"DEAR DAUGHTER: I am just now engaged in very important matters that

require me to move about considerably. I shall not be home for some

days. I am glad you have come home. That's the place for you. You had

better let the matter you speak of alone. The mother and sister are

enough in the business. I don't see how it concerns you or me. If the

man is dead it will be known as soon as the commissioners of exchange

hand in their lists. If he is not dead, it is certainly no business of

yours or mine to bring him home. I will write you soon again. Love your

father. Keep the house well till I come."

That was all. More than evasive. Subtly calculated to make her believe

that he had dismissed all thought of Jack and was immersed in his own

affairs. She sat staring and helpless, a cold horror creeping into her

heart and a nameless terror taking outline in her senses. Hideous

alternative. To be coherent she must suspect, nay, accuse, her father of

a dreadful duplicity. He was deceiving her; else why no mention of his

mission to Washington--his abduction of Jones? Jones! Who was he? Oh,

blind and senseless that she had been! Why had she not asked the young

men at Georgetown to describe Jones? That would have revealed all she

needed to know. Was it too late to write them? Yes; but could she throw

suspicion upon her father by writing to strangers, and of necessity

exposing the sinister secrecy of her father's action. But she could

hurry back to Washington, and, without letting the young men know, got a

descriptive list. This she resolved to do. Twenty-four hours later she

was in Washington. The journey was thrown away. The descriptive list had

been sent by the hospital steward with the invalid. He could be found in

the military hospital in Warchester. His name was Leander Elkins. This

was something gained. Two days later she was at the hospital in

Warchester. The steward, Elkins, came to her in the waiting room. He was

a young giant in stature, with light flaxen hair, a merry blue eye, and

so bashful in the presence of a woman that he colored rosily as Kate

asked him if he was the person she had sent for.

"Yes'm. I'm Lee Elkins," he stammered, very much perplexed to find ease

for his large hands and ample feet.

"Are you--is Mr. Jones, who came from the Georgetown Hospital, in your

case?" Kate had thought out her course in advance, and had decided that

the direct way was the best. Unless the man had been charged to conceal

facts, an apparent knowledge of Jones's movements would be the surest

way of eliciting his whereabouts.

"Oh no, miss. Jones wa'nt brought here; he was took to a private place.

I don't rightly know where, but I calculate I ken find eout of ye

want to know."

"Yes, I should like very much to know. I am deeply interested in him,

Did you have charge of him?"

"I can't say I did. I was sent from Washington in the same train, but

the old chap that got Jones removed did all the nussing. I only got a

sight of him as he was lifted into the carriage."

"Should you know him again if you saw him?"

"Think I should. Yes'm, think I should. His head was about as big as a

pumpkin."

"He had been wounded?"

"Well, I should say so."

"Have you seen the gentleman that brought him on from Washington

lately?"

"Not here, mum; I did see him in the street the other day. He was in a

wagon--leastwise, it looked mighty like him."

Kate began to breathe more freely. Her father had, at least, avoided any

collusion with inferiors. His handiwork had been natural, involving no

conspiracy or bribing of menials.

"Do you think you could find out for me where Mr. Jones is?"

"Wall, I reckon it could be done. It may take some days, as I must trust

to the luck of running upon old Dofunny again."

Kate started. "Old Dofunny"--the unsuspecting humorist meant her father

by this jocular _nom de guerre_, and she dared not resent it. How should

she gain her end and yet save herself from the humiliation of seeming to

spy upon her father? It wouldn't do for Elkins to go to him, for he

would at once suspect, inquire, and learn that she had come upon his

tracks. If she could only see him face to face, she would be spared all

this odious complotting. But she dared not reject the means Providence

had put in her hands. And yet, how use them, and avoid throwing

suspicion upon her father in cautioning Elkins not to approach him? She

was not equal to the invention of a plan on the moment, and said in a

doubting, reflective way:

"Never mind. I may be able to learn from some of his friends where he

is. The gentleman you speak of does not live in this city, and you would

hardly be able to find him. If I could, find him I could find

Mr. Jones."

"Ah, yes; jes' so. Wall, I think I can find him in another way. I

remember the carriage that took him from the station, I can find out

from the driver. 'T'wan't no mystery, I reckon."

Kate looked into the innocent blue eyes as the young fellow scratched

his tow head, wondering whether he was as simple-minded as he seemed. He

stood the scrutiny with blushing restiveness, in which there was nothing

of the malign, and she resolved that he was to be trusted.

"Very well," she said, indifferently, "that does seem the shortest way

to find out the poor fellow's whereabouts. Get the facts, and you shall

be well paid for your trouble."

"'Tain't no trouble, miss, if it's a service to you. It would make me

powerful glad to do anything for a comrade or his sister."

Kate smiled at the astute mingling of sly fun and questioning implied in

the gently rising inflection in this query.

"Yes," she said, "you will be relieving the anxious heart of a sister if

you find what I am seeking."

"Nuff said, miss. Just as soon as I get my relief I'm off like a shot.

Where shall you be?"

"Ah, yes; you can come to me at the Alburn House. Here is my card, and

you will doubtless be at some expense. Here is money to pay--spare

no expense."

The big eyes opened in wonder as Kate handed him three new ten-dollar

greenbacks, just then something of a novelty to soldiers especially, who

got their pay infrequently. It was a bold stroke to intrust her name to

this unconscious agent of her father, for, if he were really playing a

part, his first act would be to reveal her visit and thus set her father

on his guard. But she trusted him implicitly. His wide-open blue eyes,

the artless admiration mingling with his bashful diffidence, all were

proof that he could not be deceiving her. She took rooms at the Alburn

House, which was not the chief hotel, as being better adapted for her

purpose of seclusion. At the big hotel she was known, and if her father

were in town she would be under his espionage without the solace of

writing him. Late in the evening her agent came in radiant. He had

found the man.

"Easy as rolling off a log." The hackman had taken him to the house

where Jones was lying. It was on the outskirts of the city toward

Acredale. He described the house. Kate knew it very well. It was the

property of her father.

"Did you see the patient?"

"No, indeed. You didn't tell me to, and I had nothing, to see him for.

Ef you had told me that you wanted I should see him, I'd have seen him

as easy as greased lightning."

"Thank you. I am relieved of a great burden through your kindness. You

must permit me to give you something to show my gratitude. Here, use

this money for some one who needs it, if you do not need it yourself."

"But I don't need it. Here is what you gave me this morning, 'cept a

half-dollar I spent in treating John. I couldn't think of taking so much

money. It's more'n Uncle Sam allows me for five months' pay."

"No, I shall feel distressed if you do not accept it. You can find use

for it. It will bring you luck, for it is the reward of a very important

service. Perhaps some time we may meet again, and then you shall know

how important."

The tow hair stood up in wild dismay, and the blue eyes were perfect

saucepans, as Kate gently forced the money into the big palm.

"Wall, I vum, miss, I feel like I was a-robbing you, but ef yeou deu

want I should take it, why I will, and send it to my old mother, who

will find plenty o' use for it. Good-by, miss. Ef you should want me

again, I'm at the hospital. I shall be mitey tickled to do anything for

yeou or your brother."

CHAPTER XXXI.

TWO BLADES OF THE SAME STEEL.

It was too late to follow up the discovery that night. Kate, after a

feverish rest, set out early in the morning. She went first to Acredale,

where she could get her own equipage and driver. The tenants of the

house did not know her. She rang boldly at the door, and when a maid

answered, quite taken aback by the girlish figure in deep black, Kate

asked, confidently:

"I want to see the sick man, Mr. Jones."

"Yes'm, come right in. This way, please, ma'am." The girl led the way up

a flight of stairs, but if she had been part of the balustrade Kate

could not have been more immovable. Whom was she about to see? Jack,

wan, emaciated, on the verge of the grave? They had said in Washington

that the journey would kill him; was it to that end her relentless

father had persisted in the removal? Was she about to see the dying

brought to death's door by her own flesh and blood? She reeled against

the stair-post and brought her veil over her face. The girl had turned

above and was waiting in wonder. With a desperate gathering together of

her relaxed forces, she mounted the stairway. In the corridor the girl

turned to a closed doorway and knocked lightly. There was no sound

within; but the door swung open, and Elisha Boone stood on the

threshold. He did not in the dim light observe the figure in black, but,

looking at the maid, said, softly:

"What's wanted, Sarah?"

"A young lady to see Mr. Jones, sir," and, stepping slightly aside for

Kate to enter, the father recognized the visitor.

"You here, Kate? What does this mean?"

With a great throb of joy she flung herself into his arms; too happy,

too relieved to take into consideration the defeat of her purpose

involved in the meeting. For an instant she lost all thought of anything

but that her estranged parent was in her arms, that she would not let

him quit her sight again, that her pleading would keep him from any act

that could cause her or any one else unhappiness.

"Ah, father, I'm so relieved, so glad! I was miserable, and did not know

where you were. I--I will not let you leave me again."

"But my child, you must not be here; this is a house of sickness; there

is dangerous illness here."

"It's no more dangerous for me than for you. I know who is here." She

looked archly at him, as he started in surprise. "I will help nurse Mr.

Jones." She said this with immense knowingness in her manner as she

squeezed the astonished man to her heart. The maid meanwhile had

retreated to a safe distance, where she lurked in covert to make report

of the extraordinary goings on.

"Impossible, Kate; you must not be here. I will not have it; you must

go." His voice grew stern. "You must go, I say, Kate; you must go

down-stairs this instant."

