Called to the Field
 
 Called to the Field 
 
 A Story of Virginia in the 
 
 BY 
 
 LUCY MEACHAM THRUSTON 
 
 Author of "Mistress Brent," "A Girl of Virginia," 
 "Where the Tide Comes In," etc. 
 
 Boston 
 
 Little, Brown, and Company 
 1906
 
 Copyright, /pod, 
 BY LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 
 
 All rights reserved 
 Published March, 1906 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
 
 TO 
 
 AUGUSTA THRUSTON 
 
 2138617
 
 PREFACE 
 
 A the beginning of an omniverous reading 
 the writer recalls striking upon a sentence 
 which tersely and dramatically demanded 
 why had not some woman told the woman's side 
 of the war, meaning that of the first years of the 
 sixties. Instantly there formed before her mind 
 the tales to which she had often listened, the stories 
 which followed upon the " Do-you-remembers " 
 whispered by the fireside, and before which folk- 
 lore and fairy tale had paled. 
 
 The writer who asked that question has since 
 brilliantly depicted the adventurous, man's side of 
 the question ; another has lovingly and faithfully 
 painted Virginia's share and burden : still for these 
 and all others battle scene and soldiers' blood have 
 formed the theme. These have never seemed to 
 the writer the dominant note, neither they nor 
 loss of fortune nor blight of politics, but the 
 
 vii
 
 PREFACE 
 
 days and months and years of the women left 
 behind when the men were " Called to the Field." 
 
 Such this story which is not a tragedy, only 
 a love tale, with the laugh and the sigh which 
 the master passion presses ever close together 
 depicts, and into it is woven the big woods, the 
 " forest," loved and awe-inspiring, a drive out to 
 which meant to the writer's childhood two or three 
 miles along a sandy road, with the sparkle of the 
 broad river behind one, a climb up steep clay hills 
 to higher grounds, great hills covered to their 
 heights with pine and chestnut and poplar, with 
 patches of velvety moss at their feet ; and, were 
 it early summer, flushes of pink and white ivy 
 (elsewhere called laurel) rolling between the 
 brown rough trunks ; or, earlier yet, in springtide, 
 breadths of arbutus spread their bloom wide as a 
 city square, no scanty roots and handful of small 
 blossoms with elusive perfume, but rich clusters 
 of glowing pink or tinted white, with a luxury of 
 odor floating up to one's face, mingled with the 
 clean smell of brown leaves and pine-chaff, and 
 resinous new tips and tassels upon the pines. 
 
 Sparkling streams ran between the hills and, 
 as one splashed through them, vistas of green 
 meadows and bending rushes and purple flags 
 viii
 
 PREFACE 
 
 opened ; still steeper hills with gullies worn down 
 their faces ; and, at last, the top of the ridge, and 
 "the forest." One could not yet tell why it should 
 be so called, for cornfields and orchards and houses 
 were on either side. But some few miles on, by 
 the Dragon, the headwaters of the Piankatank, 
 one came upon the bordering of the woods. Of 
 these this tale is told. 
 
 LUCY MEACHAM THRUSTON. 
 
 13?
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 I TURNED my cheek upon the hollow 
 of my arm, curved on the low window- 
 sill. The sun was swinging, round and 
 red, above the distant pines, and the golden 
 light lay on the brown, fresh-ploughed fields 
 beyond the yard and the white ribbon of the 
 lane which led out, between fields and woods, 
 to the wide country road a mile away. The 
 scent of the upturned earth and of green 
 grass, of budding leaves and newly opened 
 violets was abroad. The cherry tree, huge 
 and shadowing and ruling half the yard, 
 lifted a white cloud of bloom into the soft 
 spring air; the buzzing of the bees about 
 the scented blossomings was a part of the 
 rhythm of low winds and bending grasses 
 and tossing branches. I drew a long, ecstatic 
 breath. The spring-tide was in my heart as 
 well as in the world. The cotton gown, 
 i i
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 fresh and dainty, which I wore, was the 
 blossoming in which I had clothed myself, 
 as the cherry put on its white petals ; and I 
 was as dreamful as the day when I thought 
 of Robert, of his pleasure at this gay dress 
 with which I would astonish him when he 
 came home. But how late he was ! 
 
 I got up restlessly from the chair and 
 wandered to the door. Daddy was coming 
 from the fields, the plough rope hanging 
 loosely about his neck, the share scraping 
 along the road, and the tired mule plodding 
 with drooping head. Through the back 
 door of the hall, wide-open likewise, I could 
 see Dick driving the cows into the milking- 
 lot. It was very late, Robert must be com- 
 ing; I would go and meet him. 
 
 I took down my sunbonnet; my knitted 
 mitts hung beside it, but after a second's 
 pause I put both back on the pegs and hur- 
 ried out. The sun was too low to burn even 
 a tender skin, and the touch of the wind on 
 neck and cheek was a joy. 
 
 The rose-bush by the single low step was 
 thick with odorous leaf-buds, jonquils shone 
 
 2
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 in their long leaves by the pathway, the 
 dandelions were set like gold in the lush 
 grass. 
 
 In the road I met Daddy. " Well, Daddy," 
 I began, intending some trivial talk ; but he 
 cut me short. 
 
 " Lawd, Miss Lucy, what is you doin' 
 'dout yo' sunbonnet ? fus' thing you know, 
 you '11 be all freckled up same lak a tukky- 
 aig." 
 
 Now this tender skin of mine was a sore 
 point to me. Left to myself, bonnet and 
 gloves would be forever discarded ; but the 
 whole household from Robert down, through 
 Daddy and Mammy to Dick, was a house- 
 hold guard for beauty. I was never allowed 
 to forget. 
 
 " What Marse Robert say now ? " queried 
 Daddy, as he rested his plough-point for a 
 moment and jerked at the reins. " Whoa 
 dyar ! you 's in a pow'ful hurry ! if you jes 
 had showed a little o' dis disposition long 
 'bout fo' 'clock you 'd a' finished dat fiel'. 
 What Marse Robert gwine say ? " he re- 
 peated to me. 
 
 3
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Nothing," said I, shortly. " I don't need 
 anything on my head ; it 's near sunset now. 
 I wonder what keeps Robert ! " 
 
 u I dunno, chile, 't ain't nuthin' to worry 
 'bout. Ain't you gwine back now ? " 
 " No ; maybe I '11 meet him." 
 " Bettah not go beyon' de woods." 
 The restless mule was hurrying on to 
 stable and his supper ; Daddy followed per- 
 force; I loitered on down the road. Every 
 moment I thought I should see Robert rid- 
 ing out of the dusky woods and waving his 
 hand gayly at sight of me. I went on and 
 on with slow footsteps. I would not turn 
 back now; the house was far behind me; 
 the breadth of brown, ploughed land on either 
 side grew less and less, and the gloom of the 
 pines, the sound of their soft sighing was 
 nearer and nearer. Here the ploughing 
 ceased, and a strip of land, yellow with thin 
 sedge and set with saplings, made a border 
 land between field and forest. The saplings 
 were tipped with the pink or green tassels 
 of new growth, the resinous smell of them 
 was strong in the air; before me the pines 
 
 4
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 loomed dark and sombre in the waning 
 light. Should I venture on ? 
 
 I stood listening, when I heard the blessed 
 click and slam of the upper gate, and then 
 the rhythmic sound of hoof-beats. I knew 
 Lady's trot as I knew Robert's footsteps ; in 
 a moment they would be in sight, out of the 
 forest. 
 
 I stood, laughter dimpling my face, and 
 then in a flash crouched out of sight behind 
 a well-rounded sapling by the roadside. Peer- 
 ing eagerly through the green needles, my 
 eyes looked straight into two black, unwink- 
 ing ones ; a song-sparrow, flattened on her 
 nest, kept anxious guard ; I smiled into the 
 tiny, frightened eyes, but whether I gave her 
 courage I know not, for out of the woods 
 rode Robert, and I swooped out and at him. 
 Lady swerved, but he sat true, and when I 
 looked for hearty laughter I won only a 
 smile. 
 
 " Robert, you are so late ! " I cried. 
 
 " Want a ride ? " he called. 
 
 " Of course." The laughter came back to 
 my lips. 
 
 5
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Jump up ! " He stiffened his foot in the 
 stirrup and leaned down. I reached for his 
 hand and, touching his foot for a second, 
 sprang up on the horse before him, where 
 I cuddled close as Lady walked sedately 
 homeward. 
 
 " Any letters ? " I asked. 
 
 " One." 
 
 " Where is it ? " 
 
 " In my coat pocket, just under your head ; 
 here, wait ! " 
 
 " Oh ! it 's from Emily." I tore open the 
 envelope hastily. " What a long one ! " as I 
 saw the crossed and recrossed pages. " I 
 shall have to read it after a while ; and here 
 is the song she promised me. We will sing 
 it after supper. Take the letter, I can't read 
 it now." I folded it up in some sort of 
 fashion and thrust it back in Robert's 
 pocket. 
 
 " Any news ? " I asked, but he made me 
 no answer. 
 
 Lady, carrying her double load, went 
 slowly. The sun was out of sight behind 
 us, but the mellow light flooded woods and
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 fields and home. Leaning against Robert, 
 looking toward it, I knew how dear it was, 
 how dear he was. 
 
 " There 's a great freckle on your nose," 
 said Robert irrelevantly. 
 
 " Nonsense ! " 
 
 " It has come there since I left." 
 
 " The idea ! " 
 
 Robert laughed as he leaned and kissed 
 me between the eyes. Then he noticed my 
 new gown. " Why, what is this? " he began, 
 and I made indignant protest against his not 
 observing it the instant we met. But the 
 quarrel was not severe. When he lifted me 
 from the horse at the gate, I refused to be 
 dismissed and followed along the road which 
 curved by the yard, past the garden, to the 
 stables. My own fingers slipped Lady's 
 bridle while Robert unfastened her saddle- 
 girth, and in the corn-house I piled my arms 
 with the yellow ears for her manger. I 
 talked to her as I put them before her, her 
 great eyes watching me as I moved about. 
 
 " Has she been led to water? " I asked. 
 
 " I let her drink at the swamp." 
 7
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Then good-night," I called to her gayly 
 from the stable door. " Come on, Robert." 
 
 " Don't wait for me ; I '11 be there soon." 
 
 " But supper is ready, I know." 
 
 " All right," he answered absent-mindedly, 
 as I went singing along the way to the 
 house. I saw Mammy watching from the 
 kitchen door, and I saw Dick by her side 
 waiting to bring in the supper. They 
 turned away when I was near the yard gate, 
 but I hastened, my lips pressed tightly 
 upon the laughter bubbling within. Inside 
 the gate I began to run; I was afraid I 
 should be too late. I raced around the 
 house, and stood closely pressed in the 
 chimney corner by which Dick would come 
 with his dishes. I heard the patter of his 
 bare feet on the hard-beaten path. As I 
 peeped out at him, he was eying the plate 
 of biscuits in his hands ; he shifted it to one 
 hand, pounced on a brown biscuit, and, quick 
 as a flash, shut his big mouth on it. I gave 
 a hollow groan from my corner. 
 
 "Oh, Gawd! Gawd A 'mighty ! " his 
 screech rang out all over the place. 
 
 8
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " You, Dick ! " Mammy called from the 
 kitchen, "what's de mattah 'long you?" 
 Her heavy footsteps hurried toward us as 
 Dick stood helpless and agape. " What ! 
 whar 's dem biscuits ? 'Fo' de Lawd ! " as 
 Dick pointed with shaking fingers to the 
 empty plate and the bread scattered in 
 the path. " Ise gwine lambaste you well. 
 Ghos' ! ghos' ! I lay you '11 see wuss dan 
 dat befo' I gits through wid you. What ! " 
 Mammy herself recoiled at sight of the 
 huddled white figure at the chimney's side 
 where I was doubled up almost crying with 
 delight. " Miss Lucy ! " she quavered, and 
 then she comprehended. 
 
 " I jes promised dat boy a good whuppin'," 
 she declared indignantly, " but I don't mean 
 to totch him. 'T is yo' own fault, an' if 
 you has to eat cohn-bread fer supper, you 
 eats it." 
 
 I was sobered. " Mammy," I asked anx- 
 iously, " are n't there any more biscuits ? 
 Robert never will touch corn-bread." 
 
 " Dyar 's jes a few in de skillet, an' Marse 
 Robert 's gwine hab dem sho." 
 
 9
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " That 's all right ; Dick, come here ! " 
 He had stolen up behind Mammy, and stood 
 hanging his head sheepishly and digging his 
 bare toes into the earth. " You can eat 
 them all." I gave him a comprehending 
 glance, but if his black skin could have 
 shown a blush it would not His face was 
 one huge grin. 
 
 " La, Miss Lucy," Mammy began. 
 
 " Give them every one to him ; let him 
 have enough for once." 
 
 Dick was instantly on all fours, gathering 
 up the brown biscuits lovingly, and blowing 
 the dust from them. 
 
 " Miss Lucy," began Mammy again, and 
 then she must have concluded I was hope- 
 less. " Ain't you nebbah gwine grow up ? " 
 she demanded as if in despair. " Hyar you 's 
 been married five months, an' I 'clare to 
 goodness I don't see no change in you at all." 
 
 " Why should you ? " I asked carelessly, as 
 I skipped out of the corner and on the green 
 grass. I whirled my stiff, billowy skirts, sank 
 into a " cheese " courtesy, and bobbed up 
 again. "Why should you?" 
 
 10
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 But the wrath had died out of Mammy's 
 face. " Lawd bless you, chile," she said 
 softly, "may you allus feel jes as happy 
 as you looks now. De Lawd knows I 
 hopes it." 
 
 ii
 
 II 
 
 WHEN I looked at Dick that night 
 waiting solemnly on the supper 
 table my mouth twitched; when 
 he caught my eye, were he near Robert's 
 chair, where he persisted in standing in- 
 stead of in his proper place behind me, he 
 grinned from ear to ear. 
 
 As for Robert he ate his supper in un- 
 wonted silence. Dick passed him the bis- 
 cuits assiduously; he never once placed 
 them in reach of my fingers, but what cared 
 I? Batter-bread and broiled ham and ome- 
 let were enough for me. I ate a hearty meal 
 and went with joyous heart and light step 
 across the hall, into the chamber, where a 
 small fire was kindled on the hearth. 
 
 I brought out the candle-stand flattened 
 against the wall, straightened the top, but- 
 toned it securely in place, and put the lighted 
 candle upon it. From the closet I got an 
 
 12
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 armful of fleecy cotton and the carders, and 
 sat down in my low chair by the hearth with 
 the white drift at my feet. I was proud of 
 my industry and vowed that on the morrow 
 I would spin the cotton I was carding. The 
 pine logs snapped cheerily ; the light of them 
 flickered and flamed on the bright andirons, 
 the fender, the braided rug, and the floor 
 scrubbed to shining whiteness. Robert, in 
 his big arm-chair, smoked and watched the 
 flames with absorbed, thoughtful face. I 
 looked at him as I worked swiftly, chattering 
 lightly while I did so of all the small happen- 
 ings of the day. The drift of cotton grew at 
 one side of me, the heap at the other was 
 less and less ; finally it was all done. I gath- 
 ered it up in my arms and carried it to the 
 spinning-wheel which stood in the hall and 
 piled it carefully on the wheel's bench. As 
 I went to and fro I hummed the tune of a 
 song I had lately learned, and suddenly 
 it reminded me of the letter I had quite 
 forgotten. 
 
 "Oh, Robert!" I cried, "the words of 
 'Lorena' are in that letter; let's try it." 
 
 13
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 I picked up my flutina from the bureau 
 and began playing the tune. 
 
 " Read me the words." But Robert handed 
 them to me. 
 
 The first verse I already knew. 
 
 " The years creep slowly by, Lorena " 
 
 I was in my flag chair before the fire, on 
 the candle-stand was spread the sheet of 
 foolscap with the fine trailing writing across 
 it; my flutina was on my knee, and to its 
 accompaniment I sang: 
 
 " The years creep slowly by, Lorena, 
 The snow is on the grass again, 
 The sun 's low down the sky, Lorena, 
 The frost gleams where the flowers have been; 
 But the heart throbs on as wildly now 
 As when the summer days were nigh ; 
 Oh ! the sun can never dip so low 
 Adown affection's cloudless sky." 
 
 " Why don't you sing, Robert? " 
 
 " I ? " as if his thoughts were miles away, 
 
 " I, oh, I 'm a little hoarse ; sing on, I 'm 
 
 listening." 
 
 Robert's bass and Emily's alto and my 
 
 soprano made a trio not to be despised. 
 
 Many an hour we had spent in singing song
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 after song; I was a little put out that he 
 showed so little enthusiasm over this one. 
 I wanted to learn it at once, so that when 
 Emily came for her long promised visit we 
 might know this new tune also. So I sang 
 on, entranced with my own melody, pausing 
 now and then, with long-drawn notes upon 
 the flutina, to read some indistinct writing 
 beneath the candle-light. 
 
 The words were pathetic, the tune plain- 
 tive ; perhaps my happy heart made the con- 
 trast bewitching. At any rate, I sang on 
 through all the eight verses to the last: 
 
 " It matters little now, Lorena, 
 The past is in the eternal past. 
 Our heads will soon lie low, Lorena, 
 Life's tide is ebbing out so fast. 
 There is a future, oh ! thank God, 
 Of life this is so small a part ; 
 'T is dust to dust beneath the sod, 
 But there, up there 'tis heart to heart." 
 
 The sadness of the words seized me, and I 
 could not have sung another note. I put 
 the flutina back upon the bureau and stole 
 out into the hall. A glance backward 
 showed me Robert, slipped down in his 
 
 15
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 chair, his elbow on the wide arm of it, his 
 chin resting on his hand; the other hand 
 hung nervelessly, the fingers closed upon 
 the reed stem of his smouldering pipe. Of 
 what was he thinking so intently? 
 
 In the wide outer doorway I paused. 
 Stars were thick in the sky, the air was 
 scented with cherry blossoms, and from 
 the distant swamp came the croaking of 
 frogs. 
 
 The dear God alone knows what the 
 world He made has always been to me. 
 There is companionship in its voices, 
 strength in its beauty, healing in its silences. 
 I loitered down the pathway to the gate, 
 and, with arms folded upon it, gazed out at 
 the long stretch of fields, black in the star- 
 light, toward the far-off blacker forest rim- 
 ming them. I came back around the house. 
 From the door of Mammy's cabin streamed 
 a square of light, 'Mammy's uncouth figure 
 swaying in the midst of it. I caught up my 
 full skirts to keep them from sweeping the 
 dew from the grass by the narrow path and 
 ran down that way. 
 
 16
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " La, Miss Lucy," was my greeting, " why 
 don't you walk ? whenebbah you starts, you 
 goes lak a whirl win'." 
 
 " What are you doing, Mammy ? " I asked, 
 ignoring her rebuke. 
 
 " Ise jes wroppin' up dese chickens fer de 
 night. Dat ole yaller hen is a-hatchin', an' 
 she 's doin' it lak she does eberything eben 
 to hatchin' her aigs, pow 'ful slow an' scat- 
 terin' lak. Ise got to tek cyar o' dese till 
 she gits de res' out." 
 
 " Oh, the beauties ! " I cried, as I slipped 
 down on the door-sill by Mammy's side. 
 Why did n't you tell me they were out ? " 
 
 "Hm! you had sumpin' else to think er- 
 bout, puttin' on yo' new frock an' prinkin' 
 up fer Marse Robert. You 's gwine ruin 
 it now, chile, sho." 
 
 I turned the light skirt up over my knees. 
 " No, indeed ; give me the basket ! " 
 
 "What's de use? dey's kivered up nice 
 an' warm fer de night." 
 
 " Mammy," I answered impressively, " they 
 are my very own chickens, the third brood 
 that 's been hatched out at my own home." 
 
 2 17 -
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 "Yo* own home! ain't yo' pa's home 
 your 'n ? I 'd like to know dat ! " 
 
 Father's house was a stately one. I sus- 
 pect the loving-hearted darky who had been 
 transferred along with me, from that house 
 to this, thought a home in the backwoods 
 far too simple for her master's only child. 
 
 The thought lent asperity to my tone. 
 "No, that's his; this is mine!" 
 
 " Hi-yi ! " she chuckled, " guess Marse 
 Robert say 'tis his." 
 
 "What's his is mine." I reached an 
 eager hand for the basket. 
 
 " Guess Marse Willum's is too," she 
 declared jealously. 
 
 The controversy had gone far enough. I 
 lifted the ragged and torn bits of quilt from 
 the sleeping down-balls. " Eight ! Two 
 yellow ones, four speckled, one black oh ! 
 look at this! as white as white as snow." 
 I took it in my hand and curved my other 
 palm over it softly and lightly. The chick, 
 with a murmuring " peep " of delight, lay 
 close. "Oh, the dear!" 
 
 " Dyar ! I nebbah did see nuthin' lak you 
 18
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 fer pettin' things in all my life. Put it 
 away, an' de res' too. Ise gwine set de 
 basket in a warm cornah by de hearth. 
 Dick!" 
 
 The boy came out from the shadows of 
 the room ; I had not known he was there. 
 In the light he showed a black face be- 
 smeared with crumbs. " You rascal," I 
 cried, " come out here and dance. Come 
 on ! " I added as he stood grinning with 
 indecision. 
 
 Dick, with apologetic air, squeezed be- 
 tween Mammy and the jamb of the door and 
 stood before me, hitching up his trousers 
 by the single gallister across his shoulders. 
 
 " Come ! " I commanded as I leaned for- 
 ward and began clapping my hands. " Step 
 out there ! Pshaw, dance lively now ! " 
 
 Bending over and beating my palms in 
 time, I began a rhythmic chant: 
 
 " Ole black cat sittin' in de cornah ; 
 Missis beat him wid de broom, 
 He jump on de mantel-piece, 
 Spill all de candle grease 
 Walk in, sah, I '11 be your friend, 
 Long road to travel, not a picayune to spend." 
 
 19
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 Patter, patter, the bare feet danced in time, 
 the lithe body swayed. 
 
 "What's Marse Robert doin' ?" Mammy 
 interrupted. 
 
 " ' Sittin' in de cornah,' " I chanted saucily. 
 
 " Bettah go 'long talk to him stid o' sittin' 
 hyar." 
 
 " I think so too ; good-night, sleep tight." 
 
 From the path I called, " I want some 
 biscuit for breakfast, Dick." 
 
 Robert sat just as I had left him. If he 
 had moved, there was nothing to show 
 it. " Don't you want to hear Emily's let- 
 ter ? " I asked for the sake of breaking the 
 silence. 
 
 " Why, yes ! " He roused himself as if 
 from a long revery. 
 
 I picked up the envelope and looked at 
 the superscription, " Mrs. Robert Aylett." 
 The name was yet new enough to rouse a 
 thrill whenever my eyes fell upon it, and I 
 smiled as I opened the closely written sheets 
 and began with the very date, April 5, 1861. 
 There was little in it, and yet it was much 
 to me. She told me how much she missed 
 
 20
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 me, Emily had been my nearest neighbor 
 at my father's home, that my father looked 
 lonely and the house deserted without me, 
 which pleased my vanity mightily. Also, 
 what I already knew, that father was in 
 Richmond ; and then such delightful non- 
 sense as a sentence or two on the warm 
 and early spring ; that she hoped the weather 
 would permit her wearing her new white 
 dress to church the first Sunday in May. 
 It was already made, had nine widths in 
 the skirt, and was put to the bodice with 
 a bias piping ; she had had her leghorn 
 bonnet retrimmed with white roses and blue 
 ribbons and wide strings to tie under her 
 chin ; did I not think she would look sweet ? 
 Here were the words of the song she had 
 promised me ; and she was coming soon to 
 pay me a visit; Robert and I must learn the 
 verses so that we could sing them together 
 when she came; and here the scribbling 
 ended. 
 
 It was all charming to me; but when I 
 finished and looked up for Robert's laughing 
 praise, he had fallen into the same absorbed 
 
 21
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 quiet. " Why," I cried indignantly, " I don't 
 believe you even heard it ! " 
 
 "Oh, yes; I did." 
 
 " You can't tell me a word she said." 
 
 " She wrote that she had a new dress," he 
 blundered. 
 
 " Robert ! " I pushed his arm from the wide 
 arm of the chair and perched myself there. 
 " What is the matter ? " As he was silent, 
 I put my hand on his thick, curling, red 
 hair and pushed his head back so that I 
 could look into his brown eyes. They were 
 solemn and serious and looked back at me 
 with a gleam of questioning and of pity in 
 their dark depths, and his clean-shaven lips 
 were set and firm. 
 
 " Robert," I begged in affright, " what is 
 it?" 
 
 He slipped his arm about me and pulled 
 me to his knee. " Lucy, the news came 
 to The Ordinary (our post-office) to-day. 
 Virginia had seceded ! " 
 
 " Seceded ! " I thrilled for a second, but 
 for a second only, with a dread of something 
 awesome, I knew not what. It meant so 
 
 22
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 little to me then ; whatever Virginia did was 
 right, whatever she strove to do would be 
 done, it was the faith in which I had been 
 bred, and my head was against Robert's 
 shoulder.
 
 Ill 
 
 IF Robert were restless that night, I slept 
 soundly ; when I awakened, Dick was 
 sitting on his heels before the hearth, 
 watching the flames racing up the chimney. 
 There was a chorus of bird-songs from the 
 cherry tree, the prisoned fowls were crowing 
 and cackling in the locked hen-house, and 
 the cows were lowing in the milking-lot. I 
 lay still, listening to the familiar sounds, my 
 hand stolen where it could feel Robert's 
 deep breathing as he slept. 
 
 " I done brought yo' watah," said Dick, as 
 soon as he heard a stir from the bed. 
 
 I lifted a warning finger from the covers 
 and he tiptoed away. I, too, tiptoed, as I 
 stole about my toilet. Robert's sleep was 
 too deep and peaceful to disturb, but I had 
 to hurry if I were to see the sun rise above 
 the pines behind the house. 
 
 The touch of the cold spring-water set me 
 wide-awake and tingling to the finger tips. 
 24
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 I slipped into my numerous skirts and swung 
 the glass between its round posts in the 
 mahogany bureau so that I could see to 
 brush my wilful hair, which, despite all its 
 smoothings low about my ears and its close 
 coiling at my neck, would crinkle and curl 
 and show disorderly before the last pin was 
 in it. 
 
 With uplifted hands I was twisting the 
 heavy mass into primness, when I heard a 
 stifled yawn and a sleepy " Lucy ! " 
 
 I pretended I had heard no sound, but the 
 dimples in my cheeks, which the looking- 
 glass reflected for him as well as for me, and 
 my lips a-quiver with suppressed merriment 
 belied me ; in a second I heard another and 
 more decided " Lucy ! " 
 
 My toilet was finished ; I whirled in mock 
 amazement. " Well, you are a lazy-bones ! " 
 
 Robert smiled back at me. " Come here ! " 
 he commanded. 
 
 I walked over as if in slow reluctance. 
 When he could reach me, he drew my head 
 down to his breast, where I could feel his 
 heart beat and held me so a second silently. 
 
 25
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 Then, " Gracious ! " I cried, " you '11 get my 
 hair all mussed up ! " and I sprang away. 
 " You are as lazy as can be," I accused from 
 the doorway. 
 
 The hall doors were open, as they had 
 been all night; the red sun came swinging 
 up above the solemn pines ; the wheat field, 
 the pasture, and the fringe of growth about its 
 gurgling streams showed tender green ; the 
 grass was heavy with sparkling dew. It was 
 but the beginning of another such happy day 
 as I had known months of so I thought. 
 
 I was off with Robert to the barn as soon 
 as breakfast was done ; I rode Lady to water, 
 Robert walking by my side ; and when Robert 
 had gone to work in the fresh-ploughed land, 
 when he had started, hoe upon shoulder, to 
 plant corn, I still lingered about the fringes 
 of the field ; it was such fun to hear Daddy 
 protesting against Robert's city-bred igno- 
 rance. But their work took them further and 
 further away, the soil was too heavy for even 
 me to venture over, I had no top boots and 
 too many skirts ; so I left them reluctantly. 
 
 At least I could watch them. I pulled 
 26
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 my wheel out into the hall. The wind was 
 so soft and light it scarcely rippled my thread 
 as I started the cotton on the spindle and 
 set the wheel a-humming. As I stood, and 
 the whirling of the wheel made soft music, 
 and the thread lengthened under my hands, 
 I could see the bees buzzing about the 
 cherry blossoms and hear a mocking-bird 
 trilling, and an anxious hen clucking to her 
 young brood. I looked out at yard and 
 fields and the far-off figures wistfully, lazy 
 loitering was so enticing; but that morn- 
 ing's spinning was the last I needed, to have 
 thread enough to carry to Miss Nancy, our 
 neighbor far back through the pines, who 
 was the most skilful weaver in the county. 
 Her help was rarely to be had, and by favor 
 only ; but she had promised that, if I would 
 bring her thread of my own spinning, she 
 would weave it into cloth, fine and smooth 
 and even, as all her work must be, for 
 Robert's shirts. When I should have cut 
 them out, tucked and felled and fashioned 
 them with my own stitches, how proud I 
 would be! So I worked on. 
 
 27
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 The sunlight streamed upon the low, 
 broad sill of the door, came creeping along 
 the hall, stole close to my feet ; a pungent 
 smell floated from the kitchen chimney, and 
 I knew that Mammy had freshened the fire 
 for cooking dinner, that pots were being 
 swung across the wide hearth, and skillets 
 were being put in readiness. 
 
 Two broaches of thread were wound upon 
 the corn-cobs, and the third was growing 
 rapidly ; the wheel hummed faster and faster. 
 My work was more and more absorbing, 
 the fascination of the outside world grew 
 less ; my back had been turned to the lane, 
 but stooping to pick up the broach which 
 had rolled from my hand, I faced that way 
 and saw a horseman riding down the road. 
 He spied Robert in the field and pulled up 
 to wait for him. It was Henry Latham, and 
 I called to Mammy to warn her of a guest 
 to dinner, but she did not hear. I pushed 
 my wheel back against the wall, gathered 
 up my cotton and thread, put them in the 
 closet, and, shaking the soft, white, cling- 
 ing stuff from my skirts, hurried out to the 
 
 28
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 kitchen. As I did so I saw the men coming 
 slowly houseward, Henry riding sidewise so 
 that he could face Robert, who walked with 
 his hand upon the horse's mane. They 
 were talking earnestly. 
 
 " Mr. Latham has come," I told Mammy 
 at the kitchen door ; " he is going to stay to 
 dinner, I know. They are going around to 
 the stable now. You had better get out 
 some preserves, and that pound cake which 
 has just been cut into." 
 
 We spent some time in housekeeping talk ; 
 still, when I went back to the house I thought 
 the men were yet at the barn. My foot- 
 steps, light and quick, made little sound on 
 the path, but before I put foot on the step I 
 heard a low but distinct voice from the cham- 
 ber. It was Henry's, and the words he said 
 left me trembling in a heap on the door-sill. 
 
 " I tell you, Robert," the voice was 
 cruelly insistent, "you must enlist." 
 
 " I cannot." The answer was short and 
 curt. 
 
 Enlist ! Robert enlist ! How had Henry 
 dared to name it ? 
 
 29
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " You must." 
 
 "Must?" 
 
 " Or be judged you know how." 
 
 " I am afraid of no one's opinions." 
 
 " That is easy to say, but you can imagine 
 what it would mean to live here and run 
 counter to everything the people think right, 
 and your wife " 
 
 " God, man ! don't you know it is for her 
 sake that I am not going ? " 
 
 " You mean you will go for her sake." 
 
 " I mean what I said." 
 
 " She could be left with her father." 
 
 " I shall take care of her in her own home." 
 
 " Pshaw ! your theories are too fine-spun ; 
 they savor of " 
 
 " What ? " I had not dreamed there was 
 any such tone of fierceness in Robert's voice. 
 
 " Ah, well ! of cold-bloodedness, say." 
 
 " As you please." 
 
 This verged too close upon a quarrel. 
 Henry was Robert's staunch friend; they 
 must not be allowed to disagree, though, for 
 a second, I hated Henry Latham with all my 
 heart. I half rose to go in, when Robert's 
 
 30
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 voice sent me to my seat again. I had no 
 thought of eaves-dropping, but this was too 
 vital ; I must hear. 
 
 What Robert had said was, " A man never 
 knows how far back to go for his motives. 
 You have heard of my father ? " 
 
 Henry doubtless made some gesture of 
 assent ; his voice was not heard. For me, I 
 bit my lip ; I had heard of his father, and 
 heard nothing to his credit. The very 
 knowledge I had of Robert's childhood 
 made me but love him more. Young and 
 childish as I was, I felt some queer convic- 
 tion that I must make up for mother and 
 father, sister and brother, be sweetheart and 
 wife if ever there were a possibility of all 
 these loves in one to my lonely hearted 
 husband ; or, rather, that I must love him 
 enough, make the atmosphere of affection 
 about him strong enough, to make up for 
 the early lack of it that he had known. 
 
 " You know," went on Robert, speaking 
 very calmly and clearly, " that he spent all 
 of his own fortune and my mother's too, 
 when once they had moved to New York.
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 I knew nothing but luxury until he died. 
 My mother had died four years before. 
 When I began to learn something of our 
 affairs I found well, I paid the debts, and 
 I had not one thousand dollars left. I knew 
 nothing really of New York. We lived 
 there, mother and I, apart from it. When 
 she died it was the same, so far as my keep- 
 ing to myself was concerned. As for my 
 father's friends they were not the sort 
 either she or I cared for." 
 
 In all the time I had known Robert I had 
 not heard this much. 
 
 " I had some friends, not intimate, you 
 know, but friends, after a sort; boys I had 
 known at school." 
 
 He paused as if he sought for words to 
 tell the tale the better. 
 
 " When I began to face what I should do, 
 I had but one thought, home ! That was 
 what we always called it, mother and I, 
 what we called Virginia. In all her long ill- 
 ness she talked of it. She begged my father 
 to bring her dead body back, to bury her, 
 at least, under the old locust trees of I 
 
 32
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 can't talk of it yet. She is buried in New 
 York, a city cemetery. Some day I shall 
 bring her here. 
 
 " When I came home, if state and soil can 
 make a home, I bought this place cheap, 
 because it is in the backwoods ; the few hun- 
 dreds I had left went to make a payment, to 
 buy stock, and to furnish the house for a 
 bachelor's home." 
 
 " You did n't stay a bachelor long." Henry 
 spoke lightly, yet with a break in his voice, 
 as men will do when they try to cover their 
 emotions with commonplace speech. 
 
 " No ; perhaps I was not wise " 
 
 I sat bolt upright, the heat of indignation 
 flushing me. 
 
 " Perhaps I was not wise, as fortunes go, 
 but is it not wise Man, I have known 
 what it is to be happy, HAPPY. Do you 
 know it ? " 
 
 "No!" 
 
 Indeed ; not happy ? I should tell Emily, 
 then 
 
 I heard a chair push back and Robert's 
 step as he moved about the room restlessly. 
 3 33
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Happy," he went on, " happy as I have 
 never dreamed." 
 
