conventionally appropriate to artistic performances, but, wrapping her
travelling coat and robe about her, she went out into the moonlight
with her mass of hair streaming in the wind like a flying cloud, and
sang that thrilling song written by her friend, Randall, "Maryland, my
Maryland." As the melodious tones swelled out upon the night and came
floating back in echoes from the rugged peaks and mountain walls, they
filled the audience with rapt delight. When the song was finished the
sobs and cheers that burst from the soldier-hearts formed an encore
not to be denied, and again that battle-cry thrilled out upon the air.
The moment of silence that followed was broken by the high, shrill,
quavering, penetrating note of the rebel yell.

The singer has passed into the land of the higher music and most of
those who thrilled to the sound of her battle-song on that war-crowned
height have passed away from the melodies of earth, but somewhere in
this wide land there may be hearts through which yet pulses the music
of that midnight song.

Among the most valued possessions of Mrs. Wilson were the rings,
bracelets and baskets fashioned from buttons and fruit-seeds by her
soldiers in hospital, tokens of their grateful remembrance of her. I
showed her a little cross cut from a button in a prison and given to
me by my uncle, Colonel Phillips, of the Confederate Army, who had
been a captive on Johnson's Island. The prisoners used the cross to
certify to the validity of secret messages. It was sent with the
message and returned with the answer, carrying conviction of the
truthfulness of both.

I told her the story of another cross, connected with the surrender of
the Army of Northern Virginia. Colonel Aylett, of the Fifty-Third