"Come, Boone, I say, this isn't fair; let the lady come in if she wants

to see valor laid low." Boone, who had been insensibly moving Kate from

the open doorway, caught her eye fixed on the room, and looking over his

shoulder at these jocular words he saw Jones leaning against the post, a

wan smile on his face. Boone turned, almost flinging Kate from him, and,

fairly lifting the invalid, carried him back into the room.

"This is madness; you are in no condition to rise. I won't be

responsible for your life if you persist in this course."

"So much trouble off your hands, old man. I'll be more use to you dead

than living. Better let me blow my own flame out. It won't burn long at

best or worst."

In the overwhelming revulsion of feeling brought about by the actual

sight of Jones, Kate stood, interdicted, in the corridor, uncertain what

to do. She heard the man's words and shuddered at the bantering levity

with which he spoke of his own death. Who could it be? It was not Jack,

as she had feared and hoped. But he must know something of Jack. She

must speak with him. How? It would not do to irritate her father. She

caught Boone's almost whispered words:

"I tell you, Jones, you shall be brought about, but you know the danger

of seeing any Acredale people. My daughter knows you--knows the Perleys.

I should think that would be reason enough why you should not be seen

by her."

"Oh, I don't mind; the sight of a pretty girl is the best medicine I

know of. I'd risk all Acredale for that."

Kate turned softly and waited at the foot of the stairs for her father.

He came presently, looking worried and embarrassed.

"Now don't go to imagining mysteries here. This is a man who has been on

my hands a good many years. He is an irreclaimable spendthrift. He was

in other days a man of repute and station. I am interested in him,

through old ties, since the days we were boys."

"The carriage is here, papa; won't you come home with me?"

"Yes; you get into the carriage."

He reappeared presently, the face of a strange woman, that Kate had not

seen, peering over his shoulder into the carriage as he came down the

steps. Kate instantly divined that he had been warning the landlady

against admitting strangers to the sick man's room. During the drive

home Kate strove to reassert her old dominion over the moody figure at

her side. It was useless. As the carriage stopped at the door he turned

toward her and said, not unkindly:

"Daughter, there are some things I know better how to manage than you

do. You have been spying on your father. This is another count in the

long score of grudges I owe the Sprague tribe and their scoundrel son.

Understand me clearly, my child; you must not speak of this matter

again. The whole business will soon be at an end; that end is in my

hands, and no power this side the grave can alter a fact in the outcome.

You are very dear to me; you are all I have left in the world; you must

trust me, and you must believe that I am doing everything for the best.

Try to think that the world is not coming to an end because I insist on

having my own way for once."

Nothing but the sense of having giving hostages to good behavior rather

than honor upheld Kate in the line she had marked out for herself. She

was not, in the modern sense of the word, a strong-minded young woman,

this sorely beset champion of the overborne. She hadn't even the

perversity of the sex in love. Chivalrously as she loved the lost

soldier, she loved her father with that old-fashioned veneration which

made her see all that he did with the moral indistinctness, without

which there could not be the perfect filial devotion that makes the

family a union in good report and evil. She had not even that, by no

means repellent, secondary egoism which upholds us in doing ungrateful

things that abstract good may follow. Opposition, which becomes

delightful when we can call it persecution, had no charm for her. If her

father had suddenly adopted the _rôle_ of the stern parent in novels and

ordered her to her chamber, Kate would have regarded it as a joke, and

felt rather relieved that she could thus escape the pledge given to the

Spragues. But, as it was, she felt morally bound by her promise to

Olympia; and, though she realized dimly that her instrumentality was

slowly involving her father in a coil of unloveliness, she resolutely

braced herself for the worst. In spite of herself she had believed in

conquering her father's severity and changing his mind. She had rescued

him from revenges quite as dear to him as this, at least so far as she

understood it, forgetting that her father believed himself to be

pursuing the deliberate murderer of his son. When we have achieved a

victory over our own less noble impulses and put the sophistries that

misled us behind us, it is impossible to realize that others have not

the same vision, the same mind as our own. Kate had accused Jack of

cold-blooded murder. She had reasoned herself out of that hateful

spirit, and, forgetting that her father had not the vital force of love

to act as a fulcrum, she could not quite comprehend how difficult it was

to shift the wrathful burden in his mind. She had gone too far to recede

now with honor. Olympia had trusted her, had indeed given over into her

hands the active work of finding the strangely lost clew of Jack's

whereabouts. Perhaps for her father's sake it was better that she should

be the instrument. She might be able to dissemble his intervention,

shield him from obloquy--if, as she feared, he was responsible for

anything doubtful.

She knew her father too well to suppose that he would flinch from any

measure he had proposed to himself. She knew that she need not count any

further upon her accustomed powers of persuasion. His own words were

final on that score. If she could only learn his intentions! If she

could be sure that he was ulteriorly shaping events against Jack--was

acquainted with his whereabouts--she would have known exactly what to

do. But, pilloried in doubt, shackled by the dread of exposing him in

some hateful malevolence which would forever disgrace him in the

community, she hardly dared stir, though she felt that every hour's

delay was a new peril to Jack in some way. The more she thought of the

scene of the morning, the surer she felt that Jones--or Mr. Dick, as her

father sometimes called him--was in some way an instrument in the

paternal scheme. If she could but see Jones ten minutes! Her father, she

well knew, had guarded against that. Whom could she send in her place?

Ah! there was the double check. She couldn't expose her father to a

stranger; yet if her apprehensions were grounded on anything more

substantial than fear, strangers must in time know all. Could Merry be

made use of? No--that would not do. The libertine tone of the invalid,

his impudent allusion to herself, convinced Kate that a man must be her

agent, if any one were to be. But what man did she know? If she sent any

of the servants, her father would recognize them, and the attempt fail.

She had trusted Elkins. He seemed an honest, incurious lad, just the one

to be trusted in the business. She could invent a fable which would

satisfy his ready credulity without compromising her father. It was

plain that he was the only resource. She dressed at once and returned to

the Alburn. Thence she dispatched a note to Elkins, begging him to call

at his earliest leisure. While waiting his return, she wrote a letter to

be handed to Jones. This was a work of no little ingenuity, forced as

she was to avoid all allusion to her father and the scene of the

morning. When completed, this stroke of the conspiracy ran:

"DEAR SIR: A mother and sister who have exhausted all

official sources in vain to get trace of a lost son and brother,

John Sprague of the Caribees, have reason to believe that

you can give them a clew to his whereabouts. Will you

therefore kindly confide in the bearer of this letter, giving

him by word of mouth such facts as will enable John

Sprague's relatives to work intelligently in the search for

him, living or dead?

"Very truly yours,

"KATHERINE BOONE."

It was hardly written when Elkins himself appeared, radiant with

satisfaction and blushing like a peony under lamplight.

"Yeour note came just in th' nick o' time. I have leave of absence for

twenty-four hours, and was just goin' inter teown."

"If you can spare me the day, I have a very important matter I think you

can attend to for me. I want you to go to the sick man Jones. You must

see before entering whether he is alone or not. I don't know how you can

find out, but you can invent some way. If you see the man who brought

him from Washington, you are not to enter. But if you find that he is

not in the house, ask boldly for Jones, and when you reach him hand him

this note. He will give you an answer, and you must be careful not to

lose a word, for life depends on the accuracy of your report. I fancy

that your regimentals and hospital badge can gain you admission, if, as

I have reason to believe, there are orders to refuse strangers

admission. I depend on you to overcome any difficulty you may meet. If

you knew how much depends upon it, I'm sure you would not be baffled by

anything less than force."

The big blue eyes were fairly bulging, like two monster morning-glories,

as Elkins, putting the note carefully in his jacket pocket,

said, softly:

"Ef I don't get thet 'ere letter into Jones's hands, you may have me

drummed out o' camp by the mule-drivers."

"I believe you, and trust you. I shall be here to-morrow morning early,

and shall hope to hear something from you. Good-by."

"Good-by, miss. Just you make up your mind I am goin' to do what you

command."

When she reached home she found her father in the library. He looked at

her inquiringly as she came over and kissed him.

"I have been in town all day, and am run out."

"Still plotting?"

"Yes, still plotting."

"You're wasting your time, my dear. You'll know all you care to soon

enough, if you'll just keep quiet."

"Yes; but I can't. I want to know all you know, and I want to know it

now."

"All I know wouldn't be much, according to the Spragues, who gave me my

status in this town, long ago, as an ignoramus."

"Perhaps you were then, papa."

"Yes; I hadn't been schooled fifteen years by my accomplished daughter."

"A lie is truth to those who only tell the truth."

"What does that mean?"

"It's simple enough--a home-made epigram. People who tell nothing but

the truth are easiest made to believe a lie. The Spragues had heard of

you as ignorant, and believed it. You can't blame them for that."

"I don't blame them because it was a lie. I blame them because it was

the truth. I don't care a straw how many lies are told about me--it's

the ill-natured truth I object to."

"I'm afraid that you will have a hard time in life if you like lies

better than the truth."

"I didn't say that."

"Then I don't understand English."

"You don't understand me."

"Ah, yes I do, papa. I do understand you. I know that at this moment you

are doing something that you are ashamed of--something that later you

will bitterly repent. You are carrying on now through pride what you

began in wrath. Stop where you are. The dead can not be avenged. That's

a barbarous code. Remember, in all the petty irritations of the past,

when you have been hurt by your neighbors, you were never so triumphant

as when you surprised those who injured you by a magnanimous return--"

"There, I made an agreement with you that we should not speak of these

things. I mean it. I find that you take advantage of me. I shall be

banished from the house if you do not keep to your bargain."

