Yesterday morning I sent them a large dish of strawberries, with
a note asking whether they would walk during the day over to my
woodland pasture, where the soldiers had a barbecue before setting
out for the Mexican war. The mother and Sylvia accepted. Our walk
was a little overshadowed by their loss; and as I thoughtlessly
described the gayety of that scene--the splendid young fellows
dancing in their bright uniforms, and now and then pausing to wipe
their foreheads, the speeches, the cheering, the dinner under the
trees, and, a few days later, the tear-dimmed eyes, the hand-wringing
and embracing, and at last the marching proudly away, each with a
Bible in his pocket, and many never, never to return--I was sorry
that I had not foreseen the sacred chord I was touching. But
it made good friends of us more quickly, and they were well-bred,
so that we returned to all appearance in gay spirits. The elder
daughter came to meet us, and went at once silently to her mother's
side, as though she had felt the separation. I wondered whether
she had declined to go because of the memory of her father. As
we passed my front gate, I asked them to look at my flowers. The
mother praised also the cabbages, thus showing an admirably balanced
mind; the little Sylvia fell in love with a vine-covered arbor;
the elder daughter appeared to be secretly watching the many birds
about the grounds, but when I pointed out several less-known species,
she lost interest.

What surprises most is that they are so refined and intelligent.
It is greatly to be feared that we Kentuckians in this part of the
State are profoundly ignorant as to the people in other parts. I
told Mrs. Walters this, and she, seeing that I am beginning to like
them, is beginning to like them herself. Dear Mrs. Walters! Her