 There was a long silence, but I had no 
 intention of moving now. When Robert 
 spoke again his voice was clear and distinct. 
 " Perhaps you don't know that I am deeply 
 in debt." 
 
 " You have married the daughter of a 
 wealthy man ? " 
 
 " And never touched a dollar of his 
 money, nor will I ; he would not so insult 
 me." 
 
 " Some men would not call it that," Henry 
 chuckled. 
 
 " He knows what I think," declared Robert, 
 stoutly. " Last year the crops were good ; 
 still, the payment I could make was small, a 
 little over the interest." 
 
 " Spent your money in getting mar- 
 ried ? " 
 
 " Spent it," said Robert, with a low laugh, 
 " to buy Paradise." 
 
 How I loved him for it ! I clenched my 
 hands about my knees, hugging them and 
 holding myself still. The desire was so 
 
 34
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 strong to run to him and kiss him for that 
 speech but there was Henry. 
 
 " If crops are good this year, and things 
 promise well, so far, the wheat is thick 
 and flourishing, with reasonable luck " 
 
 But some sense of propriety had come to 
 me at last. I got up and stole away with 
 tender love and pity in my heart for Robert, 
 but wrath for Henry. To dare to come and 
 insist that Robert should enlist, and for 
 what? I was too great a home body to 
 know much of the country talk, but what I 
 had heard, did it not belittle this trouble? 
 There might be some battles fought, it 
 was acknowledged, but few and soon ended ; 
 then let those who wished fight them. 
 
 I met Henry somewhat stiffly at the dinner 
 table, but he was gracelessly at ease, and as 
 blithe as if he had not come to my home 
 with treachery in his heart; he was even 
 barefaced enough to cloak his purpose with 
 an invitation. 
 
 " The county militia is ordered to Rich- 
 mond," he announced ; " the ladies will give 
 them a ball at the tavern. They sent a 
 
 35
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 message to The Ordinary this morning to 
 pass the word ; but I am a lazy fellow, I 
 came only to tell you. Jack Martin has 
 carried the news up the country." 
 
 " I do not care to go," I declared curtly. 
 
 " Why, Lucy ! " Robert began. 
 
 But Henry went on. " The ladies are 
 asked to furnish supper. If you would save 
 this cake now, and if Maria has a ham, 
 cooked as she knows how, and you would be 
 so good as to spare some of your brandied 
 peaches and pickles, they would be so 
 glad." 
 
 I laughed at his assurance, but I was mol- 
 lified, and answered with the eagerness of a 
 young housekeeper anxious to give her best : 
 
 " I will pack them up in a basket and you 
 can carry them." 
 
 " I am going on horseback." 
 
 " Oh, well ! " I stammered in disappoint- 
 ment. 
 
 " Lucy, we can go, of course." Robert 
 decided the matter. 
 
 Mammy was delighted to be called upon 
 to cook for a festivity; perhaps I, too, was 
 
 36
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 pleased. Certainly it was a pleasure to pack 
 the well-cooked ham and fluffy biscuits, still 
 hot, the cake, preserves, and pickles into 
 a hamper which just fitted into the box 
 behind the buggy's seat; nor was it hard 
 to don my green silk plaided with black 
 lines, to fasten my low lace-collar with the 
 cameo Robert gave me as a wedding gift, to 
 tie the white strings of my bonnet beneath 
 my chin, and to peep shyly at the wreath of 
 tiny orange blossoms fastened where they 
 touched the hair and so bespoke the bride, 
 to drape my white crepe shawl about my 
 shoulders while Robert called impatiently 
 from the buggy, waiting before the gate. 
 
 It was delightful to go spinning down the 
 lane, while daylight still showed the way, 
 behind Lady, who was in fine fettle ; but 
 not two miles from home my discomfiture 
 began. 
 
 Henry met us where the road forked, and 
 called out to us the news of a new regiment. 
 We overtook Jack Martin, who turned in his 
 seat to holloa, " I enlisted to-day." 
 
 " So did Sam Rowen," called Henry. 
 37
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " And Lem Beatly and Joe Dudley." The 
 names flew back and forth like shuttlecocks ; 
 I listened in dismay, while half of the young 
 men of the neighborhood were mentioned. 
 
 Jack put his hand on his horse's back and 
 turned to face us as he rattled off the list ; 
 and he and Henry called the news in wild 
 enthusiasm, while Robert and I sat silent. 
 
 When the carriage from Oakleigh drove 
 out, as we neared the Dragon, the young 
 women in it were as enthusiastic as the men. 
 The cavalcade grew. We crossed the bridge 
 over the dark, swift stream of the Dragon, 
 and the trees bordering it, or standing to 
 their knees in the swirl of its waters, shut 
 out the last lingering daylight. When we 
 drove slowly up the heavy hill beyond, a 
 pale star shone in the sky. 
 
 As we toiled through the heavy sand, 
 Robert and I alone of all that gay crowd 
 were quiet. He looked anxious and thought- 
 ful when I stole a glance at him ; and my 
 heart grew colder and colder, and heavier 
 and heavier within me. I was beginning to 
 understand the meaning of the few words he 
 
 38
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 had said to me so solemnly the night before ; 
 but to understand them dimly. 
 
 From doors and .windows the lights of the 
 tavern flashed out into the dusk, and the 
 huge sign fastened to the pole at the gate- 
 way creaked dismally to and fro in the even- 
 ing wind as we drove in. The front yard 
 was filled with carriages and horses ; groups 
 of men between them had drawn close 
 together for eager talk ; the steps were 
 thronged; and beyond the clustering men 
 we could see the flitting forms of white- 
 gowned women. Robert had to drive around 
 behind the house, and when he had lifted 
 me from the buggy, I slipped into the side 
 door. The wide and winding stairway came 
 down into the central hall on which it 
 opened ; and descending it slowly, her hand 
 on the rail, her full skirts rustling about her, 
 her head tilted high, and her eager eyes 
 scanning those whom she could watch in the 
 outer hall, was Emily. I gave a cry of joy, 
 and she ran down to me. 
 
 " How did you get here ? " was my first 
 question. 
 
 39
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Father had to come over yesterday, and 
 I came along. I am at my aunt's. Oh, I 
 am so glad I came with him ! " 
 
 " I am, too," I chorused ecstatically. "Who 
 is here ? " 
 
 " Everybody ! " Then a little curiously and 
 slowly, " Who is here from around The Or- 
 dinary ? " 
 
 " The Oakleigh carriage came along with 
 us, and Jack Martin and Henry Latham," 
 purposely putting this name last, and pinch- 
 ing her bare arm to emphasize it. She held 
 herself rigid and unresponsive ; and though 
 I scarcely noticed it then, I remembered it 
 afterwards. The clatter of dishes and hum 
 of voices from the dining-room behind us 
 reminded me of my hamper. " I must find 
 some one to bring in my things." 
 
 "Oh, you should see the tables! Come 
 on!" 
 
 " Not yet." 
 
 "And the dance ! Such a dance as we are 
 going to have ! Ned is here with his fiddle, 
 and come here ! " 
 
 She caught me by the arm and whirled me 
 40
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 away to a dusky corner beyond the dining- 
 room door. " See ! we are going to dance 
 on it." 
 
 " What is it ? " In the dark nothing was 
 distinguishable. 
 
 " The old flag. They hauled it down from 
 the court-house yesterday. We are going to 
 fasten it down in the middle of the floor." 
 
 " You are not going to do that ? " My 
 voice quivered with indignation. 
 
 " Indeed we are ! " She pirouetted gayly 
 on her heel. 
 
 " Why, there 's Bill ! " as a negro lad came 
 in the door. " Bill, go out to the buggy with 
 Mrs. Aylett and bring in her basket. I am 
 going to see the tables." And she danced 
 away. 
 
 " There is the buggy," I told the darkey, 
 u under the locust tree. I will be there di- 
 rectly. Go on ! " 
 
 For a second the hall was empty. I caught 
 up the folded flag, flung my shawl over it, 
 and hurried after the boy. I was only an- 
 other busy woman in that busy crowd. 
 
 " Here is the basket, in the buggy-box," I 
 41
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 commanded Bill, nervously. "You had bet- 
 ter hurry. Don't set it down on the ground ; 
 the hounds will be in it. Take it in to Miss 
 Emily." He was gone, and I lifted the box- 
 lid, shook in my bundle of bunting, shut down 
 the top firmly, and hurried after him. 
 
 Through hurry and bustle, through greet- 
 ings and eager talk, through music and 
 dancing, in spite of gay strains and graceful 
 figures, and the soft beat of light feet, it was 
 a miserable night. Miserable because of the 
 look on Robert's face ; miserable because of 
 the pain at my heart. I would not dance ; 
 my feet felt like lead. Robert had come for 
 me at first, and we had stood up opposite 
 Emily and Jack Martin, Emily looking as 
 like a white butterfly hovering over scented 
 blossoms as a girl on a dancing floor could 
 seem ; but after that Robert stood leaning 
 against the wall by my side. 
 
 Reel followed reel ; Ned never played such 
 strains; the women seemed bewitched; but 
 here and there was an anxious face. The sup- 
 per was a triumph. Couples lingered on the 
 stairway, in dark corners; but nowhere did 
 
 42
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 I see Emily and Henry together. I noticed 
 and wondered even in my dull absorption. 
 
 Somewhere about midnight the crowd 
 broke up, and we started homeward much 
 in the same way as we had come, but more 
 silently. There were songs from the Oak- 
 leigh carriage, in which the out-riders joined ; 
 but when they called for my soprano I felt 
 that a note would choke me. I shrank close 
 to Robert's side, and he slipped an arm about 
 me in the dark. 
 
 We could scarce see the Dragon's ford at 
 the first and shallower stream, nor the dusky 
 road, nor the bridge over the full current 
 beyond. A screech-owl somewhere in the 
 dense budding woods set up his shivering 
 cry, and, at the sound of wheels and splash- 
 ings, flew further into the recesses, to send 
 his wail again on the air. 
 
 The Oakleigh carriage turned off in the 
 heavy shadows, the horses took the steep 
 hill wearily; and when we came out in the 
 starlight Jack Martin was riding slouched 
 thoughtfully in his saddle, but Henry sat 
 erect, gazing straight before him. 
 
 43
 
 IV 
 
 OUR house was small, old, but yet un- 
 finished. A wide hall ran through 
 it, with a room on either side, 
 chamber and dining-room; a stairway, built 
 in the wall led to two rooms beneath the 
 sloping roof; kitchen and cabin were in the 
 yard, and that was all. 
 
 One of the attic rooms was finished and 
 furnished for "spare-room;" in the other 
 the floor was laid, the narrow window filled 
 with glass, but the sloping rafters showed 
 overhead. Some boards nailed lengthwise 
 above the floor were the only finishings on 
 the sides, and from rafter to rafter were 
 excellent storage places, strange cupboards 
 which one could lean over and rummage in ; 
 walnuts were yet left in one, bunches of gar- 
 den seed in another, and, nearest the window, 
 hanks of wool and bales of carpet-rags which 
 I had pieced together in the winter. When 
 44
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 there was enough to make a carpet for the 
 chamber floor Miss Nancy had promised the 
 weaving of that also. 
 
 There, under wool and carpet-rags, I hid 
 the flag; and there it lay forgotten. For a 
 shadow had come between me and the sun ; 
 I saw the grayness of it on Robert's face. 
 
 The jonquils died from the path border, 
 the violets under the window ran to seed, 
 the cherry tree was studded with green fruit 
 and glossy leaves, and the rose-bush by the 
 door showed pink lines along its bursting 
 buds ; but before the cherries were ripe or 
 the roses abloom the shadow had wrapped 
 me about. 
 
 I followed Robert closely those last days. 
 When he worked in the fields I lingered 
 near-by, under a tree, at the borders of the 
 wood, at some place where with hands folded 
 idly in my lap I could watch him, see him 
 when I lifted my eyelids, know that he was 
 near. I watched, with eyes that grew weary 
 of the strain, the shimmer of heat above the 
 land, the cloud shadows drifting over it, fly- 
 ing birds and flocking crows and Robert. 
 
 45
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " You will be as good a farmer as I," he 
 declared one day as we came houseward; 
 " but that is bad enough. Do you know," he 
 added with a poor attempt at laughter, " that 
 it is really 'Zekiel who does the farming 
 here? Any half-grown boy could help him 
 as well as I." I held his hand close and felt 
 the hour draw nearer. Far down in my soul, 
 where things are divined, I knew, had known 
 all along, that Robert was going to the war. 
 I knew it from his tender manner to me, 
 from the laughter which had died from his 
 lips and from our lives, from the anxious 
 look which had crept into his eyes and grew 
 there. 
 
 " Your father stays a long time in Rich- 
 mond," he said at another time. 
 
 " He may be at home for all we know ; 
 there will be a great deal to attend to 
 when he first gets back, and he will not 
 be able to leave right away." 
 
 An hour later I saw father ride out from 
 the narrow opening in the pines. His horse 
 came at full gallop despite the many miles 
 already covered ; his crutch, clasped under 
 
 46
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 his left arm, as he carried it when he rode, 
 hung by the horse's flank ; and his right 
 hand held the reins. Though he rode at 
 speed, the quick turn of his head from side 
 to side told that his keen glance took notice 
 of all to be seen ; he was out of the saddle 
 by the time I reached the gate. 
 
 " Well, Lucy, well, well ! " as he hugged 
 and kissed me and I clung to him. " Where 
 is Robert? Where is 'Zekiel? How is 
 everything getting on ? Pretty well, I see. 
 Where are Maria and that scamp, Dick ? 
 Who is going to take my horse ? " He fitted 
 his crutch under his arm and walked with 
 the alertness of a boy up the pathway to the 
 house, straight through the hall to the back 
 door. 
 
 " Maria! " he called as Mammy's delighted 
 face showed at the kitchen door, "come 
 here ! Have you been taking good care of 
 Miss Lucy ? " he questioned when she had 
 waddled up to him, seized his hand, and 
 shook it up and down. 
 
 "'Deed I is, Marse Willum; 'deed I is. 
 Jes look at her." 
 
 47
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Hm ! " said father, critically, " seems to 
 me she is sort of puny." 
 
 "Lan', Marse Willum " But then 
 Mammy stopped. None of us had yet put 
 our troubles into words; and if she had 
 made any guesses Mammy was loyal enough 
 not to name them. 
 
 " Where are your red cheeks, child ? " he 
 asked, pinching me slyly, " and your dimples ? 
 There ! " as I began to smile, " don't lose 
 them. I don't know but that Robert's heart 
 was lost there. They are pitfalls, you 
 know." 
 
 " Miss Lucy ain't laugh much dese days," 
 ventured Mammy, carefully ; " an' she don't 
 eat much neidah." 
 
 " You don't say so ! Whew ! Well, I am 
 hungry enough. Get the best supper the 
 place affords. Where 's Dick? Tell him to 
 take my horse to the stable, and bring some 
 fresh water, and go and find Robert," he 
 called from the chamber door; and having 
 taken possession of us all he sat down in the 
 easiest chair he could find and began to ask 
 a hundred questions, listening to scarce a 
 
 48
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 score of answers. By the time Robert came 
 in, my tongue was running glibly and my 
 laugh was gay and light. So father kept us 
 all the evening ; once Robert led the talk to 
 grave topics, but father shied off. 
 
 Even when supper was done and we sat 
 in the hall, Robert with his flag chair tilted 
 against the wall, I on the step, and father in 
 his rocking-chair between us smoking the 
 corn-cob pipe to which he had helped him- 
 self from Robert's store, he kept the talk to 
 such topics as he chose. 
 
 With vivid words he pictured all he had 
 seen. Though frogs called from the swamp 
 and darkness blackened all beyond the fences 
 of the yard, we walked in fancy the crowded 
 streets of Richmond ; we sat with sober- 
 faced men in the capital ; we shouldered gay 
 women and uniformed men ; we heard the 
 shouts and saw the lights of that day and 
 night when Virginia " went out." 
 
 I sat for the most part silent, dreading 
 
 some sudden word which might bring the 
 
 vital question of our hearts to light ; they 
 
 were not spoken. Only when father hobbled 
 
 4 49
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 to the door and shook the ashes from his 
 pipe he asked carelessly, " Robert, what regi- 
 ment have you joined ? " 
 
 " None ! " The answer came curt and 
 sharp from the dark corner where he sat. 
 
 " No ? " said father, lightly. " Well, good- 
 night ! Where is my candle, Lucy ? Has 
 Dick carried fresh water up to my room ? " 
 So, with pretence of fussiness, he smothered 
 all chance of discussion, took everything as a 
 matter of course, and wisely went his way. 
 
 It was the same in the morning. There 
 was question after question about the farm, 
 remark, criticism ; Robert was trying a new 
 venture, and father must hear all about it. 
 
 " Planting tobacco, are you ? Where ? 
 Out in the far field? I am going to see it." 
 He pushed back his chair from the break- 
 fast table. " Are you ready ? " 
 
 Robert gave me a look of amusement ; we 
 were used to starting our mornings more 
 slowly, with a little longer lingering over 
 our meal. 
 
 " Yes," he answered shortly. 
 
 " Come on, then. Where are you going,
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 Lucy ? " For as Robert took down his hat 
 from the peg I got my bonnet and mittens. 
 
 " Why, with you ! " I declared in surprise. 
 Of course I was going. 
 
 " Hm ! pretty kind of housekeeping. 
 Who washes your dishes ? " 
 
 " Mammy." 
 
 " Your mother attended to hers herself." 
 I had a dim fleeting vision of the big dining- 
 room, a negro boy balancing upon his head 
 a cedar noggin from which the steam slowly 
 curled, and mother, slim and stately, await- 
 ing him before a table where the china was 
 neatly piled ; of her loving touch on plate and 
 cup ; of her calm voice giving the orders for 
 the day. I was no such housekeeper. I 
 lived as I pleased, felt a fever for work one 
 day and forgot all about it on the morrow. 
 
 We took the long path past the stables, 
 across the wheat, now waving feathery stalks 
 of fresh deep-green, down a bluff, clothed 
 with sumach and sassafras and spice wood, 
 over the sparkling stream which had carved 
 its way through soft soil, and out to the far 
 field. Every stage of the farming father
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 must review; the tobacco bed, how and 
 where it had been planted; how the land 
 had been prepared ; what distance apart the 
 plants were being set, until I was tired out, 
 and so was he. In spite of his vigor the 
 hobbling over furrows had exhausted him. 
 He threw himself down to rest at the end of 
 the row where 'Zekiel had stopped planting 
 the day before. A tangle of bushes grew 
 there and one tall tree ; beyond it the land 
 fell away to a lower level. Robert stood 
 near us looking out thoughtfully over his 
 work, and 'Zekiel, a basket of the gray-green 
 tobacco-plants upon his arm, hurried toward 
 us. 
 
 The morning was very still. It was yet 
 early and the wind came only in long, fitful 
 breaths, presaging the steady blow which by 
 and by would toss the tree-tops ; the red was 
 scarcely out of the east, and the dense pines 
 behind house and fields cast long shadows 
 westward. 
 
 As father's eager speech ran short from 
 exhaustion, stillness and silence wrapped us, 
 fitful wind-breaths blew up across the lower 
 
 52
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 level, sumach and sassafras rustled softly 
 about us, and overhead the oak tossed its 
 new-born leaves of dainty brown and red. 
 Suddenly in the silence, borne on a longer 
 and stronger gust, broke a low, ominous 
 sound, which died away, came again, was 
 lost, and then came booming strong and 
 clear. White and limp I leaned against the 
 rough trunk of the oak. I could not have 
 moved a muscle; all my senses were dead- 
 ened, or, rather, gone to the strengthening of 
 two I listened with tense nerves to catch 
 the faintest sound ; I seemed to see at the 
 same instant Robert's face and father's, 
 though they were yards apart. 
 
 Both men had turned white as the linen 
 of their shirts, but at Robert's neck the red 
 which would flush his face already showed ; 
 I knew the token of strong excitement. The 
 death-like stillness of the morning fell once 
 more, and then, as the wind freshened, low 
 and long came boom and reverberation. 
 Father scrambled to his feet, fitted his 
 crutch beneath his arm, and was off. 
 " Come on ! " 
 
 53
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 "What is it?" called Robert striding after 
 him. 
 
 " What is it ? what is it ? They are 
 attacking us, sir. I said so. I told them 
 in Richmond. What is to stop them ? With 
 their gunboats at Old Point, what would be 
 easier, what a better move, than for the 
 Yankees to sail up the York, take West 
 Point and hold it, to mass a force there for 
 moving on Richmond ? There is not a thing 
 to stop it, not a fort, a gun, not a single 
 damned preparation." Father had struck a 
 pace which took all our energy to keep up 
 with. 
 
 " It would scarcely be possible," Robert 
 protested. 
 
 " And why not, sir ? They have burned 
 the shipping at Norfolk ; this is the next 
 move, and the right one too for them. 
 I warned our men, I spoke of it in Rich- 
 mond. They would not listen to me, and 
 now here, at the very first " 
 
 He was scrambling across the ravine as he 
 spoke, and he stopped to wave his crutch in 
 emphasis. 
 
 54
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " What will become of us, of this county ? 
 Why, man, we shall be their foraging ground." 
 But he had come to the fence when he said 
 this, and it took all father's breath to clamber 
 over the rails. Robert helped me over gravely, 
 and his hand tightened on my arm as my feet 
 touched the ground ; so together we reached 
 the stables. 
 
 The horses were still in their stalls. 
 " Bring them up to the house as soon as you 
 can," was the order, and I lingered to give 
 another : " Put my saddle on Lady, and bring 
 her too." 
 
 I slipped my riding-skirt over my dress, 
 while Robert looked to the loading of the 
 gun which had stood night and day in the 
 corner behind the bed ; and when he and 
 father came out I was already mounted. 
 
 " Where are you going ? " Robert de- 
 manded, his brown eyes wide with astonish- 
 ment, a sparkle of indignant vexation showing 
 in them. 
 
 " I am not going to stay here." 
 
 " You must." He sprang into his saddle, 
 slipped the heavy gun to his left arm. 
 
 55
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " 'Zekiel, take Lady to the stable," he com- 
 manded sternly. 
 
 I bent over the pommel. Robert had 
 not noticed the mule tied to the fence, nor 
 the pitchfork on 'Zekiel's shoulder. " No, 
 sah," began 'Zekiel. 
 
 Robert wheeled his horse. " What in the 
 name of thunder are you up to ? " 
 
 " What is he up to ? don't you see, sir ? " 
 father spluttered. " He is going with us. 
 Let him alone. We need every man. We 
 have got to repel the enemy, sir. What those 
 blockheads in Richmond would not do, we 
 have got to attend to." Father loosened 
 the reins and his horse sprang forward. 
 Robert was on one side of father, I on the 
 other ; so we rode down the lane, the three 
 of us abreast, 'Zekiel behind, and Mammy 
 screaming to us from the door. Out the 
 gate and up the road we fled. We shouted 
 the news to the first house we passed, and 
 the men from it overtook us before we had 
 gone a mile. Sped by paths shorter than 
 the road the tidings flew, and from fork and 
 lane and gate raced those whom regiment 
 
 56
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 and militia had not swept from us. Guns, 
 good and old, bright and rusty, pitchforks, 
 scythes, whatever weapons the soldiers had 
 left behind, they carried. 
 
 " Such," father cried as he looked be- 
 hind without slackening a whit of his 
 speed, " such are the noblest soldiers of 
 a country. When men rise in defence of 
 home, woe to the invaders ! whatever their 
 weapons may be, guns, pitchforks, or 
 or crutches " he looked down at his own 
 with a whimsical bitterness " they fight 
 with those as none ever fought for other 
 causes." 
 
 The day grew hot ; the horses were lathered 
 with foam and panting with thirst when we 
 came to the cross-roads, the store, and the 
 few houses of Plainview. The men threw 
 themselves from their horses before the store, 
 but I rode on to the pump and the brimming 
 trough, and waited while Lady thrust her 
 nozzle into the cool water. 
 
 Robert came up to me there and caught 
 the loosened rein. He answered not a word 
 to any indignant protests, but led Lady in at 
 
 57
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 the open gate of one of the village houses, 
 and up to the porch. 
 
 A woman, white and aghast at the dread- 
 ful news we brought, stood in the doorway. 
 " Mrs. Lawson," called Robert, " I have 
 brought Lucy to stay with you. She was 
 afraid to be left at home." 
 
 " I was not ! " I cried hotly. 
 
 The woman paid no heed to me. " Mr. 
 Aylett," she begged, as she wrung her hands, 
 " what is the matter ? " 
 
 Robert explained quickly. The men were 
 remounting, forming in some sort of order in 
 the wide road before the store. 
 
 " But we have heard nothing here, and we 
 are so much nearer," she insisted. 
 
 I had heard the same thing said to 
 father. 
 
 " The air, sir, the way the wind blew," 
 he had been quick to explain. " It reached 
 us more plainly by chance ; chance, sir." 
 
 Robert said something of the same sort, 
 lifted me from the saddle, turned Lady loose, 
 and was off. 
 
 Pounding hoof-beats, excited shoutings, 
 58
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 sunlight flashing from gun-barrels and scythe- 
 blades, a cloud of dust and silence. 
 
 A boy cried before the locked door of the 
 store because his candy lay on the counter 
 forgotten till it was too late ; at gate and 
 door women and children huddled in fright- 
 ened groups ; before the porch where I stood, 
 shrilled a rooster. 
 
 The woman fairly cried, "Get along! 
 Shut up ! " she shooed. " There 's no tell- 
 ing what will happen without you calling 
 * strangers.' " 
 
 Noon passed there was no thought of 
 dinner; the evening slipped away; then in 
 a cloud of dust, back came the cavalcade. 
 Gun and pitchfork were at rest upon their 
 shoulders, voices were no longer loud and 
 excited ; but there was no mistaking the 
 earnest look of their faces. 
 
 " False alarm ! " called one as they passed. 
 
 Such it had been. But it had done this : 
 it had aroused the instinct of home defence 
 in every man who had answered it; new 
 regiments would be filled the faster on 
 account of that day's fear. 
 
 59
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 The next morning found us under that 
 oak in the far field, watching the tobacco- 
 planting, discussing it, as if those twenty- 
 four hours had never been. 
 
 We obeyed some instinct, possibly, of tak- 
 ing up affairs where they had been broken off. 
 
 But the morning was not still, the wind 
 had been fresh all night and blew strongly 
 across the lower levels. We had been but 
 a minute on the spot when on its blowing 
 came low, deep, insistent roll and reverbera- 
 tion which thrilled us to the heart. 
 
 " 'Fore God ! " swore father. 
 
 And again Robert's face went white with 
 that streak of red across his jaw. 'Zekiel 
 stood like a pointer scenting game, but I 
 pushed my bonnet back from my ears and 
 looked around me. Blackberry bushes trailed 
 thick about us and beyond them the sumach 
 waved its fronds ; peering here and there I 
 caught a glint of gray. I looked carefully 
 and listened; that dreadful sound filled the 
 air. 
 
 " They are there now, there is no mistak- 
 ing that ! " Father was scrambling to his 
 
 60
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 feet. " They must have been farther down 
 the river yesterday, but now " His crutch 
 slipped from his hand in his haste, and I 
 stooped to pick it up. 
 
 " Father," said I in a tone I strove to 
 steady ; " father, I have found your cannon." 
 
 " What in the devil " 
 
 I waved his crutch dramatically. " Look ! " 
 
 Robert strode close to us. Some instinct 
 warned 'Zekiel ; he seemed to shrink together, 
 and a sheepish grin spread from ear to ear. 
 
 " Listen ! " 
 
 With one swift stride through vine and 
 bush Robert reached it. Hidden in the 
 tangle of leaves, its mouth turned outward, 
 lay a jug ; the winds across the low levels 
 blew straight into its mouth, and the mourn- 
 ful booming it made filled all the air. 
 
 With a scornful gesture Robert picked it 
 up, smelled at it. " 'Zekiel ! " he shouted. 
 
 Daddy stood the picture of distressed 
 foolishness. 
 
 " What in thunder " Robert's face was 
 fiery red and the veins on his temples 
 swollen. 
 
 61
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 "'Fore Gawd, Marse Robert!" 'Zekiel 
 stepped backward, his eyes fixed in terrified 
 fascination on Robert's face. " 'Fore Gawd, 
 't want nuthin' but cidah." 
 
 " Cider ! " 
 
 " Cidah." 'Zekiel trampled the tender 
 tobacco-plants underfoot, his face as ashy 
 gray as their leaves. " Cidah, sah. I swear 
 it was. 'Ria she knows how to keep it sweet, 
 an' she sho do keep it good." 
 
 " Robert ! " I called in an agony of fear, 
 " Robert ! " as he raised the jug in the air, 
 but 'Zekiel sprang aside. Robert flung the 
 jug into the field; he was too angry for a 
 word. 
 
 " Cidah, sah," chattered 'Zekiel. " T wan't 
 nuthin' in de worl' but cidah ; 'Ria knows 
 how to fix it so it won't spile." 
 
 " We have made ourselves the laughing- 
 stock of the country," Robert flamed. 
 
 " I think we have," father soberly assented. 
 
 "A jug, a jug of " 
 
 " Cidah, sah ; nice, sweet cidah. Ise been 
 so po'ly lately ; de rheumatiz wuks out in de 
 spring, an' wid all dis 'baccer-plantin' ! 'Ria
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 she want me to tek some o' dem teas she 
 fixes up, but dey tas'e like pizin ; dey tuhns 
 my insides wrong side out, deed dey does. 
 So I ups and says, ' I '11 take a little o' dat 
 cidah out to de fiel', 'n '" 
 
 " Get along to your work." 
 
 Father and Robert looked at each other, 
 and with downcast heads and slow footsteps 
 turned with one accord to the path. But I, 
 behind the friendly screen of leaf and bush, 
 lay with face pressed close to the grass, 
 hands clasped beneath my mouth, stifling 
 hysterical laughter. Here 'Zekiel came, and 
 with friendly face and sympathetic grin 
 looked down at me. 
 
 " Get up, Miss Lucy, you 're spi'lin yo' 
 frock," he cautioned. 
 
 " Oh, Daddy ! " I gasped as my laugh rang 
 out. 
 
 But 'Zekiel's grin was still queer, though 
 broad. He dug his foot into the hard earth 
 and looked down at the marks he made. 
 
 " It was a funny thing," he mumbled, " it 
 sho was. Jes a little cidah ! "
 
 IT was noon that day when father called 
 me into the chamber. He and Robert 
 had kept themselves entirely apart; they 
 had lingered in the stable-yard, and loitered 
 up the road to the house, and leaned against 
 the palings by the gate, earnestly talking 
 always. Whatever it was, they threshed it 
 out between them, and called me at last to 
 hear their decision. As usual father began 
 at the very heart of the matter, speaking the 
 gist of it first, and leaving the preliminaries 
 to take care of themselves. 
 
 " Lucy," he called, before I had crossed 
 the threshold of the room, " you know what 
 I have always thought about holding slaves ? 
 You agree with me ? " 
 
 " I always have," I answered proudly ; and 
 how could I have thought otherwise, seeing 
 his strong will had trained me ? 
 
 " So does Robert," shortly. " I have never 
 changed never. I was a member of the 
 
 64
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 legislature of eighteen-thirty, the youngest 
 man there. I had always believed what I 
 then declared, the holding of men and 
 women in bondage is a curse. Yet look at 
 the history of it ; it has been done from time 
 immemorial to this. Nation after nation has 
 abolished it; we are the last. Like many 
 another great evil the people have awakened 
 to its wickedness slowly and have purged 
 themselves of it. The time had already 
 come thirty years ago for freeing alike the 
 negroes and ourselves. We would have 
 done it, too, could we have agreed as to 
 what would be the best way to do it ; but to 
 flood the country with such a people as they, 
 turn them loose upon the community, I 
 tell you, sir, it is a problem a man quails 
 before. Wise care and good government 
 are the negro's only salvation. I see no 
 chance of their working out these questions 
 for themselves ; no growth from within, but 
 a necessary pruning from without. Well, 
 we could n't accomplish it that year, though 
 we lacked but three votes; and then you 
 know the hubbub since. Rascally politicians 
 5 6
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 have been using a question which should be 
 decided with calm and earnest judgment as a 
 veil to hide their own damned ends ! I beg 
 your pardon, Lucy. If it had not been for 
 them, in another year we would have suc- 
 ceeded. Randolph led that fight, and he 
 would have carried it through. Lord, there 
 is such a clang of tongues and smoke of 
 breath when a thing has to be done, that, ten 
 chances to one, a man forgets what he is after 
 before he gets it. Well, you see what it has 
 come to ! " Father leaned against the mantel- 
 piece as he talked, his thick, silver-gray hair 
 rumpled until it stood straight upon his 
 head, his blue eyes glowing ; and he waved 
 his crutch, as he always did when he could, 
 for emphasis. 
 
 " But what I wanted to tell you was what 
 I have done myself, gradually. A man has 
 no right, sir, not to live up to his convictions, 
 whether they are shared by those about him 
 or not. When God has given him sense 
 enough to do a thing, he is responsible for 
 doing it. Well I have made no fuss about 
 it, but Tom, you know, is free. I gave 
 66
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 him five acres down on the creek ten years 
 ago. He is a born fisherman and makes a 
 good living out of the river ; and all the land 
 he wants is what will give him a garden 
 patch. Then Frank I sold. That went 
 against me: but John Rowan owns his wife' 
 and John is a good master. Frank wanted 
 it to be done; I asked him. I gave Jim his 
 freedom papers. He is a likely boy, and 
 will get along anywhere as a house servant. 
 No good any other way. He has gone up 
 North." Father mentioned three or four 
 others, and what had been done for them. 
 " So there we are," he ended abruptly, look- 
 ing down at the hearth and outlining with 
 his crutch a brick upon it. 
 
 " Robert," he began as abruptly as he had 
 ended, " I have often wondered if you did 
 not think that I should have done something 
 more settled something on Lucy. You 
 have not paid for your place yet ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Hm ! I could easily have given it to 
 Lucy as a wedding gift." 
 
 " You could not." 
 
 67
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 Father looked astounded. 
 
 " It was mine." 
 
 Father's clean-shaven lips pursed as if for 
 a whistle. 
 
 "Well, well!" Then to me: "Robert is 
 going to enlist to-day." 
 
 I leaned back against my chair speechless. 
 
 " He must ; you know it. The money 
 I have in the banks at Richmond I in- 
 tended it for you I intended to leave you 
 no burden of slaves ; and so are you will- 
 ing that I should lend it to the Confederate 
 government ? " 
 
 Willing? God knows I was. Money? 
 I did not even think of it. But my hus- 
 band ! I was no patriot, only a girl too shy 
 to be at home even among the country folk, 
 too home-loving to have spent a week else- 
 where, too fond of field and wood to need 
 companionship, too content ever to have 
 wasted my heart on callow loves; a girl 
 who, waking suddenly to a happy, absorbing 
 passion, had no thought for anything beyond 
 the orbit of her daily life. 
 
 " There is one thing I must do first. I 
 68
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 must pay off the debt on this farm. We will 
 attend to it this day. Robert must leave 
 that free." 
 