Kate sighed. She had hoped that the early banter was paving the way for

a reconciliation. She took up some work and tried to busy her hands.

"Suppose you read me something? You haven't read in an age."

"What shall it be?"

"Oh, something from Dickens--anything you like."

"Very well, I shall show you a counterfeit presentment of yourself,"

and, with an arch-smile, she began to read from The Chimes.

He listened soberly until the last page was turned, and then, rising,

said abstractedly:

"I sha'n't see you for a few days. I wish you would remain at home as

much as possible. Get some of the neighbors' girls to keep you company,

if you're lonesome."

"Oh, I shall not be lonesome. I shall have too much to do--too much to

think about."

He laughed. "You are enough like your father, my girl, to pass for him.

Very well, you'll be penitent enough when I come back."

He was gone in the morning, as he had said, and she was free to keep her

appointment with Elkins. He was waiting for her when she readied

the hotel.

"Well?" she cried, breathlessly.

"I saw him."

She seized the blushing lad's two hands. "Ah, you splendid follow! And

then?--"

"He wrote this note for you," and he handed her an envelope with her own

name written on it in an uneven, uncertain scrawl. She tore it open

and read:

"DEAR MADAM: I can not understand why there should

be any difficulty in finding what became of Sprague and his

party. We all reached the lines together, but, as I was hit

by a bullet in the head at the moment of rescue, I knew

nothing of their movements after reaching the Union lines.

I, too, am interested in the young man. I should like to see

you or some of his friends at once, as I suspect foul play of

some sort.

"Obediently yours,

"JONES."

"Did you get to him without trouble?" Kate asked, keenly, disappointed

by the result of all this strategy.

"I made them believe I was on hospital business. I showed them a large

official envelope, and they let me go up. Jones told me to tell you that

he would see you there in the parlor if you would come; that he is

unable to leave the house, or he would come to see you."

"Can you take me there now?"

"I have four hours of my leave still. It does not expire until two

o'clock."

"Then we will go at once. Will you call a carriage?"

While he was gone, Kate read the note again. She was more puzzled than

ever. The man wrote as if he had no idea that Jack was not easily

traceable, yet all the Spragues' money and influence had been spent in

vain. He expected her. Where could her father be? He wrote as though he

had no idea that he had been virtually a prisoner. When she reached the

house, the servant made no difficulty in admitting her. Elkins remained

outside in the vehicle, with an admonition from Kate to remain unseen

unless she called him. Jones, the shadow of the burly soldier we saw in

the famous escape, was seated in a deep, reclining chair, and, as Kate

entered, rose feebly.

"Pray, don't rise, don't disturb yourself in the least. I will sit here

near you, and we can talk, if it won't make you ill."

"No. It isn't talking that troubles me--but never mind that. Your note

has pulled me down a good deal. I was given to understand that the boys

were home and all right."

"The boys?"

"Jack and young Perley."

"Who gave you--who told you that?"

"Your father. He is the only person I have talked with since I got my

wits back."

Kate drew back with a shuddering horror.

"Are you quite sure, Mr.--Mr. Jones that my father told you that?"

"Perfectly certain. Do you suppose that I would not have taken measures

to find out where my own--I mean where friends were? These boys saved me

from prison once and from a death nearly as dreadful as Libby. Could I

be indifferent to them?"

"But why should papa tell you they were safe, when--when our hearts have

been tortured? Ah! I see. He wanted to spare you the anxiety. Ah! yes.

He knew that you would fret and worry, and that you could not recover

under the strain." Kate's heart swelled with a triumphant revulsion. She

had vilely suspected without cause. She must now do justice. Jones eyed

her pensively, holding his head with both his hands.

"Nothing has been heard of the boys since when?"

"Nothing directly since the escape from Richmond. Miss Sprague brought

that news, and about the same time a paragraph in the _Herald_ announced

that prisoners from Richmond had reached the Union lines on

the Warrick."

"When was that?"

"Late in November."

"Yes, I was one of them. I escaped from Richmond. Jack and young Perley

got me out of the tobacco warehouse. We reached the Warrick after a hard

week of marching and hiding, and the boys were alive and well when we

reached the Union outpost. I was last to cross the bridge, and as I

plunged into the thick bushes a bullet struck me, I knew no more until I

found myself here. I had agents at Fort Monroe waiting for me. They

probably forwarded me at once. But I don't understand how there can be

any difficulty in tracing the two boys. Haven't they written?"

"Not a line, not a word concerning them has been heard. Mrs. Sprague

sent agents so soon as the _Herald_ paragraph was shown to Olympia. They

are in Washington now on the quest. It was there we got track of

you--before you were sent here,"'

"Why was I sent here?"

Kate was about to speak. Again the shadow of her first fear--again the

dread of some malevolent purpose on her father's part--choked

her speech.

"I--I--don't know," she faltered.

"Who came with me?"

"My father."

"Ah!" Jones's eyes were penetrating her now. She felt the questioning in

them, and turned her face to the clinging folds of the veil.

"Miss Boone, you seem to be deeply interested in these boys. Are you

really their friend?"

"Ah, believe me, I am heart and soul their friend!"

"Does your father know it?"

"Yes: he knows that I am seeking them."

"Does he approve your search?"

"No, he does not."

"Good. Now listen. We have short time to work in. You have a carriage

outside. Your father will be here any moment. I could never keep from

him my indignation and even distrust. I shall get into that carriage

with you, and you must conceal me somewhere and give me time to set the

proper machinery in motion to find these boys. There is no other way.

Your father has some reason for keeping their whereabouts concealed. I

may know the purpose and I may not. The boys may have been killed in the

volley that struck me. It will require a mere telegram to find out. I

know whom to address, but I must be where I can use trusted agents. I

have no money. You can, I hope, provide me with that, or the Spragues if

you can't."

He spoke with a flush deepening on his face, and arose with something

like vigor.

"Ample means--you shall have any sum you need," Kate said, handing him a

well-filled purse.

"Good--I have one or two articles in my room. I will fetch them and

follow you to the carriage."

Ten minutes later the carriage was whirling over the broad road to

Warchester. By Jones's advice it was stopped at the hospital. Here he

proposed remaining for the night, to mislead suspicion if any one had

taken the precaution to follow.

"I will remain with our friend Elkins to-night, as you suggest," Jones

said; "to-morrow I will send you word of my whereabouts, and you may

expect to have news of the boys within the week."

"My address will be in Washington," Kate said. "I shall go at once to

the Spragues. They have been there, as I told you, to seek every

possible source of information. I left them to follow you, hoping that

through you I should find the missing."

"You made no mistake. I shall find them. You can tell your friends

that," and he added, with a gleam of savage malice, "God help the man

that has raised the weight of a feather against them, for he has put a

heavy hurt on me if he has harmed them!"

Kate shuddered. Was she never to emerge from this hideous circle of

vengeful hatred--this condition of passionate vendetta--where men were

seeking each other's harm? On reaching home she addressed a note to her

father explaining frankly that she had entered into communication with

Jones; that who had been pained by all that she had heard; that the

inquiry had now passed out of her hands and was in that of the

authorities, and begging him to drop any participation he might have

meditated In a late letter Olympia had given good news of her mother,

saying that Kate could return with safety, and, informing her father of

this, Kate bade him good-by for a time.

When Kate reached Washington she found Mrs. Sprague convalescent, but

painfully feeble. The poor mother reproached herself for the

interruption of the search, and implored the two girls to begin again

without a moment's delay. Kate gave her as much hope as she dared. She

hinted something of the outlines of what she had done and the new agent

in the field. With this Mrs. Sprague was greatly comforted, but begged

then to remit no efforts of their own. It was after three days'

fruitless searching among the records of the department and among the

men of the Caribee regiment, now returned to Washington _en route_ to

the front, that Kate bethought herself of her father's probable presence

in the city. She got out of the carriage and entered the long reception

room of Willard's to make inquiry. The boy who came at her call said, as

soon as she asked for Mr. Boone:

"Why, I jast saw him at the desk, paying his bill. He is probably there

still. Wait here until I see."

But Kate, fearing that he might be gone before she could reach him,

followed the boy. There was no sign of her father at the desk, and,

turning hastily out of the main corridor, filled with officers and the

clank of swords almost stunning her, she reached the porch just as a cab

set out toward the station. She might a glimpse of her father's face in

it. He was leaving the city. She must see him. The inspiration of the

instant suggested by a cabman was followed. She hastily entered the

vehicle and bade the driver keep in sight of the one her father was in

until it came to a stop. The driver whipped up his horses, but there

wasn't much speed in them. Kate dared not look out of the window, and

sat in feverish anxiety while she was whirled along Pennsylvania Avenue,

almost to the Baltimore Station, then the only one in the city

connecting with the North. To her surprise, the driver stopped near the

curb a block or more short of the railway. She looked out, and as she

did so the driver pointed to her father's carriage halted just ahead.

She took out her purse, but was delayed a moment in getting the fare,

keeping her eye, however, on her father as he hurried from the cab to a

building before which a sentry was lazily pacing. She was not two

minutes in reaching the doorway, but he had disappeared.

