. He was told in a very few words what the

reader knows concerning the affair. Ernest relapsed into silence, and

bitterly reproached himself for his lack of confidence in the kind

Heavenly Father. Here God was bringing the blind by a way they knew

not, and was preparing deliverance, while he had been indulging in

harsh reflections toward the Giver of all good. It was a lesson which

he never forgot. From that moment he became a firm believer in the

doctrines of grace as held by the Presbyterian Church.

We hope we are not taking undue advantage of any interest that may

be excited by the present story to give undeserved prominence to

the Presbyterian Church. The effect which her doctrines have upon

individual and national character is admitted by thoughtful historians.

Buckle, in his History of Civilization, does justice to them. According

to him, they are better adapted to democratic institutions than any

other published creeds. It will be found that those who have believed

in these doctrines, which some people call “horrible,” have ever been

the most stubborn, uncompromising advocates of human rights. They

have been foremost in all the great conflicts for freedom. These

same doctrines underlaid the Reformation of the 16th century, as is

evident to the most cursory reader. We are, by no means, attempting to

disparage other Churches, but our present undertaking will not allow us

to point out their excellences. We will now proceed with the story. We

need not detail the conversation which took place among the trio, nor

attempt to describe the happiness of the two who were in the greatest

danger. Ernest was so overwhelmed by this evident demonstration of

divine providence that he did not have much to say. He was thinking.

Mildred acted as though she were not greatly surprised. She had sent up

many earnest prayers to the Throne of Grace and she was not astounded

that her petitions were answered.

“Well,” said Benner, presently, when it was time to bring the interview

to an end, “you must leave about 12 o’clock, when most honest people

are asleep. I will see that the way is clear in the hotel. You must

both be dressed as union soldiers, at least till you get to the

forests. I will have the clothing here in time.”

Capt. Benner then left, but returned at 30 minutes past 11 o’clock.

Mildred and Ernest were soon transformed into Federal soldiers, at

least, in appearance. Each was armed with a musket, and no one, without

an unusually close inspection, would have supposed they were other than

they appeared to be. And now all was ready.

As the clock struck 12, two Federal soldiers issued from ---- hotel,

and walked leisurely along the streets. In a short time they left the

lamps glimmering in the distance, and plunged into the darkness of the

forest. Two miles from the city they mounted their horses which had

been left in the care of a friend.

Early the next day, they suddenly ran upon a union soldier, who was

a vidette. This route had not been occupied by Federal soldiers

before, as it was scarcely anything more than a path. The young people

were very much surprised, but Ernest in an instant recovered his

self-possession, and decided upon his plan of action. He was still

dressed in the Federal uniform, and had his musket, besides his own

pistol. They came upon the soldier in a sudden turn of the path, and

were within a few paces of him before they discovered him. The vidette,

taking Ernest to be what this garb indicated, without raising his gun,

called out:

“Halt! who goes there?”

He had barely uttered the words before Ernest leveled his gun, and

exclaimed:

“Surrender!”

“Who are you?” cried the astounded soldier.

“Drop your gun,” exclaimed Ernest sternly, “or I shall kill you.”

The amazed vidette, perceiving that resistance would be in vain, let

his gun drop to the earth.

“Now,” said Ernest, “I have no disposition to harm you. All we want is

to pass you. Are you willing to let us go?”

“How can I hinder you,” asked the soldier “when I am disarmed?”

“But you must promise not to pursue us.”

“Where are you going?” asked the soldier.

“That is my business,” replied Ernest.

“Certainly. I promise then.”

“Promise,” said Ernest, “that you will remain on your horse for fifteen

minutes, and not touch that gun, and will give no alarm after we are

gone.”

“I promise,” answered the soldier.

“To make assurance doubly sure,” continued Ernest, “I will take your

cartridges.”

“O, don’t do that,” begged the vidette. “I will promise just as you

want me to.”

“Why are you so opposed to giving up your cartridges?”

“Because I am accountable for them. I don’t intend to say anything

about this affair, because the boys would laugh at me, and I might be

punished too. Just go, and get out of the way as quick as you can, and

I give you my word of honor that you shall not hear another word from

me. But how am I to account for the loss of my cartridges?”

“You seem to be honest,” said Ernest, “and I believe I will try you.”

The two immediately rode on, and the soldier kept his word, so far as

Ernest knew.

That morning, while Mildred and Ernest were making their escape, the

first passers-by saw a long rope, reaching from the corner room of the

fourth story of ---- hotel, down to the pavement below. They knew not

what it meant. About 9 o’clock though, when the Court-Martial sent for

the female prisoner, it was discovered that the “bird had flown.” The

sentinel, who had been stationed at the door about twelve o’clock,

could give no account of the escape. The door was locked, and he heard

nothing. It was presently noised abroad that the lady spy had escaped,

and soon hundreds of people gathered in the streets, looked up at the

dangling rope, and wondered how a lady could have climbed down such a

fearful distance. The general opinion was that she was a brave, daring

woman, who was confined to this one mode of escape. “Of course,” they

said, “she had friends in the city, who assisted her in the perilous

undertaking.” At any rate, she was gone. The chief clerk at the hotel,

who had been instrumental in her arrest, was not of the rabid class

who regretted her timely flight. “I don’t care,” he said with a smile.

“I don’t believe she was a spy anyhow. Even if she was, and they had

hanged her, I believe I should have felt guilty of murder.”

Nothing more was ever found out about it, and Capt. Benner bore the

character of a true and loyal soldier till the horrid war came to an

end. Some years afterwards he met Mildred, and laughingly explained his

scheme, remarking that, “people might have had sense enough to know

that she could not have escaped in that way.”

“Possibly I might, though,” she said. “There is no telling what one can

do, when life depends upon it.” And she laughed as she thought of how

she would have appeared, dangling by her hands on a rope between heaven

and earth.

FOOTNOTE:

[2] An intelligent member of the Methodist denomination once spoke

these very words to the author of this story.

CHAPTER XVI.

A CONFEDERATE MARRIAGE.

We now return to our two fugitives. They met with no other adventure,

and arrived that evening at Dr. Arrington’s residence. The old

gentleman would have gone into Washington himself when Mildred was

arrested, but Ernest persuaded him to remain at home with his family,

promising to promptly inform him if his presence should become

necessary.

It is impossible to portray the scene which occurred when the two rode

up and alighted. Mrs. Arrington, who had been almost brokenhearted,

could not control her feelings in the transition from despair to joy.

This arrival was like the coming back of the dead. The good lady must

cry aloud. The Doctor was more calm, but the tears gently coursed down

his cheek in gratitude to God for the restoration of his child. It was

an hour or more before the family equilibrium approximated its normal

condition sufficiently to admit of tranquil conversation. After a

while the Doctor said:

“We must now have a special service--a service of gratitude, for I feel

that my many earnest prayers have been answered.”

The family assembled in the parlor, and the Doctor selected some

portions of Scripture suitable to the occasion, and all humbly and

reverently bowed upon their knees. Such an out-pouring of thanksgiving

never before was witnessed around that altar. This was a family of

faith. They regarded God as the source of every blessing. The Doctor

had no more doubt that God had restored his child, in answer to prayer,

than he had of his own existence. Ernest, however, who loved to hear

the old man defend his position, suggested that the same thing might

have happened if there had been no prayers in the case.

“I am surprised at you,” answered the Doctor. “I do not know that I

ever saw the hand of God more clearly revealed in my affairs.”