We started from the plantation in the early morning.  Our way lay along the red clay roads which in many parts of Alabama contrast so beautifully with the variously-shaded green of the woods and the brown carpet beneath the pines.  The old negro driver, “Uncle George,” sitting upon the box, looked solemnly out from the enormous and stiff shirt-collar which helped to support his dignity.

I believe the old man always drove his beautiful horses under protest.  It was either too early or too late, too hot or too cold, the roads either too muddy or too dusty.

This particular morning was so lovely that even the horses seemed to enjoy it, and for some reason “Uncle George” was less pompous and more gentle than usual.  Perhaps the anxious faces of the ladies touched his heart, or he may have been softened by the knowledge of the perils his young masters were being subjected to.

As often as we passed horseman or carriage on the road a stop was ordered, while the ladies made eager inquiries for news from Richmond.

The battle of Shiloh, and afterwards that of Seven Pines, had desolated many homes in the vicinity.  The fate of some was yet uncertain.  Strong fellow-feeling knit all hearts. Any passer-by, even if a stranger, asked or answered questions.

A drive of eight miles brought us to the church, a simple, lowly building, the “Grove Church” I believe it was called.  Here beneath the shade were drawn several carriages, and at the door a few plantation-wagons waited, some laden with straw, others with articles to be sent off.  In the vestibule, boxes were being rapidly filled.  It was a busy scene, but by no means a gay one.  A few unconscious children “played at party” in the pews, setting out on leaves or bits of bark their luncheon, broken into fragments, and serving in acorn cups cold water for tea.  Unmolested and unreproved, they ran up and down the steps of the high, old-fashioned pulpit, half-fearfully sitting down upon the minister’s chair, or standing on tip-toe to peep over the sacred desk at the busy group below.  Young girls moved silently about “helping.”  Over their pale lips not a ripple of laughter broke.  The fire of youth seemed to have died out of their sad eyes, quenched for a time by floods of bitter tears.

To kindly question one of these replied, “Mamma is well, but of course utterly prostrated, and does not leave her room.  Papa is still in Virginia nursing Buddie Eddie.  We have no tidings of brother yet; he is reported ‘missing,’ but we hope he may have been taken prisoner.”

Some familiar faces were absent.  And of these it was told that one had lost a husband, another a son, and so the sadness deepened.  Presently the trot of a horse was heard.  In another moment the good minister stood among his people.  Alas! he could only confirm the fearful tales of battle and carnage.  But from the storehouse of mind and heart he brought forth precious balm, won direct from heaven