The soldier asked her no questions, and of course she could ask none, as

probably her father was unknown to the military filling the place. She

must follow on until she overtook him. There were clerks busy at long

desks, military officials moving about with files of documents. The

presence of a few women in widow's weeds reassured Kate, and as no one

molested her she persisted in her design. He was not on the lower floor,

and, coming back, she ascended a broad stairway. The hall was wide, and

filled with people all in uniform. She could hear a monotonous voice

reading in front, where the crowd clustered thickest. She looked about

helplessly, and tried to push forward. Suddenly she heard the words:

"Guilty of taking the life of the same Wesley Boone. Specification

third: And that the said John Sprague is guilty of the crime of spying

inside the lines of the armies of the United States." For a moment Kate

stood stupefied--rooted to the floor. Jack was undergoing an ignominious

trial for murder--for desertion! All fear, all timidity, all sense of

the unfitness of feminine evidence in such a place fled from her. She

pushed her way through the astonished throng which fell aside as they

saw her black dress and flowing drapery. She reached the last range of

benches, where men were seated, some writing, some consulting documents,

while the clerk read the charges. Her eye fell upon her father seated

near the place of the presiding officer. She grew confident and

confirmed by the sight: it was a signal to the daring that fired her.

"Stop!" she said, in a clear voice. "I don't know what this place is; I

don't know what meaning these proceedings have. I heard a charge that is

not true. It is false that John Sprague murdered Wesley Boone. Wesley

Boone was my brother, and he was killed in the dark by one of several

shots fired at the same instant. Furthermore, my brother was armed and

in the sleeping-room of the mistress of the house at the dead of night.

If John Sprague's bullet killed him it was shot in self-defense and in

the safeguarding of two terrified women. He had no more idea of whom he

was struggling with than--than the soldier who fires in battle.

Furthermore, he is no spy. He risked his life to rescue prisoners. He

saved the life of one of them who can be brought here to testify. He--"

But here Kale broke down. She had spoken with a passionate, resentful

vehemence, her mind all the time seething with the fear and shame of her

father's responsibility for this hideous attack upon the absent. She

stretched out her hand exhaustedly for support. A young officer near her

pushed up a chair and helped her into it. Boone had turned in speechless

amazement as the first words of the voice sounded in his ears. His back

was toward the door, and he had not seen Kate. He turned as she broke

into this fervid apostrophe. Whether from surprise, prudence, or anger

he sat silent, uninterrupting till she tottered into the seat placed for

her by a stranger. Then he arose and went to her side, in nowise angry

or discomposed so far as his outward demeanor betrayed him. The

presiding officer of the court-martial had attempted to silence Kate by

a gesture, but with eyes fixed steadily upon him she had disregarded his

command. Now, however, he spoke:

"Madame, you must know this is highly disorderly and indecorous. The

court can take no cognizance of this sort of testimony. Do you desire to

be heard by counsel? If you do, the judge-advocate will give you all

lawful assistance."

"If the court please, this lady is my daughter. She is somewhat excited.

I will take the necessary measures in the matter," Boone began.

Kate pushed her father from before her and again addressed the

president.

"I refuse my father's aid in this case. I don't know what is necessary,

but I ask this court, if it has anything to do with John Sprague, to

give his friends an opportunity to present his story truthfully and

without prejudice."

"The judge-advocate will give you all necessary information. Meanwhile,

the case will be adjourned until to-morrow."

Elisha Boone stood beside his daughter, a figure of perplexity and

chagrin. He dared not remonstrate openly. He was forced to hear the

judge-advocate question this extraordinary witness, and instruct her on

the steps necessary to be taken; worse than all, hear him inform Kate

that the citations to John Sprague had been regularly issued, and that

the evidence of his desertion rested wholly on the fact that he had put

in no answer to the charges promulgated against him by his commanding

officer; that the trial was proceeding on the ground that Sprague had

deserted to the enemy, and refused to answer within the time allowed

by law.

"But he has never heard of the charges," Kate cried, indignantly. "He

has not been heard of since he escaped from Richmond."

"As we understand it, he reached the Union lines merely to ambuscade our

outposts, and then returned to Richmond."

"His sister left Richmond ten days after his flight, and he had then

passed into our lines, as she had the surest means of knowing."

"There is some extraordinary error in all this. If Sprague can be

produced before the term fixed by the regulations, he can vindicate

himself by establishing the facts you have told me. If not, we have no

alternative but to condemn him to death as a spy and deserter. The

testimony on these specifications is uncontradicted. The murder we may

not be able to establish, though we have witnesses of the shooting."

It was arranged that Sprague's counsel should see the judge-advocate at

once, Kate giving him the address in case by any accident she should be

prevented from seeing the Spragues. As she left the room, under a

fusillade of admiring glances, she leaned on her father's arm, trembling

but resolute. She now knew the worst, and she had no further terror. As

they reached the door, her father asked:

"Where are you going? I suppose I need not tell you that I was on my way

home when I came here, for I suppose you have been spying on my

movements."

"Never. I feared you were acting unwisely, but I never dreamed of

watching you. Providence has put your plans in my hands at nearly every

step, but I was so ignorant that, of myself, the information would have

done but little service to poor Jack. I came into the court by the

merest chance. I saw you get into the cab at Willard's, and as I had

only reached Washington, I wanted to see you before you went away. I

drove after you--followed without the slightest suspicion of the place

or your purpose in it."

"Well, all your running about is useless. He will be sentenced to death

and the family disgraced. Nothing can now prevent that."

"Yes, Jack can prevent it! I can prevent it!"

"How?"

"Jack will be found. Surely they dare not commit such a monstrous crime

against the absent, the undefended!"

"Well, we won't talk of it. I suppose you are with the Spragues?"

"Yes; I shall remain with them until this is ended."

"What if I should tell you to come home with me?"

"I should, of course, obey you if you commanded me. But before doing so

I should have to put my statement in legal shape--that is, swear to it,

and give my address to the court that I might be regularly summoned."

"You know something of law, too, I see. I sha'n't ask you to go home,

nor shall I go myself. I shall remain to see how this affair turns out."

They were driving down Pennsylvania Avenue now. Kate, recalling her

departure, asked, "You did not get the letter I left for you at home?"

"No, I did not know you were gone."

"I left a few lines to tell you that I had seen Jones." She watched him

as she said this. He did not start, as she expected. His lips were

suddenly compressed and his eye grew dark; then he smiled grimly.

"I hope you felt repaid for your trouble."

"Yes. I felt amply repaid. Jones has undertaken to find out what became

of Jack after his arrival at the Union outposts."

"Did you discuss the whole affair with him?"

"Yes. I was greatly relieved by what I learned. I was afraid you had

some sinister purpose in secreting him as the only link between Jack and

his friends. It gave me new life to find that you had been so tender and

thoughtful to Jones, for, as the event proved, he no sooner learned that

there were apprehensions as to Jack's safety, than he set about his

discovery."

"Did Jones share your grateful sentiment?"

"I think he did. To spare you agitation, he set out at once alone, in

order that you might be relieved of all responsibility."

"Ah!" And Elisha Boone sank far back in the cushion. The carriage

stopped in front of Willard's; then he said: "I shall remain here now. I

will order the driver to take you home. Come to me as often as you can."

He kissed her in the old friendly way and hurried into the hotel.

On reaching her lodgings she found a telegram waiting her. It read:

"Jones gone South. He will advise you of his movements. ELKINS."

CHAPTER XXXII.

THE LOST CARIBEES.

Meanwhile war, in one of its grim humors, had prepared a comedy when the

stage was set in tragic trappings. In the withdrawal of Johnston's army

from Manassas--signalized in history as the Quaker campaign, because our

army found wooden guns in the deserted works--that ardent young Hotspur,

Vincent Atterbury, ran upon a disagreeable end to a very charming

adventure. In chivalric bravado, to emphasize the fact that the

withdrawal of the Confederates was merely strategic, not forced, the

young man, with a lively company of horsemen, hungering for excitement,

formed themselves into a defiant rear-guard. The Union outposts, never

suspecting that Johnston's army was not behind the enterprising cavalry,

withdrew prudently to the main forces.

Then, when they were convinced that the little band was merely on an

audacious lark, forces were sent out on either flank, while the main

body feigned the disorder of retreat. The result was, that Vincent's

squadron was handsomely entrapped, and in the savage contest that ensued

the intrepid major was hustled from his horse with a dislocated shoulder

and broken wrist. He was brought, with a half-dozen more of his

dare-devil comrades, into the Union lines, and in the course of time

found himself in the hideous shambles allotted rebel prisoners at Point

Lookout, Maryland. Too weak at first, or too confused, to bethink

himself of his Northern friends, Vincent shared the hard usage of his

companions and resigned himself patiently to the slow procedure of

exchange, which was now going on regularly, since the Union victories in

the West and South had given the Northern authorities ten prisoners to

the Southerners' one. The prospect of his own release was, under these

circumstances, rather distant, as without special intervention he would

have to await his turn, the rule being that those first captured were

first exchanged. He knew that his family's influence and his own

intimacy with General Johnston would probably hasten the release, but he

could not count upon an immediate return to his duties, and in view of

this he was not very reluctant to undergo convalescence in the North.

Jack's influence, he counted, would soon relieve him from the hardships

of confinement, and then he should see Olympia--that, at least, was

recompense for his misfortune. His mother and Rosa would immediately

learn of his capture, and he might count upon hearing from them, as very

generous latitude was allowed in such cases by the authorities on both

sides. He caused a letter to be written to Jack, addressing it to his

regiment, in care of the War Department, and waited patiently the

response. His disappointment and anxiety, as days passed and he got no

answer, began to tell on his health, already weakened by his wounds.

Thus, one day, when a young lady was shown to his bedside--who fell upon

him with a glad cry, and held his head to her breast--he was too far

gone in delirium to distinguish his sister.

