The next morning, as they sat at the breakfast-table, Marie said: 

“My dear child, you are so changed I do not think I would have known you if I had met you in the street!”

“And I,” said Harry, “can hardly realize that you are our own Iola, whom I recognized as sister a half dozen years ago.”

“Am I so changed?” asked Iola, as a faint sigh escaped her lips.

“Why, Iola,” said Harry, “you used to be the most harum-scarum girl I ever knew, laughing, dancing, and singing from morning until night.”

“Yes, I remember,” said Iola.  “It all comes back to me like a dream.  Oh, mamma!  I have passed through a fiery ordeal of suffering since then.  But it is useless,” and as she continued her face assumed a brighter look, “to brood over the past.  Let us be happy in the present.  Let me tell you something which will please you.  Do you remember telling me about your mother and brother?”

“Yes,” said Marie, in a questioning tone.”

“Well,” continued Iola, with eyes full of gladness, “I think I have found them.”

“Can it be possible!” exclaimed Marie, in astonishment.  “It is more than thirty years since we parted.  I fear you are mistaken.”

“No, mamma; I have drawn my conclusions from good circumstantial evidence.  After I was taken from you, I passed through a fearful siege of suffering, which would only harrow up your soul to hear.  I often shudder at the remembrance.  The last man in whose clutches I found myself was mean, brutal, and cruel.  I was in his power when the Union army came into C——­, where I was living.  A number of colored men stampeded to the Union ranks, with a gentleman as a leader, whom I think is your brother.  A friend of his reported my case to the commander of the post, who instantly gave orders for my release.  A place was given me as nurse in the hospital.  I attended that friend in his last illness.  Poor fellow! he was the best friend I had in all the time I have been tossing about.  The gentleman whom I think is your brother appeared to be very anxious about his friend’s recovery, and was deeply affected by his death.  In one of the last terrible battles of the war, that of Five Forks, he was wounded and put into the hospital ward where I was an attendant.  For awhile he was delirious, and in his delirium he would sometimes think that I was his mother and at other times his sister.  I humored his fancies, would often sing to him when he was restless, and my voice almost invariably soothed him to sleep.  One day I sang to him that old hymn we used to sing on the plantation:—­

    “Drooping souls no longer grieve,
          Heaven is propitious;
     If on Christ you do believe,
          You will find Him precious.”

“I remember,” said Marie, with a sigh, as memories of the past swept over her.