“Our distinguished young townsman, William Murray Bradshaw, Esq., has been among the first to respond to the call of the country for champions to defend her from traitors.  We understand that he has obtained a captaincy in the __th regiment, about to march to the threatened seat of war.  May victory perch on his banners!”

The two lovers, parted by their own self-sacrificing choice in the very hour that promised to bring them so much happiness, labored for the common cause during all the terrible years of warfare, one in the camp and the field, the other in the not less needful work which the good women carried on at home, or wherever their services were needed.  Clement—­now Captain Lindsay—­returned at the end of his first campaign charged with a special office.  Some months later, after one of the great battles, he was sent home wounded.  He wore the leaf on his shoulder which entitled him to be called Major Lindsay.  He recovered from his wound only too rapidly, for Myrtle had visited him daily in the military hospital where he had resided for treatment; and it was bitter parting.  The telegraph wires were thrilling almost hourly with messages of death, and the long pine boxes came by almost every train,—­no need of asking what they held.

Once more he came, detailed on special duty, and this time with the eagle on his shoulder,—­he was Colonel Lindsay.  The lovers could not part again of their own free will.  Some adventurous women had followed their husbands to the camp, and Myrtle looked as if she could play the part of the Maid of Saragossa on occasion.  So Clement asked her if she would return with him as his wife; and Myrtle answered, with as much willingness to submit as a maiden might fairly show under such circumstances, that she would do his bidding.  Thereupon, with the shortest possible legal notice, Father Pemberton was sent for, and the ceremony was performed in the presence of a few witnesses in the large parlor at The Poplars, which was adorned with flowers, and hung round with all the portraits of the dead members of the family, summoned as witnesses to the celebration.  One witness looked on with unmoved features, yet Myrtle thought there was a more heavenly smile on her faded lips than she had ever seen before beaming from the canvas,—­it was Ann Holyoake, the martyr to her faith, the guardian spirit of Myrtle’s visions, who seemed to breathe a holier benediction than any words—­even those of the good old Father Pemberton himself—­could convey.

They went back together to the camp.  From that period until the end of the war, Myrtle passed her time between the life of the tent and that of the hospital.  In the offices of mercy which she performed for the sick and the wounded and the dying, the dross of her nature seemed to be burned away.  The conflict of mingled lives in her blood had ceased.  No lawless impulses usurped the place of that serene resolve which had grown strong by every exercise of its high prerogative.  If she had been called now to die for any worthy cause, her race would have been ennobled by a second martyr, true to the blood of her who died under the cruel Queen.