"My darling! O Olympia, I knew you would come," he murmured, and Rosa,

terrified, but composed, soothed the fevered lover as best she might. He

grew worse in spite of all her devotion. The physicians, burdened with

patients far in excess of their powers, assured her that her brother

would require the most patient care and enlightened nursing; that

medicine would do him but slight good, and that she must make up her

mind to a prolonged illness. Rosa was alone in the vast hospital, save

for the presence of her maid Linda, who had come through the lines with

her and was, of course, under the Northern laws, free. Worse than all,

she was poorly provided with money, and this need, rather than Vincent's

love-lorn babbling about Olympia, reminded Rosa to call upon the

Spragues for help. She wrote at once to Olympia, telling the distressing

story, and then set about bettering Vincent's surroundings.

Point Lookout had been selected for its natural prison-like safeguards.

A rank bog surrounded the place on three sides, and thus but few troops

were needed to guard the great mass of rebel prisoners lodged in wooden

barracks and long lines of tents. Vincent's case seemed to have grown

stationary after her coming. He slept a fitful, troubled sleep half the

day. At night he grew delirious and restless. Rosa and Linda divided the

hours into watches, and administered the draughts prepared by the

stewards. Through the humanity of the physician in charge, the invalid

had been transferred to an A tent, where Rosa could remain day and night

unmolested with her maid. Vincent thus cared for, Rosa began to think of

the other poor fellows in her brother's squadron, and set about a

systematic search for them. Many of them she found in the general wards

of the hospital. It was on this kindly mission one day that she heard

her brother's name mentioned by a civilian, who was talking with an

official in uniform.

"Major Atterbury? Oh, yes; he was removed to division D. You will find

him in a separate tent. He has a woman nurse. I will send an orderly

with you."

Rosa did not recognize the civilian at first, but as he turned to

accompany the soldier she remembered where she had seen him before. He

was the prisoner Jack had spoken with in Richmond the day the party

visited the tobacco warehouse. She hastened her step, and, as she came

up with the men, she said, tremulously:

"I am Major Atterbury's sister. My brother is unconscious. Can I attend

to the business you have with him?"

Jones turned and stopped, glancing in surprise at the girl.

"I'm sorry to learn that your brother's so low. But you can do all that

I hoped from him. Here is a letter addressed to John Sprague. It was

received at his regiment three days ago. I happened to be there making

inquiries for him, and the colonel handed it to me. Under the

circumstances I felt justified in reading it, and it turns out that I

did well."

"John Sprague is missing?" Rosa cried, her mind instantly at work in

alarm for some one else.

Jones, dismissing the orderly, told her the facts as we have already

followed them. Leaving out all mention of Kate, he told her how he had

hurried down to Newport News, and thence to the outposts on the Warrick.

There he had learned that Jack and Dick had been wounded, fatally the

story went, in the final volley fired by the pursuers. They had been

carried to the hospital at Hampton. But there all trace had been lost.

The steward who received them and the surgeon who had taken their

descriptive list had been transferred to St. Louis. There was, however,

no record of their deaths, and upon that he based the hope that they

were either in hospital, or had been, through some strange confusion,

assigned among rebel wounded, a thing that had frequently happened in

the hurry of transporting large numbers of wounded men.

"And does Mrs. Sprague know all this?" Rosa cried, understanding now why

Vincent's letter and her own had not brought a response.

"Partly, I think. Mrs. Sprague and her daughter are in Washington, in

the state of mind you may imagine, and exhausting bales of red tape to

reach the lost boys."

Poor Rosa! She had thought her grief and terror too much to endure

before. Now how trivial Vincent's fever in comparison with this

appalling disappearance of Dick and Jack! She walked on over the sparse

herbage, over her shoes in the soft sand, when Linda came running from

the tent in joyous excitement.

"De good Lord, Miss Rosa, she's here; she's done come!"

"Who is here--who is come?" Rosa cried, impatiently; "not mamma?"

"'Deed no, Miss Rosa; Miss Limpy."

"What?"

"Yes, indeedy; and, oh, bress de Lord, Massa Vint knows her, and is

talkin' like a sweet dove!"

It was true. Miss "Limpy," blushing very red, was surprised by Rosa in a

very motherly attitude by the patient's cot. The two girls melted in a

delirious hug, mingled with spasmodic smacks of the lips and a soft,

gurgling _crescendo_ of exclamation, not very intelligible to Jones and

Linda, who discreetly remained near the door on the outside.

Vincent's eyes were fixed on Olympia. For the first time in ten days

they shone with the light of reason. He smiled softly at the scene and

murmured lightly to himself. Warned not to tax the feeble powers of the

invalid, Rosa and Jones withdrew, leaving Olympia to recover from the

fatigues of her journey in the tent with Vincent.

"Now, you're not to talk, you know," Olympia said, with matronly

decision, "I shall remain here to mesmerize you into repose. You know I

am a magnetic person. Be perfectly quiet, and keep your eyes off me.

They make me nervous."

"I can only keep my eyes away on condition you put your hand in mine,

Then the magnetic current can have full play."

"My impression is that you have not been ill at all. I believe you have

been shamming, to escape the harder lines of the prison. Very well, you

needn't answer. I'll take that shake of the head as denial and proof for

want of better. Now, I will give you the history of our doings since I

saw you at Fairfax Court-House in January. I got home safe. I found

mamma in painful excitement."

He moved impatiently, and said, beseechingly:

"But tell me how you got here so soon. How did you learn I was here?

Jack told you when he got my letter?"

"O Vincent, that was what I was coming to! Jack has never been seen or

heard from since he escaped from your troops near the Warrick. I did not

know you had written. I got a letter from Rosa yesterday morning and

went at once to the War Department, where we have a good friend--"

"I can't understand it. All these things are done with system in an army

like yours. Men can't disappear like this, leaving no record. I'll stake

my head there's foul play, if the boys can't be found. Have you made

inquiry in the company on duty where Jack and his companions got into

your lines?"

She explained all the efforts that had been made--how Brodie had been

baffled, and how letters had been sent to the commanding officer at

Fort Monroe.

"We had begun to think that Jack had been recaptured; but surely, if he

were, you would have known of it."

"Of course I should."

"Then that confines the search to our own lines. I can not make myself

believe that Jack is dead, though mamma has nearly made up her mind to

it. The mysterious part of the affair is, that we can not find one of

the men who escaped with Jack, though it was announced in the papers

weeks ago that a party of them had arrived at Fort Monroe."

"And young 'Perley'?"

"He, too, we can get no trace of."

"Good heavens! I'm glad Rosa doesn't know that; she'd be in every camp

and hospital in the North until she had found her sweetheart."

"That sounds something like a reflection on us--mamma and me."

"Ah! never. What I mean is, that Rosa is such an impulsive, silly child,

she would do all sorts of imprudent things. How could you do such a

thing? Preposterous!"

"Well, I began it yesterday morning. As I said, so soon as I read Rosa's

letter, I went to headquarters, where we have a good friend and gave my

word for your safe keeping. You are to be our prisoner; but if you

escape you will get us into trouble, for we are none too well considered

by the folks in power."

"God forgive me, Olympia! escape is the last thing I think of now, when

I am near you. I was going to say I should never care to go back, but I

know you wouldn't think the better of me for that."

"I don't know. Why should you go back? The South is sure to be beaten.

We are conquering territory every day, from the armies at Donelson to

the forts at New Orleans. We shall beat you in Virginia so soon as

General McClellan gives the word."

"Even if that were the case, my duty and my honor would point to but one

course--to return to the natural course of exchange."

"Honor? Vincent, it is a vague term under such circumstances--"

"I could not love you, dear, so much, loved I not honor more. You know

you gave me that for a motto."

"Poetic rubbish, Mr. Soldier; but I must leave you now. You will insist

on talking, and, as I shall be held responsible to your mother and Rosa,

I must be firm--not another syllable! Besides, the imprudence will keep

you here longer, and if you are to be carried away you must get well at

once. I can't leave mamma alone in Washington with such grief preying

upon her."

He answered with a glance of pitying pleading. He looked so helpless--so

woe-begone--that she bent over near his face to smooth his disordered

bandages. When she withdrew she was blushing very prettily, and Vincent

was smiling in triumph. "On these terms," the smile seemed to say, "I

will be mute for an age."

What an adroit ally war is to love! Here was the self-contained

Olympia--so confident of herself--fond and yielding as Rosa; when war

rushed in, infirmity came to the rescue of Vincent's despairing passion.

Meanwhile, Jones began a systematic search among the prisoners for the

missing Caribees. Rosa joined with impatient ardor. There were three

thousand inmates of the improvised city, but no one resembling Jack or

Dick could be found. Linda, ministering to some of Vincent's comrades,

was piteously besought to ask her mistress's good offices for an orderly

in the small-pox ward. This was a tent far off from the main barracks on

the beach, attended only by a single surgeon and a corps of rather

indifferent nurses. Two of Vincent's men were in this lazar, shut off

from the world, for the soldier, reckless in battle, has a shuddering

horror of this loathsome disease. Rosa instantly resolved that she would

herself nurse the plague-smitten rebels. She had no fear of the disease,

the truth being that she had only the vaguest idea of what it was. With

great difficulty she obtained permission to visit the outcast colony.

She was forced to enter the noisome purlieu alone, even the maid's

devotion rebelling against the nameless horror small-pox has for

the African.