 They had settled it, of course, in those 
 earnest conversations, and I had but to listen 
 and heed. Robert's eyes were turned away ; 
 father stood oracular and happy, now that 
 he was managing our affairs as well as his 
 own. 
 
 " Well, it has come at last. I had hoped 
 it would be sooner or not at all. There has 
 been a war for every generation of our state, 
 beginning with those who fought for our 
 independence eighteen-twelve, eighteen- 
 forty I was just married then:" his voice 
 softened until his words were scarcely au- 
 dible. " Even the Jews allowed a twelve- 
 month's freedom from the wars of their 
 race, in which a man could stay at home 
 and ' comfort ' the woman he had wedded. 
 What will you do about Lucy?" he asked 
 suddenly. 
 
 " She will stay here." 
 
 " She must come home." 
 
 " No ! " I made vigorous protest. 
 69
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " It will be safest " Robert declared after 
 one long breath. 
 
 " Have you ever thought," said father 
 gently, " that I have missed my only child ? " 
 
 I was shamed through and through. I 
 turned my hot cheek against the chair. 
 
 " Leave ' Zekiel and Maria to take charge 
 of the farming with the hands you have 
 hired. They will do as well " he caught 
 himself abruptly. 
 
 " I make but a poor farmer," declared 
 Robert, bitterly. 
 
 " There is the making of a good one in 
 you, sir, one of the best." 
 
 Their eyes met in a look it did me good 
 to see. They had always been friends, but 
 there was a holding back, half of wondering 
 jealousy on father's side, a little of haughti- 
 ness on Robert's part, and it had stood be- 
 tween them. The stress of feeling burned 
 it away; it disappeared under the necessity 
 for plain speech. 
 
 " You have been a good friend to me, Mr. 
 Yancey," said Robert, impulsively. 
 
 " I proved that when I gave you Lucy ; 
 70
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 but perhaps I might have given something 
 else at the same time," he added with a 
 gleam of laughter in his blue eyes. 
 
 " You know " began Robert, haughtily, 
 but father interrupted him. 
 
 " Yes, I know more than you think ; " 
 father made a hesitant pause, as if he 
 were wondering if he dared say what he 
 wished. 
 
 " I do know," he repeated slowly. " I 
 have envied you. I have left for you the joy 
 of the struggle your courage and manhood 
 demanded. It is God's blessing, successful 
 work ; you were free and unhampered ; you 
 could fight your own fight, make your 
 own way. I was born a slave to duties 
 acres and negroes." He spoke in a half- 
 serious, half-whimsical manner. " You had 
 the untried path, and so " He left his 
 sentence to the wide possibilities speech 
 could not frame. " Well, there 's the buggy, 
 and we had better be off." 
 
 They left me for their errand and I made 
 ready for mine. The thread was all spun 
 long ago, and if I were going home Miss
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 Nancy must have it soon. I packed a 
 basket and, with Dick for company, started 
 across the wheat field behind the house. 
 The grain grew knee-high now and the rip- 
 ple of it under the wind was like the waves 
 of the wide river which ran before father's 
 house. I fell to dreaming of it, and wonder- 
 ing how I should feel to be once more there ; 
 I recalled the old brick house, the paved 
 paths, the thick mulberries, the shining 
 beach, and the river with its sails flitting for- 
 ever up and down. I knew that I loved it, 
 from the tug at my heart; but I loved this, 
 too. 
 
 The path narrowed to a foot-track covered 
 with pine needles, and the pines roofed us 
 in; they grew far apart at first and the wild 
 honeysuckles flamed between their trunks, 
 but, as our way wound deeper into the 
 wood's fastnesses, the crowded trees shot up 
 slender and rough and ragged ; the ends of 
 branches deadened by lack of sun and space 
 interlocked impenetrably, too thick almost 
 for the wild hogs, bred from runaways, and 
 the deer to wander through. We saw no 
 
 72
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 flowers, heard no bird-songs, nothing but the 
 crow's rough call far above us. 
 
 I felt suffocated. Only once before had I 
 come this way, and in my blithe mood then 
 the feeling born of the sombreness was sad- 
 ness; now it was horror. I walked faster 
 and faster. Dick trotting behind was 
 brought to remonstrance. 
 
 " ' Clar ' ! Miss Lucy, what is de use o' 
 hurryin'so? you is fair runnin'; 'deed you 
 bettah go slow, dyar 's lots o' snakes down in 
 dese woods dis time o' year, moc'sins an' 
 black-snakes; an' black-snakes will fight in 
 de spring time sho. Fus' thing you knows 
 you '11 run right up on one. You bettah let 
 me go fus', we'se nigh de swamp Ian'! 
 dyar 's one now ! " 
 
 " Let it alone ! " I screamed. 
 
 " Ise got to kill him." 
 
 I fled back along the path. I heard the 
 sound of a blow, another, and then a joyful 
 shout; "Come 'long, Miss Lucy, he done kilt." 
 
 I came up slowly, shuddering, and angry 
 from my fright. " What did you kill it 
 for ? " I demanded wrathf ully. 
 
 73
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Hi ! dat fellow was curled up all ready 
 fer to spring an' you was de fus'." 
 
 " Go on ahead if you want to." 
 
 Dick chuckled. The path dipped into 
 the swampy land where the water oozed 
 from the earth and stood in stagnant pools 
 about the roots of the trees; we picked our 
 way carefully ; here a rail had been flung, 
 and there a fallen branch had been pulled 
 into place for bridging. 
 
 " We 'se nearly dyar," Dick comforted. 
 " I hear de roostahs crowtn'. I suttenly 
 is glad." 
 
 " So am I," I acknowledged. 
 
 " Dey 's crowin' fer comp'ny," announced 
 Dick, cheerfully, "an' hyar we is. Ef dem 
 ole houn' dogs don't scent us now." 
 
 But the hounds were off on a hunt of 
 their own, and we came out into the sight 
 of the clearing unbayed ; cabin and garden, 
 orchard and narrow fields lay in the sunlight, 
 grateful to the eye after the long gloom of 
 the dense woods. Miss Nancy stood watch- 
 ing from her doorway of the double cabin, 
 and Miss Molly her sister from the 
 
 74
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 other; both hastened out at sight of us, 
 Miss Nancy hurrying primly, and yet with 
 a certain precise grace, Miss Molly wad- 
 dling behind her. They met us at the 
 fence. 
 
 Miss Nancy welcomed us as graciously as 
 any county dame. " La ! now," called Miss 
 Molly, " I said somebody was comin'." 
 
 " I am so glad to see you," repeated Miss 
 Nancy. " It is such a beautiful day, and I 
 have been hoping you would come soon, 
 now that the warm weather has opened up. 
 Walk right in ! " She led the way up the 
 box-bordered half of the yard to her own 
 doorway ; Miss Molly followed. 
 
 " Nancy always takes folks into her part 
 of the house," her sister complained, but one 
 glance toward her own littered domain must 
 have silenced her ; she followed meekly. 
 
 " Take your bonnet off. Sit down here." 
 Miss Nancy drew a flag rocker before the 
 worn but freshly reddened hearth, where the 
 covered embers smouldered for further duty. 
 
 " Sister ! " She ceremoniously handed her 
 a chair, then sat down herself across the 
 
 75
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 hearth from me. Dick, with his basket 
 courteously unnoticed, was left to sun him- 
 self on the broad doorstep. 
 
 " I said somebody was comin'," Miss Molly 
 repeated. " The scissors fell out of my lap 
 and struck straight up in the floor this morn- 
 ing, and next thing the red rooster walked 
 right up on Sis Nancy's step and flopped 
 his wings three times and crowed right out. 
 I Ve been watchin' ever since, just settin' 
 in the sunshine and keepin' a lookout." 
 
 " Molly is always glad of an excuse to do 
 nothing," said Miss Nancy. 
 
 "Well, it certainly did feel mighty good 
 settin' there in the sunshine; and when I 
 spied you comin' out of the woods I said, 
 1 La, if there ain't Miss Lucy, bless my soulJ 
 and don't she look sweet ? ' ' 
 
 I laughed. "You couldn't see me for 
 my sun-bonnet." 
 
 " But I could see your frock," Miss Molly 
 assured me eagerly, delighted because she 
 thought I was pleased with her flattery. 
 " It certainly is pretty. Lands ! did you 
 have it when you was married ? " 
 
 76
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 I scarcely listened to her, I was watching 
 her sister. Twice only had I seen Miss 
 Nancy before, though I had heard of her 
 all my life. There were a hundred tales 
 afloat of her oddity, but her dress was 
 stranger than any of her deeds. A round 
 scant skirt hung from a short puffed waist 
 which ended below her bust ; low-cut, short 
 of sleeve, the bodice was, and that and skirt 
 alike were white. Winter and summer, 
 spring and fall, this style of costume never 
 varied. Long knitted mittens and a yel- 
 lowed shawl gave warmth in winter, but 
 now she threw the shawl back on her chair 
 when she sat down. Neck and arms were 
 shrivelled like her face ; her straight features, 
 big dark eyes, and white hair, soft, abundant 
 and worn high upon her head, were outlined 
 against the loom which filled the corner of 
 the room behind her; I caught my breath 
 at the picture. 
 
 Miss Molly babbled on. " I just set the 
 coffee-pot away with the grounds in it this 
 morning. I said to myself, ' Whoever is 
 comin' will want their fortune told,' and 
 
 77
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 there it is to hand. Mr. Rowan came him- 
 self last week to see if Sis Nancy could tell 
 him who stole his shoats, and did n't she 
 know as soon as she laid eyes on the cup? " 
 
 " I know the thief on his place," said Miss 
 Nancy, curtly. 
 
 " And when Miss Mary with her sisters 
 came up here from Oakleigh did n't she 
 tell her right away she was goin' to be 
 married before the year was out, and her 
 husband would have blue eyes and brown 
 hair, and they would live in a house with 
 three chimneys ? " 
 
 " Any goose could guess that she and 
 John Dudley were dead in love with each 
 other. How is Robert ? " The question 
 was abrupt, but as she asked it voice and 
 expression softened wonderfully. 
 
 " He is well. He he is going away." 
 
 Her eyes asked what I could not speak. 
 I nodded. Suddenly I burst into a passion 
 of tears. 
 
 " I cannot bear to think of it," I sobbed. 
 
 " Yes, you can ; yes, you can." Her hand 
 smoothing my head was infinitely loving. 
 
 78
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " What shall I do ? " I cried childishly. 
 
 " Ah ! " Her tone was full of pity. 
 
 " It will kill me." 
 
 " No, it will not." Even then I noticed 
 the bitterness of her voice. 
 
 " Suppose he should get shot ! " I poured 
 out all my horrors under the influence of 
 that gentle touch. I had thought myself 
 so brave. I had come with my presents and 
 my work to be done, to say good-by quite 
 grandly. Instead I sobbed out woes I had 
 not before named even to myself. 
 
 " You must be brave ; think of all the other 
 women who have given up sons and husbands 
 and and lovers." But that touched me not 
 a whit ; other women were others, I was I. 
 
 " He wants to go ? " 
 
 "Y-e-s!" 
 
 " Then you must let him see no fret nor 
 worry, nor cowardice." Miss Nancy spoke 
 the last word firmly. 
 
 " I am no coward," I cried. 
 
 " I know it." She left me and moved 
 about softly, quickly. " Drink this," she 
 commanded, as she pressed a glass into my 
 
 79
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 hand ; " it is some of my elderberry wine. 
 It is better than blackberry, I think, or even 
 grape. Drink it all, child ; it won't hurt you. 
 Don't cry any more," as I handed back the 
 empty glass. " You cry hard, child, and Rob- 
 ert must not see red eyes and swollen lids." 
 
 " He has gone away ; he will not be back 
 till night." 
 
 " By that time you will be all right. You 
 must not let him see a shadow on your face. 
 Send him away with a smile. There is so 
 much sadness. Let his memory of you be 
 bright. You brought me the thread ? " 
 
 " Dick has it in the basket." 
 
 " I will look for him." 
 
 She left me for a moment. I knew it was 
 done to give me time to stop that hysteri- 
 cal catching in my breath. I leaned for- 
 ward, watching the ring of smoke curling 
 slowly above the smouldering fire. I could 
 hear the fowls clucking outside, and could 
 hear, also, the swish and swirl of the Dragon's 
 rapid flow; and when she came back, though 
 I felt wretched, storm-swept, I was quiet. 
 
 Dick followed her and put down his basket 
 80
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 on the table under the narrow window. I 
 folded back the towel from the top and 
 showed its contents. " I have brought you 
 some preserves and honey and pickles ; we 
 shall not need them." 
 
 " Bless your soul ! but I shall. I told 
 Sister Molly yesterday mine were nearly 
 out. And it 's a long time yet before fruit 
 will be ripe." 
 
 " I want you to enjoy them. You have 
 been so good to me." 
 
 " You have brought me the thread ? " 
 quickly ; my voice was quavering again. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; it is in the basket." 
 
 " How smooth it is, and even, and fine ! " 
 She examined it critically. " I will begin to 
 weave it at once." 
 
 " There is no hurry," I said faintly. 
 
 " We '11 have it ready, anyhow." 
 
 " It is so hard," I began again. 
 
 Miss Nancy brought me up shortly. She 
 was lifting the jars to the few shelves of 
 her cupboard; Dick stood by the hearth. 
 " Hard ! " she cried, as she sat down the last 
 one and whirled to face me. " Hard ! Sup- 
 6 81
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 pose you had never had him ? Suppose he 
 had loved somebody else ? Suppose he had 
 loved you and you had known it, and yet he 
 had to marry some one else ? " 
 
 " It is impossible." 
 
 " Ah, well ! it is for you." She closed 
 the door slowly and went, her back turned 
 to me, toward the loom. 
 
 " Have you seen the counterpane I am 
 weaving ? it is nearly done. I will take it 
 out and put in your linen." 
 
 The high narrow bench on which her 
 slender, alert figure perched through many 
 an hour was pushed far back to the end, 
 and on it, the shuttle in her fingers, her 
 body swaying, as I had once seen her, 
 she seemed some weird spirit, something 
 superhuman, who held alike in her withered 
 but active hands both music and fate. I 
 leaned against the heavy post watching her, 
 as her loving touch on the threads bespoke 
 the absorbing interest it held. She spoke of 
 dye and coloring, of plaid and stripe. 
 
 "Sister!" Miss Molly called. "La, you 
 are always at that loom ! If you are not 
 
 82
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 working in it, you are looking at it. Here 's 
 the coffee-pot. Come along, tell Miss Lucy's 
 fortune." 
 
 " It is already told." Miss Nancy was a 
 trifle curt. 
 
 " Em em ! as if people never had any- 
 thing happen to 'em after they were once 
 good and married. Come on. Here, child ! " 
 Miss Molly beckoned me mysteriously. "You 
 just get down that china cup off the shelf 
 your own self, pour this in, there ! So ! and 
 give it a good whirl around three times 
 that 's it ! Throw the coffee on the fire, it 
 won't hurt anything, and turn the cup upside 
 down in the saucer. Set it here and just leave 
 it till the grounds get hard and dry." 
 
 I did as she told me explicitly, Miss Nancy 
 watching me from a corner of the hearth, 
 her face set, her dark eyes sombre. I put 
 out an impatient hand cupward. My mood 
 had swung back from its blackness, and I 
 was thoroughly in humor with the jest. 
 
 " Stop ! " Miss Nancy cried ; " the drops 
 would run back in the cup ; that would mean 
 tears." 
 
 83
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 "It's perfectly wonderful," whispered her 
 sister. " There 's no telling what she will 
 promise you." 
 
 " I shall believe every word she says." 
 
 " Pshaw ! I know nothing about it." Miss 
 Nancy spoke impatiently. 
 
 " You look the fortune-teller to perfection. 
 No one could doubt you." 
 
 Miss Nancy frowned. " Hand the cup 
 here," she said in a voice of resignation. 
 " You must pick it up yourself." 
 
 She turned the pretty blue china reluc- 
 tantly ; but the instant she did so her face 
 changed : an intent, peering look stole into 
 her eyes, a flush crept upon her cheek. " I 
 see," she began in low and sing-song tone, 
 " a girl and a man. The girl she is neither 
 large nor tall " 
 
 " That 's me," I interrupted gleefully. 
 
 " And the man, he is large, broad-shoul- 
 dered " 
 
 "Robert!" 
 
 " There is a stream here, a path, a house 
 with two chimneys." 
 
 I smiled ; it was well done. 
 84
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Another house, big, four chimneys. 
 There is a journey before you, not long, 
 but " She moved a step on the uneven 
 hearth, turned the cup as if for better sight, 
 her fingers fumbled ; the cup fell and broke 
 into a dozen pieces on the bricks. 
 
 " Sister ! Sister ! Your best china cup ! " 
 Miss Molly screamed. But Miss Nancy 
 seemed in no wise dismayed. " Accidents 
 will happen," she said sententiously, while I 
 promised her one of mine. 
 
 " It will not be so pretty," I declared, " but 
 you can have it to remember me by." 
 
 " I do not need that," said Miss Nancy as 
 she helped me with bonnet and gloves. 
 
 They followed us to the fence where they 
 had welcomed us, and when I looked back 
 Miss Nancy gazed straight toward me. The 
 shawl had fallen from her bare shoulders, 
 one arm lay on the chestnut rail, the wind 
 blew her scant skirts about her ankles ; she 
 held her head high and in her eyes was a 
 look I could not fathom. It was that of the 
 seer.
 
 VI 
 
 MAMMY stood in the kitchen door 
 when Dick and I came up across 
 the yard. Usually she was full of 
 curiosity, and questioned every one, even me. 
 Now she stood leaning against the door- 
 way with lips pursed out, wrinkled forehead, 
 and arms akimbo ; and she was silent. 
 
 " I am going to pack my trunk," I called 
 to her. " I want you to help me." 
 
 " Name o' Gawd ! " she mumbled, " you 
 talk lak you 's gwine stay a year." 
 
 "Well!" I attempted a laugh. "I'll 
 need all my dresses." 
 
 " Miss Lucy, what you talkin' 'bout, all de 
 clo'es you 's got ? What is you gwine do wid 
 all dem things ? does you 'spec' to stay for- 
 ebbah ? " as I went from bureau drawer to 
 closet. 
 
 I pretended much amusement, but our 
 hurried footsteps seemed out of tune with 
 86
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 the quiet of the house, that was flooded with 
 the sunshine of afternoon, with the long 
 shadows the gate made across the pathway, 
 and the cherry tree stretched along the 
 grass. The dragging of my brass-studded 
 trunk into the hall, even the turning of the 
 key in the lock, rasped my nerves ; but I 
 bore myself gayly. 
 
 " You must just play that I have gone on 
 a visit, and you must take care of everything 
 and keep it exactly as it was when I was 
 here, house and all. Don't you go to shut- 
 ting up the windows and locking the doors ; 
 I could n't bear the thought of it." I talked 
 in snatches as I made a fresh toilet, from a 
 bath in soft spring-water to a dainty summer 
 gown. " You are to keep everything just as 
 I leave it," I repeated. " Who knows when I 
 may come back ? You are not to cry when 
 I go away." And as I had intended to seem 
 frivolous, as she always thought me, I shook 
 her fat shoulders as I laid my hands upon 
 them, and put my head on one side to watch 
 the fall of lace from my rounded arms ; and 
 I vowed there was not a freckle upon them. 
 87
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " No tears now," with another little shake, 
 for the whites of Mammy's eyes were sus- 
 piciously red and bloodshot. " Everything 
 will soon be all right, and then ' We 're 
 coming home, no more to roam,' I sang, 
 ' We 're coming home to-morrow.' " 
 
 I finished dressing, took a leisurely survey 
 of myself, from parted hair and white fore- 
 head, from long lashes and blue eyes and 
 round cheeks to the line of my low collar 
 all the small mirror would show. 
 
 " You are to get the very best supper you 
 can cook," I commanded; "father is not 
 coming back, but Robert will be tired and 
 hungry." 
 
 " Po' lamb ! " I heard her mutter under her 
 breath ; but I was still singing when I went 
 out of the house. 
 
 The roses by the door were nearly abloom, 
 so nearly that there was a fragrance in their 
 buds; I pulled down a low branch of the 
 cherry tree, but the fruit was white and 
 waxen, showing no mellow tint of red upon 
 its cheeks; I opened the garden gate and 
 strolled down the flower-bordered path. 
 88
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 The earth beneath the lilacs was purple with 
 drifted petals, the syringa was studded with 
 white, folded buds, the bridal wreath thrust 
 out an arm of bloom ; and, in the squares 
 they bordered, the peas unfolded butterfly 
 blossoms, the radishes showed sturdy leaves, 
 and the new-set plants wilted while they 
 struck fresh root in brown furrows. Down 
 at the very end of the garden grew the 
 strawberries ; I had watched their blossom- 
 ing and then forgotten them. Would they 
 be ripe now? I pulled aside the pine 
 boughs eagerly ; the red globes shone every- 
 where. 
 
 They were the crowning touch to our 
 feast, and when I stood by the table gloat- 
 ing over them, I heard a horseman riding 
 rapidly down the lane and ran out to meet 
 Robert. How straight he sat! how easy 
 was Lady's lope! A new light, brave and 
 bright and strong, shone on his face ; but 
 his eyes were anxious as they met mine, 
 then they brightened wonderfully. 
 
 He slipped from his horse. " Sweet- 
 heart!" he murmured as put his arm 
 
 89
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 about me ; and though Robert was tenderly 
 affectionate it was rarely that such terms 
 crossed his lips. I knew it was relief as 
 well as love which spoke, that he had feared 
 to find me bewailing, tear-stained; but I 
 slipped my hand in his, and we went along 
 to the stable, Lady following sedately. 
 
 He told me gayly that he had enlisted, 
 that he was to join the force then fortifying 
 Gloucester Point, and, with the fort at York- 
 town, defending the river which afforded a 
 partial route to Richmond ; that the farm 
 had been paid for and the deed recorded ; 
 and he spoke of a horse he wished to buy. 
 
 " For what ? " I asked quickly. 
 
 "Why, you know I have joined the 
 cavalry." 
 
 " You will ride Lady." 
 
 " She is your horse." 
 
 " And yours. Do you think I would trust 
 any other horse to carry you should you be 
 ordered from the fort," I added passionately ; 
 and somehow we could not find another word 
 to say. 
 
 At the gate Robert put his hand on mine 
 90
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 as I started to lift the latch. " When could 
 we go ? " he asked in a low voice. 
 
 " To-morrow," I answered, lightly. 
 
 " To-morrow ? " astounded. 
 
 " I am all ready. We can start early in 
 the morning. Come, see ! " I pointed with 
 dramatic gesture to trunk and box piled 
 within the hall, and though Robert had the 
 grace not to say it, his face showed that he 
 was glad. 
 
 We were as gay about the supper table 
 as we had ever been; we ate heartily; we 
 loitered in the wide hall and watched the 
 sun set beyond the pines, and the dusk veil 
 road and fields. I got my flutina, sat down 
 on the doorstep, and played reel and jig and 
 every gay tune I knew; and when Robert 
 finished smoking I played " Lorena." His 
 rich notes floated out with mine as the plain- 
 tive story was sung, and my voice quavered 
 never over a single note, though Robert's 
 broke once at the last: 
 
 " There is a future, oh, thank God. 
 'T is dust to dust beneath the sod, 
 But there, up there, 't is heart to heart." 
 
 91
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 I slipped into a gay hunter's chorus in 
 a flash, sang " Kitty Clyde " saucily, and fol- 
 lowed it with every air I knew. When I 
 laid the flutina down, I heard a sigh behind 
 me ; I turned my head. There on the back 
 step sat 'Zekiel and Maria and Dick. 
 
 There was nothing wrong with the world 
 next day, nor with us, so far as eye could see. 
 We were clad in our best, but then we were 
 going a-visiting; we ate little breakfast, but 
 we were hurried. Lady, hitched to the 
 buggy, was tied outside of the yard railing, 
 and the ox-cart waited behind her. 
 
 I carefully pulled out the bonnet's bow 
 beneath my chin, picked up my gloves and 
 my small fringed parasol. I would make no 
 tour of the house, say no last words, think 
 no last thoughts, though every step upon 
 the bare floor beat " Last, the last, it is 
 the last!" 
 
 I called a gay good-by to Mammy's anxious 
 
 figure at the gate, while Robert tucked the 
 
 linen robe about my skirts ; I straightened 
 
 my bonnet where Mammy had tilted it when 
 
 92
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 she caught me fast in a swaying embrace 
 as I came out ; I looked and laughed as we 
 turned, but I would not look backwards. I 
 saw the fields, green with the upspringing 
 shoots of corn, slip by as Lady trotted down 
 the lane; I saw the woods come nearer, 
 nearer, the fields grow less until only the 
 sedge was left; I saw the pines overhead. 
 By and by the clang of the gate told me 
 that we were outside, and the county road 
 stretched before us. I did not see it ; but 
 my bonnet's brim was wide, it hid my 
 weakness. 
 
 93
 
 VII 
 
 IT cut me to the heart to see father's 
 delight at having me again at home. 
 Happiness, sudden and complete, often 
 breeds selfishness. I had been too absorbed 
 in self to think that any suffered thereby, 
 and no straying fancy had ever pictured 
 for me the rooms, with their look of disuse, 
 and the deserted hall of my father's house. 
 Again within them, I was vaguely conscious 
 of their tale of emptiness, as if the life of the 
 home had shrunken too small for the envel- 
 oping shell, a feeling which did not wear 
 away, for it was not my life those walls 
 then held, it was my existence. 
 
 Father, with his eager interest prompting 
 him, took me from cabin to cabin, showed 
 the calves he had petted till they followed 
 him like dogs, the colts he had broken or 
 was going to break, bragging of the pedigree 
 of this one or the speed of the other, his 
 94
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 own enthusiasm vivifying every subject that 
 he touched upon, and so enrapturing him- 
 self that he did not perceive its lack in 
 others. 
 
 I did my poor best to share his interests, 
 but some part of me was deadened, gone to 
 the quickening of others. The plantation 
 with all its affairs held for me not a fraction 
 of the fascination the river kept. That 
 way lay the fort; that way was Robert. 
 Along its shining stretches he must come. 
 I watched it, but never for its beauties ; light 
 and shade upon it, mist and sunshine, sun- 
 rise and sunset all were unheeded in that 
 searching for a sail. 
 
 Many a morning, when the birds sang in 
 the mulberries outside the dormer window 
 by my bedside, I pulled my pillow over to 
 the wide sill, propped my chin upon it, and, 
 watching the sunrise, the golden pathway, 
 the beaten silver of the waves, wondered 
 if fortune would bring Robert that day along 
 its highway. 
 
 Many a noon, when the river ran still and 
 smooth like molten glass beneath the shim- 
 
 95
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 mer of heat dancing above it, when the 
 shadows of the mulberries were close about 
 their trunks, and the roll of the tide was 
 languid along the shore, I watched the idle 
 sails in sight, wondering if fitful winds and 
 cruel calms debarred me of any moment 
 which might be passed with him. 
 
 Or at sunset, when all the river was crim- 
 soned, when the boats were hurrying home, 
 I longed to see some sail stretched toward 
 us. No music could be so sweet as the 
 rattling of the ropes about the mast when 
 the sail which brought him was slipped to 
 idleness, no picture so entrancing as one 
 straight figure standing above it laughing at 
 my delight. 
 
 Furloughs were easily to be had then. 
 The life of the soldiers at the fort had 
 touches of prolonged picnicking. The ladies 
 visited them, feasted them ; the lightest of 
 cakes, the clearest of jellies, the tenderest 
 poultry found their way to that bastion by 
 which the inner gate was guarded. But I 
 would never go. Emily was away. I saw 
 little of the other neighbors, and I was half 
 
 96
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 jealous of the tales I heard. I toasted my 
 hero when he came, but I sought him never. 
 
 My own small row-boat lay at the wharf, 
 and I was out in it sometimes, but not often ; 
 I was too restless to settle to any one thing 
 day by day. Late one afternoon I floated 
 in it idly over the shallows before the house, 
 watching the banners of the seaweeds stream- 
 ing with the tide, the darting crabs, the 
 pulsing jelly-fish and a sail. It came 
 around the headland like a wide-winged bird 
 skimming close above the river's breast ; the 
 wind was fair for the course it took, and the 
 bellying sail and gleaming prow sped straight 
 up the mighty current till abreast of me, 
 then rounded and beat down toward my 
 little boat. My idle oars flashed ; it seemed 
 but a moment before I was alongside, was 
 grasping Robert's hands, and, springing over 
 the canoe's side, was seated by him in the 
 stern and laughing at Henry's teasing ; for 
 Henry was with him and sat indolently on 
 the canoe's careening side, the sail-rope in 
 his hand. 
 
 " Why have n't you been to see us ? " I 
 7 97
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 demanded, attacking him in return for his 
 jesting. 
 
 He made a polite but careless answer. 
 
 " I should think you would be glad enough 
 to get away from the camp now and then. 
 I don't see how you exist there among men 
 anyhow, where there are no pretty girls to 
 visit." 
 
 " That 's just where they are," declared 
 Robert, lightly, but he slipped his hand over 
 mine to give it a warning pressure. " Car- 
 riage loads of them drive up every day ; you 
 should come yourself sometimes." 
 
 I shrugged my shoulders. " Do you want 
 me to ? " 
 
 " No." He glanced meaningly at Henry 
 as he spoke. " No, I don't believe I do." 
 
 " Who have been there ? " I demanded. 
 
 Robert gave a list of half the families in 
 the county, adding a word of comment now 
 and then. I noticed a touch of sarcasm in 
 his speech ; it was as if he himself had spoken 
 when Henry said, " I am sick of it." 
 
 I was half frightened at his vehemence, 
 and blundered into saying the first thing 
 98
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 I thought : " There are not half so many 
 ladies around there. Emily " 
 
 Again a warning from Robert this time 
 a glance cut me short. 
 
 " And I," I added airily. 
 
 " You ! " cried Henry, in quick, teasing 
 tones; "if Robert had given me half a 
 chance " 
 
 "Pshaw!" I tossed my head. "What 
 would that have mattered ? You would 
 have forgotten me for the next pretty face 
 you saw." 
 
 A shout of laughter derided both the 
 vanity and the prophecy I had been betrayed 
 into; but Henry took my words to heart. 
 " You think me fickle," he accused. 
 
 I stammered at first over my answer, but 
 then my light heart sent the lighter speech 
 to my lips. " At least you are off with the 
 old " referring to his evident quarrel with 
 Emily " before you are on with the new." 
 
 " There will be no new." 
 
 Henry spoke so seriously that I could 
 think of nothing further to jest about. I 
 turned to watch the taut rope, and the little 
 
 99
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 boat cutting its way through the water be- 
 hind us, and when I looked again towards 
 him his face was white and stern. He stood 
 up loosening the sail which hid the wharf 
 from my sight ; it slid to the boat's bottom 
 and there on the wharf's edge, looking down 
 at him, stood Emily. The red swept her 
 cheek, her lips trembled, for a second, 
 then she called a gay greeting. I sprang up 
 on the wharf, caught her by the waist, and 
 whirled her about. 
 
 " When did you come ? " 
 
 " A moment ago." 
 
 " Oh, I mean from Middlesex." 
 
 " Yesterday." 
 
 " I hope you will stay at home now." 
 
 " Forever ! " with mock solemnity. 
 
 I thought the men were close behind us 
 as we climbed the bluff, but when I turned 
 at the top Henry bent above the rope, fum- 
 bling at the knot, as if to make the boat the 
 more secure, and Robert waited for him. 
 
 I saw Henry comfortably seated near Emily, 
 lingered for a few polite words with them, then 
 loitered off with Robert toward the summer- 
 
 100
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 house, which was cool and shaded from all 
 eyes ; but when we sat down they were close 
 behind us. We strolled about the yard and 
 back again, Henry so contriving it that he 
 walked by my side, and again within the porch 
 I stole a glance at Robert for sympathy. 
 His quizzical look brought inspiration. 
 
 I knew that they were hungry, I declared, 
 and that after that hot sail they were longing 
 for some cool drink ; there was milk in the 
 dairy and cake in the sideboard, and it was 
 yet an hour to supper ; they should have some- 
 thing to eat and drink at once. " Robert, 
 come help me!" I finished. And, once in 
 the hall, I caught his hand, slipped through 
 the parlor door, and shut it softly behind us. 
 " There ! " I whispered, " I am going to have 
 one minute to myself anyhow." 
 
 There is one satisfaction in having a 
 husband whom necessity calls from home 
 and but one : his love-making gathers force 
 and passion, missing the langourous flow of 
 daily affection. Robert leaned to kiss my 
 hair ; I tilted my head and kissed him. 
 
 " How long can you stay ? " I asked softly. 
 101
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Until to-morrow." 
 
 " O-h ! Is Henry going to stay also ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And Emily?" 
 
 Robert laughed at my tone of dismay. 
 
 " I want to see her, to have her here ; but 
 just now I want no one but you." Had I 
 learned to make love as well as Robert ? 
 
 " Make the best of it Give them a 
 chance; maybe they will fight it out." 
 
 " Never," I groaned, as I turned the knob 
 of the door noiselessly. No sound came 
 from the porch. I glanced out as I stole 
 across the hall, and saw that Henry sat there 
 alone ; in the dining-room, by the window, 
 stood Emily, her hands clasped behind her 
 back, her gaze on the river. 
 
 " Well ! " she cried, as if in astonishment, 
 "where have you been? I came to help." 
 She spoke petulantly, but her lashes were 
 wet. " I am hungry." 
 
 " For pity's sake ! You shall have the 
 very first piece. Here," cutting a huge 
 slice from the rich, round loaf. " Eat it 
 while I fix the tray." 
 102
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Give it to me ; let me carry it out," she 
 begged, when it was ready. 
 
 " No." 
 
 But she slipped it from beneath my hands 
 and was gone. Her supple figure swayed 
 as she held the heavy tray straight before 
 her; her demure eyes were dangerous. I 
 wondered how it was possible for Henry to 
 look at her so carelessly when, with a 
 manner that was a wistful challenge, she 
 stood before him; but he was coldly and 
 studiously polite no more. 
 
 It was my blithe happiness alone which 
 thawed the iciness between them. If they 
 would be nothing else they must at least be 
 friends here in my old home, on that porch 
 where the four of us had often loitered while 
 the tide rippled upon the beach, the wind 
 rustled in the restless mulberries, and the 
 river sparkled from shore to shore. 
 
 " Tell us of your visit, Emily," I asked 
 when she had sat down on the bench by my 
 side. " You enjoyed it ? " 
 
 " Y-e-s," as if she was not altogether sure. 
 
 " What was the matter? " I insisted. 
 103
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 She straightened herself with a little air of 
 defiance. 
 
 " Oh, there are no gentlemen left ; they 
 have all gone to the war." 
 
 " Nor were there any here until now. 
 Could n't you enjoy yourself without them ? " 
 I teased thoughtlessly. 
 
 " What is one to do ? " she drawled. 
 
 Robert looked at her curiously, but Henry's 
 gaze was fixed as if he saw nothing but the 
 sparkling river and the misty shore beyond. 
 
 " Why, walk and drive ; a hundred things ! " 
 I cried. 
 
 " 'T is salt without its savor." 
 
