woods or in the log church a strange reserve brooded, and even the
prayers took on a guarded tone. Even from the fulness of their hearts,
which longed for liberty, no open word that could offend the mistress
or the young master went up to the Almighty. He might know their
hearts, but no tongue in meeting gave vent to what was in them, and
even Gideon sang no more of the gospel army. He was sad because of
this new trouble coming hard upon the heels of the old, and Martha
was grieved because he was.

Finally the trips into town budded into something, and on a memorable
evening when the sun looked peacefully through the pines, young Dudley
Stone rode into the yard dressed in a suit of gray, and on his
shoulders were the straps of office. The servants gathered around him
with a sort of awe and followed him until he alighted at the porch.
Only Mam' Henry, who had been nurse to both him and his sister, dared
follow him in. It was a sad scene within, but such a one as any
Southern home where there were sons might have shown that awful year.
The mother tried to be brave, but her old hands shook, and her tears
fell upon her son's brown head, tears of grief at parting, but through
which shone the fire of a noble pride. The young Ellen hung about his
neck with sobs and caresses.

"Would you have me stay?" he asked her.

"No! no! I know where your place is, but oh, my brother!"

"Ellen," said the mother in a trembling voice, "you are the sister of
a soldier now."

The girl dried her tears and drew herself up. "We won't burden your