Once within the long marqueé, however, Rosa was relieved to find that

the casual spectacle was not different from that of the other seriously

sick-wards. A melancholy silence seemed to signalize the despair of the

twoscore patients, each occupying a cot screened from the rest by thin

canvas curtains. Double lines of sentries guarded each opening of the

marqueé, so that no one could pass in or out without the rigidly _viséd_

order of the surgeon-in-chief. Braziers of charcoal burned at the foot

of each bed, while the atmosphere was heavy with a strong solution of

carbolic acid, then just beginning to be recognized as a sovereign

preventive of malarious vapors, and an antiseptic against the germs of

disease. Rosa inquired for the _protégés_ she was seeking. They were

pointed out, on one side of the tent, the steward accompanying her

to each cot.

"All have the small-pox?" she inquired, shuddering, as she glanced at

the white screens, behind which an occasional plaintive groan could

be heard.

"Oh, no! there are some here that have no more small-pox than I have."

"Then why do you keep them here?" Rosa asked, indignantly.

"Oh, red tape, miss. There's two men that were brought here three months

ago. They'd no more small-pox than you have, miss; but they were

assigned here, and I have given up trying to get them taken to the

convalescent camp. The truth, is the surgeon in charge is afraid to show

up here. The others make by the number they have in charge, for we are

allowed extra pay and an extra ration for every case on hand."

"Why, this is infamous!" Rosa cried. "It is murder. Why don't you write

to the--the--head man?"

"And get myself in the guard-house for my trouble? No, thank you, miss.

I wouldn't have spoken to you if it hadn't been for the sympathy you

showed coming in, and to sort o' show you that you are not running so

much danger as folks try to make you believe."

Rosa had a basket on her arm filled with such comforting delicacies as

the surgeon had advised. She set about administering them to her

brother's orderly, when a feeble voice in a cot a few feet away fell

upon her ear. She started. Though almost a whisper, there was a strange

familiarity in the low tone. She turned to the steward--

"Who is in the third cot from here?"

"Let me see. Oh, yes, number seven; that's a man named Paling."

"And the next?"

"Number eight; that's a man named Jake, or Jakes, I'm blessed if I am

certain. They've been out of their head since they come. They're the two

I spoke of who ain't no more small-pox than I have."

"May I see them?"

"Certainly. I'll see that they're in shape for inspection, and call

you."

He disappeared behind the curtain and could be heard in a kindly, jovial

tone:

"There, sonny, keep kivered; the lady is coming to bring you something

better than the doctor's gruel, so lie still."

Beckoning to Rosa, he made way for her to enter the narrow aisle of

number seven, but he nearly fell over the man across the bed, when Rosa,

with a shriek, fell upon the body of number seven, crying:

"O, my darling, my darling, I have found you!"

It would have required the eyes of maternal love of Rosa's to recognize

our jaunty Dick in the emaciated, fleshless face that lay imbedded in

the disarray of the cot. Dick's blue eyes were sunken and dim, his lips

chalky and parched. He made no sign of recognition when Rosa drew back

with her arm under his head to scrutinize the disease-worn face.

"Sometimes, miss, he is in his right mind--but he goes off again like

this. Is the other man his brother? They seem to understand each other

when they are at the worst. Once when we separated them they fought like

maniacs until we were forced to let them be near again."

"Oh, yes--the other." Rosa started and hastened to the next cot. Yes, it

was Jack--or a piteous ghost of him. He was sleeping, and she

withdrew gently.

"Please distribute the contents of the basket to the men I named. I will

be back presently."

With this she darted out, running at the top of her speed, heedless even

of the peremptory challenge of the sentries, who thought her mad or

stricken with the plague, and made no attempt to molest her. She ran

straight to Jones's quarters. He was writing, and started in surprise as

she entered panting and breathless.

"Ah! I have found them; I have found them!" She could say no more. Jones

helped her to a seat and held a glass of water to her lips. Then she

regained breath.

"They are in the small-pox ward, but they haven't the disease. Ah! they

are there, they are there. Come at once and take them away. Ah! take

them away this minute."

"By 'they' do you mean Perley and Sprague?" Jones asked, breathlessly.

"Yes, ah, yes. Thank God! thank God! Ah! I could say prayers from now

until my dying day. But, oh, Mr. Jones, do, do hurry; because they may

die if we do not get them away from that dreadful pest-house."

"It will take some time to get the order for the removal. Meanwhile,

they will need good nursing. If you hope to help them you must be calm;

you must keep well. Now go to your brother. It is just as well that Miss

Sprague went away this morning. Before she comes back, her brother will

be in a place she can visit with safety. You can not go back there. You

must remain patient now until I get them away from that

dangerous place."

It was not until the next day that the red tape of the establishment was

so far cut as to warrant the surgeon in charge in making a personal

inspection of the two invalids. He at once, and in indignant

astonishment, pronounced the two untouched by the disease set against

their names in their papers of admission. Early in the afternoon they

were carried on a stretcher to a clean, fresh tent on the sandy beach,

where the laurel bushes almost ran into the water. Letters had been

dispatched to Olympia in forming her that Jack was found, and urging her

to come on at once. The next evening the three ladies arrived--Mrs.

Sprague, Olympia, and Kate. With them they brought a renowned physician

who had been uniformly successful in treating maladies of the sort the

lads were described as suffering.

Days of painful anxiety followed. Once, all hope of Dick was abandoned,

and his aunts were telegraphed for. But, in the end, he opened his big

blue eyes, sane and convalescent. There was rapid mending after this,

you may be sure. Kate had, through Olympia's unobtrusive manoeuvring,

been forced to bear the burden of Jack's nursing, and, somehow, when

that impatient warrior mingled amorous pleadings with his early

consciousness, she forgot upon which side the burden of repentance and

forgiving lay. She listened with gentle serenity to his protestations,

checking him only by the threat to quit the place and return to

her father.

During all this, Rosa was divided in her mind. She resented the

assiduity of Jones in the recovery of Dick. That reticent person had

installed himself in Dick's tent and never quitted the lad, day or

night, unless to relinquish him to Rosa's arbitrary hand. When, one day,

Pliny and Merry Perley entered the tent, Jones changed color. The two

ladies, not heeding the stranger, fell upon the convalescent on the cot,

and Jones slipped away. Thereafter Rosa had her invalid to herself,

Jones only reappearing at night, to keep the vigils of the dark. A month

later, the invalids were strong enough to be removed. An inquiry had

been set on foot to account for the presence of the two Union soldiers

among the rebel prisoners. The result was confusing, however. The facts

seemed to point out design in the original entry of the young men's

names at Hampton, where they had been taken when brought in by

the outposts.

The dispersion of the rest of their companions from Richmond was

accounted for by furloughs granted them so soon as they reached the

provost-marshal's office. Just before leaving Point Lookout Jack

received a much-directed letter that gave signs of having been in every

mail-bag in the Army of the Potomac. It was from Barney Moore, bristling

with wonder and turgid with woful lamentation at Jack's coldness in not

writing him. He had been sent by mistake to Ship Island, near New

Orleans, to join his regiment, and had only at the writing of the letter

reached Washington, where the Caribees were expected every day to move

to the Peninsula in McClellan's new campaign.

So soon as he was sufficiently recovered to write, Jack reported by

letter to the regiment. He had received no reply. The explanation was

awaiting him so soon as he reached Washington. While seated with his

mother in Willard's, a heavy knock came on the door. It was thrown open

before the maid could reach it. A provost corporal stood on the

threshold, a file of men behind him:

"I have an order for the arrest of Sergeant John Sprague."

"I am John Sprague. Of what am I accused?"

"I have no orders to tell you. My orders are to deliver you at the

provost prison. You will hear the charges there."

"But I am still under the doctor's charge. I am on the hospital list."

"I don't know what condition you are in. My orders are to arrest you,

and you know I have no option. All can be remedied at the

provost's office."

"I will go with you, my son," Mrs. Sprague said, trying to look

untroubled. "It is some error which can be explained."

"No, mamma, you can't come. Send word to the counsel you engaged in the

search. I fancy it is some mistake; but I wish it hadn't occurred just

now. I wouldn't write Olympia about it." Olympia had gone on to Acredale

with Kate, to set the house in order for a season of festivity. Jack,

Vincent, Dick, and the rest, were to join them so soon as the invalid

had taken rest in Washington.

The guard indulged Jack in a carriage to headquarters. Here he was

handed over to a lieutenant in charge, and conducted to a prison-like

apartment in the rear.

"What is the charge against me?" Jack asked, as the officer touched a

bell.

"I am not acquainted with the papers in your case. My instructions are

to hold you until called for.--Sergeant," he added, as a soldier in

uniform entered, "the prisoner is to be confined in close quarters, and

is not to be lost sight of night or day."

The soldier saluted and motioned Jack to follow him, two other soldiers

closing in behind him as he set out. At the end of a short hallway the

sergeant stopped, took a key from a bunch at his belt, unlocked a

heavily-barred door and motioned Jack to enter. It was useless to

protest, useless to parley. He knew military procedure too well to think

of it, but his heart swelled with bitter rage. This was the reward of an

almost idolatrous patriotism--this was the _patrie's_ way of cherishing

her defenders. He flung himself on the cot in a wild passion of tears

and rebellious scorn. But his humiliation was not yet ended; while he

sat with his face covered by his bands, he felt hands upon his legs, and

the sharp click of a lock. He moved his left leg. Great God! it was

chained to an enormous iron bolt. He started to rise; the sharp links of

the chain cut his ankle as the great ball rolled away from him. With a

cry of madness he flung himself on the harsh pine pallet, groaning his

heart out in bitter anguish and maledictions. In time food was brought

him, but he sat supine, staring ghastly at the dull-eyed orderly,

silent, unquestioning. Dim banners of light fell across the corridor.