 " Well, there are more men about here 
 than there. Why did n't you stay at home ? " 
 
 " One grows restless." 
 
 " With such a disposition as Miss Emily's, 
 restlessness is natural." It was Henry who 
 spoke, and Emily's eyes flashed. 
 
 " Am I the only one ? " she demanded 
 hotly. " Well, it 's not a sin ; sometimes, per- 
 haps, a virtue," she added flippantly. 
 
 " Perhaps," Henry repeated as carelessly 
 as she herself had spoken. 
 104
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 This tilting must be stopped, but how? 
 The sound of a rapidly ridden horse and the 
 rattle of father's crutch on the back porch 
 answered me. " Company ! " he called as he 
 came through the hall. " How good it is to 
 see somebody ! Emily, when did you come 
 home, Miss ? Pretty as a peach and saucy as 
 ever, I '11 be bound." 
 
 Emily swept him a courtesy, and Henry's 
 lips twitched scornfully as he heard the 
 greeting. 
 
 " How are you, Henry ? wnere have you 
 been keeping yourself ? Why have n't you 
 been up with Robert before ? Plenty of 
 pretty girls around here." 
 
 " Is that always the attraction ? " Henry 
 laughed, as father vigorously shook his hand. 
 
 " It depends on the man ; now you " 
 father flourished his crutch in a comprehen- 
 sive sweep. Emily laughed. 
 
 " Plenty of ladies visiting the fort, too, I 
 hear." Father was delighted with the un- 
 expected guests. He talked glibly and gayly 
 once he had dropped into a chair and leaned 
 his crutch against the side of the doorway. 
 105
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Spoiling you to death, are they ? " he 
 chaffed, " coming to see you and bringing 
 you everything good to eat they can lay their 
 hands on. Good times you are having now ; 
 make the most of them," he ended shortly. 
 
 For days father had been going about 
 thoughtful and absorbed, with no tingling, 
 eager interest in everything about him. I 
 knew no reason for it. We had no letters, 
 no papers, yet he managed to find out some- 
 how what was going on ; and while those of 
 our neighbors whom I saw were jubilantly 
 boastful, he was grave and anxious. 
 
 " Well," he added after a pause, as if he 
 had followed out a line of thought and spoke 
 its conclusion, " war has not come very close 
 to us yet." 
 
 " It will soon," said Robert, slowly. 
 
 " Not soon enough for me," declared Henry, 
 " I am going to it." 
 
 " How ? " The words from father were 
 like a flash, so quick were they, so imperative. 
 
 " I have asked to be transferred. I leave 
 this week." Henry looked straight before 
 him as he spoke; none of us dared look at 
 106
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 Emily, but her fingers rested on the porch 
 rail beneath my eyes. Her clutch tightened 
 till her nails were blue. 
 
 " I thought perhaps you would lend me a 
 horse." 
 
 " Certainly, certainly ! " 
 
 " To go and see my mother." 
 
 " Of course, you shall have one in the 
 morning." 
 
 " I fear I must trouble you now.' 
 
 " Oh, come ! You are not going to-night." 
 
 " I must." 
 
 " Man, it will soon be dark." 
 
 " I should know the road if I were blind- 
 folded." Henry crimsoned from cheek to 
 forehead, the first sign of shaken composure 
 he had shown that evening ; and suddenly 
 we recalled the reason why that way had 
 grown as familiar as a daily trodden path 
 the lane from Emily's home ran into the 
 road a mile away. 
 
 Henry recovered himself first of all. " It 
 will be moonlight," he said carelessly. 
 
 "As you say. There is the supper bell. 
 I will tell Sam now." Father hobbled away 
 107
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 on his errand, as we went into the dining- 
 room. I made all the ado possible over 
 seating them, then seized on the first topic 
 I could think of, though it was a silly one. 
 
 Father had developed one curious custom 
 during his loneliness. The moment he put 
 his foot out of doors the animals followed 
 him in a train ; but, strangely enough, with 
 his friendliness for nearly every living beast, 
 he had no real fondness for that companion 
 of most men, a dog. Those on the planta- 
 tion must keep to their place, and that was 
 outside the house, not within. His house- 
 hold pets were cats. Five of them were 
 allowed the freedom of the place, and into 
 most curious habits father's vigorous will 
 had trained them. They stood now, as they 
 did at every ringing of the bell, in a straight 
 and sober guard before the hearth, their eyes 
 eager, their tails waving in wistful interroga- 
 tion-points above their backs. 
 
 " Fine fellows," father declared when he 
 entered and caught the subject of our laugh- 
 ter. " I had to have something around when 
 Lucy left." 
 
 108
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Beautiful substitutes," murmured Emily. 
 
 " I am flattered," I declared. " Tom is the 
 favorite," I chattered on ; but at mention of 
 his name Tom stepped out of line. Father's 
 hand was instantly on the slender switch 
 by his side ; he struck the offender a slight 
 cut, and the cat stepped soberly back into 
 place. 
 
 "How hungry they look; it is cruel!" I 
 cried. 
 
 "'They also serve " began Robert; but I 
 tossed a lump of sugar at him which hit him 
 deftly on the cheek, stopping such nonsense. 
 Father was scandalized, but the tension was 
 broken. No hidden fire of feeling was left 
 to flame suddenly around the table ; but light 
 talk and soft clatter of china were within the 
 room, and, without, the sound of the inrush- 
 ing tide and the rustling leaves. 
 
 Sam waited at the back porch when we 
 came out. " I done brought de hoss," he 
 called. 
 
 " You will pardon my haste," Henry 
 begged. 
 
 " You had better wait till morning," father 
 109
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 again urged him. " Your mother will be 
 abed by the time you get there." 
 
 " She will get up quickly enough when she 
 hears me call. I can hear the dogs barking 
 now, and see her leaning out of the window," 
 Henry added happily. He loved his mother 
 devotedly. 
 
 " I will see you again in the morning," he 
 added as he sprang into the saddle, lifted his 
 hat, and the horse, fresh from a long rest, 
 cavorted sidewise out of the gate. As it 
 closed behind him Emily shivered. " I must 
 go home, too," she declared. 
 
 " Why, Emily, the idea ! " I cried. " You 
 know you came to spend the night." 
 
 " I will come again soon. I must go 
 now. I have been away from home so 
 long. Mother is not well either. I ought 
 not to have left her so soon. It is not far 
 across the fields ; go over with me. You can 
 have the walk back by yourselves," she added 
 mischievously. 
 
 We lost both our guests, but I am afraid 
 we did not miss them much. Certainly we 
 wished for neither as we walked homeward 
 no
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 across the wheat field, the narrow path be- 
 tween the tall, yellow grain keeping us close 
 to each other's side. The wheat ears hung 
 heavy and limp with dew, the smell of the 
 ripening grain filled the air, fireflies twinkled 
 like fairy lights hung low and thick ; the 
 moon swung high above us, lighting the 
 levels of tall grain, showing the black smudge 
 of the woods on one hand, and on the other 
 a gleam of the river like a silver line upon 
 the picture's edge. It lighted up also the 
 brass buttons on Robert's coat, the buckle 
 of his belt, the gleam of his dark eyes be- 
 neath the wide brim of his hat. 
 
 A quail whistled cheerily from her covert, 
 a whippoorwill called near by. We loitered 
 under the summer sky, its beauties about us, 
 its pulses in our hearts. 
 
 in
 
 VIII 
 
 HOURS like these shortened the sum- 
 mer days and brightened those of 
 winter ; the days between were gray 
 and colorless, gladdened only by hope. 
 
 I made no visits to the farm, though Rob- 
 ert went now and then. The crops were 
 fine, he told me exultantly; corn-house and 
 barn-loft were well filled, the fodder-stack 
 well rounded, the yard was full of poultry. 
 Did I not wish to go and see? 
 
 " No," I answered imperturbably. 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " I don't want to." 
 
 " I don't see why you should n't." Robert 
 waited impatiently to see what 1 would say, 
 but I did not speak. I was remembering. 
 I recalled that morning when I left, the hour 
 when Lady's every hoof-beat and every turn 
 of the wheel sped me further from the small 
 house, the shadowing cherry tree, the stretch 
 
 112
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 of fields, and the encircling woods. Go down 
 that lane alone, I was always alone without 
 Robert, wander over the house, leave it 
 once more ! Some pain is needless ; this 
 was such. I would stay in the half-stagnant 
 peace I had created for myself. And so I 
 lived until that peace was torn with agony, 
 stunned with fear. 
 
 On a sullen, slow-dawning morning when 
 the mists clung close to the river's breast, 
 when there were no shore-lines, no distances, 
 but enveloping folds of drifting fog, we heard, 
 low, faint, and dull, the firing of heavy guns. 
 We were at the breakfast table that morn- 
 ing, father and I alone. The lighted candles 
 flickered yellow and ghastly against the gray 
 light which shone as through windows of 
 opaque glass. We could hear the heavy 
 drops of mist as they rolled from branch to 
 branch of the trees, close outside the win- 
 dow, and trickled to the ground ; the tiny 
 rills beat drop by drop from the shingled 
 eaves ; the acrid smoke blown down the 
 chimney by the wind stung eyes and 
 nostrils. 
 
 8 113
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 Father's face looked ghastly in the mingled 
 lights ; the heavy thatch of hair shading his 
 forehead made his blue eyes seem cavernous. 
 
 " What a morning ! " he grumbled when 
 he came into the room. " Where is Tom ? " 
 The other cats stood in a row before the 
 hearth. " There he is ; come here, sir ! " 
 Father stooped to stroke his black fur. 
 " Faugh ! how wet you are ! Where have 
 you been ? You should stay in out of the 
 damp. Ugh ! I wish it would pour ; any- 
 thing would be better than this. This fog 
 rasps your nerves. Give me some coffee," 
 as Sam came in bringing the steaming 
 urn. 
 
 "Come on, Lucy. No use standing at 
 that window, you can't see a yard before 
 you, can't see your hand before your face. 
 Come and get your breakfast." 
 
 But once at the table he was unusually 
 quiet. " Why don't you eat ? " he looked 
 up to ask. 
 
 " I am not hungry." 
 
 "Sam, pass the waffles to Miss Lucy. 
 Child," after a keen, searching look at me, 
 114
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 "you are worrying yourself sick; what 's the 
 use ? The very first gun has not been fired 
 at the fort. They are having a good time 
 there, those men. You had better be think- 
 ing about all the petting they are getting; 
 they will be spoiled to death. Why don't 
 you go and see Robert ? " 
 
 " He can come to see me," I answered 
 proudly. It was my old point of view. 
 
 Father chuckled. 
 
 " He does not like visitors forever com- 
 ing there. He says " I stopped ; what 
 Robert had said had not been compliment- 
 ary; it had been carelessly spoken, and I 
 would not repeat it. 
 
 " You are a home body like your mother. 
 She used to declare that she never wanted 
 to lose sight of the smoke of her own chim- 
 ney." Father was silent for a while, as he 
 always was after speaking of mother. The 
 very mention of her seemed to send his 
 thoughts back to recollections to which he 
 clung. 
 
 I crumbled the biscuit on my plate with 
 idle fingers. 
 
 "5
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " You should have more self-control," he 
 scolded. " You don't suppose every man in 
 a battle is killed. Your great-grandfather 
 fought through one war and your grand- 
 father through another; I have missed them 
 all." His tone of regret was ludicrous. 
 
 " I do believe you are sorry." And as I 
 spoke, at that moment, came the dull, rever- 
 berating booming over the mist-covered 
 river. The fork I held fell clattering on the 
 thin china plate, shattering it. 
 
 " Oh, my God ! " I breathed as I sprang 
 from my chair. 
 
 Father hobbled to the porch as fast as his 
 crutch could carry him ; the negroes ran 
 from their quarters to the bluff overlooking 
 the river, where the fog clung like wool. I 
 could not have taken a step. My knees 
 shook under me as I listened to those 
 sounds which boomed and thundered and 
 echoed through the fog, and set my being a- 
 quiver in response to their last faint roll. 
 So I stood when father, remembering me, 
 hurried back. He started to speak, but I 
 did not hear; I rushed past him up to my 
 116
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 room, and flung myself down beneath that 
 deep window looking riverward. " God ! " 
 I cried, " God ! " 
 
 Not another thought did my heart hold, 
 not a single word could I frame ; but as the 
 silence settled and the mist-drops rolled like 
 far-off guns to my excited fancy, I breathed 
 a prayer with that cry : " God, keep him ! 
 Save him ! God, keep him safe ! " 
 
 No faintest notion of prayer had I beyond 
 that formula of a daily plea founded upon 
 and built about the prayer my mother had 
 taught me. Grown woman that I was, my 
 lips had framed none other than that which 
 at night-tide acknowledged my homage to 
 the God of heaven and of earth though it 
 was to the first I bent my knee ; that far-off, 
 misty divinity which it comforts one to think 
 of, when all goes well, as ruling with benign 
 justice the universe. 
 
 I, a part of His creation, had lived as un- 
 questioningly as a bird sings her song of 
 summer ; but now when agony tore at my 
 heart, I sent a cry up to His remoteness. I 
 remembered that other word by which he 
 117
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 was sometimes called : I supplicated not 
 only God, but Father. 
 
 The mists folded back from the river, and 
 the low clouds came down in rain, which 
 rolled on the roof and hissed in the hearth ; 
 but nothing drowned those other sounds. 
 
 I heard father's voice, and, stumbling to 
 my feet, went down the stair to the hall 
 where he waited me. " Lucy, Lucy ! " he 
 called as I staggered on the last step. 
 " Come out into the air." 
 
 But as he opened the door the reverbera- 
 tion, which had for a short time ceased, broke 
 out anew, long, sullen, and insistent. I ran 
 out into the yard. I felt as if I must clutch 
 the hated folds of rain and mist, tear them 
 asunder, wrench from them the secret that 
 cloud and distance held. 
 
 " You are getting soaking wet ! " father 
 cried. " Sam, run, bring Miss Lucy's shawl." 
 Father hobbled after me with it, and folded 
 it about my head and shoulders ; he himself 
 was bareheaded, with the rain-drops clinging 
 to his thick silver hair. I saw them when 
 I looked up to thank him, but when his eyes 
 118
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 met mine he cried out : " Child, child! " and 
 then he put his hand on my shoulder, bent 
 close to me. " You must be brave." 
 
 " I cannot." 
 
 " You must hope." 
 
 The tremble of my lip answered him. 
 
 " At least you are not going to stay out 
 here. Get in, every one of you ! " to the 
 trembling servants. " Get to work." 
 
 But how could they? How could we 
 wait with any show of self-control, of pa- 
 tience ? I made no pretence of it. I sank 
 down into a chair in the parlor, when the 
 booming began again. " Oh, God ! " I cried, 
 as I flung my arms above my head, " to 
 think that any bomb we have heard may 
 have been his death, that he may now be 
 dead i I cannot endure it." 
 
 " You have got to." 
 
 " I cannot." 
 
 " There have been no cowards in our 
 family," with cutting sternness. 
 
 " What do you know of cowards," I blazed ; 
 "you, a man who knows what it is to be in 
 the midst of things ? " 
 
 119
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 I did not heed the bitterness of the single 
 word he spoke: "Yes." 
 
 " To fight, to die it is easy. It is quickly 
 done, there is not a breath for thought ; but 
 the woman at home, safe, protected, ah, 
 yes, and cared for, she knows that battles 
 rage, that the one being whose life is more 
 than life to her is in the midst of them ; that 
 any second may end it and she not even 
 know for days, for weeks. It is the uncer- 
 tainty of it which kills. And she must sit 
 at home and be brave, you say ; pshaw ! speak 
 truth ! She must sit and suffer." 
 
 " Lucy," said father, very gently, as if he 
 were afraid of me, " where did you hear such 
 things?" 
 
 " I never heard," I flamed ; " I know." 
 
 " Well, well," soothingly, " it is no time 
 for hard words," he walked restlessly about 
 the room, " but for patience, patience and 
 bravery." 
 
 He went to the window, out to the hall ; 
 I heard the porch door close ; I knew he was 
 again outside. It was useless to urge any- 
 thing but listening, watching; the negroes 
 1 20
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 gathered again upon the bluff under the 
 tall mulberries, their faces ashy with fear, 
 the rain standing thick on their woolly heads. 
 At noon the clouds lifted, rolled back from 
 the horizon, and drifted away. Our world 
 lay before us tender mists on the opposite 
 shores, green grass before our door, blue 
 skies overhead. 
 
 That day was but the beginning. At 
 evening, morning, or noon, but never again 
 incessant, the cannonading was heard. There 
 was no heavy firing after that first day or 
 two, but the constant menace, the never- 
 long-silent reminder by the enemy of a 
 victory already won whose fruits could be 
 waited for; for not a gun from the forts 
 on either side of the York could equal the 
 attacking party's range. 
 
 How I lived from day to day I do not 
 know; I slept as if I were dead from ex- 
 haustion ; I ate because father made me. 
 His strong will kept every wheel of the 
 plantation life moving. He ordered the 
 spring work, the ploughing, the planting, as 
 if there were no such things as danger and 
 
 121
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 war. When I made some comment on it 
 he was ablaze with indignation. 
 
 " What do you expect me to do ? sit down 
 and hold my hands because there is a gun- 
 boat down the York River ? We are all here, 
 we are all alive ; don't we get hungry ? 
 have n't the negroes to be fed ? Who is 
 going to do it, I wonder? No, sir, every- 
 thing will go on just the same. The land 
 is in good condition, splendid ; I will plant 
 more corn than ever; yes, sir, just to let the 
 neighbors see. Scared half to death they 
 are, some of them, sitting still, doing noth- 
 ing. What's the use? There is just one 
 way in this world to live to plan as if we 
 were to live forever, and then to live each 
 day as if it were our last." 
 
 It was late in May that he handed me 
 a letter, and listened neither to my cry of 
 delight nor to any question as to how he 
 had gotten it, but shortly bade me read it. 
 The blessed lines were of Robert's forming. 
 
 DEAR LUCY [it began, coldly enough], I have 
 just heard from your father 
 
 " When did you write ? " I demanded. 
 122
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Read on." 
 
 and written him concerning you both. You must 
 do as he has advised. It may be hard for you 
 to go back home without me as you have 
 always declared you would not do but you 
 must go now. This fort and Yorktown must be 
 evacuated. As soon as it is known that we have 
 left, the enemy will occupy them. The river will 
 be patrolled by gunboats, and the adjacent coun- 
 try will be under their control. Bellevue is too 
 conspicuous to escape. 
 
 There is no time to write the words I long to 
 say [how stiff he was !] ; nor is it well to harrow 
 you with vain wishes. May Providence watch 
 over and protect you, and may there be yet 
 many happy days in store for us both. 
 
 ROBERT. 
 
 P. S. We evacuate the fort to-morrow and march 
 to Richmond. 
 
 When I looked up at father he was startled. 
 It was the joy he saw in my face, I think. He 
 had expected tears or remonstrances, possibly; 
 but I had only one thought for that moment. 
 I held in my hands the lines which Robert 
 himself had pencilled ; he was safe and well. 
 " How did you get it?" 
 
 " I sent Sam." 
 
 123
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " And did n't let me know! " 
 
 "I I well, I did what was best. You 
 see what he says ? " impatiently. 
 
 Then it began to strike home to me. 
 
 " You understand ? " 
 
 Yes, I understood. I had been slow enough, 
 stupid enough, but now I knew. We were 
 to run away, to leave the old house because 
 it was threatened and unsafe. In a passion 
 of revolt I knew how I loved it. If I had 
 ever thought that the ties which bound me 
 to it were frail, I knew now how strong they 
 were. All the love of home and associations 
 woke with a thousand clamoring voices and 
 tugged but the stronger at my heart be- 
 cause they had slumbered. I looked about 
 me, at the porch, the trees, the river; the 
 wide yard and white-paled garden and vine- 
 wreathed summer-house ; the weather-stained 
 brick house, with wing stretched toward the 
 quarters ; and father's glance followed mine 
 as passionately. " Well, well ! " he cried 
 hoarsely, " I feared it long ago. I saw it 
 coming. I knew the forts could not be held. 
 They have been longer than I thought, or 
 124
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 they have been slower in Richmond. It 's 
 a wonder they did n't see it long ago. It 's 
 a mercy that they have lost but one life 
 bombs bursting at any hour, on the embank- 
 ments, inside the fort." 
 
 " You told me there was no danger," I ac- 
 cused hotly. 
 
 " Never ! I said Well, it will soon be 
 over now. I sent Sam to find out what 
 Robert thought." 
 
 " Why did n't you let me know he was 
 going ? " I again demanded. 
 
 " Humph ! You would have had a dozen 
 fits ; would have written page after page, 
 and cried yourself blind over every one of 
 them. No, I just sent him off quietly." 
 
 " How is Robert ? What did he say ? " 
 
 Father laughed. " There is Sam," point- 
 ing with his crutch barnward. " Go, see for 
 yourself." And I ran out to make a hundred 
 inquiries. 
 
 But I learned little that I did not already 
 know. The letter was written the day be- 
 fore. Even then the fort might be evacu- 
 ated and the soldiers on the march ; soon 
 125
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 the gunboats might show, sullen and strong, 
 proclaiming their ownership of the waterway, 
 and lie at last before West Point. This time 
 there would be no resistance from irregular 
 soldiery flushed with enthusiasm. The men 
 were with the regiments far away, those 
 marching from the forts being the last 
 to go. 
 
 We made a frenzy of preparation for 
 flight. The house was to be locked ; the 
 negroes were to live in their cabins and keep 
 as closely as possibly to the old routine ; one 
 of their number was left in charge, and father 
 would be back and forth. Our trunks were 
 packed and started off by midday ; and in 
 the afternoon, as I came down the wide stair 
 after some last work in the rooms above, I 
 stopped on the landing for one long look at 
 the wide hall, where the springtide shadows 
 showed along the floor. As I paused, father 
 called me imperatively. 
 
 He stood in the porch door, his face red 
 with excitement; and his hand shook as he 
 lifted his crutch to point with it. " Look ! " 
 he commanded. 
 
 126
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 Forging up the river, cutting the pathway 
 of the sunset asunder, the smoke hanging in 
 black rolling clouds above her stacks, came 
 the first gunboat of the enemy. 
 
 A very passion of resentment and rebel- 
 lion seized me. I whipped off the shawl of 
 crimson crepe I had thrown around my 
 shoulders and waved it wildly above my 
 head. " Hurrah ! " I cried. " Hurrah for Jef- 
 ferson Davis and The Confederate States ! " 
 
 Father wheeled ; the angry light shone 
 like steel in his eyes. " Look at her ! " he 
 cried, pointing his crutch scornfully toward 
 me ; and then with the very essence of sar- 
 casm in his voice, " And, man, she would 
 run from a black bug ! " 
 
 127
 
 IX 
 
 WHEN I had blown out my candle 
 that night I stood under the slop- 
 ing roof of the dormer window for 
 a long look outwards. The mulberries were 
 in full leaf, the river, where it showed through 
 their foliage, ran gray and dusky except for 
 the mirrored stars flashed here and there 
 from rippling waves ; and its mighty and 
 resistless rush, with the mystery of night 
 and silence, touched me with awe. There 
 is some instinct deep within me which 
 quickens with sympathy for those who, not 
 understanding the great and loving spirit of 
 God, peopled the dim vistas of the woods, 
 the bubbling springs, the sparkling rills, the 
 rivers' flow, the tides of the sea and its still 
 depths with deities. Either must I have 
 adored the spirit of each or believed in the 
 Father of all. How else could the chill of 
 the blood, the adoration of the soul, the 
 stilling of one's breath, be born? 
 128
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 Something in the forces of nature thrills 
 each soul. The child, or a people in its 
 childhood, interprets such feeling by attribut- 
 ing to those phases which touch the human 
 heart most deeply some attendant spirit 
 striving to make its influence felt through 
 the grosser human part to the finer spiritual. 
 The full-grown man, the nation come to its 
 maturity, realizes in all the One Great God 
 who alike counts the unseen stars and num- 
 bers the hairs of our head and sees the beauty 
 of the lilies of the field. 
 
 I leaned against the sloping walls, the long 
 plaits of my hair trailing across the wide sill, 
 my soul gone out in some vague wandering 
 which words could not hold nor tell. How 
 long I saw it before I was conscious of it I 
 do not know, but slowly I became aware of a 
 figure moving beyond the mulberries. I lost 
 it in the shadows, by the obscurings of the 
 branches, but caught it again standing boldly 
 and watchfully on the bluff, and I turned icy 
 with the first fear I had felt that day. 
 
 My voice shook when I leaned over the 
 balusters and called, " Father 1 " 
 9 129
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 He answered instantly. 
 
 " Who is that out in the yard ? " I asked, 
 when he stood below me in the hall. 
 
 " Where ? " with an alertness which 
 quickened my pulses. 
 
 " Under the trees, watching the house." 
 
 " Oh, Sam ! " There was evident relief in 
 his voice. 
 
 " What is he doing ? " I insisted. 
 
 " Oh ! I thought he had better be on the 
 lookout ; no telling what might happen. 
 Danger ? not the least bit of it. I just 
 thought well, it will do no harm to be 
 on the safe side. Run along back to bed, 
 go right to sleep ; you will have to be up 
 early in the morning." 
 
 Obedience to one part of that command 
 was impossible. I lay long awake, shivering 
 with some feeling which was neither cold nor 
 fear, but a keen physical discomfort to which 
 Sam's footsteps were a constant incentive. So 
 I was asleep at dawn and had to be awakened. 
 I hurried into my clothes and down into the 
 dining-room, but the meal had been already 
 served. Father sat in his chair, and behind 
 130
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 him, with expectant faces turned tablewards 
 and their tails waving high in air, stood the 
 cats in solemn array. Tom alone was miss- 
 ing. Father watched the door impatiently. 
 When he emptied the cream jug into a bowl 
 which he placed carefully on the hearth, the 
 black had not yet appeared. I paid little at- 
 tention to father's complaints concerning it, 
 for it seemed too trivial at such a time. The 
 carriage stood ready at the door, and crowded 
 about the porch the negroes waited. It was 
 the hour I most dreaded. 
 
 " Are you ready ? " I called to father. 
 
 He came out on the porch, a frown of 
 anxiety showing deep between his brows. 
 " Has Sam had his breakfast ? " he asked, as 
 he looked at me, and then at the sorrowful 
 crowd near me. 
 
 " Yes, sah," answered Sam, standing at the 
 horse's head. 
 
 Molly by my side had flung her apron over 
 her head, and beneath its shelter was sobbing 
 and moaning. " Father," I begged, " let us 
 go at once and as quietly as we can ; if we 
 wait "
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 "Well, well! Just get ready." He hob- 
 bled away to the stables. 
 
 " Marse Willum done gone to look fer 
 Tom," chuckled Sam. 
 
 " What does he want with him ? " I asked, 
 tartly. It was ridiculous to have father fuss- 
 ing over a cat at such a time. 
 
 " La ! don't you know ? He 's gwine carry 
 ebery las' cat erway wid him." Sam's long 
 lank body fairly doubled up as he laughed. 
 " He done tole me las' night to bring him a 
 bag, a big, strong one; an' den dis mornin' 
 Tom he 's a-missin'." 
 
 " What in the world put such an idea in 
 father's head?" 
 
 " Miss Lucy, Marse Willum done pet dem 
 cats too long. He cyarnt go erway an' leab 
 'em. He knows 't ain't a niggah on dis place 
 will tek cyar o' dem. Niggahs 'spises cats 
 mos' in gin'ral, anyways ; dey wants a houn' 
 dog ebery time, an' houn's an' cats dey neb- 
 bah did git erlong togeddah ; and Marse 
 Willum he cyarnt leab 'em ; an' he don't 
 know how to leab ary colt or calf or nig- 
 gah on dis place. He '11 carry you home, 
 132
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 but he '11 be back hyar mos' de time, you 
 see." 
 
 I had been long learning father's pitying 
 heart. Even now it took Sam to open my 
 eyes, Sam whom none of us accounted very 
 sensible, and whom I had spent hours in 
 teaching. 
 
 " 'T warnt fer you," he went on talking to 
 the sable ring of his audience as well as to 
 me, " he would n't go a step. Think he 'd 
 run erway Marse Willum ? Lan', he ain't 
 feard of nuthin' in dis worl', he 'd nebbah 
 leab dis place. But he cyarnt keep you 
 hyar, an' he cyarnt leab you dyar by yo' se'f 
 an' dyar 'tis." 
 
 A sympathetic understanding of his words 
 was on every face near me. With their 
 instinct they had divined a situation which 
 had disclosed no part of itself to me but 
 the necessary action. I looked at Sam, 
 at Molly's covered head, at every sorrowful 
 face. I went from one to another No, I 
 will not write that! I cannot picture that 
 leave-taking. Father came back before I had 
 finished and waited for me by the buggy. 
 133
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 tt Lucy," he began, " would you mind 
 Child, don't sob so! make it as easy for 
 them as you can; you know how they will 
 grieve anyhow. Would you mind if I did n't 
 go with you ? Sam can take you. I will be 
 there by night." 
 
 A sudden fear of the loneliness I might 
 feel smote me. " You will certainly come," 
 I begged. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; certainly. You don't mind." 
 
 " N-o." 
 
 " Tell them good-by again," father whis- 
 pered, nodding to those crowding about us. 
 " Say it bravely. It 's just for a little while. 
 You will be back again soon. Pshaw ! you 
 must n't mind it, nor they either. Come ! " 
 
 So I held my head high, even if my eyes 
 were wet, and went once more from one to 
 another. As I sprang into the carriage I 
 heard father's low, " Quick, Sam ! The gate 
 is open; drive on." I looked back to see 
 him standing straight and tall against a pillar 
 watching me ; but the vision was but short- 
 lived. Sam drove at break-neck speed, and 
 the road was none too smooth. 
 134
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 When we reached the woods we went 
 slowly. The land was low and swampy; 
 the growth of tree and bush and vine, rank. 
 A corduroy road stretched along half a mile 
 which, but for its bridging, would have been 
 sometimes impassable; rails and poles were 
 alike hidden under a slush of black mud. 
 The horse, knowing his long task, went with 
 bent head and slow step ; we bumped and 
 jolted over the rough way. 
 
 Half-way across we heard a horseman 
 strike the other end. The horse, Sam, and 
 I, alike, pricked up our ears and kept a sharp 
 lookout ahead; we turned a shaded curve 
 and met Robert riding gayly toward us. 
 How splendid he looked ! Was he hand- 
 some ? A stranger would have noted first 
 his thatch of thick red hair; but his broad, 
 white forehead, his deep-set, dark eyes, his 
 firm, well-moulded chin I was not analyz- 
 ing then. I looked and looked, my breath 
 but a light flutter of delight in my throat. 
 Shadow and sunlight flickered over him and 
 over Lady's velvety flanks. 
 
 " Sam, you rascal ! Get down there," were 
 135
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 his first words. " You can ride my horse ; I 
 will drive." Sam was out in an instant, and 
 in another was on Lady's back. Robert was 
 by my side. 
 
 " Ride on ! " he commanded the grinning 
 negro. " And you need n't look back." 
 Robert's brown eyes twinkled as he warned 
 him. 
 
 " We evacuated the fort yesterday," he 
 explained, after the first blissful moment of 
 our meeting. " We are on the march to 
 Richmond. I got permission to come by 
 and say and see you," he corrected him- 
 self quickly. " Lady is so swift I can catch 
 up with the regiment by noon." He told 
 their line of march and where he could over- 
 take them. " I was afraid you would be 
 gone." 
 
 " An hour later and you would have 
 missed me." 
 
 " But you see I did not." 
 
 I had never seen Robert in gayer mood. 
 
 If any trace of the emotion which had racked 
 
 me was visible on face or in manner he gave 
 
 no sign of seeing it. We stole that hour 
 
 136
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 between his long absences and a future 
 which might hold any fate; our spirits 
 sprang to meet it as blithely as the birds 
 sang in the hoary trees arching overhead. 
 I told the tale of father's perplexity, and he 
 laughed delightedly; it was easy to be gay 
 while the sun shone, the fresh breeze beat 
 against my face, and Robert was by my side. 
 I even forgot my own affairs long enough 
 to talk of Emily's. Where was Henry? I 
 asked. In what regiment had he enlisted ? 
 When had he been heard from ? I scarcely 
 noticed Robert's uneasy manner, though I 
 remembered it afterwards, his short replies, 
 his broken phrases of "difficult service," 
 " uncertain headquarters," nor how com- 
 pletely he turned the theme to Emily. 
 
 I could not tell him much of her. In the 
 fear of those last months the households on 
 the distant farms had shrunken into them- 
 selves. Little visiting was done. Emily 
 and her mother had been left alone at home, 
 and we wondered if they would take refuge 
 in Middlesex or if they would dare to stay ; 
 the long windings of the creek before their 
 137
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 house was reached seemed to render them 
 secure. 
 
 The horse went slowly, and the moments 
 were crowded with quick words ; but the 
 river road came at last to the county road, 
 and there sat Sam on Lady, the sunlight 
 shining on her dappled sides. 
 
 Robert had said good-by before we came 
 to the meeting of the roads, while we were 
 still out of sight of Sam's mischievous eyes, 
 but this was the parting. He jumped from 
 the buggy as Sam slipped from the horse ; 
 I, too, was in the road before Sam knew it. 
 
 " I am going to say good-by to Lady," I 
 cried hysterically, as I ran up to her, leaned 
 my cheek against her slender head, and 
 stroked it gently. All thought, all feeling 
 was benumbed ; how could I let him go, now, 
 at last? I looked at the familiar road, the 
 pines bordering it on one hand, the weather- 
 worn fence shutting in the fields on the 
 other, the wild roses and blackberries 
 abloom in its corners, the cloud of white 
 butterflies fluttering over a pool drying by 
 the wayside, up at the soft white clouds drift* 
 138
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 ing overhead. So I had seen it on any 
 summer's day of my eighteen years; I had 
 come to it, now, for this crucial moment. 
 
 Robert would not look at me. The sub- 
 lime yet sad truth we learn in the agoniz- 
 ing hour of life is that we must face such 
 moments alone. The great things of the 
 soul are settled with God, not man. Robert 
 knew that I myself must gather the strength 
 I needed ; he mercifully left me to do it. 
 He bent above the wild roses, making a 
 pretence of plucking them. 
 
 I leaned harder against Lady, pulled her 
 head lower, and into her silken ear whispered 
 a command ; then I felt a touch on my 
 shoulder. 
 
 " I must go, dear." Robert put his hand 
 filled with roses upon my shoulder, and stood 
 looking down at me. " Remember, I leave 
 you in charge at home," he warned gently. 
 " 'Zekiel takes all his orders from you." 
 
 It seemed absurd. I looked up quickly, 
 and met Robert's glance ; he smiled bravely, 
 but was there a suspicion of moisture in his 
 eyes? 
 
 139
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " So I told him when I was home a week 
 ago. I knew this must come. You must 
 let me go now." 
 
 He caught me up, lifted me into the buggy, 
 and put the roses on my lap he knew my 
 love of them. We gazed at each other for 
 a breath's space while the pines sighed softly. 
 " The roses at home are blooming, too," he 
 said as he stepped aside, and waved to Sam. 
 But when I saw him last he stood in the 
 middle of the road, his head bared, his face 
 toward us ; Lady, by the roadside had turned 
 her head and was watching him with big, 
 questioning eyes. 
 
