loved.

I do not know why, when she clasped my hand and said, "How young you
are," I thought of the poem of Lucas, "The land where we lay
dreaming," or why those lines should come back to me now when her feet
are treading the path where silence is. It may have been because of
her sweet voice, "Which did thrill until at eve the whip-poor-will and
at noon the mocking-birds were mute and still," or because of the
exchange of memories of those days of shot and shell and red meteors,
of the camp, of the march, of the sick and wounded to whom she
ministered, and of the realization that "All our glorious visions fled
and left us nothing real but the dead, in the land where we lay
dreaming."

When she remarked upon my youth the fancy drifted through my mind that
she was rather old for a bride, or at least looked so, for I was
accustomed to seeing very youthful brides, being only half her years
when I was one, while she had passed through ageing experiences, had
written many books, and looked older than she really was. I had not
formed the habit of thinking of her as Mrs. Wilson, and in the
confusion of the old name and the new could not recall either, so
called her "Mrs. Macaria." She laughed and told me that she was
accustomed to being called "Beulah," but this was the first time that
she had been addressed as "Mrs. Macaria."

She told me of the many adventures of "Macaria" in its early days.
Camp "Beulah," named in honor of her second book, which appeared not
long before the opening of the war and brought her at once into
prominence as a writer, was near Summerville, the girlhood home of
Augusta Evans, and in that camp and its hospital, as well as in the