bursting shells, apparently aimed at the court-house, there suddenly
came a nearer explosion; the house shook, and a tearing sound was
followed by terrified screams from the kitchen. I rushed thither, but
met in the hall the cook's little girl America, bleeding from a wound in
the forehead, and fairly dancing with fright and pain, while she uttered
fearful yells. I stopped to examine the wound, and her mother bounded
in, her black face ashy from terror. "Oh! Miss V., my child is killed
and the kitchen tore up." Seeing America was too lively to be a killed
subject, I consoled Martha and hastened to the kitchen. Evidently a
shell had exploded just outside, sending three or four pieces through.
When order was restored I endeavored to impress on Martha's mind the
necessity for calmness and the uselessness of such excitement. Looking
round at the close of the lecture, there stood a group of Confederate
soldiers laughing heartily at my sermon and the promising audience I
had. They chimed in with a parting chorus:

"Yes, it's no use hollerin', old lady."

"Oh! H.," I exclaimed, as he entered soon after, "America is wounded."

"That is no news; she has been wounded by traitors long ago."

"Oh, this is real, living, little black America. I am not talking in
symbols. Here are the pieces of shell, the first bolt of the coming
siege."

"Now you see," he replied, "that this house will be but paper to
mortar-shells. You must go in the country."

The argument was long, but when a woman is obstinate and eloquent, she