Away over the broad face of the earth, out from such peace as this, might there, if one could look--unroll some vision of horrible contrast?

Were blood, and wrath, and groans, and thunderous roar of guns down there under that far, fair horizon, stooping in golden beauty to the cool, green hills?

Faith walked down the field path, presently, to meet her husband, coming up. He held in his hand an open paper, that he had brought, just now from the village.

There was news.

Rout, horror, confusion, death, dismay.

The field of Mana.s.sas had been fought. The Union armies were falling back, in disorder, upon Washington.

Breathlessly, with pale faces, and with hands that grasped each other in a deep excitement that could not come to speech, they read those columns, together.

Down there, on those Virginian plains, was this.

And they were here, in quiet safety, among the clover blooms, and the new-cut hay. Elsewhere, men were mown.

"Roger!" said Faith, when, by and by, they had grown calmer over the fearful tidings, and had had Bible words of peace and cheer for the fevered and b.l.o.o.d.y rumors of men--"mightn't we take our wedding journey, now?"

All the bright, early summer, in those first months of their life together, they had been finding work to do. Work they had hardly dreamed of when Faith had feared she might be left to a mere, unworthy, selfish rest and happiness.

The old New England spirit had roused itself, mightily, in the little country town. People had forgotten their own needs, and the provision they were wont to make, at this time, each household for itself. Money and material, and quick, willing hands were found, and a good work went on; and kindling zeal, and n.o.ble sympathies, and hearty prayers wove themselves in, with toil of thread and needle, to homely fabrics, and embalmed, with every finger touch, all whereon they labored.

They had remembered the old struggle wherein their country had been born. They were glad and proud to bear their burden in this grander one wherein she was to be born anew, to higher life.

Roger Armstrong and his wife had been the spring and soul and center of all.

And now Faith said: "Roger! mayn't we take our wedding journey?"

Not for a bridal holiday--not for gay change and pleasure--but for a holy purpose, went they out from home.

Down among the wounded, and war-smitten. Bearing comfort of gifts, and helpful words, and prayers. Doing whatsoever they found to do, now; seeking and learning what they might best do, hereafter. Truly, G.o.d left them not without a work. A n.o.ble ministry lay ready for them, at this very threshold of their wedded life.

In the hospital at Georgetown, they found Nurse Sampson.

"I told you so," she said. "I knew it was coming. And the first gun brought me down here to be ready. I've been out to Western Virginia; and I came back here when we got the news of this. I shall follow round, wherever the clouds roll."

In Washington, still another meeting awaited them.

Paul Rushleigh, in a Captain's uniform, came, one day, to the table of their hotel.

The first gun had brought him, also, where he could be ready. He had sailed for home, with his father, upon the reception, abroad, of the tidings of the fall of Sumter.

"Your country will want you, now, my son," had been the words of the brave and loyal gentleman. And, like another Abraham, he had set his face toward the mount of sacrifice.

There was a new light in the young man's eye. A soul awakened there. A purpose, better than any plan or hope of a mere happy living in the earth.

He met his old friends frankly, generously; and, seemingly, without a pang. They were all one now, in the sublime labor that, in their several spheres, lay out before them.

"You were right, Faith," he said, as he stood with them, and spoke briefly of the past, before they parted. "I shall be more of a man, than if I'd had my first wish. This war is going to make a nation of men. I'm free, now, to give my heart and hand to my country, as long as she needs me. And by and by, perhaps, if I live, some woman may love me with the sort of love you have for your husband. I feel now, how surely I should have come to be dissatisfied with less. G.o.d bless you both!"

"G.o.d bless you, Paul!"

THE END.

BIOGRAPHY AND BIBLIOGRAPHY

MRS. ADELINE DUTTON (Train) WHITNEY, American novelist and poet, was born in Boston, September 15, 1824, and was married to Seth D. Whitney, of Milton, Ma.s.s., in 1843. Writing little for publication in early life, she produced, in 1863, _Faith Gartney's Girlhood_, which brought her great popularity both at home and in England, where the novel gained especially favorable commendation. Although planned purely as a girl's book, the story of _Faith_ grew into her womanhood, and after the lapse of almost half a century continues to be a prime favorite. It is a purely told story of New England life, especially with dramatic incidents and an excellent bit of romance.

_The Gayworthys: a Story of Threads and Thrums_ (1865), continued Mrs.

Whitney's popularity and received flattering notices from the London _Reader_, _Athenaeum_, _Pall Mall Gazette_, and _Spectator_. Mrs. Whitney was a contributor to the _Atlantic Monthly_, _Our Young Folks_, _Old and New_ and various other periodicals.

Among her other published works are: _Footsteps on the Seas_ (1857), poems; _Mother Goose for Grown Folks_ (1860); _Boys at Chequa.s.set_ (1862); _A Summer in Leslie Goldthwaite's Life_ (1866); _Patience Strong's Outings_ (1868); _Hitherto: a Story of Yesterday_ (1869); _We Girls_ (1870); _Real Folks_ (1871); _Zerub Throop's Experiment_ (1871); _Pansies_, verse (1872); _The Other Girls_ (1873); _Sights and Insights_ (1876); _Odd or Even_ (1880); _Bonnyborough_ (1885); _Holy-Tides_, verse (1886); _Homespun Yarns_ (1887); _Bird Talk_, verse (1887); _Daffodils_, verse (1887); _Friendly Letters to Girl Friends_ (1897); _Biddy's Episodes_ (1904).

Breadth of view on social conditions, a deeply religious spirit, and a charming facility both in descriptive and romantic pa.s.sages, give this novelist her sustained popularity.

Mrs. Whitney died in Boston on March 21st, 1906.