They were broken at regular intervals by the passing figure of a sentry.

The night wore on. There was a lull in the monotonous tramp. Steps came

toward Jack's cell--stopped; the key grated in the lock; some one

touched him on the shoulder. He never stirred.

"Cheer up, Sprague; it's all a mistake." It was the voice of the lawyer.

At this Jack started, his eyes gleaming wildly. "Ah, I thought so. I

knew I could never have been disgraced like this in earnest. They have

discovered the wrong done me?"

"No, no; not exactly that, Jack, but we shall show them the mistake, I

make no doubt."

"Why am I dishonored? Of what am I accused? Why am I here?" Jack cried,

shivering under the revulsion from despair to hope, and from hope back

to horror.

"You are dishonored, my poor young friend, because a court-martial has

found you guilty of murder, desertion, and treason against the articles

of war, and you are here because you are sentenced to be shot one week

from Friday, in the center of a hollow square, seated on your

own coffin."

CHAPTER XXXIII.

FATHER ABRAHAM'S JOKE.

In her own mind, as the train rolled toward Acredale from Washington,

Kate was enjoying in anticipation the victory she had to announce to her

father. He had written her regularly from Warchester, where he was

engaged in an important suit. She had written more frequently than he,

but she had made no allusion to the happy ending of her troubles. It was

partly dread that the knowledge of Jack's restoration might bring on

more active hostility, as well as a whimsical feminine caprice to spring

the great event upon him when all danger was over. She watched Dick and

Rosa in the seat near her, for they, too, were of the advance guard to

Acredale, where, when Olympia had arranged the house, Vincent and Jack

were to come for final restoration to health. When the party arrived at

the little Acredale Station there was a great crowd gathered.

A company of the Caribees was just setting out for the front. Some of

the old members recognized Dick, and then straightway went up a cheer

that brought all the corner loiterers to the spot to learn the goings

on. It was in consequence rather a triumphal procession that followed

the carriage to the Sprague gateway, and even followed up the sanded

road to the broad piazza. Rosa remained with Olympia, while Kate carried

Dick off to commit him to the aunts waiting on the porch to welcome the

prodigal. Kate had telegraphed her coming, and her father was at the

door to meet her. He was plainly relieved and delighted to have her with

him again, for he held her long and close in his arms. "Then all's

forgiven; we're friends again," she said, laughing and crying together.

"There is nothing to forgive. It may be a matter of regret that you are

a Boone in blood rather than an Ovid, and that you imitate the Boones in

obstinacy. But justice has been done, and there's no need to quarrel

about strangers."

She didn't understand in the least what he meant about justice being

done. Remembering that all was well, she smiled as they entered the

library, and when she had removed her wraps, said, in repressed triumph:

"You need never attempt the role of Shylock again. I play Portia better

than you play the Jew. You have lost your pound of flesh."

"Well, be magnanimous. Don't abuse your victory. I shouldn't, in your

place; but women are never merciful to the fallen."

"I am to you. For, see, I kiss you as gayly as when I believed you all

heart and goodness."

"Now you believe me no heart and badness?"

"I didn't say that, I say you are given over to sinful hates, and I must

correct you."

"Well, I'm willing now to be corrected."

"But the correction will be a severe one; you must prepare for a very

grievous penance."

"Knowing you, I can foresee that you won't spare the rod. Very well,

I'll try to get used to it."

At this moment a servant came to the door.

"A note for Miss Kate," she said. Kate tore it open and read:

"Come to me at once. I have frightful news from

Washington. As it concerns Jack you ought to know it.

"OLYMPIA."

She read the lines twice before she could seize the meaning. Frightful

news concerning Jack! Had he suffered a relapse? Had he been

accidentally hurt? No; if it had been news of that sort, Olympia would

have come herself. A gleam of prescience shot through her brain. The

court--the charges against Jack! That was it. That was the secret of her

father's equanimity under her raillery. She turned with a rush into the

library. The bad blood of the Boones was all up in her soul now. She

walked straight at, not to her father, and, holding Olympia's note

before him, said in bitter scorn:

"Tell me what this means. I know that you know."

He took the paper with leisurely unconcern, affecting not to remark

Kate's flashing wrath; he read the lines, handed the paper back, or held

it toward Kate, who put her hands behind her.

"Since it concerns you, my child, suppose you go over and ask Miss

Sprague. How should I know the affairs of such superior people?"

"Could nothing soften you?--humanize you, I was going to say. Could

nothing satisfy you but the death of this injured family?--for this blow

will kill them. Kill them? Why should they care to live when that noble

fellow has been dishonored by your cruel acts? Ah, I know what you have

done! You have brought the court to disgrace Jack--to make him appear a

deserter. You it was who, in some mysterious way, caused him to be

abducted into the small-pox ward among the rebel prisoners. But it shall

all be made known. I shall myself go on the stand and testify to your

handiwork. Yes, I am a Boone in this. I will follow the lesson you have

set me. I will avenge the innocent and save him by exposing the guilty."

"On second thought, daughter, you are not in a frame of mind to see

strangers to-night. You will remain home this evening. To-morrow you can

see your friend and advise her in her sorrow, whatever it is." He went

to the door and called the servant. "Go to Miss Sprague with my

compliments, and tell her my daughter is not able to leave the house

this evening." As the man closed the outer door, Kate made a step

forward, crying:

"You never mean to say that I am a prisoner in my own father's house?"

"Certainly not. We're not play-actors. I think it best that you should

not go to the neighbors to-night, and you, as a dutiful daughter, obey

without murmur, because I have always been an indulgent parent and

gratified every whim of yours, even to letting you consort with my

bitterest enemies for months." As he spoke, there was a ring at the

doorbell. Presently the servant entered the room and announced "Mr.

Jones." Before Boone could direct him to be shown into another room

Jones entered the library, fairly pushing the astonished menial aside.

Boone held up his hand with a warning gesture, and nodded toward Kate;

but, without halting, Jones advanced to Boone's chair, and, seizing him

by the shoulder, held up a copy of the afternoon paper.

"Read that? What does it mean?"

Boone's eyes rested a moment on the paragraphs pointed out. Then,

throwing the paper aside, he asked, coldly:

"Why should you ask me what it means? If you are interested in the

affair, you might find out by writing to the court."

At this, Jones, looking around the room, marked the two doors, one

leading to the hall, the other to the drawing-room. He deliberately went

to each, and, locking it, slipped the key in his pocket. He glanced

reassuringly at Kate, as she sat dumfounded waiting the issue of this

singular scene. He confronted Boone, leaning against the mantel.

"It's just as well that we have a witness to this final settlement,

Elisha Boone.--Twenty years ago, Miss Boone, I was a citizen of this

town. I was the owner of these acres. I am Richard Perley. In those days

I was a wild fellow--I thought then, a wicked one; but I have learned

since that I was not, for folly is not crime. In those days--I was

barely twenty-five--your father had a hard ground to till in his way of

life. I became his patron, and from that I became his slave. I never

exactly knew how it came about, but within a few years most of my

property was mortgaged to Elisha Boone. I won't accuse him, as the world

does, of inciting me to drink and gambling. God knows he has enough to

answer for without that! In the end I was driven to a deed that

imperiled my liberty, and Elisha Boone put the temptation and the means

to do it within my reach. Detection followed, and the detection came

about through Elisha Boone. All my property in his hands, my name a

scorn, and my person subject to the law, Elisha Boone had no further

fear of me, and thenceforth doled me out an income sufficient to supply

my modest wants. I strove to turn the new leaf that recommends itself to

men who have exhausted the so-called pleasures of life. I was living in

honesty and seclusion in Richmond, when Boone, who had never lost sight

of me, came with a mission for me to perform. I was engaged as an agent

of the detective force of the United States, with the special duty of

rescuing Wesley Boone from captivity.

"I was further commissioned to get evidence against John Sprague, fixing

upon him the crime of betraying his colors and aiding the Confederacy.

In the attempt to rescue Captain Boone at Bosedale circumstances pointed

to the guilt of young Sprague, but that was all dissipated a few weeks

after, when, at the peril of his own life, not once, but a score of

times, he rashly liberated a score or two of prisoners, and personally

led them through an entire rebel army to the Union lines. I, who would

have been abandoned by a less noble nature, for I was weakened by

captivity and bad fare, broke down, but Sprague and--and--young Dick--my

son, clung to me with such devotion as few sons would exhibit under such

trials, and brought me safe to the outposts. Here, by some mysterious

means, we were all dispersed. When I found my senses I was under Elisha

Boone's Samaritan care in the house where you saw me at first. The two

boys, Sprague and Perley, spirited away from the hospital at Hampton,

where they had been entered under assumed names, Jacques and Paling,

were by some curious instrumentality hidden in the small-pox ward of the

rebel prison at Point Lookout. While they lay there, and while some one

in Washington knew that they were there, a court martial in that city

hurriedly convened, found John Sprague guilty of murder, desertion, and

treason, and the evening dispatches from Washington state that John

Sprague is to be shot a week from Friday in a hollow square, in which a

company of the Caribees is to do the shooting.