 140
 
 " T WILL never go back without you." 
 I had said it to Robert and vowed 
 it to myself ; but when the road 
 plunged into the wood, when the horse 
 trotted noiselessly and the wheels made no 
 sound on the thick pine-needles, when the 
 great trees interlaced their wide branches 
 overhead, my heart lightened of its intoler- 
 able load. I seemed nearer Robert with 
 every turn of the wheel ; and when I stood 
 in the doorway, and saw the roses abloom, 
 as he had said, I felt a touch of companion- 
 ship which was as inexpressible as it was 
 intangible. I could meet Mammy with a 
 face almost as shining as her own. 
 
 " Lan', Miss Lucy, but I is glad to see 
 you ! Why did n't you come befo' ? Why 
 did n't you come wid Marse Robert ? What 
 you mean by leabin' me all dese days, an' 
 you ain't nebbah pahted from me befo' since 
 
 141
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 de day you was bohn ? I come mighty nigh 
 comin' up dyar to Bellevue myse'f, deed I 
 did. I was fair pinin' fer de sight o' you." 
 Mammy bustled about, putting my bundles 
 away, hanging up my clothes, doing a dozen 
 small services while she talked. 
 
 " I was jes fair sot on it one time, but 
 Marse Robert he come 'long 'bout dat time 
 an' he say ' no.' Jes sot right down hyar in 
 yo' own chair, I wants to look at you good. 
 Er ! hum ! " with long keen scutiny. If she 
 saw any change to deplore or to admire 
 she held her peace concerning it. " Lan' ! " 
 she exclaimed again. " Ise glad to have you 
 back. Ise gwine keep you dis time sho an' 
 tek cyar o' you good, dat I is. I done prom- 
 ised Marse Robert so when he come home. 
 'Warnt wuth while fer him to ax me. He 
 say, ' 'Ria, you gwine look after Miss Lucy 
 good fer me ? ' an' I says, * I gwine look after 
 her good fer myse'f, Ise been doin' dat ebbah 
 since she was 'bout one hour ole.' 'Twas 
 kind o' sassy, but I was teched up. ' Ain't 
 dat my chile ? ' I says ; an' he say, ' Yes, 
 so 'tis.' But den he sort o' smiled an' say 
 
 142
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 low, lak he talkin' to hisse'f, ' an' my wife. 
 You mus' tek cyar o' her fer bof,' he 'clared 
 loud an' strong. An' I gwine do it, honey ; 
 you trus' yo' Mammy fer dat. 
 
 "When is Marse Willum comin'?" she 
 asked suddenly, for we had both fallen silent 
 after that speech about Robert, and it was 
 best we should not. 
 
 " To-night." 
 
 " Dat so ? Well, dyar 's jes a hundred 
 things to see befo' den. I wants you to 
 see de chicken-coops jes one time, chock-a- 
 block, ebery one o' dem, wid de purtiest 
 things you ebbah sot yo' eyes on. An' de 
 yaller, she's hatchin' scattering same as 
 usual." 
 
 " How is Miss Nancy? " I asked, when we 
 were out in the yard. 
 
 " She 's got de rheumatiz. De Lawd only 
 knows why she ain't daid wid it long ergo, 
 goin' erroun' dressed up lak a scan'lous ghos'. 
 She's a-payin' fer her foolishness, sho." 
 
 " I must go and see her," I declared at 
 once. 
 
 " 'Deed, you mus', honey. She done axed 
 143
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 aftah you, an 5 axed aftah you. Lan' ! dyar 's 
 'Zekiel ! Ef he ain't come a-trapsin' clean up 
 from de 'baccer fiel' ! an' Dick 's a-trottin' at 
 his heels. Dey is done heard somehow dat 
 you is come. Praise de Lamb ! dis place 
 ain't gwine be so lonesome now. Look at 
 'em," she chuckled; "jes grinnin' till ebery 
 toof dey got is shinin'." 
 
 I was besieged between them. 'Zekiel in 
 one breath wanted to tell me all the state 
 of the farm : what fields were planted, which 
 lying waste for rest ; how many calves frisked 
 in the pasture; to boast of a week-old colt 
 within the stable. Mammy was as urgent 
 about her affairs of lock-room and hen-house. 
 It took short time to find that the half- 
 ruined place which Robert had bought had 
 been reclaimed to prosperity ; well tilled 
 fields and mended fences and improved 
 out-buildings all bespoke it, and seeing their 
 state I recalled Robert's plea : " Take care 
 of everything for me ! " 
 
 I felt as if in solemn charge. I was once 
 more Lucy Aylett. At Bellevue I had felt 
 myself my father's daughter, though changed 
 
 144
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 and unreal ; here, rimmed by the pines, far-off 
 from all that I had known, save as Robert's 
 wife, I found before the day was over one 
 precious thing, myself. 
 
 Every hour was full until father came. He 
 rode in his gig, and as his horse came tearing 
 at break-neck speed down the lane, the spokes 
 of his wheels, revolving in the level beams of 
 the low-swinging sun, were radiant in their 
 light. His face was anxious and furrowed, 
 his lips straight-set, as he flung down the 
 reins and the horse instantly came to a 
 stand-still. 
 
 I ran out to meet him. " How long you 
 have been ! " I called. 
 
 "Yes, yes! I couldn't help it." He 
 brightened at the sound of my cheerful 
 voice. " Such a time as I had getting off." 
 He began to tell me one incident of the day 
 after another as he got out carefully, and 
 cautiously lifted from the vehicle's foot a 
 loosely tied bag. 
 
 " You, Dick ! " he greeted the boy, as 
 Dick came hurrying out. " Hello, wait there 
 
 a moment! What must I do with them. 
 10 I45
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 Lucy ? " looking helplessly down at the bag 
 he held. " Had I better let him carry them 
 to the barn ? Must I turn them loose here ? 
 What do you think ? " 
 
 He stooped, untied the string, but held 
 the mouth of the bag together in his hands 
 while he looked at me perplexedly. Before 
 I could answer, the question was settled for 
 him. With one mighty squirm and spring, 
 Tom was out. He stood for a second, tail 
 erect and spread big as a fox's brush, the 
 hair standing straight on his back, his yellow 
 eyes bulging; then, with a hideous yowl, he 
 sped like a black streak straight down the 
 road to the barn. The others sprang after 
 him, knocking father's crutch from beneath 
 his arm in the rush. He fell back against 
 the palings, clutching them for support; 
 Dick flung himself on the ground rolling 
 and howling with delight. 
 
 " You black rascal ! You black rascal ! " 
 spluttered father. 
 
 " Which, which ? " I cried. " Who is the 
 black rascal ? " 
 
 Father was too offended to reply. He 
 146
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 looked from me, holding up by the gate, to 
 Dick rolling over on the ground, then 
 picked up his crutch and hobbled off stable- 
 wards. But I caught up to him, ran my 
 arm through his, and faced him about. 
 " Let them alone," I cried ; " they won't go 
 away farther than the barn. ' Let them 
 alone,' I droned, 'and they'll come home, 
 bringing their tails behind them.' " I could 
 not help it, and I think father forgave the 
 teasing. 
 
 Our home-coming had been saved its 
 touch of tragedy, and next morning Tom 
 with the other cats stood in line before 
 our fireplace. Whenever Dick's eyes rolled 
 so that he could see them which was 
 often he grinned from ear to ear. 
 
 147
 
 XI 
 
 WE had been home but a week when 
 we heard that the forts at Glouces- 
 ter Point and Yorktown were oc- 
 cupied ; we had been there but two weeks 
 when we heard that Bellevue had been 
 raided. 
 
 Father may have known what to expect 
 from the fortunes of war. Robert must have 
 anticipated them when he warned us that 
 Bellevue was too conspicuous ; but to me 
 it was a dreadful and monstrous injustice 
 that our corn-house and barn-loft, smoke- 
 house and stable had been swept clean ; that 
 the hay-stacks had been burned in the fields ; 
 that some of the negroes had run away, some 
 had been carried off to work at the fort, and 
 only a few remained. 
 
 Sam was amongst those carried to the 
 fort. He was one of Mammy's six children, 
 of whom only two were left, the youngest 
 148
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 and the oldest ; and he was her favorite. 
 Dick had been allowed to grow much as he 
 chose, but Sam, lank-looking and half sick 
 always, had been spoiled and humored to 
 confirmed laziness. 
 
 Mammy had listened with meanings and 
 mutterings, and yet entire resignation, to 
 the tale of the losses at Bellevue. She had 
 even seemed to derive some sort of agoniz- 
 ing satisfaction at their completeness; but 
 when Sam was mentioned, her half-closed 
 lids flew wide open, every inch of her great 
 size stiffened. " Sam ! What dat you say 
 'bout him?" 
 
 When she took it in she plunged for the 
 house ; only one man was great enough to 
 help her in that extremity. " Marse Willum ! " 
 she shrieked. " Marse Willum ! " 
 
 With dumb lips and strained eyes " Marse 
 Willum " sat before the empty hearth in the 
 chamber. He never turned his head at the 
 sound of Mammy's heavy, rushing footsteps, 
 nor at her cry. 
 
 " Lawd ! Marse Willum ; Lawd, Lawd 1 " 
 was all she could at first say. 
 149
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 Father made an impatient movement in 
 his chair. 
 
 " What is gwine come o' us ? " 
 
 " Nothing," father snapped. 
 
 " Nuthin' ! Does you call it nuthin' to be 
 took up an' marched off an' " 
 
 " What are you talking about anyhow ? " 
 Father wheeled so that he could see Mammy 
 where she stood in the middle of the floor, 
 wringing her hands, the tears rolling down 
 her smooth, fat cheeks. 
 
 " What you think I 'm talkin' 'bout ? " in 
 hot indignation ; " I 'm talkin' 'bout Sam." 
 
 Father had thought her lamentations were 
 for Bellevue. He was too mad to sit still. 
 He got up, fitted his crutch under his arm. 
 " Sam ! Sam ! " he blazed. 
 
 " What you think I 'm talkin' 'bout if 't ain't 
 my own chile ? Did you think " Sudden 
 light seemed to break in upon her. " Marse 
 Willum, you ain't distressin' o' yo'se'f 'bout 
 de place ? Don't you sorrow 'bout dat ! All 
 dem trials an' tribulations, dey is in de han's 
 o' de Lawd. He '11 mek 'em all work to- 
 geddah fer good an' fer His glory. Yes, 
 
 150
 
 sah," in a high sing-song, "jes you put yo 1 
 trus' in Him, an' don't you fret." 
 
 " Fret, you old numbskull, you ! Take 
 your preaching home to yourself; you are 
 the one that 's making a fuss. Put your 
 trust in the Lord," in a tone of the most 
 intense sarcasm ; " don't you fret ! " father 
 shouted. 
 
 Mammy listened with eyes rolled upwards, 
 mouth agape. " Dat 's my chile," she said 
 simply; " dat 's dif'runt." 
 
 " Yes," father snorted, " it usually is differ- 
 ent when a thing is yours, touches you." 
 
 " Marse Willum, don't you be cantanker- 
 ous," Mammy begged, as she fell to wringing 
 her hands afresh. " Tell me what you 'spose 
 dey 's gwine do wid Sam." 
 
 " Hang him." 
 
 " Oh, my Gawd, my Gawd ! " Mammy 
 fell down on the floor and flung her apron 
 over her head. " My Gawd ! " she moaned, as 
 she rocked herself to and fro ; " I thought so." 
 
 Father watched her for a moment, then 
 came nearer and poked at her with his crutch. 
 " Get up. Don't make a fool of yourself.
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 You know better than that. They won't 
 hang him unless they know more about him 
 than I do. Lucy, get her up; make her 
 hush. She will set me crazy." 
 
 I knelt by Mammy and put my arms around 
 her, comforted her as best I could ; but get 
 up she would not. She sat still on the floor, 
 and when she could speak she began once 
 more to question. " You says you knows 
 dey ain't gwine ain't gwine " she choked 
 over the dreadful word. 
 
 "No, they will do something worse " 
 My hand was on her shoulder and I felt it 
 quiver and shake, but she sat speechless. 
 "They'll put him to work." 
 
 " Work ! " cried Mammy in dismay. " Sam 
 nebbah did do no work in all his bohn days." 
 
 " He will do it now." 
 
 " De onlies' thing in the worl' he knows 
 how to do is to hitch a boss an' wait on de 
 table." 
 
 " Perhaps that 's what they want him for." 
 
 Mammy was too ignorant of camp life to 
 understand the irony of that suggestion ; and 
 strangely enough she was comforted by it. 
 152
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 She stumbled clumsily to her feet and started 
 to leave the room. At the door she paused 
 with her hand on the latch. Her black face 
 was full of pity and sympathy, now that her 
 worst fears were quelled. 
 
 " Don't you worry, Marse Willum," she 
 soothed ; " jes think you might a' been dyar, 
 you an' Miss Lucy," she seemed to think 
 that might have meant any fate, " an' 
 hyar you is safe an' soun'. De Lawd, He '11 
 tek cyar o' His own." 
 
 " Turn Sam over to Him, then." 
 
 " I done dat long ergo, sah, de very day 
 he was bohn." She closed the door gently 
 as she went out. 
 
 From that day news of disasters came so 
 fast that they ran together in a blur of horror 
 and fear ; news from the army of sick and 
 wounded and dead; news from the country 
 of raids and losses and constant terror ; that 
 Emily's home had been burned, and she 
 and her mother were refugees in Middlesex. 
 Emily's mother was possessed of a shrewish 
 tongue whose stinging properties were well 
 known ; she would not restrain it even before
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 a hostile soldiery, and in revenge for the 
 hard thrusts she flung at them, they had 
 made her homeless. I wrote to Emily as 
 soon as I heard it and begged her to visit 
 me ; but there had been no answer, and I 
 feared the letter, sent from hand to hand, 
 had never reached her. 
 
 Mails there were none. Our tidings fil- 
 tered through somehow, slowly, surely and 
 sometimes they were deadly. When the few 
 neighbors met they looked at one another 
 with tense faces, each afraid of what the 
 other might know. 
 
 But whatever was known of battles fought 
 and lost or won, of dead or wounded or miss- 
 ing, drifted first to the centre of our neigh- 
 borhood The Ordinary. The old tavern 
 which had given to the cross-roads its name 
 had been for years a quiet dwelling-place; 
 below it, in the angle of the road, stood the 
 store and post-office, with the wide treadway 
 of a cotton-gin, long disused, gaping through 
 the walls of a tumbling shack not far behind 
 it; across the sandy road the store-keeper 
 made his home; wide fields of poor soil 
 
 154
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 stretched opposite him ; and in the last angle 
 of the crossing roads stood a huge chestnut, 
 whose mighty branches sheltered the patient 
 beasts while their masters loitered within 
 the store or on the benches of its porch. 
 For the people still gathered there for tid- 
 ings as they had once come for letters and 
 supplies ; though the shelves were well-nigh 
 empty and the counters barren, the store was 
 yet a meeting-place for those too old, too 
 young, or too afflicted to be marching with 
 the regiments. 
 
 When we heard that a great battle had 
 been fought we went for days with hushed 
 lips and quaking hearts ; who might be 
 widowed ? who childless ? We besieged The 
 Ordinary with eager questionings. Then 
 after a great slaughter a list of dead and 
 wounded sent by some pitying hand was 
 tacked on the gray trunk of the old tree. 
 Those branches had seen Indian warfare, 
 tribe against tribe, had seen the scalping of 
 the white man, and heard the savage's death- 
 cry, yet never had they seen so dire a picture 
 as that of which that paper white for glad-
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 ness, marked black as if for death told the 
 tale. That writing saved much the ques- 
 tion it choked one to ask, the answer the 
 hearer dreaded to speak. Each learned his 
 own tidings there; after that, the word of 
 gossip and cheer or mutual forebodings, or 
 the homeward way. 
 
 We went every day, Dick or I ; but often- 
 est the duty was mine. I could not wait at 
 home while perhaps a tale which it would 
 break my heart to hear was whispered under 
 those chestnut, leaves. What others knew, 
 I also must know. So for many a day I 
 rode out along the road carpeted thick 
 with brown pine-needles, across the spark- 
 ling stream which spread into a flower- 
 bedecked swamp between low hills, up the 
 clayey slope beyond, along the sandy stretch 
 the horse loping her fastest, my heart beat- 
 ing to suffocation we were almost there. 
 Then slowly back again, pausing at the 
 brook for the horse to dip her hot muzzle in 
 the clear water, and blow rippling rings of 
 satisfaction over its sparkling surface while 
 I sat stilled to attunement with the song the 
 
 156
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 stream sang, the note the bird trilled from 
 a bush ; for my heart beat " Thank God ! " 
 There had been no writing there which 
 blotted out my sunshine. 
 
 But the others whom I saw ! Once when 
 I drew rein close by the huge trunk, ran 
 down the list with devouring eyes, when my 
 breath came easily and my blood ceased its 
 pounding, I sat for an instant with my un- 
 seeing eyes fixed on the sandy road running 
 straight between the fields ahead ; I became 
 aware of a woman driving straight down the 
 way as anxiously as I had come. The wagon 
 in which she rode was old and rattling, a 
 paintless Jersey with an uncushioned seat; 
 the woman slid and jolted upon it as she 
 leaned forward to slash the horse with the 
 ends of the rope-reins. I knew her. I drew 
 my horse close to the tree and waited, so she 
 could not see ; I was between her and any 
 writing there. 
 
 She pushed back her sun-bonnet as she 
 reined up beside me. " I cyarnt read," I 
 had not thought of that, " what 's the 
 names thar ? " 
 
 157
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " There are no dead," I breathed. 
 
 " What 's thar ? " It was a command. I 
 recalled even then her humility and her 
 shrinking whenever I had before seen her. 
 
 " They are the wounded, only the wounded." 
 
 "What's thar?" 
 
 "A battle has been fought near Rich- 
 mond, and the wounded have been taken 
 into the city, I know ; they always are. 
 There are hospitals, nurses, everything." I 
 rattled it breathlessly. The few loungers on 
 the porch eyed us curiously, and I dreaded 
 lest one might cross to us. " Every woman 
 there is a nurse, everything that can be done 
 for a man is done." 
 
 "Quit foolin'!" The old eyes flashed. 
 " Read me the names." 
 
 " Henry Grimes ! 
 
 "Joe West! 
 
 "Luke Groom! " 
 
 The reins fell from her old hands, she 
 slid from her seat, her bonnet tilted over her 
 face, it was her son. 
 
 I rode home in an agony of sympathy 
 and fear. I sprang from the saddle and 
 158
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 rushed up the path into the hall where 
 father sat too frightened for the second to 
 move. " Is Robert dead ? " he gasped. 
 
 " No ! no ! " I cried. " But who knows 
 when he may be; that he is not now, and 
 we have not even heard it ? " 
 
 I wrung my hands and stumbled over my 
 long riding-skirt as I walked up and down 
 the hall. 
 
 " Sit down ! What is the matter? " Father 
 brought down his chair from its tilting 
 against the wall, and his face was still the 
 hue of the whitewash behind him. 
 
 " I cannot stand it, I cannot ! " The cry 
 had been in my heart since that day when 
 first the booming of the gunboats' cannon 
 had sounded. 
 
 " Sit down ! " father repeated so imperi- 
 ously that I flung myself into the low flag 
 chair near the door. 
 
 " Father," I cried abruptly, " teach me to 
 pray." 
 
 " To pray ! " He could but repeat it as 
 he looked at me in bewilderment. The 
 furrow of anxiety deepened between his 
 159
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 brows. He could not know that I had at 
 last blurted out the ferment of a spirit which 
 would be no longer controlled. 
 
 " I must know to pray for Robert." 
 
 " Have you not done so ? " with stern 
 horror. 
 
 "As I could, as I know how! There 
 must be more. There must be comfort, 
 peace, strength. I have begged, besought 
 what is it?" 
 
 " Your mother taught you " 
 
 " A prayer for my own safety, for God's 
 care as I slept. It is not in sleep alone that 
 I wish to be guarded. I am awake, alive. 
 How am I to live with Robert " 
 
 Father's blue eyes flashed. " Live ! Doing 
 your duty ! " 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 " It 's not that," pointing to me where I 
 sat huddled in the chair. " I told you before 
 there are no cowards " 
 
 " I am no coward ! " Again I vowed it. 
 In tension too strong for speech we sat 
 looking at one another's faces. Father's 
 stern expression changed in an instant. 
 
 160
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " My child ! " he cried softly, pityingly ; 
 then after another silence, " Teach you to 
 pray? I don't know how." 
 
 He lifted his hands and stopped me as 
 I started to speak. " There are two kinds 
 of prayer, two kinds of men ; I have never 
 been the praying sort. I have done the 
 best I could. I have prayed with my hands 
 and my brain, if I have prayed at all. The 
 rest I have left with the Almighty. He 
 gave the duties; I fulfilled them. The 
 result is in His hands." 
 
 That creed might suffice for a strong, full 
 life, but mine was empty. I must leave all 
 to that Deity who rules the universe; I must 
 do it perforce ; but I must learn to do it in 
 that way which lays an agony down and takes 
 up life, else my own were broken forever and 
 irretrievably. How could it be done ? 
 
 " Did you ever feel there was something 
 you must have, beg for, beseech ? " 
 
 " No, all I ever could have in this life I 
 had till Lucy died. I knew there was 
 nothing on earth could satisfy that want. I 
 must endure it." 
 
 ii 161
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 His face was as drawn as mine must have 
 been as he stared past me. " Lucy," he 
 said, after a second of miserable silence, " I 
 have never told you of your mother, how 
 she died." 
 
 " I know," I cried quickly. 
 
 " From the servants, from others ; but I 
 have never told you. She was the loveliest 
 woman I ever saw, the sweetest; I thank 
 God now that she was my wife. Sometimes 
 even yet I can see her when I wake sud- 
 denly in the night, in the morning, before 
 consciousness comes to me - Well ! you 
 remember how frail she looked, slender? 
 There is nothing she looked like, no one. 
 God only knows how I loved her how I 
 love her. 
 
 " There was just one thing we disagreed 
 about. She was afraid of horses. The one 
 I gave her, the only one she would have 
 I would as soon have driven a cow. And 
 mine ! She would never say a word when 
 she got in the buggy with me, nor clutch 
 at me, no matter how scared she was, she 
 knew how I hated it ; but her cheek would 
 
 162
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 turn white, and sometimes when I had lifted 
 her down from the carriage I saw her little 
 hand red, a furrow pressed deep into her 
 palm where she had held on to the side 
 nearest her. I used to laugh and tease 
 her. I thought it the best way, and that 
 she would overcome her tearfulness. 
 
 " Those horses she was most afraid of, 
 those bays; they had been bred on the 
 place; I had broken them myself. They 
 could n't be matched in that county, nor the 
 next. I had to drive out to the store one 
 night, and I wanted to take her with me. 
 It was warm, moonlight ; a beautiful night. 
 I can see just how she looked when I asked 
 her to go. She did n't want to say no, but 
 she was afraid. She looked at me, and then 
 out at that pair pawing by the gate ; but she 
 picked up her little white shawl and threw it 
 around her shoulders. Her dress was white, 
 too, and low; and her neck 
 
 " God ! it is enough to live sometimes. It 
 was enough then. It was June. The grape 
 blossoms and chestnut blooms were out; the 
 woods were full of the smell of them. We 
 
 163
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 drove out, turned back again ; it was glori- 
 ous. I let the horses out and they spanked 
 it; the buggy cutting along as smooth as a 
 rocking-chair till we got to the corduroy road. 
 That fretted them. I had to keep them to a 
 walk, and they were wild to go. When we 
 struck the lane they were off like the wind, 
 heads down and tugging at the reins. I 
 laughed at them, but Lucy clung to me. She 
 had never done it before. Then out of the 
 fence corner stumbled a stupid calf. They 
 were off. I pulled and sawed, but could not 
 stop them. We were nearly at the gate. 
 ' Thank God,' I said to myself, ' the gate is 
 open.' I had told Sam to open it and leave it 
 so. Some fool had shut it. I could n't see, 
 the tree shaded it so, till we were right against 
 it ; and they they leaped to jump it ! " 
 
 He got up, walked up and down, his crutch 
 ringing on the bare floor. " Her head struck 
 the root of the big walnut," he added simply. 
 
 There was never a word of himself, his 
 broken leg, his agony of mind and body. 
 He had spoken truly there were no cow- 
 ards in our race. 
 
 164
 
 XII 
 
 THE rest of that story I had heard 
 from 'Zekiel ; he had told it to me 
 many times. 
 
 "An' thar Marse Willum he was tied to 
 de chair ; did n't nobody know if he ebbah 
 would walk no mo'; and Miss Lucy daid; 
 an' you a-trottin' 'bout de house cryin' fer 
 yo' ma. Lan' ! but we had a time dem days ! 
 de niggahs dey would n't 'tend to nuthin' 
 nohow, an' eberyt'ing seem lak it goin' to 
 rack an' ruin spipindicular. I done tole 
 Marse Willum 'bout it, I done tole him ; an' 
 he sigh an tuhn erroun' in his chair lak he 
 ain't gwine notice nuthin' nebber no mo' in 
 dis worl'. Den I ups an' speaks to him one 
 day sho 'nuff. ' Marse Willum,' I says, ' Miss 
 Lucy she 's done daid an' she lef ' you her 
 chile to pervide fer; an' if you don't look 
 mighty sharper dan you's doin' now you's 
 gwine come out lackin'. Ain't nuthin' gwine 
 
 165
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 right on dis place; de niggahs look lak dey's 
 clean 'stracted ; de craps ain't gwine ermount 
 to a row o' pins; dyar ain't gwine be corn 
 ernuff to feed de niggahs wid, much less de 
 hosses an' de cows.' 
 
 " ' What 's dat ? ' he say, sharp lak. 
 
 " ' Dat it ain't,' I 'sponded, ' an' de wheat 
 was plum ruined in de harves', an' ' 
 
 " ' Sen' Charles hyar.' 
 
 " Lawd knows I did n't know what he was 
 'bout, but I seed he was roused up, an' I 
 went erlong. By and by Charles he came 
 runnin' out de house an' he fell to workin' in 
 de cyarpenter's shop lak he was nigh 'pon 
 gone crazy ; an' I go 'long. ' Praise Gawd, 
 Marse Willum is awakin' up,' says I. But 
 de Lawd knows I nebbah hoped to see what 
 I did. De very nex' day Marse Willum come 
 hobblin' to de barn on de crutch Charles 
 done made. I was busy dyar cleanin' out 
 de stables, an' when I looks up an' sees him 
 standin' right befo' me de pitchfork drap 
 right out o' my han'. ' Lawd,' says I, * my 
 time done come ! ' 'case I thought 't was a 
 sperrit, you see. An' den he say de very 
 
 166
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 fus' word he say is, ' Whar is dat roan colt ? ' 
 An' I say wid my knees a-shakin' lak dey 
 gwine knock tergedder spite o' all I could 
 do, 'Jo got him, sah.' 
 
 " ' What in thunder is he doing with him ? ' 
 
 " I stood up straight den, an' my knees 
 stiffened up good under me. 'T warnt no 
 ghos' gwine swear lak Marse Willum swear 
 when I tell him Jo 's tryin' to break dat colt 
 down in de fiel'. 
 
 " * Tell him to come hyar.' 
 
 " I tell you, sah, I went. 
 
 " Jo he was off dat colt's neck in de shake 
 o' a daid sheep's tail, an' he was glad ernuff 
 to come off, too, for it sho was hard to stick 
 on ; he come a-runnin' 'long up wid de halter 
 in his han' an' de colt cavortin' an' pawin' 
 after him, yukkin' de halter nigh 'pon out 
 Jo's han's. 
 
 " ' You idjit ! ' Marse Willum shouted out, 
 ' bring him here.' 
 
 " Den I seed what Marse Willum was 
 after. I tried to say sumpin', but my tongue 
 jes dried up in my mouf I was so scared, an' 
 little red an' black things got a-dancin' befo' 
 
 167
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 my eyes. When I could see good an' clear 
 dyar was Marse Willum on dat colt, an' dat 
 colt was a-cavortin' an' a-pawin' up de earth ; 
 but Marse Willum he set good an' straight 
 an' tight as ebbah. ' Glory Hallelujah ! ' says 
 I. ' Glory Hallelujah ! ' I says it ergin when 
 he come ridin' dat colt down de fiel' jes as 
 easy an' peaceable! He sort o' laughed 
 when he heard me shout out, an' he pull de 
 colt up on de uddah side of de fence whar I 
 was a-leanin'. His cheek is all done flushed 
 up an' his eyes bright, but de win' done blow 
 his hat off back dyar in de fiel', an' his hair 
 done blow back on his haid, an' I seed dat 
 undah de topmos' locks it 's all tuhn white. 
 
 " Marse Willum he draw a long breath. 
 ' Gimme my crutch,' he says. An' I picked 
 it up from whar it done drap when he clum 
 on dat colt's back somehow ; I picked it up 
 an' han's it to him an' holp him down. 
 
 " ' Marse Willum done come back to hise'f,' 
 I say dat day mo' dan once, ' but he 's had a 
 huht he '11 nebbah git ober. Dyar 's a huht 
 in his body an' a huht in his heart, an' neider 
 will nebbah be mended.' " 
 
 168
 
 XIII 
 
 THERE is an uplift to any life when 
 it touches a brave one. Those who 
 have suffered and overcome, who 
 have found that sorrow means the extinc- 
 tion neither of life nor of happiness, should 
 not hide forever their knowledge behind 
 locked lips. An hour will come when an- 
 other's eyes will need to see the shine of 
 that gold which sorrow has purified. Father 
 had divined that that hour had come to me, 
 and he had shown me his agony. I knew 
 how he had borne it. If he could not teach 
 me prayer, he could teach me life. 
 
 I went back over his story piecing it with 
 'Zekiel's, and saw, at last, with a woman's 
 understanding, the tale which had fascinated 
 my childhood. I was up in my attic room 
 then, the chamber had been given up to 
 father, I had slipped into a cool dress, and 
 as I sat down by the narrow window, my 
 
 169
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 Bible on the mantel-shelf was just above my 
 hand. I reached up for it, turned its leaves 
 slowly upon my knee, well-known words 
 and phrases flashing up to sight. I had a 
 strange feeling, both of knowing it all and 
 knowing nothing. Were it history, tales of 
 heroes, of journeyings, of law-giving? then I 
 knew it. Were it the birth of Christ, His 
 miracles, His death, the letters of His apos- 
 tles ? still it was familiar. 
 
 But were these the surface only, was there 
 through all these pages an essence, a divinity 
 of spirit, showing through all ages, climax- 
 ing in God's son, coming close to us as it had 
 to Christ, giving us light and love to live by 
 as it had given Him ? then I knew nothing. 
 I had but guessed by glimmerings. 
 
 I had never been devout. I had sat for 
 many a Sabbath in the old church while the 
 preacher's words drifted over my head ; and 
 if I had felt attuned to worship by the quiet- 
 ude, by the monotonous voice sounding from 
 the pulpit, it was not to give homage to that 
 Deity the preacher pictured, but He whose 
 handiwork of green grass and hoary trees 
 
 170
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 and blue skies shone through the dusty 
 windows. 
 
 How close He seemed to some ! how far- 
 off to me! How devoutly Mammy and 
 those of her kind worshipped Him ! But 
 their God was a fiery and wrathful King. 
 The God of my father was a benignant Deity. 
 Their cold abstractions would not serve for 
 me : I was too vitally alive. The tale I had 
 vaguely and dreamily read in the rhythmic 
 pulse of nature, in the laws of my own being, 
 pointed to a brotherhood unfathomable, a 
 fatherhood unlimitable ; and suddenly my 
 half-formed surmisings had been rent like a 
 rotten fabric. I must know. 
 
 For that hour and many another I sat 
 there questioning, reading, praying, learn- 
 ing. The swallows whirled in wide circles, 
 their graceful flight etching dark curves 
 against the evening sky, the chimney cast a 
 breadth of shadow across the grass. Green 
 grass, twittering birds, the sunset sky ! God 
 wrote once upon a household wall for one 
 man's warning; He writes forever anew, 
 before all men's eyes, a tale of love. 
 
 171
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 But I was set first to learn father's creed 
 of work. He declared that he must go next 
 morning to Bellevue. I urged the dangers, 
 but he would not listen. He must see what 
 damage had been done, do what he could to 
 straighten affairs, and look after the comfort 
 of those left. By sunrise he was gone. 
 
 It was a day of heavenly quiet. The crisp 
 autumn air stirred one's blood, the sunshine 
 lay warm on fields that had been already 
 harvested. 'Zekiel in the ox-cart was haul- 
 ing fodder to the barn ; his " haws " and cries, 
 the crackings of his whip, were the only 
 sounds except the low duckings of the 
 fowls or Mammy's footsteps and my own. 
 But despite the day, its calm, its brightness, 
 I was uneasy. It was the first day father 
 had left me. Busied as I kept myself, I felt 
 a tingle of fear, due perhaps to father's ab- 
 sence and the cause of it; and at noon I 
 could endure it no longer. I must know if 
 there were any news, so I sent Dick along 
 the path through the woods to The Ordinary, 
 and, strive as I might against it, I kept an 
 anxious watch across the fields. Still I did 
 172
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 not see Dick, nor hear him, till he stumbled 
 across the doorstep and cried my name. 
 
 I ran down from my room and Mammy 
 came racing from the kitchen. " What in 
 the world is the matter ? " 
 
 " De sojers, de sojers ! " 
 
 " What in de name o' Gawd is you aftah 
 anyhow ? " 
 
 " De sojers ! Dey 's at de On'ry, dey 's 
 comin' hyar ! " 
 
 " The idea ! " I never feared it for a mo- 
 ment ; I did not believe it even then. We 
 were too far back in the woods, the forest 
 shut us in too completely. We thought 
 ourselves entirely secure. 
 
 " 'Clare 'fo' Gawd," Dick insisted, the tears 
 rolling down his cheeks; "dey's a-comin' 
 straight hyar." 
 
 " How you know ? " demanded Mammy. 
 
 " Dey 's done smash up eberything lef at 
 de stoah, an' dey 's swarmin' lak bees." Dick 
 sat panting on the doorstep ; his words grew 
 with his returning breath. 
 
 " I seed 'em. I was 'bleeged to watch 'em. 
 I lean ergainst de fence cornder whar de path 
 173
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 come 'long by Marse Tom's gyarden " 
 " Marse Tom " was the store-keeper, a man too 
 old for active service. " Dey was a-swearin' 
 an' a-laughin' ; an' one man he was jes a-strut- 
 tin' up an' down wid a piece o' yaller caliker 
 hangin' down his back, an' pigeon-toein' jes 
 lak he say, * Step light, ladies ! ' an' ebery- 
 thing dat was lef o' Marse Tom's stoah 
 a-burnin' in de road. Marse Tom he sat 
 dyar in de house, in de hall, his haid in his 
 han's. Bimeby he raise up an' look out, an' 
 he seed me scrunched up in de fence cornder, 
 an' he do so." 
 
