This peaceful time was one of unalloyed happiness to Jackson.  The country round Winchester—­the gently rolling ridges, surmounted by groves of forest trees, the great North Mountains to the westward, rising sharply from the Valley, the cosy villages and comfortable farms, and, in the clear blue distance to the south, the towering peaks of the Massanuttons—­is a picture not easily forgotten.  And the little town, quiet and old-fashioned, with its ample gardens and red-brick pavements, is not unworthy of its surroundings.  Up a narrow street, shaded by silver maples, stood the manse, not far from the headquarter offices; and here when his daily work was done Jackson found the happiness of a home, brightened by the winning ways and attractive presence of his wife.  With his host he had much in common.  They were members of the same church, and neither yielded to the other in his high standard of morality.  The great bookcases of the manse were well stocked with appropriate literature, and the cultured intellect of Dr. Graham met more than half-way the somewhat abstruse problems with which Jackson’s powerful brain delighted to wrestle.

But Jackson and his host, even had they been so inclined, were not permitted to devote their whole leisure to theological discussion.  Children’s laughter broke in upon their arguments.  The young staff officers, with the bright eyes of the Winchester ladies as a lure, found a welcome by that hospitable hearth, and the war was not so absorbing a topic as to drive gaiety afield.

The sedate manse was like to lose its character.  There were times when the house overflowed with music and with merriment, and sounds at which a Scotch elder would have shuddered were heard far out in the street.  And the fun and frolic were not confined to the more youthful members of the household.  The Stonewall Brigade would hardly have been surprised had they seen their general surrounded by ponderous volumes, gravely investigating the teaching of departed commentators, or joining with quiet fervour in the family devotions.  But had they seen him running down the stairs with an urchin on his shoulders, laughing like a schoolboy, they would have refused to credit the evidence of their senses.

So the months wore on.  “We spent,” says Mrs. Jackson, “as happy a winter as ever falls to the lot of mortals upon earth.”  But the brigade was not forgotten, nor the enemy.  Every day the Virginia regiments improved in drill and discipline.  The scouts were busy on the border, and not a movement of the Federal forces was unobserved.  A vigilant watch was indeed necessary.  The snows had melted and the roads were slowly drying.  The Army of the Potomac, McClellan’s great host, numbering over 200,000 men, encamped around Washington, hardly more than a day’s march distant from Centreville, threatened to overwhelm the 82,000 Confederates who held the intrenchments at Centreville and Manassas Junction.  General Lander was dead, but Shields,