"Miss Boone, you worked faithfully to rescue the life of this young man,

but your father has brought that work to ruin. Worse, the death you

dreaded when you gave heart and soul to the rescue of the lost was a

mercy compared to that in store for him. He is to be shot by a file of

his own company, seated upon a rough board coffin, ready to receive his

mangled remains. You will--"

But Kate, at this hideous detail, fell with a low, wailing cry to the

floor, happily dead to the woful consciousness of the scene and its

meaning. Jones ran to the door, and, unlocking it, shouted for the

servants. When they came, she was carried to her room and the physician

summoned. Almost at the same time Olympia, in her traveling-dress, drove

up. She was informed by the servants of Kate's state, and, without

stopping to ask permission, ran up to the sick-room. Kate was now

conscious, but at sight of Olympia she covered her face, shuddering.

"Ah, Kate! Kate! what is it? Have you learned the dreadful news? I am

going to take the train back this evening."

"I, too, will go with you. Stay with me; don't leave me!"

She stopped, put out her hand, as if to make sure of Olympia, then broke

into low but convulsive sobs. Her father, with the doctor, entered the

room; but at the sight Kate turned her head to the wall, crying,

piteously:

"No, no--not here, not here! I can't see him now! Oh, spare me! I--I--"

"Do your duty, doctor," Boone said, in a quick, gasping tone, and with

an uncertain step quit the chamber. Olympia explained to the physician

that Kate had heard painful news from an unexpected quarter, and that

her illness was more nervous than physical.

"I don't know about that," the doctor said, decisively. He felt her

pulse, then with a quick start of surprise raised her head and examined

the tongue and lining of the palate. A still graver look settled on his

face as he tested the breath and action of the heart. When he had

apparently satisfied himself he turned to Olympia with a perturbed air,

and, beckoning her into the dressing-room, said:

"Miss Sprague, this is no place for you. Miss Boone has every symptom of

typhoid fever. She has evidently been exposed to a malarial air. Her

complaint may be even worse than typhoid--I can't quite make out certain

whitish blotches on her skin. I should suspect small-pox or varioloid,

but that there has not been a case reported here for years. Where has

she been of late?"

Olympia turned ghastly white with horror.

"O doctor, she has been nursing Jack, who was for weeks in the small-pox

ward at Point Lookout!"

"Good God! Fly, fly the house at once! I wondered if I could be deceived

in the symptoms. I must insist on your leaving at once."

"But the poor girl must have some one of her own sex with her. Whom can

she get if not a friend?"

"She can get a professional nurse, and that is worth a dozen friends.

Indeed, friends will be only a drawback for the next ten days."

He took her gently by the shoulders and pushed her out of the room. He

was an old friend of the family, and she was accustomed to his

tyrannical ways. He held her sternly under way until the front door

closed and shut her out. Then, turning into the library, he saw that the

host was alone. Closing the door, he said:

"Mr. Boone, your daughter has been exposed to a great danger. We may be

able to save her, but it will require great patience."

"Danger, doctor! What do you mean?"

"Your daughter has caught the most hideous of all diseases--small-pox!"

Elisha Boone started to his feet. "Great God! where could she catch

small-pox?"

"She caught it nursing young Sprague. I thought you knew of that;" and

the doctor regarded the incredulous, terror-stricken face of the father

with bewildered fixity. Well he might. The first rod of the moral law

had just struck him. The vengeance he had so subtly planned had turned

into retributive justice. He had refused Kate's prayer; he had driven

her to this mad search and the contagion now periling her life, or, if

it were spared, leaving her a hideous specter of herself. This passed

through his shattered mind as the doctor stood regarding him.

"What do you propose doing?" he finally asked, to get his thoughts from

the torturing grip of conscience.

"I propose to install two trained nurses in the house. You are not to

let a soul know what your daughter is suffering from. I hope to be able

to check the evil in the blood, but I must be secure against any form of

meddling. You must avoid your daughter's chamber--indeed, it would be

better if you could quit Acredale for a few days. You would be less

embarrassed by intrusive neighbors and keep your conscience clear of

evasions."

So it was settled that Boone should take up his quarters in Warchester,

coming out late every night for news.

Meanwhile, Acredale had read with amazement, first, of the finding of

Jack Sprague among the rebels at Point Lookout, then, the extraordinary

story of the court-martial and death-sentence. Every one called at the

Sprague mansion, but it was in the hands of the servants, Olympia and

her guest having returned to Washington so soon as the story of her

brother's peril reached her. Dick, too, had flown to his adored Jack,

and Acredale, confounded by the swift alternations in the young

soldier's fortunes, settled down to wait the outcome with a tender

sorrow for the bright young life eclipsed in disgrace so awful, death so

ignominious.

We have looked on while most of the people in this history worked

through night to light in the moral perplexities besetting them. We have

seen warriors in love and danger gallantly extricating themselves and

plucking the bloom of safety from the dragon path of danger. We have

seen a moral combat in the minds of most of the people who have had to

do with our luckless Jack. But all herein set down has been the merest

November melancholy compared to the charnel-house of dead hopes and

baffled purposes that tortured Elisha Boone. Unlovely as Boone has

seemed to us, he had one of the prime conditions of human goodness--he

loved. He had loved very fondly his son Wesley. He loved very tenderly

his daughter Kate.

With this love came the sanctification that must abide where love is. I

don't think he had much of what may be called the second condition of

human goodness--reverence. If he had, we should never have seen him push

revenge to the verge of crime. Richard Perley, it is true, accuses him

of a turpitude that makes a man shudder and abhor; but allowances must

be made for the exaggeration of a careless spendthrift--a "good fellow,"

than whom I can conceive of nothing so useless and mischievous in the

human economy. For my part, I think I could endure the frank

heartlessness of a man like Boone more philosophically than the false

good-nature of the creature men call a good fellow.

Obviously, Boone did not take Dick Perley's estimate of him very

seriously. He, too, could have told a tale not without its strong

features of a shiftless set, constantly borrowing, constantly

squandering, constantly provoking the thrifty to accumulate unguarded

properties. All this, however, had faded from the old man's mind now. He

had avenged himself upon the life-long scorners of his name and fame;

but the blow that shattered their pride had sent a dart to his own

heart. His beautiful Kate, his big-hearted, high-spirited, man-witted

girl!--she would bear a leper-taint for life, and his hand had put the

virus on her perfect flesh!

In a few days the black in his hair withered to an ashen white. His

flesh fell away. He could neither eat nor sleep. He shambled through the

obscure streets of Warchester, or lingered wistfully in the beech woods

behind his own palatial home in Acredale, staring at the window of his

daughter's chamber. The week passed in such mental torture as tries the

strong when confronted by the major force of conscience. Then the doctor

told him that he had balked the plague; that Kate was recovering from

varioloid; that beyond a transparency of skin, which would add to her

beauty rather than impair it, there would be no sign of the attack.

Elisha Boone slept in his own home that night, and, for the first time

in forty years, he fell upon his knees--upon his knees! Indeed, the

doctor found him so at midnight, when he came with a request from his

daughter to come to her room. The doctor, with a word of warning against

agitating the sufferer, wisely retired from the solemn reconciliation

which, without knowing the circumstances, he knew was to take place

between father and child. She was propped up upon pillows whose texture

her flesh rivaled in whiteness. She opened her arms as the specter of

what had been her father flew to her with a stifled cry.

"O father, we have both been wicked! we have both been punished! Help me

to do my part; help me to bear my burden."

It was hope, mercy, and peace the meeting brought. The next day Elisha

Boone bade Kate a tender farewell. She did not ask him where he was

going. She knew, and the light in her eye shone brighter as he rode in

the darkness over the bare fields and through the sleeping towns to the

capital, where Jack's fate was hanging in the balance. With Boone's

influence to aid them, Jack's friends found a surprising change in the

demeanor of the officials, hitherto captious and indifferent. Boone

himself laid the case before the President, omitting certain details not

essential to the showing of the monstrous injustice done a brave

soldier. The President listened attentively, and with the expression,

half sad and half droll, with which he softened the asperities of

official life, said, humorously:

"I wish by such simple means as courts-martial we could find out more

such soldiers as this; we need all of that sort we can get." He touched

a bell, and, when a clerk appeared in response, he said, "Ask General

McClellan to come in for a moment before he leaves."

What need to go into the details? The court reconvened, and traversed

the charges, which were disproved or withdrawn. John Sprague was

pronounced guiltless on every specification, and, on General McClellan's

recommendation, was promoted to a captaincy and assigned to the

headquarters staff. I might go on and tell of Jack's daring on the

Peninsula and his immeasurable usefulness to McClellan in the

Williamsburg contest and the final wondrous change of base from the

Chickahominy to the James; how his services were recognized by promotion

to a colonelcy on the battle-field of Malvern; and how, when McClellan

was wronged by Stanton, and removed from the army, Jack broke his sword

and swore that he would never serve again. But, thinking better of it,

he applied for a place in Hancock's corps, and was by his side from

Fredericksburg to Gettysburg. You have seen from the very first what was

going to happen. The marriages all took place, just as you have guessed

from the beginning. Young Dick was too impatient and too skeptical to

wait until the end of the war, and, to the amazement of his aunts and

the amusement of Acredale, he carried Rosa off, one day, and was

secretly married in the rector's study at Warchester, so that his first

son was born under the Stars and Bars in Richmond, while Dick was

beleaguering the walls at Fort Walthall, four miles away. The other

young people waited rationally until a month or two after the peace, and

while they were still entitled to wear the blue, and then they were

wedded. It was said that Kate made the most beautiful bride ever seen in

Warchester, for it was there they were married.

THE END.