July 15, 1861.—­The quiet of midsummer reigns, but ripples of excitement break around us as the papers tell of skirmishes and attacks here and there in Virginia.  “Rich Mountain” and “Carrick’s Ford” were the last.  “You see,” said Mrs. D. at breakfast to-day, “my prophecy is coming true that Virginia will be the seat of war.”  “Indeed,” I burst out, forgetting my resolution not to argue, “you may think yourselves lucky if this war turns out to have any seat in particular.”

So far, no one especially connected with me has gone to fight.  How glad I am for his mother’s sake that Rob’s lameness will keep him at home.  Mr. F., Mr. S., and Uncle Ralph are beyond the age for active service, and Edith says Mr. D. can’t go now.  She is very enthusiastic about other people’s husbands being enrolled, and regrets that her Alex is not strong enough to defend his country and his rights.

July 22.—­What a day!  I feel like one who has been out in a high wind, and cannot get my breath.  The news-boys are still shouting with their extras, “Battle of Bull’s Run!  List of the killed!  Battle of Manassas!  List of the wounded!” Tender-hearted Mrs. F. was sobbing so she could not serve the tea; but nobody cared for tea.  “O G.!” she said, “three thousand of our own, dear Southern boys are lying out there.”  “My dear Fannie,” spoke Mr. F., “they are heroes now.  They died in a glorious cause, and it is not in vain.  This will end it.  The sacrifice had to be made, but those killed have gained immortal names.”  Then Rob rushed in with a new extra, reading of the spoils captured, and grief was forgotten.  Words cannot paint the excitement.  Rob capered about and cheered; Edith danced around ringing the dinner bell and shouting, “Victory!” Mrs. F. waved a small Confederate flag, while she wiped her eyes, and Mr. D. hastened to the piano and in his most brilliant style struck up “Dixie,” followed by “My Maryland” and the “Bonnie Blue Flag.”

“Do not look so gloomy, G.,” whispered Mr. S.  “You should be happy to-night; for, as Mr. F. says, now we shall have peace.”

“And is that the way you think of the men of your own blood and race?” I replied.  But an utter scorn choked me, and I walked out of the room.  What proof is there in this dark hour that they are not right?  Only the emphatic answer of my own soul.  To-morrow I will pack my trunk and accept the invitation to visit at Uncle Ralph’s country-house.

Sept. 25, 1861. (Home again from “The Pines.")—­When I opened the door of Mrs. F.’s room on my return, the rattle of two sewing-machines and a blaze of color met me.

“Ah!  G., you are just in time to help us; these are coats for Jeff Thompson’s men.  All the cloth in the city is exhausted; these flannel-lined oilcloth table-covers are all we could obtain to make overcoats for Thompson’s poor boys.  They will be very warm and serviceable.”

“Serviceable, yes!  The Federal army will fly when they see those coats!  I only wish I could be with the regiment when these are shared around.”  Yet I helped make them.