 Dick sat up straight and awed ; he beck- 
 oned solemnly with his forefinger. 
 
 " When I done come up to de do' he say, 
 1 Whar 's yo' Marse Willum ? ' an' I done tole 
 him. Den he groan an' shake his haid. 
 'You put out fer home,' he say, 'an' don't 
 you walk nary step o' de way, but run lak de 
 Ole Scratch was a-jumpin' behin' you. Tell 
 Miss Lucy dey 's comin' dyar nexV " 
 
 " My Gawd ! " moaned Mammy. 
 
 " Hush ! " I commanded impatiently, " you 
 know they won't bother us." 
 
 174
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Marse Tom say you run an' hide ebery 
 las' thing you got, or you nebbah will lay eyes 
 on it ergin. He say dey 's suttenly comin'. 
 He say dey 's gwine in ebery las' gate on de 
 road." 
 
 I waited for no more. I fled toward the 
 barn, where I found 'Zekiel standing on a 
 load of fodder pitching it up into the loft. 
 " The soldiers are coming ! " I cried, " run 
 the horses off into the woods ; hide them 
 anywhere." He was loosening the oxen be- 
 fore I finished ; in one instant he was astride 
 of the horse we had kept up in the stall and 
 was driving off the cattle before him. I ran 
 back to the house. " Whar is de res' o' de 
 silvah ? Git yo' dresses ! " Mammy rushed 
 through the rooms gathering up all arms 
 and apron could hold. " Git yo' clo'es, Miss 
 Lucy; does you want to go naked de res' 
 o' dis wintah ? Honey, why don't you do 
 something? " 
 
 I could not believe those preparations 
 necessary, and lent little aid. 
 
 " Ise got yo' plaid silk an' yo' flowered 
 dimity. Come 'long, Dick." 
 
 175
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 In five minutes she was back again. 
 " Gimme some mo' things. Lan' ! 't is too 
 late ! Dick, go hide yo'se'f somewhars quick ! 
 Dey's done got one chile, dey ain't gwine 
 cotch anudder. Lawd ! what is we gwine 
 do ? Run upstairs, Miss Lucy, quick ! " 
 
 I stood immovable and resolute. I was 
 ready to meet them with perfect dignity at 
 my own fireside. 
 
 " You hear me ! " She caught hold of 
 my shoulders from behind, pushing me for- 
 ward. " I done promised Marse Robert Ise 
 gwine tek cyar o' you, an' Ise gwine do it." 
 She had pushed me to the front of the stairs 
 while the blue-coats raced down the lane. 
 Then she begged : " Go 'long, chile, dyar 
 ain't nobody hyar but you an' one po' 
 niggah." 
 
 I yielded. As I put my foot on the stair 
 the first soldier swung himself from his horse 
 outside the gate. " Shut de do', an' pull de 
 latchstring inside," cried Mammy ; and then 
 all the sounds of pandemonium broke out 
 within and without our little home. 
 
 " Not one step ! " I heard Mammy's voice 
 176
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 ring out above the din ; " you ain't gwine up 
 dem stairs nary step. Take yo'se'f 'long off!" 
 
 " Go along, old woman ! What you got 
 up there ? " and then a boisterous laugh. 
 
 " Nuthin' but one po' lone white 'oman." 
 
 " We want to see her." 
 
 " You done done mischief ernuff fer one 
 time," Mammy accused. 
 
 The men roared. " What 's your name 
 anyhow ? " one of them chaffed. 
 
 " Maria Yancey." 
 
 " I vow ! Is n't that the name ? " he called. 
 
 " That 's it," came the loud answer. " Have 
 you got a son named Sam ? " 
 
 " Dat I is, lessen you " 
 
 " He 's sick." 
 
 "Whar?" 
 
 " At the fort." 
 
 " What you done done to him ? " 
 
 " Better say what 's he done to us ; " a 
 shout of laughter rolled through the hall and 
 echoed up the stair. 
 
 "What's he done?" demanded Mammy* 
 belligerently. 
 
 " He 's cook," said one, in a dry tone. 
 
 12
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Humph! " Mammy grunted, " he could n't 
 cook a hoecake." 
 
 "We're learning him." Again the roar 
 of laughter. 
 
 " Don't you do nuthin' to my boy Sam." 
 
 " All we are doing now," said a sober 
 voice, " is to give him some medicine. Get 
 out of the way." 
 
 I stood behind the closed door. From 
 the very first my blood had boiled at the 
 idea of shutting myself in there and leaving 
 Mammy to face them alone. I had my 
 fingers on the latch when some one pushed 
 her aside, and a heavy step bounded by her. 
 Mammy ran after the intruder, passed him, 
 flung herself against my door, the boards 
 groaning and trembling as she leaned her 
 weight against them. 
 
 I stood on the other side, my cheeks hot, 
 my hands clenched at my side, feeling a 
 coward through and through. Then I 
 heard a cry, an oath ; and from the exclama- 
 tions that followed them, I knew that the 
 flag, so carefully hidden, had been found. At 
 the thought every fear fled. I was icy from 
 
 178
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 head to foot, but I felt clad with immunity. 
 I flung open the door, pushed Mammy aside, 
 and stood squarely in the path of light the 
 window behind me threw in the passage. 
 The men bent over the plunder looked up, 
 rose to their feet ; and a soldier running up 
 the stair stood pressed against the wall. So 
 we gazed at one another. 
 
 " Where is your officer? " I demanded of 
 the man who held the trailing bunting. 
 
 In the hall." 
 
 " Take that to him." I turned to go down 
 the stair, but Mammy caught at my dress. 
 " Miss Lucy, Miss Lucy ! " she begged. 
 
 I loosened her clutch without looking at 
 her. " Let me pass ! " I commanded both 
 her and the soldier on the stair ; and I went 
 down, my skirts swishing against his knees, 
 as calmly as if it had been a summer's Sab- 
 bath and I walked up the aisle of the old 
 church. 
 
 In the hall I came face to face with the 
 officer, who had just arrived. He doffed his 
 cap ; I looked at him steadily. " Are you 
 the officer in command ? " 
 
 179
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " I am." 
 
 As he spoke the men came up behind me, 
 spread the gay flag upon the floor; stars and 
 stripes and bright background flaunted up 
 from the bare pine-boards. 
 
 " And you have permitted this ? " I 
 glanced to neither right nor left, but I knew, 
 and so did he, that the chamber floor was 
 strewn with garments rifled from bureau and 
 closet ; that an acrid smell of burning wool 
 and cotton thrown upon the fire filled the 
 house ; that the door of the china press, 
 found locked, sagged on its wrenched hinges, 
 and broken china strewed the floor. 
 
 " I have just come," said the officer, angrily. 
 " I " He broke off as if he disdained to 
 defend himself. " Where did you find this ? " 
 he demanded of the men with haughty 
 emphasis. 
 
 I gave them no chance to reply. " In my 
 attic, safely hidden from " I paused to 
 give the word emphasis " disgrace." I 
 stopped him before he could speak. " I 
 saved it from trampling footsteps. My grand- 
 father fought for it, my great-grandfather. 
 
 180
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 I could not see I thought to see it under- 
 foot would be a disgrace. I was mistaken. 
 It is this." 
 
 The man's glance followed mine from 
 rifled room to rifled room, out to our wagon 
 loaded with corn from our crib, a slaughtered 
 cow a-top of it with legs pointing ghastly 
 upward. 
 
 " We are compelled to find provisions," he 
 said shortly. 
 
 " By robbing helpless women ? " 
 
 " Madam," said the man, stung beyond 
 endurance, " you say you love that flag, own 
 allegiance to it " 
 
 " My husband fights beneath another." 
 
 His eyes flashed. " Roll it up, put it on 
 the wagon," he commanded. 
 
 " Yes, take it," said I, speaking low and 
 intensely ; " I can no longer protect it." 
 
 If looks could have killed, I should have 
 fallen then. "Madam," the man could 
 scarcely speak, he was so choked with 
 anger, " madam, we will have our flag, 
 but nothing else belonging to you." 
 
 " No ? " 
 
 181
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Nothing which we cannot claim right- 
 fully." He thrust his hands into his pockets, 
 and drew out a wallet filled with gold. I 
 stood watching him, his keen glances of es- 
 timation, his counting. " This is full value." 
 He held out the money toward me. I 
 stood chin in air, hands clasped behind me. 
 Mammy nudged me, she had stolen close 
 up beside me, and the man looked from 
 me to her, put down the gold on the bench 
 of the spinning-wheel, and strode away. 
 
 Mammy grabbed at it ; I waved her away, 
 took it in my hand, walked to the door where 
 stood a group of wondering men watching 
 first me and then the officer, who had reached 
 the wagon and was inspecting it. His back 
 was toward us. From the doorstep I flung 
 the gold abroad as I would have scattered 
 corn to hungry fowls. There was quick and 
 hasty ducking, some knocking of heads ; but 
 when the officer turned I stood disdainful at 
 the door, the men were gone, Mammy stood 
 by my side. " Chile, chile," she besought, 
 "'t ain't no use to stan' hyar; dat man's 
 fairly a-bilin ober now ; you need n't say no 
 
 182
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 mo'. Come 'long ! " I went slowly into the 
 chamber. 
 
 The officer found me there; his quick 
 glance had shown him that the money was 
 gone, and he doubtless thought me appeased. 
 
 " Is there anything more I can do for 
 you ? " 
 
 I smiled at the "more." "No," I an- 
 swered curtly. I was cold and shivering; 
 already the reaction had begun. 
 
 " Miss Lucy," begged Mammy, in a whis- 
 per, " I wants to see my boy." 
 
 " This woman," said I then, " wants to see 
 her son, Sam Yancey. He is at the fort." 
 
 " I know; sick." 
 
 " Sam allus was a sickly chile ; he don't 
 know nuthin' 'tall 'bout wuk." 
 
 " So we have found," gravely. 
 
 " His spells is ter'ble bad." 
 
 " This one is." 
 
 " Seem lak he '11 die sometimes," quavered 
 Mammy, " lessen somebody 's right dyar dat 
 knows what to do fer him." 
 
 " He asked if we could get you a message. 
 He wants you to come to see him." 
 
 183
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " At dat place ! " Mammy shrank back. 
 
 The officer glared. " Do you want to 
 come ? " 
 
 " Ef Miss Lucy will come wid me." 
 
 " Will it be safe ? " I asked. 
 
 "With my pass, yes!" he assured me 
 haughtily. 
 
 " You will give it ? " 
 
 For answer he took an envelope from his 
 pocket, tore off the unmarked side, scribbled 
 a few words upon it, and handed it to me. 
 In spite of the ruin about me, of the account- 
 ability in which I held this man, my mood 
 toward him softened. 
 
 " Thank you," I said in a low voice. 
 
 He shot me a keen glance, saw that the 
 paper in my hand shook like a leaf in the 
 wind, then strode to the door, and closed it 
 behind him, and in a moment we heard his 
 command to horse ring out sharp and clear. 
 
 I stood watching them, straining my eyes 
 after the flying figures until there was noth- 
 ing to be seen but the empty road and the 
 encircling pines. Mammy sobbed by the 
 hearth. 
 
 184
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Hush ! " I commanded. " There is no 
 use in crying." 
 
 " Miss Lucy, my Lawd ! You ain't got " 
 
 " I will see what I have got left." I felt 
 the throb of soldierly blood in my veins. 
 " Where is Dick ? " 
 
 " I ain't seen him." She shrieked his 
 name out into the yard till the door of the 
 low hen-house opened and Dick showed an 
 ashy face at the opening. She ran to him 
 while I went to meet 'Zekiel. 
 
 " I done saved de horses, ebery las' one," 
 he called out. " An' de cows an' oxen, too, 
 all 'cep' dat contrary cow what I had to leab 
 behin', an' she come strollin' 'long up by de 
 barn same lak she want to show herse'f off." 
 'Zekiel had gotten up to the gate where I 
 waited for him. 
 
 " I done it jes as easy," he boasted ex- 
 citedly ; " yas, sah ! I had done carried 
 dem off to de woods an' come back. I 
 could n't stay down dyar wid 'em when you 
 alls was up hyar by yo'se'ves ; but I did n't 
 git no closer to de house dan de barn, fer 
 dat 's whar dey cotch me ; an' de fus' word 
 
 185
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 dey say to me dey 'low, ' Whar 's de hosses ? ' 
 an' I say jes as solemn lak, " Daddy 
 rolled up the whites of his eyes and puck- 
 ered up his mouth, "I says, ' We ain't got 
 nary Gawd-forsaken one.' ' Dat 's a lie/ says 
 one. An' I says, * Fo' Gawd, ef you '11 go 
 down dyar to de top o' dat gully beyon' 
 de barn you '11 see de bones o' de las' one 
 dat 's died.' An' you know, Miss Lucy, de 
 bones o' dat ole one dat died las' spring is 
 a-layin' dyar yit. 
 
 " Dey fotch a lot o' grumblin' arter dat, 
 but dey hitches dyar own hosses to de wagon, 
 I seen dat, an' dey ain't nose 'round aftah 
 
 ours no mo'." 
 
 " Well," said I, " I am mighty glad they 
 are safe; but I am sorry you had to tell a 
 story about it." 
 
 " A story ! " indignantly ; " did you ever 
 hear me tell anything but de truf in all yo' 
 bohn days ? " 
 
 "What was it, then?" I asked a trifle 
 sharply. 
 
 " De-Lawd-a-mussy ! " in a tone of pity- 
 ing reproach. " Don't you know Marse 
 
 186
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 Robert ain't got a single horse on de 
 place ? " 
 
 " There are two." 
 
 " An' dem 's mares, bofe on 'em. Tellin' 
 me 'bout tellin' de truf!" 
 
 I had to laugh, and 'Zekiel listened de- 
 lightedly. " I suttenly is glad to hear you ; 
 laugh jes' as much as you can. We'se got 
 de Ole Boy to contend wid now, an' don't 
 nuthin' put him out lak a good laugh. Whar 
 dyar 's frowns an' grumbles, dyar he is ; but 
 when fokses takes to laughin' um ! he 
 switches his tail an' hoofs it. Miss Lucy, 
 I want you to see how dey is done cleaned 
 us out." 
 
 It was true. Our crops had been good 
 that year, and we had had plenty and to 
 spare ; now we were as poor as the poorest. 
 We came up from the barn, heavy of foot 
 and of heart, as the dusk was thickening 
 over the fields ; and we saw a figure, indis- 
 tinct in the twilight, hastening toward us 
 along the path. I knew her on the instant, 
 but I did not hurry, though she ran, stumbling 
 along the rough way over the corn furrows. 
 
 187
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Emily ! " I said calmly when she flung 
 her arms about me. 
 
 " Poor child ! poor child ! " she cried. 
 
 Mammy bespoke a welcome for me. " Miss 
 Em'ly ! Miss Em'ly ! you is welcome as de 
 angils." 
 
 " Did you drop out of the sky ? " I asked 
 foolishly, and felt the tense muscles about 
 my mouth relax at the question. 
 
 Emily lifted her head from my shoulder, 
 and slipped her arm from my neck to my 
 waist. " I started here this morning," she 
 began. " I got as far as the Dragon and I 
 heard the soldiers were at The Ordinary. 
 We turned in at Oakleigh. They wanted 
 me to stay. I was afraid to come on, but I 
 was wild with anxiety about you. When 
 I said I would come anyhow they made me 
 start on horseback, one of the darkies with 
 me, so that we could hide in the woods, if 
 necessary. At The Ordinary I heard 
 The darkey was scared to death. I sent 
 him home with the horses while I started 
 through the woods. Mercy, how scared I 
 wasl I am such a coward, you know." 
 
 [88
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 What she had done savored of it ! "I was 
 frightened at every sound, every rustling 
 leaf or snapping twig. When I got to the 
 edge of the woods I was afraid to come 
 another step until I saw you." 
 
 Mammy had hastened before us. " Come 
 'long in," she called from the doorstep. 
 " Lawd knows, Miss Em'ly, but you 's wel- 
 come as de angils ! " she repeated. 
 
 " Perhaps I am an angel," said Emily 
 demurely, as she felt in the pocket of her 
 gown, drew out something white and stiff 
 and rustling, and thrust it into my hand. I 
 looked down upon a letter with Robert's 
 writing upon it. 
 
 I ran into the chamber, knelt by the 
 light, and devoured the words while Mammy 
 punched the logs till they blazed brighter ; 
 and she and Emily talked in low tones as 
 I turned the full, well-written pages which 
 told me what I most longed to know. Rob- 
 ert was safe and well. He acknowledged his 
 wants, but to make light of them ; he wrote 
 of worn clothes and of hunger, but with a 
 jest; he couched his loving thoughts of us 
 
 189
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 in such warm words that I felt as if I 
 touched a ripple of that current which flowed 
 from me to him, from him to me, no matter 
 how many miles might stretch between. 
 When I had finished I looked at mud-be- 
 trampled floor and empty wardrobe, remem- 
 bered rifled smokehouse and barn, and 
 laughed. 
 
 " Robert is safe," I cried from my seat 
 on the rug. " So long as he is, all is well ; 
 I care for nothing else ! " 
 
 " Ah ! " said Emily with a long-drawn 
 breath and a quick look of pain. I suddenly 
 remembered ; I dared not ask of Henry. 
 
 190
 
 XIV 
 
 SO it was that I could make a jest of 
 our misfortunes, and laugh at our 
 losses till Mammy had gone to her 
 cabin, night had settled down, and we were 
 alone in the house ; then I grew sober. The 
 wind of a gathering storm grew stronger 
 and howled about the chimneys and clashed 
 together the bare branches of the cherry tree. 
 It came in long, whistling breaths; and, mad- 
 dening in their intensity, the cattle, driven 
 up from their hiding-place to the shelter of 
 the barn, scented the fresh-spilled blood, and 
 lifted their heads for the piteous moans 
 which set us a-shiver as they drifted down 
 the currents of the air to come echoing back 
 thrilling with anger, fear, despair. 
 
 While we shrank from it we heard the 
 sting of rain against the window-pane, 
 a wind-driven rain that struck like shot 
 against the glass. I piled the wood on the 
 
 191
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 andirons, brought the candle-stand from its 
 resting-place against the wall, and felt with 
 trembling ringers for the wooden button 
 which would hold the lowered top level and 
 true. I lighted a candle and placed it there, 
 and another on the mantel-piece, yet in all 
 that glow of candle-light and firelight fear 
 struck through us. Our chairs rocked closer 
 together; we were touching each other; 
 Emily's hand groped for mine and held it. 
 A great gust of wind howled about the 
 house, shook at the doors, and brought the 
 rain splashing against the windows. I could 
 not resist a fearful, searching look around 
 the bright, familiar room, but when I looked 
 I sprang shrieking to my feet. Pressed 
 against the glass outside, looking in on us, 
 was a man's face. 
 
 I threw Emily to the floor as I sprang 
 up; she stumbled to her feet, brushed the 
 down-tumbled hair from her eyes, and looked 
 where I still pointed with outstretched hand. 
 
 " Oh ! " But it was a cry of gladness. She 
 ran out in the hall, I after her; her hands 
 were on the heavy bar fastening the door. 
 192
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 "What are you doing?" I demanded 
 fiercely as I struggled with her. " Are you 
 crazy ? " 
 
 " Are you ? " She pulled at the bar, but 
 my hands held hers down. " Let go ! " she 
 cried, " it 's Henry ! " 
 
 I fell back against the wall, limp from 
 the reaction, while Emily wrenched open the 
 door and ran out into the darkness. The 
 storm roared through the hall as I stumbled 
 back to the stair and sat down on the first 
 low step. When they entered their figures 
 were like one in the darkness, and when 
 they came into the light streaming from the 
 chamber, her eyes were as bright as the 
 raindrops on her hair. 
 
 They found me and carried me between 
 them back to the fire, where Henry knelt 
 before me chafing my hands and wrists as 
 Robert might have done ; but his glance went 
 over my head to Emily leaning against my 
 chair, and had it been Robert suddenly I 
 remembered that Henry must have seen him, 
 could tell me a hundred things I longed to 
 know. I asked an eager question, another, a 
 13 193
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 dozen ; and Henry, answering, told the very 
 things I thirsted to hear. I forgot the fright, 
 the day, all but the blessed news I listened 
 to. As he talked Emily slipped into her chair 
 beside me, and Henry spoiled fellow that 
 he was sat at her feet instead of kneeling 
 before mine, laid his hand a second on her 
 knee, and looked up into her face with 
 an expression I had never dreamed to see. 
 Haughty, indolent, ease-loving as was his 
 nature, he was now alert, wistful, pleading, 
 all in one breath. 
 
 His soft, wide hat lay on the floor where 
 he had flung it, the capes of his coat hung 
 loosely upon his shoulders; his thin, dark, 
 eager face shone in the firelight. 
 
 As I looked at them, in spite of my love 
 for both, something of jealousy not of 
 them, but of their happiness some cold 
 feeling crept over me. " You had better 
 take off your coat," I cautioned, a tinge of 
 sarcasm in my tone ; " Emily's dress will be 
 ruined." 
 
 " As if she cared for that ! " he said with 
 a laugh. 
 
 194
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " It will be hard enough to get a new one," 
 she assured him saucily ; " be careful." 
 
 I made some excuse, slipped from the 
 chamber, and sped up the narrow stair. A 
 deadly chill was in the air of the attic cham- 
 ber. My ringers trembled as I lighted the 
 pine knots, and the spluttering flames flared 
 over the logs above them. I knelt watching 
 them, and though I thought of nothing defi- 
 nitely, yet I was conscious of everything, 
 that day, each hour of it, careless or bitter or 
 desperate, of every event of my life. All 
 seemed pulsing at once about a centre which 
 was my slim self shaken with their vibrations. 
 I was oblivious of storm without and merry 
 voices below until the outer door shook with 
 heavy pounding, and the shouting of my 
 name rang above the beating of the wind 
 and rain. It was father. 
 
 " Are you safe ? " he cried the moment he 
 spied me. 
 
 " Safe as a church," called Henry cheerily. 
 
 " Who is here ? " father demanded quickly. 
 
 " Why, I, sir ! " Henry seized his hand on 
 one side while Emily stole up to the other.
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Were you here ? " was father's amazed 
 cry. I could see the faint look of amusement 
 on Henry's face as he answered, " No ! " 
 
 " Nor Emily ? no one ? To think I was 
 not at home ! " 
 
 " Perhaps it is as well that you were not." 
 
 " Why ? " curt and sharp. 
 
 "You might be spending to-night at the 
 fort." 
 
 Father turned hastily away. " No," in 
 answer to my pleading that he should take 
 off his coat. " Where is Dick ? abed, I 
 suppose." 
 
 " I will see." But Henry was before me. 
 A beam of light streamed from Mammy's 
 window; the terrors of night and day kept 
 them wide-eyed and hugging the comfort of 
 light and warmth. 
 
 We looked for a torrent of execration from 
 father; he had not a word to say. He cut 
 Mammy short when she hurried in with lam- 
 entations, and bade her go to bed and keep 
 her senses. He gave Dick and 'Zekiel strict 
 orders about the care of his horse, which he 
 had ridden mercilessly; then he sat by the 
 
 196
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 fire, the steam of his wet clothes enveloping 
 him. He would soon be going to bed, he 
 declared, and it was useless to change them ; 
 and there he sat, gazing straight ahead, his 
 lips pressed in firm lines, his muscles tense, 
 his eyes flashing when he turned to look at 
 me. In an hour he sent us up to the attic; 
 he would share his bed with Henry. 
 
 If I had held any hope of sleep when we 
 went up to my room under the roof it was 
 soon dissipated. 
 
 In the low bed pushed close under the 
 eaves, the quilts tucked warmly beneath 
 our chins, our eyes on the flickering flames 
 which first flared up and lighted all the little 
 room, then died to leave it eerie and dusky, 
 while the furniture snapped weirdly as the 
 heat lessened and the cold stole in, with the 
 storm howling outside and the rain rattling 
 upon the shingles close overhead, Emily 
 must tell the tale of her quarrel with Henry. 
 
 I was wide-awake, but striving to straighten 
 the thoughts of the day, to bring them into 
 some sort of order so that my memory could 
 shut the door upon them, and the blessed 
 
 197
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 oblivion of sleep could blot them out of sight, 
 soften their rugged outlines till they would 
 not cut deeply when taken up on the mor- 
 row, when Emily asked a question : 
 
 " You remember Jack Martin ? " 
 
 "Yes." I did not want to talk; I an- 
 swered as curtly as possible. 
 
 " You know I never could bear him ? " 
 
 " Yes," once more, and perhaps a trifle re- 
 sentfully. Beside the things of which I 
 thought, Emily's likes and dislikes seemed 
 trivial. 
 
 " Perhaps I showed it too plainly. You 
 used to tell me so sometimes, you remem- 
 ber?" 
 
 " I remember." The chorus was faint. I 
 did not then know that she wished to tell me 
 all the story that night, and I longed to be 
 left to myself. 
 
 But, of course, I remembered Jack Martin. 
 He was one of the young men forever at 
 Emily's house or hanging around her when 
 abroad ; and there was no good in him so 
 I had thought and warned her. I was both 
 right and wrong. 
 
 198
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 "Well, I never thought " She paused 
 for a long, tantalizing moment. I knew 
 Emily; I realized now that she would talk 
 till she had said all she wanted to, so I 
 prodded her gently with my elbow when 
 she had kept too long silent. 
 
 She picked up the thread of her story. 
 " You know Henry and I well, you 
 know " 
 
 " I suppose I do," shortly. 
 
 She giggled under the bed-clothes. " I 
 never thought anything about his coming 
 to the house Jack, you know or any- 
 thing else. It is n't always because a man is 
 in love with a girl that he visits her house; 
 half the time it's the people he meets, the 
 good times he has." Emily was notorious 
 for keeping every man in the neighborhood 
 around her. Her mother told a pathetic 
 tale now and then of " No room left to hitch 
 another single horse at the palings, and not 
 another chair to be found to be put to the 
 supper table " on Sundays. " I always said 
 so; but Jack Pshaw! I'll just have to 
 tell you straight along." 
 
 199
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " I wish to heaven you would." 
 
 " You need n't be cross about it. Well, 
 one day Jack was coming down to our house 
 and he stopped by the store. He went in 
 for something, and then he thought he would 
 get our mail and bring it to us. He got the 
 papers and the letters two or three there 
 were, and one for me. He knew the writing 
 on mine it was Henry's." Another long 
 pause. 
 
 " We had had a quarrel ; we will never 
 have another." 
 
 " Hm ! " Emily's and Henry's fallings-out 
 were numbered by the score. 
 
 " Never ! We will never forget this one. 
 Why, it has been a year and a half since 
 since " 
 
 " I know." And then we laughed softly, 
 like the silly girls we were. 
 
 " I had vowed I would never make the 
 slightest effort to make this one up," Emily 
 went on. " I had had to sometimes." In 
 that careless, indolent fashion of his, Henry 
 was both imperious and self-willed. 
 
 "It had lasted a week, that ah mis- 
 200
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 understanding, when Henry sat down and 
 wrote me a long letter. That was the one 
 Jack got. He tore it up." 
 
 " The rascal ! " 
 
 "Hush! He is dead!" 
 
 " How do you know ? " I asked in awe- 
 stricken tones. 
 
 " He died three days ago. He was wounded, 
 you know." I had seen his name on that 
 fatal list upon the chestnut. " He was in 
 one of the hospitals of Richmond. He knew 
 Henry was in the city, and he sent for him. 
 When Henry went to him " Emily's 
 voice sank very low, its clear, gentle tones 
 beat against the loud and wrathful voices of 
 the night. 
 
 " Henry says that it was dreadful. Jack 
 told him that he had loved me, that he knew 
 it was senseless, but he could n't keep away." 
 
 " What did I tell you ? " 
 
 " That he knew Henry and I had quarrelled, 
 and when he had that letter inside his pocket 
 he almost knew the words written in it. He 
 kept thinking, he said, ' Suppose she does n't 
 get it?' and then he began to imagine what 
 201
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 might happen ; as if When he was nearly 
 to the lane, he got off his horse, sat down on 
 that old log under the oak tree, tore the 
 letter to bits, and hid the pieces under the 
 log. That's all. 
 
 " Henry went straight to his captain. He 
 told him he had to come home. He was 
 going to stop here to-night, steal over to his 
 mother's, and see me somehow. Do you 
 think there is any danger in his staying 
 here ? He is safe ? " 
 
 " For to-night." I answered grimly. " The 
 lightning has struck. But he had better get 
 away to-morrow." 
 
 With my hand under my pillow, touching 
 the precious letter there, I fell asleep. 
 
 202
 
 XV 
 
 " "ITJENRY, it is not safe for you to 
 stay in the county a day." 
 
 Henry turned lazily in his chair, 
 and looked at father quizzically. 
 
 " You had better try and get across the 
 Dragon at once and back into Middlesex." 
 
 " I must see my mother first." 
 
 " What are you thinking of ? " 
 
 " Of her." 
 
 " Good God ! what a fool ! " 
 
 Henry smiled serenely, stuck out his foot 
 a little nearer to the fire. " Cold, this morn- 
 ing," he commented ; " raw too, pretty bad 
 day for a ride." 
 
 " What do you expect to do, sir ? " father 
 fumed. 
 
 " Stay here." A look about the room, at 
 Emily's bright face, at me, at father, bespoke 
 his content with his surroundings. 
 
 " You shall not." 
 
 203
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Mr. Yancey, I have never been forbidden 
 your house." Henry's voice was steady, 
 though his eyes twinkled. 
 
 " You are not now, you know it ; but you 
 can't stay here ; you can't. Don't you sup- 
 pose they know ? " 
 
 Henry's quick glance showed him Emily's 
 face unchanged from its happy serenity ; he 
 looked back at father with a distinct show 
 of relief on his keen, eager face. "You mean 
 do the Yankees know I am here ? " he an- 
 swered lightly. " How could they ? I '11 
 risk it anyhow. 
 
 " Don't worry, Mr. Yancey," he added, 
 " There 's no chance of my seeing an enemy 
 here to-day. I shall wait till dark, the roads 
 will be safe then. Besides, I could cut through 
 the woods by broad daylight, I know every 
 path of the county ; still " 
 
 " You will not." 
 
 " You went to Bellevue yesterday," Henry 
 quizzed. 
 
 " I am an old man." 
 
 " Not so old now," laughed Henry ; " they 
 may impress you yet." 
 204
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " I wish they would," vowed father, with a 
 flash of eagerness. 
 
 " They may " Henry bit back the words 
 it was evident he wished to speak, and flung 
 himself back in the chair with his old manner 
 of happy indifference. " I shall have one day 
 at least," he said contentedly. 
 
 " If you stay here Dick shall be posted on 
 horseback at the front gate ; your horse shall 
 be kept saddled at the back fence. In case 
 of surprise make for the woods back of us." 
 
 " I could not allow you to take such trouble, 
 not for a moment." 
 
 " You will have to," said father, shortly, as 
 he fitted his crutch under his arm. 
 
 " Mr. Yancey " 
 
 " Father, wait a moment! " I called as his 
 hand was on the latch. " I am going down 
 to Miss Nancy's. We are to carry the silver 
 Mammy saved yesterday, everything that can 
 be spared from what is left, for safe keeping. 
 Henry must go with us, Henry and Emily 
 both." 
 
 They questioned each other's eyes. " Of 
 course," cried Emily, gayly. 
 205
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Then get ready. I am going directly." 
 
 I followed father into the hall, and together 
 we made some hasty plans for the day. " I 
 shall try and keep them there until night," 
 I declared. " Mammy is going with me. 
 We shall both have to come back; she can 
 stay and get your dinner, and Dick will go 
 back with me the second time. If there 
 is any alarm, any news, send 'Zekiel after 
 us." 
 
 In half an hour we started. The path 
 was slippery and muddy from the heavy rain 
 of the night. The sky was still clouded and 
 gray, though the blue showed a narrow 
 breadth of promise in the west. Mammy 
 led the line, a bundle of her treasures tied in 
 a gaudy quilt balanced upon her head ; her 
 arms were akimbo, her walk a compromise 
 between a waddle and a wrathful stride ; her 
 face was grim, determined, her thick lips 
 pressed close together and pursed out, a 
 companion sign of angry determination with 
 the furrows in her fat forehead. 
 
 Dick followed with a basket of silver on 
 his arm. His eyes bulged out with fear, yet 
 206
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 the unusual touched his love of excitement, 
 so that he was not altogether miserable. He 
 skipped across slippery furrows, jumped shal- 
 low pools ; and by and by, forgetting his 
 fright, began to sing under his breath : 
 
 " Possum tail am ringed all 'round, 
 Raccoon tail am byar ; 
 Ole hyar ain't got no tail at all, 
 Nuthin' but a patch o' hyar." 
 
 "Quit dat foolishness!" called Mammy, 
 scornfully, but she could not turn her head 
 to scare him with a wrathful look, and 
 Dick soon forgot, and began another of 
 his favorites : 
 
 " Ole Molly hyar 
 What you doin' dyar ? " 
 
 " Shut yo' black mouf, or I lay I '11 make 
 you ! " Mammy snapped, and Dick went 
 quietly. 
 
 I could not see Emily nor Henry without 
 turning my head. I had mercifully left them 
 to the rear of the little procession which, 
 under the leaden skies, made its way across 
 the muddy field. 
 
 Down in the depths of those dismal, drip- 
 207
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 ping woods was no place for song from even 
 Dick's careless lips. Leaves and pine needles 
 under foot were sodden ; the marshy pools 
 were black and overflowing; only Henry 
 and Emily kept up a murmur of conversa- 
 tion behind us. For me, I pushed back my 
 sun-bonnet and drew a breath of relief 
 when we came out in sight of the clearing. 
 I clambered up on top of the fence and 
 waved to Miss Nancy, who had come won- 
 dering to the door when the hounds broke 
 into a clamor of barking. 
 
 " Land's sakes, it 's Lucy ! " she called. 
 " Here, Nick, here ! Here, Nero ! shut up, 
 will you ? Go back ! " She threw a stick at 
 them and sent them howling away as she 
 hurried to meet us, holding her short scant 
 skirts up from the wet. Anxiety was in 
 every line of her face; Miss Molly follow- 
 ing her was too sober for her good-natured 
 grin. 
 
 " Child, I am so glad to see you," Miss 
 
 Nancy called to me, ignoring for a second 
 
 the others. " I have been fairly crazy about 
 
 you. We know. We heard all about it. 
 
 208
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 They sent us word from Oakleigh ; that is," 
 correcting herself primly, " they sent for 
 something and the man told us. Come right 
 on to the house. And if here ain't Emily, 
 and well, I declare. Come on in. You 
 are drenched, every one of you. I always did 
 say it rains twice in those woods, once when 
 it 's raining everywhere else, and again when 
 the wet is trickling off the trees, sliding 
 down when you least look for it," Miss 
 Nancy chattered as she led the way into 
 the house, Miss Molly following her like a 
 shadow, but a shadow many times too big; 
 and for once Miss Molly was dumb. 
 
