“Why, that is my husband!  I know his footsteps.  He is coming up-stairs to call me.”

And so it proved.  Her husband, who was a lieutenant in Colonel Montgomery’s regiment, had come up from camp with some of his men to look after deserters.  The door had been unfastened by a servant who on that night happened to sleep in the house.  I shall never forget the delightful sensation of relief that came over me when the whole matter was explained.  It was almost overpowering; for, although I had made up my mind to bear the worst, and bear it bravely, the thought of falling into the hands of the Rebels was horrible in the extreme.  A year of intense mental suffering seemed to have been compressed into those few moments.

* * * * *

GOLD HAIR.

A LEGEND OF PORNIC.

    Oh, the beautiful girl, too white,
        Who lived at Pornic, down by the sea,
    Just where the sea and the Loire unite! 
        And a boasted name in Brittany
    She bore, which I will not write.

    Too white, for the flower of life is red;
        Her flesh was the soft, seraphic screen
    Of a soul that is meant (her parents said)
        To just see earth, and hardly be seen,
    And blossom in heaven instead.

    Yet earth saw one thing, one how fair! 
        One grace that grew to its full on earth: 
    Smiles might be sparse on her cheek so spare,
        And her waist want half a girdle’s girth,
    But she had her great gold hair: 

    Hair, such a wonder of flix and floss,
        Freshness and fragrance,—­floods of it, too! 
    Gold did I say?  Nay, gold’s mere dross. 
        Here Life smiled, “Think what I meant to do!”
    And Love sighed, “Fancy my loss!”

    So, when she died, it was scarce more strange
        Than that, when some delicate evening dies,
    And you follow its spent sun’s pallid range,
        There’s a shoot of color startles the skies
    With sudden, violent change,—­

    That, while the breath was nearly to seek,
        As they put the little cross to her lips,
    She changed; a spot came out on her cheek,
        A spark from her eye in mid-eclipse,
    And she broke forth, “I must speak!”

    “Not my hair!” made the girl her moan;—­
        “All the rest is gone, or to go;
    But the last, last grace, my all, my own,
        Let it stay in the grave, that the ghosts may know! 
    Leave my poor gold hair alone!”

    The passion thus vented, dead lay she. 
        Her parents sobbed their worst on that;
    All friends joined in, nor observed degree: 
        For, indeed, the hair was to wonder at,
    As it spread,—­not flowing free,

    But curled around her brow, like a crown,
        And coiled beside her cheeks, like a cap,
    And calmed about her neck,—­ay, down
        To her breast, pressed flat, without a gap
    I’ the gold, it reached her gown.