Virginia, a very religious man, was talking with some friends when a
letter came bringing the sad tidings. "I do not believe it," he said.
"If it could be true I should not have faith in God or in prayer." As
he talked he took from his pocket a letter folded in the way that was
followed when we had no envelopes, and, cutting it, let it fall to the
floor. One of his companions took it up, placing the pieces on the
table to look for an address, and found that the fragments formed a
crucifix, the cross at each side to which the thieves were nailed, the
block supporting the crucifix, the block on which the dice were
thrown, the sponge and the reed, as if in imitation of a celebrated
painting of the Crucifixion.

"And this beautiful cross," said Mrs. Wilson, touching the one I wore,
"it must have a story, too." I replied that it had been in my family
for nearly three centuries, that General Pickett had worn it at the
battle of Gettysburg, and that it had been blessed by the Pope three
times. The last time, it was taken to Rome by Father Walter who, in
his long service as Rector of Saint Patrick's Church in Washington,
had by his sweet spirit of kindness and liberality endeared himself to
the whole community, regardless of religious differences. Mrs. Wilson
said that when she was in Washington she went to see Father Walter
because of his great kindness to the people of the South. She spoke,
too, of the most pathetic and tragic service of his life, his faithful
attendance upon Mrs. Surratt to the last awful moment.

In 1868 Augusta Evans was married to Mr. Lorenze M. Wilson, President
of the Mobile & Montana Railroad, and became mistress of the beautiful
home on the Spring Hill shell road near the picturesque city of
Mobile. The house looked toward the road through aisles of greenery
across a yard filled with flowers diffusing a perfume blended of