 " Sit right down and make yourselves com- 
 fortable. You want me to take care of these 
 things, you say. That I will. Nobody will 
 ever find them here. Poor child ! " She 
 began again her lamentations, but of those I 
 had had a surfeit. I never cared half so much 
 for people's sympathy over what had already 
 happened as I did for help in what might 
 come, and I despised being pitied. Let me 
 fight out my sorrows alone; my joys I will 
 gladly share. 
 
 14 209
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 I began at once to boast. " I have a letter 
 from Robert." 
 
 " You have ? " with a look of expectancy. 
 
 " I will tell you about it after awhile." 
 And I made the promise a pretext for fol- 
 lowing her when she went out into the hall. 
 
 " Miss Nancy," I whispered, " will it be any 
 trouble to you if we spend the day here ? " 
 
 " La, no ! I should be proud to have you, 
 proud. Can you really stay ? " she asked 
 eagerly, her thin little figure tiptoeing for- 
 ward as if to hear the quicker. 
 
 " If we could, if you are sure " 
 
 " Nothing in the world would make us 
 happier, nothing," she avowed, with her 
 quaint manner of repeating a word like a 
 refrain. 
 
 I told my plan and the reasons for it, her 
 head nodding to every phrase. 
 
 " I '11 call sister Molly and ask her to 
 help." 
 
 " Do, and leave those two alone." 
 
 " You don't tell me ! You don't mean " 
 
 I laughed, and her black eyes twinkled 
 with comprehension. 
 
 210
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 "I will," she vowed, "that I will. Poor 
 things ! When is he going back ? " 
 
 " He should be on his way now." 
 
 " But you know how he must want to 
 stay, now don't you? He will be safe 
 here, yes, indeed. You don't have to go 
 back ? " 
 
 I told her I must. 
 
 "You will be back for dinner, certainly? 
 and I '11 leave them there to themselves. 
 Bring your father with you," in an excess 
 of hospitality, for Miss Nancy was genuinely 
 afraid of father's brusqueness. " Tell him 
 not to stay there alone." 
 
 " I am going to cook dinner in Sister 
 Molly's house," she whispered at Miss 
 Molly's door; and I was glad to think, as 
 I went back through the sombre woods, of 
 those two alone in that peaceful room. 
 
 The sun was setting when we went home ; 
 Henry's horse was tied at the gate as he had 
 asked that it should be, but father urged 
 again that the foolhardy venture should not 
 be made. 
 
 211
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 Henry was happy enough to be careless. 
 " The soldiers are not out of the fort to-day; 
 they are hugging the fires," he declared, as 
 he pulled at his saddle-girth to see if it were 
 carefully buckled. 
 
 " Better not risk it." 
 
 Emily, close by Henry's side, urged in 
 words which could not be heard, face and 
 manner telling the tale. 
 
 " No, I must see mother ; then I will be 
 off." 
 
 " It is too dangerous, Henry ; you know it. 
 Leave a letter for her." 
 
 " And tell her her son was within ten miles 
 of her and afraid to come and see her ? " His 
 tone was sufficient. " It will soon be dark ; 
 I must be off." 
 
 He bade us each good-by and came at last 
 to Emily where she leaned against the pal- 
 ings, her eyes glowing and her face gleaming 
 white in the dusk. He looked at her with 
 longing and laughter both in his eyes, then, 
 with a swift look of daring at us, he bent to 
 kiss her and was gone. Red and white 
 shame and sorrow chased each other over 
 212
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 Emily's cheek as we watched him canter 
 down the lane, and turn at the pines to 
 wave good-by ; we went sorrowfully into the 
 house. 
 
 The excitement which had upheld us with 
 its false strength, the cheerfulness we had 
 pretended, the fear we had in reality felt, 
 blent into a common mood of lethargy, a 
 dull torpor which sent us early to bed and 
 fitful dreams, and left listless moments as its 
 heritage, despite the sparkling frost and the 
 cool air and the clear sky of the morrow. 
 
 I hugged the fireplace and paid little at- 
 tention to father, as he rummaged about in 
 the chimney closet and then, after wrapping 
 his big shawl about him, went out; but 
 soon I heard the discordant creaking with 
 which the grindstone under the cherry tree 
 was set to work. 
 
 " Dick, you rascal," father fussed, " look out 
 there; be careful! Pour the water in a steady 
 stream ; not so much, you numskull ! " 
 
 I loitered to the window and looked out at 
 them. Dick's hand was unsteady from the 
 cold ; his face was ashy, his teeth chatter- 
 213
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 ing. The gourd shook as he tried to hold 
 it at the right angle above the stone and 
 let the water trickle down upon it drop by 
 drop. 
 
 I picked up my shawl and ran out. 
 " Here," I cried to the boy, " give it to me. 
 Run along to the kitchen and warm yourself. 
 You look as if you were frozen. What are 
 you doing, father ? " I asked, as I stood with 
 gourd poised in air. 
 
 He pursed his lips together and bent over 
 the slowly turning stone without a word. 
 The wind softly tossed the thick gray hair 
 on his temples and the fringe of his heavy 
 shawl, and reddened his firm cheek ; his 
 eyes flashed like the steel he held in his 
 hands as he ground the knife to an edge. 
 When it was sharpened to his satisfaction he 
 laid it upon the wooden frame which held 
 the stone, took another from his pocket, and 
 began working on it. 
 
 My hand was steady. The water fell as 
 he wished it, drop by drop ; the sound of its 
 trickling and of the grinding mingled with 
 the clashing of the bare boughs overhead. 
 214
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 Father had not answered my question, 
 and speech was an effort that dull morning. 
 I stood silent while the wheel whirled and 
 creaked, and father ground and bent the 
 blade, tried it, and made yet a finer edge. 
 When it was done to his liking he straight- 
 ened himself. " Put it in your pocket, some- 
 where about you ; never be without it ! " He 
 handed me the gleaming steel across the blue- 
 gray stone ; and astounded, wide-eyed, gaz- 
 ing back at him, I read in his flashing eyes 
 the fear I had not yesterday dreamed of, and 
 by it measured the agony of his apprehension. 
 The horror for a moment deadened me. I 
 did not hear Emily's step nor know that she 
 had come out of the house until I heard her 
 say behind me, low and steady: " Give me 
 the other." 
 
 " I will," father flashed. 
 
 Our backs were toward the lane, and so 
 absorbed were we that we did not know that 
 any one was near till a shrill " Mr. Yancey ! 
 Mr. Yancey ! " startled us. " Here 's a note." 
 A negro leaned from a foam-lathered horse. 
 " I done come de very minute Mr. Rowan 
 215
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 heard de news. Dey done caught Marse 
 Henry Latham, dat dey is ; dey got him las' 
 night." 
 
 Without a sound Emily sank down on the 
 green grass at our feet. 
 
 316
 
 XVI 
 
 BEFORE Emily opened her eyes father 
 was hobbling away, his exclamations, 
 " Goose idiot fool ! " trailing after 
 him. I thought them meant for Emily at first 
 father hated a scene but that last word 
 was for Henry and his foolhardiness, though 
 I could have applied it myself to Emily and 
 her nonsensical fainting-fit. I was wild with 
 anxiety for the one in real danger ; how had 
 he been captured ? what would it mean ? 
 Would he not be released as one of our 
 county men had been? At the worst could 
 they do more than hold him to be exchanged ? 
 Why was father so frightened ? 
 
 As soon as I dared I left Mammy to care 
 for Emily while I went in search of father. 
 I found him in the dining-room, standing 
 before the hearth, where the fire lighted for 
 breakfast still smouldered. The big cat, who 
 had lazily lingered by the warmth, rubbed 
 217
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 against his knee purring a hoarse note of 
 satisfaction ; but father noticed neither him 
 nor me. 
 
 " How is Emily? " he asked without turn- 
 ing his head. 
 
 " There is nothing the matter with her to 
 amount to much. I don't see why she should 
 have been so foolish " father shot me a 
 keen glance " nor you either," I added 
 irritably. " You looked frightened to death." 
 
 Father shrugged his shoulders impatiently. 
 
 " At the worst they can but hold Henry 
 for exchange ? " 
 
 "Pshaw!" 
 
 " Why not ? " sharply. " You think so 
 yourself ? " 
 
 " No, Henry has been a fool. He should 
 have told you what he was about." 
 
 "He did. He said " 
 
 " Oh, that was straight enough, but before 
 I have no patience with him." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean," I said 
 faintly. 
 
 " No, and won't until I tell you right out. 
 Henry was a government scout, that was 
 218
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 what he would call it. They might give it 
 another name." 
 
 " What ? " I gasped. 
 
 " Spy ! Spy ! You Ve got it now." 
 Father's anxiety was the secret of his rough- 
 ness. " Good God ! don't you get to faint- 
 ing too. The Lord deliver me from a lot of 
 frightened women; if they don't faint they 
 take to crying." 
 
 " I am not doing either," I asserted proudly. 
 
 41 No ? " with an anxious glance at the 
 door. 
 
 I ran to it and shut it, I feared our whis- 
 pers might penetrate through it and that 
 other door to Emily's ear, and she had heard 
 enough. 
 
 " Do they know ? " I whispered. 
 
 " I think they do," with intense irony. 
 
 " What will they do with him? " I breathed. 
 
 " Hang him, if they don't do him the cour- 
 tesy to shoot him." 
 
 " No, no ! They shall not ! " 
 
 " Who will prevent them ? You ? " 
 
 " Yes, I." It was but bravado which 
 prompted me. 
 
 219
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 Father leaned over on his crutch and 
 peered into my face. " You have lost your 
 senses," he said shortly. 
 
 " Perhaps I have." 
 
 I whirled from him, ran up to my room. 
 In one flash, as if lightning had laid it bare, I 
 saw a thing to be done for Henry's life, and 
 I alone could do it. Had I the courage ? 
 Dare I try? Would there not be a thou- 
 sand chances for failure against one slender 
 possibility of success ? I threw myself face 
 downward on the bed, pressed the covers 
 about my ears, held myself to that mental 
 vision, and marked out the thing I could 
 venture on, knowing that at the last I must 
 trust to chance. Still, with that glimmer to 
 lead me on, I dared not do nothing. 
 
 I heard Mammy when she went out to the 
 kitchen, and followed her there. She had 
 already placed her pots and kettles on the 
 hearth. " Ise doin' de bes' I can," she 
 grumbled as soon as she saw me. " Ise got 
 dis dinnah to cook an' Ise gwine do it, but 
 my haid is whirled clean erroun'. What 
 wid yistiddy and de day befo', an' now dese 
 220
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 doin's, dis darky 's got a little mo' dan she 
 can stan'. Let erlone Sam." 
 
 I stood still and listened, seeing that she 
 veered to the very point I wished. 
 
 " My po' boy dyar widout one soul whar 
 knows a thing erbout him, wid nobody 
 to 'tend to him. What is gwine come o' 
 him ? " 
 
 " Why don't you go and see ? " I asked 
 gently. 
 
 Mammy whirled around, scattering the 
 hot coals with her skirt. 
 
 " Look out ! " I warned. 
 
 " Why don't I ? name o' sense how is I 
 gwine git dyar ? " 
 
 " I told you I would take you." 
 
 " An' you 's doin' it, ain't you ? " 
 
 " There has n't been time." 
 
 u One whole day an' a piece." 
 
 " I am going now." 
 
 " La, honey ! " Her thick lips dropped 
 apart. 
 
 " Get ready as soon as you can ; but don't 
 tell a soul what you are going to do, mind 
 you ! Tell Dick to put both horses to the 
 221
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 buggy and drive them to the gate. You 
 watch the barn and start the minute you see 
 him drive out." 
 
 " Glory be ! Ise gwine git ready dis min- 
 ute. Ise gwine fix him up some med'cine." 
 
 " What will you take him ? What do you 
 give him when he has one of these spells ? " 
 
 " Fus' one thing an' den anuddah; ef 
 boneset don't fotch him I tries peppah ; but 
 de bes' o' all is a good sweat in a feathah 
 baid wid a brick at his haid an' one at his 
 feet ; it seems fairly to wuk de trouble out 
 long wid de sweat. 
 
 " Ef I jes had a little laud'num," she be- 
 moaned as she bustled heavily about ; " when 
 de pain is real downright sharp I gives him 
 dat." 
 
 " There is a little in the house." 
 
 " Ef you '11 jes give me some." 
 
 I promised ; already the plan worked well. 
 
 I hurried, but I was barely ready when the 
 roll of wheels was heard. I had trusted to 
 get away unseen until it was too late for 
 interruption, but father was in the hall and 
 through the open door I caught a glimpse 
 222
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 of Emily's white cheek where she lay asleep 
 from the anodyne we had given her. 
 
 "What's that buggy for?" father de- 
 manded. 
 
 " For me to take Mammy to see Sam." 
 Fast as my heart beat I spoke carelessly. 
 
 " To the fort ? " 
 
 " That 's where he is." 
 
 " You have lost your senses ! " he railed, 
 repeating the accusation he had before made. 
 
 " I shall need to find them," I answered 
 airily. 
 
 " You-shall-not-go ! " thumping his crutch 
 upon the floor with each word for emphasis. 
 
 " I must," I pleaded, but he stood squarely 
 in the door barring my exit, and he moved 
 not one inch. 
 
 I looked at him for a breath's space, but 
 saw that he was obdurate. " Let me pass? " 
 I begged. 
 
 " You, a young woman ! " 
 
 " Look at me." I turned slowly about. I 
 
 was swathed in shawls and bonnet and veil. 
 
 " I have a pass from the captain who was 
 
 here yesterday permitting us to visit the 
 
 223
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 camp. While we are there something might 
 happen. I might think of something, some 
 chance. I must do it. You must let me." 
 
 11 1 shall not." 
 
 I gathered up my skirts, fled through the 
 back door around the house, and out to the 
 carriage before he had an idea of what I 
 was doing ; in a second more I was by 
 Mammy's side, the reins in my hands, the 
 buggy rocking from side to side as we sped 
 down the lane. 
 
 I drove fast and furiously up hill and 
 down, and at top speed along the level 
 stretches. Mammy had not a word to say ; 
 she was torn between her anxiety for Sam 
 and her fear for me. 
 
 My own heart sank lower and lower as we 
 sped. Timid as I had always been, shy of 
 disposition, and shielded by the surround- 
 ings of home, by father and husband, why 
 had I ever dreamed so dare-devil a thing ? 
 What could I hope to do even were I once 
 within the fort ? What danger might there 
 not be ? My teeth chattered, I shook as 
 with an ague when we turned down the 
 224
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 road toward the river and the fort. If 
 Mammy had not been by my side, if Emily's 
 face had not flashed before me, I should 
 have turned the horses around, raced for 
 home, hidden in the thick woods shadowing 
 the road, done anything but gone on. 
 
 I was so sick with fear that it was like 
 nausea. My nervous fingers let the reins 
 slip loose ; the horses swerved to one side, 
 jolted over a log, and shook Mammy half 
 way off her seat. 
 
 " To' Gawd," she groaned, " if you cyarnt 
 drive no bettah 'n dat you '11 brek down befo' 
 we gits dyar." 
 
 The prophecy sobered me. The raw salt 
 air struck in our faces ; we were nearly there. 
 The sheltering woods were left behind, and 
 before us stretched a sandy level which ran 
 straight to the high bluffs by the river, 
 where, huge and threatening to my fright- 
 ened eyes, loomed the earthworks of the 
 fort. A bastion before the ramparts guarded 
 the entrance and upon its heights paced a 
 sentinel who peered forward at us as we 
 drove toward him out of the dusk. 
 J 5 225
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 "Halt!" 
 
 I pulled the horses back on their haunches. 
 
 His questions were so quick, so rapidly 
 spoken, and I was so breathless from nerv- 
 ousness and fright that we could make no 
 sense between us ; but at the shouting a 
 soldier came running out from the inner 
 gate and I managed to tell him enough of 
 my errand to send him hastening back into 
 the fort with my precious slip of paper in 
 his hands. As we waited, the wind cutting 
 about us and the horses twisting restlessly 
 beneath its keen lashings, I could hear noth- 
 ing, no howling of the winds over the dreary 
 levels, no sound of the tide on the shore, 
 only my heart pounding until it seemed as 
 if the sound of its throbbing must reach up 
 to that figure which, straight and stern, was 
 outlined against the faint light of the west- 
 ern sky, as he leaned upon his gun and 
 looked down at us, a type of the inexorable, 
 a symbol of that power against which I / 
 was dreaming to pit my wits. 
 
 I felt weak and helpless enough to cry, to 
 break into wild sobbing, when the soldier 
 
 226
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 returned ; but his first words, grumpily and 
 shortly spoken, sent the blood from its rush- 
 ing to my head and brought back to me 
 some semblance of common-sense. 
 
 " Captain Leighton is not here, but you 
 will be admitted on his pass." 
 
 I clambered down at once ; I was so un- 
 certain in my movements, so stiff from the 
 cold and my long drive, that with my swath- 
 ings and in the dusk I seemed to perfection 
 the old woman I had hoped to be thought, 
 as we stumbled after our guide. 
 
 I feared when we had rounded the outer 
 embankment and passed the sentinels at the 
 inner gate that we would be taken to head- 
 quarters and examined there ; I knew where 
 the rude buildings stood at the head of the 
 inclosure, looking down the rows of shanties 
 built of logs and rough weather-boardings 
 Robert had too often described it all for me 
 not to know but our guide swerved to the 
 left, and skirted the sides of the outermost 
 cabins. 
 
 " He 's down here," he said shortly, as he 
 pointed to a fire streaming up into the dark- 
 227
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 ness, beyond the buildings, yet within the 
 ramparts and sheltered by them. 
 
 Mammy cast fearful glances about her, 
 but I went looking straight ahead, holding 
 fast to my courage with both hands. Still 
 I saw, as if it were burnt on my brain, how 
 ghostlike looked the rows of shanties, how 
 weird were the rude interiors, when their 
 rough tables and rusty stoves and bunks 
 built against the walls showed through an 
 open door; how listless were the soldiers, 
 lounging there or in the open spaces. I saw a 
 tall lank figure stoop over the fire we neared 
 and turn the meat hanging from the forked 
 saplings crossed above the flames; saw the 
 light flash back from the cannon embedded 
 in the earthworks near ; and, with the keen 
 perception of such moments, heard the sul- 
 len sound of the wind-lashed river, and the 
 whirling of the spiteful gusts about the fort. 
 
 "There," cried the soldier, "there he is. 
 You can see for yourself there is nothing 
 the matter with him." He added some 
 grumblings about " so much fuss about one 
 nigger." 
 
 228
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 At the sound of voice and footsteps Sam 
 wheeled nervously. 
 
 " Sam ! Sam ! " cried Mammy. 
 
 The boy gazed fearfully at us; he could 
 not believe it possible that we were there. 
 
 "Sam!" 
 
 " Mammy ! " he cried as he ran to her ; 
 she flung her arms about him, swaying him 
 to and fro as she rocked. 
 
 " I heard you was sick," she moaned. 
 
 I walked past them to the other side of 
 the fire and sat down on a log rolled close 
 to the heat ; sat down slowly, stiffly, as with 
 difficulty. The wind beat flame and light 
 from me and left me in shadow, but the 
 glow fell bright on the grinning soldiers, on 
 Mammy's ungainly figure, on Sam, thin, 
 shaking, ashy of hue. 
 
 Mammy's loving eyes saw his weakness. 
 " Is dis de way dey treats you ? " she 
 demanded indignantly. " Got you out 
 hyar in dis col' win' at work ? Marse 
 Willum he 'd had you in de cabin tucked 
 up in baid wid de quilts piled up to yo' 
 chin an' de fiah a-racin' up de chimney; 
 229
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 an' hyar Come 'roun' to dis log an' sit 
 down." 
 
 She led him, as if he needed help, near to 
 where I sat. " Jes you set right down an* 
 res','' with a defiant look out of her angry 
 eyes at the soldier who stood where he had 
 first taken up position on the other side of 
 the camp fire. 
 
 " Old woman," he called, " we want that 
 meat for supper, and we want it quick." 
 
 Mammy cast a shrewd glance at the veni- 
 son. " 'T is nigh done now." 
 
 " Then cut your talk short." 
 
 Mammy turned an indignant shoulder; 
 she began fond interrogations concerning 
 Sam's sickness, his pains, what remedies had 
 been given him. I slid closer to him on the 
 log. 
 
 " What dey give you to take ? " she de- 
 manded. 
 
 Sam shook his head. 
 
 " What is you been doin' ? " 
 
 Sam's sickly grin meant the best he could ; 
 but Mammy began moaning at sight of it. 
 
 " Stop your fuss," the soldier called out. 
 230
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Say what you got to say. You will have 
 to be going directly." 
 
 And I had not had a single chance, not a 
 word, no glimmer of a plan. Was this all ? 
 Should we start homeward along those black 
 roads, the sullen night closing upon Henry's 
 life ? No, no, NO ! I would wrench from the 
 very darkness something, some hope. What 
 was it Mammy was saying so foolishly at 
 such a moment ? " Sam, what is dat you 
 got a-bilin' in dat pot ? " 
 
 "Coffee." 
 
 " Fer de lan's sake ! I ain't had a drap o' 
 coffee for nigh 'pon a year," she declared 
 loudly. 
 
 " Get a cup and give her some," the soldier 
 commanded with a laugh, " the other old 
 woman too." 
 
 Sam gaped. "Miss Miss "he stam- 
 mered, but Mammy nudged him with her 
 elbow. 
 
 " Hurry up," she said fretfully, as if she 
 scarcely could wait. " Thank you, sah ! " as 
 Sam stumbled to his feet. " 'T will suttenly 
 tas'e good in de col'." 
 231
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 At the last word the soldier shivered. 
 " The air from the river cuts like a knife," 
 he grumbled as he bent to warm his hands 
 over the coals. 
 
 " It do fer a fac'," Mammy agreed in a 
 tone of warm sympathy, " an' down hyar de 
 win' seems to come fairly azoonin'." 
 
 The soldier straightened from his crouch- 
 ing and began to walk up and down a few 
 steps each way. Sam came back with two 
 tin cups. He lifted the coffee-pot from the 
 fire and filled them. I took the one he gave 
 me and clasped my cold fingers about it for 
 warmth. I had no intention of drinking it, 
 but the hot steam of the coffee rose tantaliz- 
 ingly to my face ; how good it smelled ! I 
 looked about us. No one was in that de- 
 serted corner but ourselves, the stars shone 
 through the rifted clouds, and it was quite 
 dark. I pulled my veil above my lips, took 
 one slow sip ; it was bitter, it was rank, but 
 it seemed delicious. I sipped again and 
 again. The soldier paced, more careless of 
 his scrutiny. 
 
 " Sam," I whispered while my head was 
 232
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 bent over the cup, " look at Mammy as if 
 you were talking to her. Where is Mr. 
 Latham ? " 
 
 The boy gave a quick start. The de- 
 light of seeing his mother had made him 
 forget. 
 
 " Does you all know 'bout it ? " he groaned. 
 
 " Answer my question," I whispered 
 sternly. " Where is he ? " 
 
 " In one o' de las' line o' houses." 
 
 The row of shanties was not far from us. 
 "Which one?" 
 
 " Third one down." 
 
 " Sam, do you do you know what they 
 are going to do with him ? " 
 
 The negro's teeth chattered. " Dey tells 
 me dey gwine shoot him sho." 
 
 " When ? " 
 
 11 Ter-morrer." 
 
 For one instant I sat benumbed ; my 
 brain was barren, my heart a leaden lump. 
 " Give me another cup ? " I asked, striving 
 to gain time. Sam filled it and Mammy's, 
 and sat down again between us. 
 
 " Who takes him his supper ? " I whispered. 
 233
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " I dunno." 
 
 " Have you seen him ? " 
 
 " I took his dinnah to him." 
 
 " It may be you; listen. Tell him " 
 
 " I done brought you some med'cine," 
 Mammy interrupted. 
 
 " Is there any guard over him ? " 
 
 " A sojer at the do'." 
 
 " Some laud'num," Mammy went on, heed- 
 less of those whispers. " Ise gvvine tell you 
 how to take it." 
 
 I gasped. Here was a glimmer of an idea 
 at last. 
 
 " Sam," I commanded tersely, " turn your 
 face to Mammy. Take that soldier a cup 
 of coffee, pour some laudanum in it, more 
 than you have ever taken, but not too much, 
 mind you; be careful." 
 
 " Ise gwine tell you how to take it," 
 Mammy declared. 
 
 " Give me a pencil," I said quickly. " I '11 
 write it. Here," as Sam felt in his pocket 
 for the stub he usually carried, and I tore off 
 the margin of the paper in which the bottle 
 had been wrapped. 
 
 234
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 The soldier had paused by the fire. " Can 
 you read ? " he asked surprisedly of Sam. 
 
 " She taught me," crooking a thumb to- 
 wards me and grinning sheepishly. 
 
 My hands trembled so that the words 
 were scarcely legible. " Quick, there," the 
 soldier commanded ; " 't is time you were 
 going." He turned away. I thrust the 
 paper into Sam's hands. 
 
 " Give this to Mr. Latham. You hear ? " 
 
 "To' Gawd " 
 
 "You are to do as I say. You have got 
 to see him." 
 
 " An' hyar 's sumpin' else," began Mammy, 
 fumbling in her pocket. 
 
 In a flash I remembered the knife I car- 
 ried. I moved impatiently, whirling my 
 skirts about Sam's knee, ran my hand into 
 my pocket and, under the cover of my dress, 
 thrust the knife into his hands. "And this 
 also." 
 
 A bugle blast rang out. " Time 's up ! " 
 called our guard and guide. 
 
 I had not time for another word. 
 
 235
 
 XVII 
 
 THE horses, restless from standing in 
 the cold air, tugged at the reins. I 
 pushed up my veil, set my feet 
 against the dashboard, and leaned back with 
 both hands holding the ribbons taut. We 
 jolted over a rut and went pell-mell through 
 a water-hole. The flying horses jerked the 
 buggy out, but I heard the sharp snap of 
 breaking leather. We were near a hill down 
 which led two roads, and I pulled into the 
 least used way, sprang out, and felt with 
 nervous fingers for the broken harness. 
 While I mended it with the hitching-strap 
 we heard the approach of rapid hoof-beats, 
 the measured tread of cavalry. It was the 
 belated return of a foraging party. I stood 
 at the horses' heads, stroked them and petted 
 them, for fear that their whinnyings might 
 betray our whereabouts. It seemed an hour 
 before we heard the sharp commands of an 
 236
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 officer, bringing his men into order at the 
 top of the hill, and the rapid riding whose 
 sounds grew less. 
 
 " Dat 's de very man a-callin' out what was 
 at our house day befo' yistidday," Mammy 
 whispered when I was back by her side. 
 " Ain't gwine fergit his voice in a hurry; no, 
 sah." 
 
 I, too, had recognized the sharp, curt 
 tones. " Thank the Lord he was away," 
 I murmured devoutly. His manner was 
 courteous, but too keen. The little I had 
 been able to do might not have been ac- 
 complished had he been there. 
 
 Wildly anxious to meet no one, to be 
 unseen, I urged the horses along the county 
 road. At the forks two miles away I jumped 
 out again and led them through the heavy 
 underbrush, beneath the wide-set trees till 
 we were so well hidden that no passer-by 
 could see us. 
 
 Mammy had started to climb out when 
 I did. " Sit still," I had commanded shortly. 
 
 "Chile, what is you gwine to do?" she 
 asked as soon as I was back on my seat. 
 237
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Wait." 
 
 "What for?" 
 
 For what ? Wait in wild, blind hope, for 
 I had written on that yellow margin, " I will 
 wait at the cross-roads till daybreak," and 
 trusted Sam and the man who read it for 
 the rest. How cold it was ! how mournfully 
 the wind whistled about us! The clouds 
 fled with the night and the stars shone 
 above us; through the screen of branches 
 we could watch the white, deserted road, the 
 four arms of it lying like a cross upon the 
 breast of a country that was stricken with 
 fear. 
 
 " Lan'," grumbled Mammy when an hour, 
 two hours, passed, " what is you waitin' in 
 dis col' place fer ? " 
 
 It was best perhaps to let her know. " I 
 am waiting to see if Henry " 
 
 " Did you go dyar to git him loose ? " 
 
 Did I ? Oh, how little I had done ! How 
 blindly stupid I had been, how badly I had 
 planned! Was there not something else I 
 could have thought of ? If it had only fallen 
 to some one else to dare, some one more sen- 
 238
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 sible ! And the hours, the last hours were 
 slipping away. I groaned as deeply as 
 Mammy had done. 
 
 " Gawd ! " she cried, " why did n't you tell 
 me ? " 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Don't you know, ain't you got sense 
 ernuff to know dat My Gawd ! ef he does, 
 ef he does git erway, dey '11 shoot Sam ! " 
 
 " No, no ! " I cried, horror-stricken. 
 
 " Dey will, an' you knows it, an' you don't 
 keer." 
 
 " Mammy ! " 
 
 " My Gawd ! my Gawd ! an' you done 
 took me dyar, an' I done holp kill him." 
 
 " For mercy's sake ! " I pleaded. 
 
 " You ain't had no mercy on me." 
 
 " You knew all about Henry ; you knew he 
 was to be shot at noon. Did you want " 
 
 "I ain't wantin' nuthin' 'bout nobody; I 
 don't know nuthin' neidah. Let me git out 
 o' dis." 
 
 " What are you going to do ? " I cried, as 
 I held on to her in desperation. 
 
 " Ise gwine back." 
 
 239
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " Ise gwine back. Ise gwine foot it ebery 
 step. Ise gwine tell 'em Sam didn't know 
 nuthin' 'tall 'bout it." 
 
 " If you do that Sam will be shot sure." 
 
 " An' ef I don't Miss Lucy," wringing 
 her hands, "how could you do it? Sam's 
 been sickly all his life. He 's been in de 
 house an' right erroun' you eber since you 's 
 been bohn. 'T ain't lak he'd been a fiel' 
 niggah an' you skasely knowed him. Ain't 
 you done learnt him to read ? Did n't you 
 begin wid yo' own book jes as soon as you 
 knowed yo' letters yo'se'f ? " 
 
 "Oh, Mammy, don't, don't! I did the 
 best I could." 
 
 " You went to see Sam, sat dyar talkin' to 
 him, an' dis night Marse Henry gits erway, 
 an' Sam, he'slef!" 
 
 " Mammy ! " I pleaded, " there is Henry's 
 mother." 
 
 "An' dyar's my chile Sam, lak hern." 
 
 "And Emily." 
 
 " What you know but Sam got a sweet- 
 heart, too ? " 
 
 240
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 Somehow that broke the horror of it, 
 brought my scattered senses together. I 
 sat still thinking, thinking, while the horses 
 tossed their heads restlessly; beyond the 
 sounds of their impatience, of swaying 
 branches and creaking harness, there were 
 no others. 
 
 Think as I might I saw but one thing 
 now to wait, to keep my tryst till daylight 
 paled the sky. I lifted my heart in an agony 
 of prayer to God, a prayer which had but 
 one refrain, " We are Thy children, O God ! 
 Remember us ! " 
 
 And as I waited, hands clenched on the 
 reins, teeth set, the blood running slower 
 and colder in my veins, all my body was 
 an ache of cold and discomfort. The stars, 
 which were low in the east when we began 
 our watch, climbed higher overhead; the 
 winds died to the hush of midnight, still 
 there was no sound along the empty road. 
 
 Mammy's low moans and her broken 
 snatches of prayer never ceased ; she sat 
 rocking herself back and forth in the 
 buggy. 
 
 16 241
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 The horses twisted about, but, after much 
 coaxing, settled down to their enforced wait- 
 ing, with bent heads and drooping tails. As 
 the long hours wore on one of them suddenly 
 lifted his head, then the other; with heads 
 turned and ears pricked back they stood 
 motionless, listening. I nudged Mammy 
 into silence, and held my breath as I 
 watched. There was the beat of a foot- 
 step ; I lost it, heard it again ; and then out 
 into the road stepped a tall, straight figure. 
 " Oh, God ! " I breathed in an ecstasy of 
 hope ; " have mercy upon us," I cried, for 
 some one followed. It could not be Henry. 
 
 " De Ian' ! de lan's sake ! " Mammy's 
 strident cry rang out on the stillness of the 
 night. A low laugh from the road sent the 
 blood to my heart. 
 
 " Lucy, where are you ? " 
 
 " Here, here ! " I sprang down, ran to 
 him, caught his hands and clung to them, 
 laughing hysterically. Mammy was crying 
 softly over Sam. 
 
 We waited but a second while he told of 
 sleeping sentinels, scaled embankments, and 
 
 242
 
 flight. " Get the horses back in the road. 
 Where are they?" Henry ran to their 
 heads, backed them out of their hiding- 
 place, and we looked at each other for half 
 a breath's space in dismay. What should 
 we do, the four of us ? 
 
 " Mammy, get in," I commanded. " Sam, 
 ride one of the horses ; Molly is the strongest, 
 the one nearest you." I jumped in, sat down 
 in Mammy's lap, picked up the reins and 
 handed them to Henry. 
 
 Midnight was two hours past. We must 
 be home before the first streak of dawn. No 
 one, not even our nearest neighbor, must 
 know of that mad flight. On the horses 
 raced, Henry urging them. We drew rein 
 to listen once or twice, but no sound of pur- 
 suit came on the cold air; down the long 
 road, firm as clay is before the frost works 
 it into roughness ; up hill and down ; through 
 sandy bottoms, splashing over streams ; whirl- 
 ing sharply around the empty storehouse at 
 The Ordinary ; and at last, the sound of our 
 own gate clanging behind us, with whirling 
 wheels and rapid hoof-beats, with the cape 
 243
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 of Sam's old army coat blown straight be- 
 hind him, we neared the house. Lights 
 streamed from the windows, the door was 
 flung wide to the bitter night My shout 
 rang and echoed through the stillness of the 
 dawn. " Safe ! " I cried. " They are safe ! " 
 
 244
 
 XVIII 
 
 THEY were safe only so far, but in 
 the very madness of delight they 
 seemed to have lost their senses ; 
 and a hubbub of cries, exclamations, and 
 thanksgivings drowned every word of warn- 
 ing I tried to speak. Already the sunrise 
 flushed the sky. We knew that as soon as 
 their horses could bring the soldiers that 
 day to our gate they would be there, that 
 our house would be searched cranny and 
 crevice, barn and corn-house, and every pos- 
 sible hiding-place. Nothing would belate 
 them but the hour of their discovery, and 
 that must have already come. 
 
 " You must hide," I begged ; " you must 
 not delay a moment longer. Run ! " for 
 the way they must take to the woods lay 
 straight across the open fields, and any pur- 
 suer down the lane could spy them. " Sam 
 knows the way to the old cabin in the 
 245
 
 pines ; you must stay there till night ; we 
 will send you something to eat if we can. 
 At night you must be off. Let him go, 
 Emily ! Father, make her." 
 
 Mammy dragged Sam up from before the 
 fire, where he knelt warming his long, thin 
 fingers. 
 
