Over the lovely landscape before me fell the shadow of the future, a shadow soon to darken every fair domain, every home in all the South.

After a time the grieving mother passed out, and, entering her carriage, was driven away to her desolate home.

Later, I, too, accomplished the last ten miles of my journey, arriving at my destination in time for supper, and meeting with a cordial welcome from my friends.

Let none give undue praise to the women to whom during the war Almighty God vouchsafed the inestimable privilege of remaining near the front, even though they may have endured untold hardship, hours of agony while listening to the noise of battle, fully realizing the extreme danger of beloved fathers, husbands, or sons.

Never until my visit to Alabama had I fully realized the horrors of suspense,—­the lives of utter self-abnegation heroically lived by women in country homes all over the South during the dreary years of the war.

Every day—­every hour—­was fraught with anxiety and dread.  Rumor was always busy, but they could not hear definitely:  they could not know how their loved ones were faring.

Can imagination conceive a situation more pitiable?

Ghastly visions made night hideous.  During the day, the quick galloping of a horse, the unexpected appearance of a visitor, would agitate a whole household, sending women in haste to some secret place where they might pray for strength to bear patiently whatever tidings the messenger should bring.

Self-denial in all things began from the first.  Butter, eggs, chickens, etc., were classed as luxuries, to be collected and sent by any opportunity offering to the nearest point of shipment to hospital or camp.  Fruits were gathered and made into preserves or wine “for the sick soldiers.”  Looms were set up on every plantation.  The whirr of the spinning-wheel was heard from morning until night.  Dusky forms hovered over large iron cauldrons, continually thrusting down into the boiling dye the product of the looms, to be transformed into Confederate gray or butternut jeans.

In the wide halls within the plantation-houses stood tables piled with newly-dyed cloth and hanks of woollen or cotton yarns.  The knitting of socks went on incessantly.  Ladies walked about in performance of household or plantation duties, sock in hand, “casting on,” “heeling,” “turning off.”  By the light of pine knots the elders still knitted far into the night, while to young eyes and more supple fingers was committed the task of finishing off comforts that had been “tacked” during the day, or completing heavy army overcoats; and painfully these toiled over the unaccustomed task.

When a sufficient number of these articles had been completed by the united efforts of ladies for miles around, a meeting was held at one of the churches, where all helped to pack boxes to be sent to “the front.”  I attended one of these meetings, the memory of which is ever fresh.