many years could not bring themselves to regard him as an enemy.  He never hurt their feelings; and almost as soon as the war began he set about that work which has been done by self-denying Christians of all ages,—­the relief of suffering.  He visited with comfort the widow and the fatherless, and many a night in the hospital he sat through beside the dying, Yankee and Rebel alike, and wrote their last letters home.

And Yankee and Rebel alike sought his help and counsel in time of perplexity or trouble, rather than hotheaded advice from their own leaders.

Mr. Brinsmade’s own carriage was drawn up at his door; and that gentleman himself standing on the threshold.  He came down his steps bareheaded in the wet to hand Virginia from her carriage.

Courteous and kind as ever, he asked for her father and her aunt as he led her into the house.  However such men may try to hide their own trials under a cheerful mien, they do not succeed with spirits of a kindred nature.  With the others, who are less generous, it matters not.  Virginia was not so thoughtless nor so selfish that she could not perceive that a trouble had come to this good man.  Absorbed as she was in her own affairs, she forgot some of them in his presence.  The fire left her tongue, and to him she could not have spoken harshly even of an enemy.  Such was her state of mind, when she was led into the drawing-room.  From the corner of it Anne arose and came forward to throw her arms around her friend.

“Jinny, it was so good of you to come.  You don’t, hate me?”

“Hate you, Anne dear!”

“Because we are Union,” said honest Anne, wishing to have no shadow of doubt.

Virginia was touched.  “Anne,” she cried, “if you were German, I believe I should love you.”

“How good of you to come.  I should not have dared go to your house, because I know that you feel so deeply.  You—­you heard?”

“Heard what?” asked Virginia, alarmed.

“That Jack has run away—­has gone South, we think.  Perhaps,” she cried, “perhaps he may be dead.”  And tears came into the girl’s eyes.

It was then that Virginia forgot Clarence.  She drew Anne to the sofa and kissed her.

“No, he is not dead,” she said gently, but with a confidence in her voice of rare quality.  “He is not dead, Anne dear, or you would have heard.”

Had she glanced up, she would have seen Mr. Brinsmade’s eye upon her.  He looked kindly at all people, but this expression he reserved for those whom he honored.  A life of service to others had made him guess that, in the absence of her father, this girl had come to him for help of some kind.

“Virginia is right, Anne,” he said.  “John has gone to fight for his principles, as every gentleman who is free should; we must remember that this is his home, and that we must not quarrel with him, because we think differently.”  He paused, and came over to Virginia.  “There is something I can do for you, my dear?” said he.