In his walk he passed the tent in which Lieutenant Waldo and his mother were talking quietly of their home and the prospects of maintaining it during the troublous times clearly foreseen.

“Mother,” said Waldo, “have you any definite idea as to the success of our arms?”

“No, Vincent, nor do I suppose we can at this remote plantation.  We only know that there is heavy fighting at various points and great successes are claimed; but it seems very hard to get at the real truth.  Our chief confidence must be in the sacredness and justness of our cause and in the prayers of so many sincere hearts to the God of justice.  In giving you, my son, to our country, when you were scarcely more than a boy, you can understand why I feel that such sacrifices cannot be in vain.  Now that I have watched beside you in your patient, heroic suffering, the feeling becomes a conviction that our sunny land must be enriched and blessed for all time by such blood as yours.”

“Well, mother, I do not begrudge my blood or my life.  You have taught me that to die is gain; but almost hourly I pray for recovery that I may soon rejoin my regiment and do more toward achieving our liberty.  How strange it is that men of the North should be animated by much the same spirit!  Miss Baron has been showing me the lovely faces of the wife and daughter of a Federal officer who died heroically a few days ago.  She says the war is all a dreadful mystery to her.”

“I am beginning to understand her better,” replied Mrs. Waldo musingly, “for to some extent she has given me her confidence.  If she had been brought up as you have been she would feel as you do.  I can see why her uncle and aunts have not won her sympathy, while her cousin’s conduct has been well calculated to alienate her.  I can also understand why the negroes on the place have so enlisted her sympathy.  I do not think they have been treated very harshly, but it is too clear that they are regarded simply as property, and Mr. Baron has allowed himself to be represented among them by a brutal, coarse-fibred man.  If she had been your sister and had witnessed the spirit in which our slaves are governed and cared for she would feel as you do, not vindictive hatred of the North—­such feeling is not permissible toward any of the human race—­but a stern, lofty spirit of independence, such as our fathers had in separating from England.”

“Well, she is a brave, good girl, mother, and has been as kind to me as if I were her brother.”

“Very true, Vincent.  She is a remarkably good girl for one brought up as she has been.  She has told me much about her past repressed, unhappy life.  I hope she may visit us some day.”