 " Go 'long ! Don't you heah ? Ain't you 
 got no sense ? " 
 
 " Come, Henry, come ! " I heard father's 
 voice as he called warning and heeding after 
 them, but before they were out of sight I 
 sank down in my chair. From door and 
 window the household watched, watched the 
 lane and them ; but my part was done. I 
 leaned so close to the heat that my cheek 
 was fairly blistered, but the very marrow of 
 my bones seemed turned to ice. The voices 
 in the hall seemed to come from long dis- 
 tances. The rest I scarcely remember, 
 the ague which shook me, the fever which 
 ran high after it. They got me to bed in 
 the chamber, and there I lay when some few 
 hours later the clatter in the lane told that 
 pursuit was near. I heard the uproar, and 
 246
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 father's voice in sharper and sharper remon- 
 strances ; but in spite of all he could say, the 
 chamber door was pushed open, a strong, im- 
 patient footstep rang on the bare floor. 
 
 I opened my eyes. There stood the 
 captain, embarrassed, angry, yet persistent. 
 " You will pardon me I did not know '' 
 he stammered. 
 
 " I told you my daughter was here, ill ! " 
 father blazed. 
 
 " But " He hesitated. It was easy to 
 understand. The captain had not believed 
 the tale of my being abed, and had pushed 
 his way in. Emily leaned against the bed 
 looking like a ruffled and frightened bird ; 
 Mammy stood in the door, her arms akimbo, 
 her eyes flashing; father, near me, watched 
 with scorn and hatred and impotent rage 
 showing in every line of his face, every flash 
 of his eyes. 
 
 The captain wrathfully eyed my red face. 
 "You visited the camp yesterday," he stated 
 authoritatively. 
 
 I made a gesture of assent. 
 
 " And you assisted the spy we had cap- 
 247
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 tured to escape," he accused as sternly as he 
 had at first spoken. 
 
 I only looked at him with wide-open eyes 
 and prayed that Emily would not speak. 
 
 " And the negro boy ? " 
 
 " Was he a pris'nah too ? " It was Mammy's 
 voice. 
 
 " We must search your house." 
 
 " Do so," said father, haughtily. 
 
 The captain turned, and went out ; we 
 heard the search from room to room. The 
 officer came again into the chamber. " You 
 have them in hiding somewhere near," he 
 accused. " The spy " 
 
 Emily made a step nearer him. " He was 
 no spy ; you know it," she vowed hotly. 
 
 " He was. And he was here a night and 
 day before we captured him." 
 
 " To see me." 
 
 The captain gave her a searching look. 
 "We caught him " 
 
 " As he went to see his mother. I have 
 
 heard how you took him. A brave thing to 
 
 do ! six against one, hiding all of you on 
 
 the hillside till he was well between you ! " 
 
 248
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 Emily stood as straight as the captain held 
 himself, and gave him angry glance for angry 
 glance. 
 
 " His mother has the misfortune of living 
 near to your encampment," added father, 
 ironically. 
 
 " But for your daughter's interference he 
 would have been shot this morning," blurted 
 the captain, stung into brutality. 
 
 Emily reeled back against the bed. She 
 had never heard of Henry's extremity of 
 danger. 
 
 " Are you not glad that it has not been 
 done, that he is alive, well ? " I cried as I 
 looked directly into the officer's eyes ; and in 
 that curious way in which I understood him, 
 through and through, though he represented 
 to me a force I hated, and I to him a duty he 
 did not desire, I read his thought. 
 
 " I am accountable," he said shortly. 
 
 " For doing your duty ; you have done it." 
 
 He looked at me, a sudden flame of anger 
 in his eyes. " Your visit to camp has not 
 been beneficial ; it might not be safe to re- 
 peat it," he added significantly. 
 249
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " I pray never to have need to, never to 
 see it again ! " I cried vehemently as he strode 
 out of the room. 
 
 In the hall he came face to face with 
 Mammy. " If that boy of yours is ever 
 caught, he will be shot at sight." 
 
 Mammy was insolent in her joy. "Yes, 
 sah," she said with treacherous courtesy. 
 " Yes, sah ; but you 's got to cotch him fus'." 
 
 That night a little cavalcade took its way 
 from our house. There was Henry, there 
 was Sam ; it was not safe for the boy to stay 
 in the county, and he was wild to follow 
 Henry to the war, so we let him go. And 
 there was father ! In the few words he al- 
 ways used when his feeling was intense he 
 announced just before nightfall that he was 
 going. He was impelled, he said ; every 
 drop of blood within him was stirred. To 
 remain inactive was impossible. He could 
 ride as straight and as long, sit as true and 
 aim as well as any man, and every man was 
 needed. He went. 
 
 250
 
 XIX 
 
 EMILY was to stay with me, but in a 
 few days a carriage came for her from 
 Middlesex; her mother was ill, and 
 her aunt had sent for her. We were left 
 alone. Worst of all, that visit to the fort had 
 made us a marked people; and the well- 
 stocked farm offered excellent foraging 
 ground. Scantiness of food we had never 
 imagined, but with a smokehouse from whose 
 rafters hung no meat, with an empty corn- 
 crib, with no cabbages piled and covered in 
 the garden, with no potatoes in the small 
 cellar under the kitchen floor, we were face 
 to face with want before we divined its 
 meaning. 
 
 With the lack of food came also that of 
 clothing. I owned a plaid silk, a flowered 
 dimity, the dresses Mammy had saved, 
 and the mousseline I wore that day. Nor 
 would the wrist-big rolls of Confederate bills 
 251
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 in father's drawer buy one yard of calico, 
 for the shelves of the country stores were 
 empty. For those few things which could 
 be bought, it took ever more and more of 
 those bills, with higher and higher numbers, 
 until even the soldiers who rifled us laughed 
 when they wrenched open the drawer and 
 saw them, and they left them undisturbed. 
 They well knew that the money which was 
 of value was in their pockets, not in ours. 
 
 But there is no excuse for hugging one's 
 misery forever to heart. I did not cherish 
 mine. Besides, I think that with every heavy 
 fall of fate my courage mounted higher. I 
 lived alone where I had thought it impossi- 
 ble or would have thought it so, had such 
 a wild idea once crossed my brain to stay 
 one night unguarded. I faced danger daily, 
 lived in an expectancy of it, and was so im- 
 bued with constant fear that, come what 
 might, I felt no sudden shock. 
 
 The want of clothes, however, was press- 
 ing. Winter was at hand and the days were 
 already bitter. My mousseline, spite of its 
 patches, went to rags upon my back. I 
 252
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 could not go clad in thin dimity or in silk, 
 and even had I donned them, their service 
 would have been short-lived. 
 
 " Miss Nancy," I complained, on one of 
 my few visits to the small house on the 
 Dragon, " I am literally going to rags." I 
 pointed to my elbows. " What shall I do ? " 
 
 I had made myself quite comfortable be- 
 fore her hearth. The clear and cold winter's 
 day and the long walk had set my blood 
 a-dancing. It was more in merriment than 
 dismay that I asked, for with Miss Nancy, 
 somehow, people were apt to tell just what 
 they felt and thought, to speak truth instead 
 of idle pleasantries. Her remoteness set her 
 apart from the current of affairs, but left her 
 free to fathom its depths. 
 
 She sat now across from me, her hands 
 folded in her lap, her thin, bare arms show- 
 ing through the folds of the shawl, the keen, 
 dark eyes in her wrinkled face gleaming with 
 kind anxiety. The gay stripes of her home- 
 woven carpet showed warm on the floor, the 
 sunken and uneven hearth was freshly red- 
 dened, the red and yellow flames raced up 
 253
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 the rough, black chimney ; the cup and 
 saucer I had given her, an old clock, and a 
 brass candlestick gleamed on the mantel- 
 shelf. Small as was the room crowded with 
 the loom, simple as were its furnishings, I 
 felt always when there like cuddling down 
 in peace, abiding in comfort, coming to a 
 breathing-place oh ! I cannot express it, 
 but the place all of it breathed of un- 
 broken calm ; one warmed one's self in it as 
 if it were sunshine. 
 
 Miss Nancy leaned toward me and spoke 
 hesitantly : " Have you any thread ? " 
 
 " Cotton is the only thing we have left," I 
 answered, laughing at the admission. 
 
 " If you could dye it but it would ruin 
 your hands," in delicate deprecation. 
 
 " What does that matter ? " I asked scorn- 
 fully. 
 
 " Make Maria do it ; she knows how, I 
 expect." Miss Nancy was all energy now. 
 "If she would, I could weave it and oh, 
 dear me! that would never do. Cotton 
 homespun! You could never wear it." 
 
 " Try me, I should be prouder of it than 
 254
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 of anything I ever had. What must I do? 
 Tell me." 
 
 " Oh, dear me ! " Miss Nancy repeated in 
 a quiver of excitement. " Why did n't we 
 think of it before? and you poor child, 
 that dress is falling off your back. I can 
 weave 'em downright pretty, too. Brown, 
 now, that would be so becoming to you ; and 
 you could get the coloring for that so easy." 
 
 " Yes," in answer to my demand as to how 
 it should be done, " easy enough. Get an 
 old iron pot," she put the skinny forefinger 
 of one hand into the palm of the other, beat- 
 ing it impressively as she talked, " one you 
 don't want to use again, the dye ruins it, 
 you know, and get all the little pieces, the 
 scraps of old iron you can find " 
 
 " How much ? " I interrupted. 
 
 " Oh, Maria will know. I '11 be bound she 
 does. If she does n't I '11 come and show you 
 myself. Put the iron scraps in the pot and 
 some apple-bark oh! a double handful 
 and fill it with water, and start a low fire 
 under it. Just keep it slow and sure, boil- 
 ing right along three or four hours, and then 
 255
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 there 's your dye. A pretty brown it makes 
 too, it will just match your hair; and I'll 
 weave a stripe, just a thread of white through 
 it. La, child, you '11 look as sweet as a peach 
 in it." 
 
 I went home with Miss Nancy's directions 
 ringing in my ears, and I was almost as en- 
 thusiastic as she had been ; I stopped at the 
 kitchen door to tell Mammy of them. There 
 she sat in a low chair drawn close before the 
 hearth, bending over a skillet whose contents 
 were crackling from the heat of the red- 
 hot embers piled under it. She stirred the 
 browning stuff anxiously, and the savory 
 smell of it filled the air. 
 
 "What is it? " I asked, coming close and 
 sniffing delightedly. 
 
 " 'T was wheat ; de Lawd only knows what 
 it 's gwine tuhn out to be. Ise tryin' to 
 make sumpin' I heard of de uddah day," she 
 explained, as I put my hand on her shoulder 
 and leaned over to watch. " Honey, it seems 
 to me if I jes had one cup o' coffee I 'd be 
 ready fer Kingdom-come. It seems to me I 'd 
 be willin' to go clean to de camp to git it." 
 256
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Well, I would n't, then," I said tersely. 
 " Besides " 
 
 " Dyar ain't no besides, an' I knows it, but 
 Ise jes honin' fer it ; you 'member how it 
 smelled dat day ? " 
 
 " This smells pretty good," I declared 
 valiantly. 
 
 " Smells ! dat ain't de thing, but how is it 
 gwine tas'e ? De Lawd, dey say He know 
 eberything an' how to do eberything, an' 
 dat 's true, it 's bleeged to be true. But how 
 come He lef anything you cyarnt do widout 
 lak coffee jes to grow in one little spot an' 
 you have to sen' an' sen' to git it, it beats 
 me. Miss Lucy, you look hyar ! Ef dem 
 sojers would leab us erlone, dyar ain't nuthin' 
 we 'd be in need of. Dyar 's de corn will 
 grow right hyar to mek all de meal you 
 want, and de wheat to mek all de flour. 
 Dyar 's de gyarden ; dyar 's chickens an' 
 tukkys an' ducks an' sheep an' cows least- 
 ways dey was Ise talkin' 'bout what we're 
 been used to, not dese Gawd-forsaken days ; 
 an* you can raise de cane to mek de sorghum 
 ef you cyarnt get de sugar. Dyar 's ebery- 
 17 257
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 thing in Gawd's worT you want 'ceppin' 'tis 
 dat little brown berry what look so wuthless 
 in yo' han' an' tas'e so good in yo' mouf. De 
 Lawd He knows bes', I 'spose, but aftah He 
 gin us all dat why He did n't put de coffee 
 bush in de fence cornder, same lak chinca- 
 pins, beats me. S'pose He thought 't would 
 'a' been too much lak Paradise here below an' 
 we nebbah would be willin' to leab it um 
 hum ! " Mammy's plaint grew into a rhap- 
 sody. She rocked herself gently, then leaned 
 forward to give the crackling wheat a fresh 
 stir. 
 
 " Dis thing," she said contemptuously as a 
 hot grain flew up with the force of its burst- 
 ing and hit her hand, " dis thing is what dat 
 Oakleigh niggah tole me de uddah day at De 
 O'n'ry dat dey is usin'. I '11 try it dis once. 
 It might look sort o' lak de real stuff an' 
 'mind you of it anyhow. Ise gwine see ef 
 you can stummick it fer suppah." 
 
 " What are you going to have for supper 
 anyhc^v ? " I asked childishly. The frosty air 
 had made me hungry enough to eat anything. 
 
 Mammy's face cleared to a look of intense 
 258
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 satisfaction. " Batter-braid ! Dick done foim' 
 a nes' in de foddah stack wid two aigs in it. 
 He lef one to 'courage de hen what 's layin' 
 dyar, an' he brung me one. An', Miss Lucy," 
 as if it were a secret too good to keep, " Ise 
 done churned while you was down to Miss 
 Nancy's, an' dyar 's buttah yas 'm, fresh 
 buttah." 
 
 " Is the bread nearly done ? " 
 
 " La ! jes lissen." Mammy was delighted, 
 and for the time being the questions I had 
 stopped to ask were forgotten ; but they were 
 remembered in due time. 
 
 A useless old kettle, whose days for sor- 
 ghum boiling were ended, was found and car- 
 ried out behind the woodpile, where chips 
 were plentiful. Dick and I hunted high and 
 low for iron scraps. 
 
 " Lan's sakes ! " Mammy cried when she 
 saw me one morning poking about behind 
 the kitchen. " Go 'long, Miss Lucy, you '11 
 rake dis place lak a harrow does de gyarden. 
 You 's got ernuff iron for two bilin's already. 
 Tell Dick to fotch me some watah from de 
 spring, Ise got de apple-bark all ready." 
 259
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 We started the slow fire under the kettle, 
 proportioned bark and iron duly, rilled the 
 pot to the rim, and then Mammy began to 
 look anxious. " Ise got some wuk to do, an' 
 Dick he ought to go 'long to de fiel' to help 
 'Zekiel." 
 
 " All right ! Go along both of you. I will 
 stay here and attend to the fire." 
 
 " You 're sho you won't mind, honey ? 
 Ain't you got sumpin' else you wants to do ? " 
 
 " Not a thing." 
 
 " Well, jes keep it a-bilin', none too fas' an' 
 none too slow, jes steady lak, an' stir it wid a 
 stick ebery now an' den." 
 
 I sat down on an old scarred chopping- 
 log, gathered the big chips and the little 
 chips from far and near, and fed the clear, 
 steady fire. The pungent smell of it rose 
 into the still morning air. The sun, climb- 
 ing higher, streamed down on me where I 
 sat lazily and contentedly, on the fields be- 
 hind the house, the woodpile, the kitchen, 
 Mammy's cabin, and the house ; I pushed 
 back my bonnet to look toward it. The 
 doors of the hall, back and front, were wide- 
 260
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 open, and the ribbon of the lane lay white 
 between the brown corn-furrows. Crows 
 were calling overhead, and some of the few 
 fowls we had left to us came clucking with 
 nervous, sidelong glances to my feet. 
 
 I clasped my hands around my knees and 
 leaned back, watching the thin curl of smoke 
 above the chimney top. As I sat there, idly, 
 I heard the baying of hounds, faint at first, 
 but gradually louder, and many voices. The 
 sounds came from the thick woods beyond 
 us. I sprang to my feet as a reddish streak 
 flashed across the fields; the hounds behind 
 raced in full cry, and close at their heels 
 pounded a squad of our men, gray-clad, men 
 from a regiment then recruiting across the 
 Dragon. The flight of the fox, the baying 
 dogs, running with stretched out bodies and 
 noses close to the ground, were as exhilarat- 
 ing as the frosty morning. I turned to watch 
 the course the fox took ; for an instant my 
 glance fell through the hall on the lane be- 
 yond, straight out from the pines rode a 
 squad of blue ! 
 
 I wrenched my sun-bonnet from my head, 
 261
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 waved it at the hunters; they thought it 
 a cheer, and waved their hats. I raced to the 
 house, shrieking for Mammy to follow as 
 I fled. 
 
 " Bar the door ! " We slammed it shut 
 and slipped the bar into its hasps. 
 
 We ran to the other, and as we flung it to 
 we heard a whirlwind of hoof-beats in the 
 back yard, a yell splitting the air like thun- 
 der, and the " rip, rip " of bullets pattering 
 against the house. In the hall we pressed 
 ourselves close against the partition walls. 
 A shower of glass rattled from the chamber 
 window to the floor; groans and yells en- 
 tangled ; and then, as suddenly as a sharp 
 storm of summer rolls away, hoof-beats, 
 silence. 
 
 The deadly quiet was unbearable. I must 
 see outside. Huddling together we crept 
 into the chamber. Through the shattered 
 panes the daylight streamed, and down the 
 lane fled the blue, the gray in pursuit. 
 
 " Hurrah ! " I cried insanely, " hurrah ! " 
 
 " Hush, hush ! dyar mought be somebody 
 out dyar." 
 
 262
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 I had not even thought of it. 
 
 We ran out, Mammy first. " Gawd-a- 
 mighty ! " she cried, as she shrank back 
 against the door. 
 
 " What is it ? " I peered fearfully over 
 her shoulder. There, under the chamber 
 window, with face buried in the long violet 
 leaves, lay a figure crumpled as he had 
 fallen. Trembling, we crept toward him. 
 I leaned over, put my hand on his head, 
 too dazed for consciousness. I turned 
 the face upward, and gave one wild shriek: 
 " Robert ! " 
 
 263
 
 XX 
 
 WHEN I opened my eyes I lay for 
 an instant looking up into the blue. 
 The violet leaves rubbed my cheek. 
 I turned my head feebly and a purple bud 
 peered into my eyes. " The violets are 
 about to bloom," I opened my lips to say, 
 when a spatter of blood on the green leaves 
 caught my glance. I remembered. " Is he 
 dead ? " I gasped. 
 
 " He ain't no nigher daid dan you has 
 been," snapped Mammy, though the tears 
 were streaming down her cheeks. 
 
 " Where is he ? " I asked as I stumbled to 
 my feet. 
 
 " In de chambah." 
 
 I never asked who carried him there. 
 'Zekiel and Dick had been hiding in the 
 barn and ran up to the house as we came 
 out; they had lifted Robert into the room 
 and left Mammy with me. She threw her 
 264
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 arms around me as I tottered, swept me 
 from my feet as if I had been a child, and 
 carried me straight into the room. 
 
 " Dyar, you can see fer yo'se'f ; " she de- 
 clared as she tumbled me down on the wide 
 tester bed. 
 
 Robert lay on the other side, his eyes were 
 open, conscious. " Lucy ! " he said faintly, 
 his hand groping along the counterpane for 
 mine. 
 
 " Run fer Miss Nancy," Mammy whispered 
 to Dick. " Run as if de Ole Scratch was 
 behin' you an' you was plumb distracted yo'- 
 se'f. Ain't a soul hyar what knows what to 
 do. Lemme see, Marse Robert, don't you 
 want me to tek yo' coat off, to do sumpin', to 
 try an' fin' whar you is hunt? You might be 
 a-bleedin' to death right now." 
 
 Every spark of fear I had, fled from me ; 
 I rolled over and was on my feet before the 
 words left her mouth. " We must get his 
 coat off ! " I cried, but my hands trembled 
 too much for service. It was Maria and 
 'Zekiel who stripped Robert to his shirt. I 
 clenched the bedpost as I saw the great 
 265
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 blood-stain there on the left side, but it 
 was high up, close to the shoulder, thank 
 God ! and there was no fresh flowing widen- 
 ing the sinister stain, only that one ominous 
 place which we dared not touch for fear the 
 tearing of the linen from the wound might 
 start the flow afresh. We waited, the minutes 
 dragging like hours, for Miss Nancy's help. 
 How deftly she gave it when at last she had 
 come ! How firm and skilful were her small, 
 wrinkled hands ! She looked at me when 
 she had nearly finished and sent me from 
 the room. 
 
 " It 's all right, all right, nothing to hurt 
 him seriously," she whispered as she pushed 
 me gently outside the door. " Sit down on 
 the step a minute no, the back door. I 
 will be there directly. Maria will help me." 
 
 I obeyed. The sun had climbed but two 
 hours higher since I watched it idly from the 
 woodpile, and stood now at his zenith. The 
 warm and tender sunshine of a mild winter's 
 day brooded over fields and yard and house ; 
 above the chimneys floated thin curls of 
 smoke the banners of peace ; I leaned my 
 266
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 head against the door-frame as house and 
 yard whirled before my vision. 
 
 " Lucy ! " I had not heard Miss Nancy's 
 light step " come here ! " She nodded to 
 the bed where Robert lay peacefully asleep. 
 " He 's all right," she repeated ; " bad place 
 in his shoulder, but it is only a flesh wound ; 
 it will heal all right; a little time and care, 
 that 's all. Child, do you know what saved 
 his life? that button on his coat, that one 
 little button." I felt her clutch on my 
 shoulder and saw her eyes dilate. " A 
 bullet struck there and the blow over his 
 heart made him unconscious ; then there 's 
 the other wound, you know." 
 
 " He will live ! " I breathed ecstatically. 
 
 " There is no reason on earth why he 
 should n't, but " Miss Nancy was standing 
 near the middle of the room, the wind blew 
 through the shattered panes, the broken 
 glass littered the floor, the fire was dead on 
 the hearth. " Come out into the hall," she 
 whispered. 
 
 We stepped out into the blaze of the noon 
 sunshine along the white-pine floor. The 
 267
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 gate was flung wide open, the grass torn 
 and trampled; the fields shimmered in the 
 warmth, and beyond stood the solemn guard 
 of the pines. There she told me what must 
 be done. Robert must be removed to her 
 house. To allow him to remain here would 
 be to risk captivity, and that in his condition 
 might mean the worst ; for some time to 
 come he would need the most careful atten- 
 tion, and Miss Nancy could give it. I was 
 convinced, and under her brisk directions we 
 got him somehow I cannot tell it clearly, 
 it runs together with a blur of horror in my 
 mind that very day, down to the security 
 of that refuge. Nor can I well recall the 
 first few days that followed, but there came 
 one when Miss Nancy brusquely set before 
 me another duty: Robert was safe on the 
 road to recovery; I must go home and leave 
 her to tend him. 
 
 It was absurd, and I told her so in no 
 stinted terms, but she stood firm. 
 
 " There is nothing done in this world but 
 everybody knows it ; seems so anyhow. If 
 you stay here much longer, people will hear 
 268
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 you are not at home, and then they will 
 want to know why and they will find out. 
 Next thing it will be known at the fort. 
 Think they could n't find their way down 
 here ? Lord ! they could if they were set 
 on it; don't you fool yourself. There's just 
 one thing to do to keep them from want- 
 ing to. You Ve got to go back home and 
 live right along as if nothing at all had 
 happened ; if you have n't got the courage 
 for that " 
 
 I flared out at that. Would they never be 
 done with their cant of it ? was I to hear it 
 on every side ? Had I not shown some 
 strength ? 
 
 " Never mind, never mind," Miss Nancy 
 soothed. " But we must take care of Robert 
 now. He is getting along all right ; no 
 fever, not a bit of it. I can attend to his 
 wounds as well as any doctor could. It 's 
 a good thing people do know a little about 
 nursing, when the only doctor left in the 
 county is old Dr. Carnes, and he 's staying 
 home just because he is too old to go ; he 's 
 almost too feeble to get around anyway. 
 269
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 Lord only knows what would happen if 
 somebody were to be taken really ill and 
 beyond our little remedies. 
 
 " Feels nice to be out in the fresh air, 
 doesn't it?" 
 
 We had come out to the door and stood 
 looking at the small yard, the box-hedges, 
 the leafless shrubs. In the room we had 
 left, Robert lay asleep on a bed which had 
 been put up where the loom used to stand ; 
 the sunshine fell in a beam of warmth across 
 his feet, and the look of his face even in his 
 sleep was absurdly happy. 
 
 Miss Nancy stood for a second holding 
 her shawl about her shoulders, her head 
 lifted, an intent but far-away look in her 
 eyes. 
 
 " I will get Molly to look after him," she 
 declared presently ; " I am going to see if 
 there are any fresh eggs. Maybe Robert 
 could eat one. How does he like them 
 cooked ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " What ! And married two years and a 
 half ! " 
 
 270
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " I have been married seven months," I 
 asserted. 
 
 " Now did you ever ! " Miss Nancy laughed, 
 as she led the way down the path to the low, 
 sod-covered hen-house. " Wait ! " She lifted 
 her skirt daintily, and stepped across the log 
 below the doorway. " Six ! " triumphantly. 
 " The hens must know I have company. I 
 will carry these to the house and come 
 back." 
 
 I waited leaning against the sod, where the 
 grass showed a spear of green here and there, 
 and in the intense silence I could hear the 
 rush of the Dragon at the foot of the hill, 
 and the monotone of the wind in the great 
 forest. 
 
 Miss Nancy came back slowly as if in 
 deep thought. Her thin wrinkled hands 
 were clasped across the shawl folded on her 
 breast, her straggling gray hair blew gently 
 about her forehead. 
 
 " Let 's go this way." She put one small 
 
 hand on my arm and turned me toward a 
 
 path leading down the hillside ; we went 
 
 silently till our feet were stayed by the 
 
 271
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 stream. There it ran, its depths dark and 
 brown from the many cypress knees bending 
 above it or growing in the swirl of its waters. 
 The cypresses were bare now of their lance- 
 like leaves; their twisted bodies were like 
 brown, rough giants asleep. One huge tree 
 at our feet, with its roots deep in the hillside, 
 thrust its trunk straight out over the water, 
 and then shot at right angles upwards. I 
 walked out on it and sat down. I could 
 have dangled my feet over the rushing water 
 and at any other time I would have done so ; 
 but now I leaned against the trunk, slipped 
 my bonnet from my head, and felt the cool 
 touch of the wind, and listened to the rush 
 of the water. Looking down at Miss Nancy 
 near me, I saw the strained, determined look 
 of her face. She lifted her bent head, her 
 eyes met mine. 
 
 " Yes," she said dreamily, as if she spoke 
 the conclusion of her thought, " I will take 
 care of Robert ; I shall be happy to do it." 
 
 " Happy ! " I repeated in sudden anger. 
 
 " Happy to be of use to him," she corrected 
 with dignity, " not happy because he is ill. 
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 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 But as he lies there " she brushed her 
 hand across her forehead. " He is a hand- 
 some man," she added irrelevantly. 
 
 I smiled. Robert was not always so 
 considered. 
 
 " In spite of his red head ? " I asked 
 whimsically. 
 
 " His hair ! It is beautiful." 
 
 So I had thought many a time as I had 
 run my fingers through its heavy waves. 
 
 " It is just the color of his father's," she 
 added dreamily. 
 
 " Did you know his father? " 
 
 "I? Yes." 
 
 " Tell me of him ? " I asked eagerly. 
 
 " I think I will," she answered composedly. 
 But there was some little pause of painful 
 thought before Miss Nancy began. 
 
 " Robert often talks of him ? " she asked 
 softly. 
 
 " No," I declared curtly. 
 
 "Why he " 
 
 " You have heard of him ; every one has." 
 
 " I know I know But his son!" 
 
 " He treated his wife shamefully." 
 18 273
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 Miss Nancy clenched her hands. 
 
 " He spent every cent of her money, and 
 his too, and left Robert " 
 
 " Don't say it ! But he loved him." 
 
 " Who ? " 
 
 " Robert's father loved his own son." 
 
 "I doubt it. It didn't look much like 
 it." 
 
 " But in his home life ? " 
 
 " I have heard nothing to his credit." 
 
 " Robert loved him ! " the little woman 
 insisted incredulously. 
 
 I smiled scornfully. " I suppose he did." 
 
 " Suppose, suppose ! Why should n't he ? 
 If ever a man was worthy of being loved, it 
 was Henry Aylett." 
 
 " He did n't show it." 
 
 " He was ; and it was their fault if he was 
 not." 
 
 " Whose ? " coldly. 
 
 " His mother's, his father's, his sister's, 
 all of them ; if they are dead and gone, I say 
 it, know it. It was their fault." 
 
 " How do you know so much about him ? " 
 I asked awkwardly. 
 
 274
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " I ? I have been thinking I would tell 
 you. I must tell you, with Robert's face 
 there on the pillow so like his. Has no one, 
 none of the older people ever told you 
 of me?" 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 " It is a wonder ! They talked of me 
 or of Henry enough once. But it has 
 been long ago, so long ago that it is time 
 it was forgotten. I am glad they are not 
 still babbling about it," fiercely. 
 
 I was too astounded at this outburst to 
 say a word, and Miss Nancy's thoughts went 
 back a long way. When she began again 
 it was at a far-off point. "You have seen 
 where they lived, Robert's people ? " 
 
 " Robert took me there one day." 
 
 " You remember where the gate opens on 
 the road, there was a little house right across 
 from it ? The building is gone, but you 
 can see where it stood." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " That was where we lived. We were 
 close enough, 'at their gates,' but we were 
 'poor white trash,' and taught to keep our 
 275
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 place. His mother would come across the 
 road once a year, come quite grandly and sit 
 by our hearth, her supercilious glance search- 
 ing every corner of the room. We were not 
 forgotten oh, no ! nor neglected. At hog- 
 killing time a negro was sent to bring us 
 sausage, spare-ribs, or something; in summer 
 a piece of the fresh-killed lamb was left at 
 our door; we were duly remembered at 
 Christmas. They were too grand not to be 
 kind. 
 
 " But Henry used to steal off from the 
 house to the negro cabins, and with the boys 
 to the woods. There was where I saw him. 
 I lived in them myself, like the deer or 
 the rabbit or any wild, shy thing. I knew 
 where flowed the clearest stream to wander 
 by, and would sing, drowning its voice. I 
 knew where the waters could be dammed 
 and spread into lakes for floating crafts of 
 bark and leaf; where the minnows darted, 
 or the wild grape looped a swing; where 
 the chestnut unfolded a betraying leaf in 
 May-time ; where the pine needles were dry, 
 shielded from all weathers, and circled by 
 276
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 twisting roots into kitchen and hall and 
 chamber for fairy housekeeping. We saved 
 all the bits of broken china or glass for its 
 furnishing." 
 
 Miss Nancy leaned forward looking down 
 into the dark water. Did she see it mirrored 
 there, the deep wood, the great tree, the 
 fairy palace at its foot, and that childish two 
 for king and queen ? 
 
 " When we grew bigger well, no one 
 knew at the big house of the hours he spent 
 playing about our yard, of the many times 
 he sat by our fire, and ate of our food till he 
 had no appetite for the dinners of his own 
 home. They never paid any attention to me 
 anyway, never seemed to know that I existed. 
 So it was until well, I never knew when 
 he was grown up, or when I was, or when 
 we began to be more than playfellows. We 
 never were ! 
 
 " But one day I had been up the road to 
 pick blackberries. The sun was as bright, 
 and the day no one was ever happier than 
 I was then, no one ! When my basket was 
 nearly full I heard a horse come trotting 
 277
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 along the road. I hid. I never liked people, 
 many of them. I never liked to be seen, to 
 meet anybody. I never went to church. I 
 would not be scorned, pointed out as I was 
 on account of of my birth. So I hid. 
 When I saw it was Henry I ran laughing 
 out into the road. 
 
 " He jumped from his horse, threw the 
 bridle over his arm, and together we walked 
 down the path by the road. We had eyes 
 and ears for nothing but ourselves, I sup- 
 pose. The family carriage drove right up 
 behind us. The sandy road had deadened 
 the sounds anyhow. I will not tell you 
 what happened. There sat his mother, and 
 she carried Henry off with her, the negro 
 who had been sitting up behind the carriage 
 to open the gates riding his horse. That 
 night our house was burned down over our 
 heads. God forgive me if the thought I 
 have always had about its burning is false. 
 Early in the morning, as if at the very first 
 news of it, Henry's mother came over 
 grand and stiff and kind,, 
 
 " I went one way. as she came the other. 
 278
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 I heard nothing of what she said, but when 
 I came back from the woods, mother was 
 packing her few things in an ox-cart, and she 
 was eager and excited. They were coming 
 home that day, here. This little place be- 
 longed to Henry's mother and she had given 
 it to mine. There was nothing for me to 
 do but to come with her. 
 
 " I never saw Henry again. I thought 
 I looked but his mother knew how to 
 manage him, I suppose. In six months' 
 time he married the woman his mother had 
 picked out for him years before. It was all 
 right. I had never thought of his marry- 
 ing me, or anybody; but I was not sur- 
 prised. How could he help it? how could 
 he help it?" 
 
 I felt hot anger and resentment, but pity 
 too. " And you ? " I asked softly. 
 
 She started as if from long reverie. " It 
 took me a long time to see it all ; it was not 
 till I knew he was married. Then I vowed 
 I would never stay at home. I went to 
 Richmond to make a living. I knew noth- 
 ing, nothing. Wild as I had always been, I 
 279
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 was handy. I knew how to spin, to weave, 
 to raise chickens, to work in the garden. 
 Who wanted that done ? I tried to take 
 care of little children, to teach them. I had 
 picked up some little learning myself; but it 
 would n't do. I tried sewing. Between them 
 I got along somehow. Then mother sent 
 for me. Sister Molly was married and gone 
 away, father was dead, mother was bedridden. 
 There was nothing to do but to come. Here 
 I heard that Henry had gone off North with 
 his wife. 
 
 " I thought I could not stand it at first, 
 living here, but she lay there so long, and I 
 stayed so long waiting on her, that when 
 she died I felt as if I had become a part of 
 the place. I had set out the flowers, planted 
 the box, put out the fruit trees, worked the 
 garden It seemed the only life I had 
 known, in this world anyhow. 
 
 " And, child, when Robert came back, 
 when I knew who had bought the farm, 
 when he came down here one day Leave 
 him here and you go 'long home. It will 
 be found out if you don't, and nothing could 
 280
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 save him. Leave him here ! it will be 
 something for me to be thankful for in all 
 these years. Poor Henry! poor Henry! it 
 was wrong, all wrong ! " 
 
 Wrong ? Yes ! But the wrong began 
 further back than that. It began with the 
 ancestry which made Miss Nancy good to 
 look upon and high of spirit. Miss Nancy 
 was born before her mother's marriage, and 
 the man at whose wedding feast she sat, a 
 wide-eyed child, when her mother was mar- 
 ried, was not the man whom she should have 
 named " father." 
 
 281
 
 XXI 
 
 THE days went by to seven; it was 
 Christmas eve. It was good to 
 know that Robert was safe, to re- 
 member his nurse's delighted care of him, 
 to recall the flush on her wrinkled cheek, to 
 think that he himself had walked that day 
 to the cabin door and stood there watching 
 when I left else the bareness and dreari- 
 ness would have been unendurable. 
 
 Mammy went about her kitchen with 
 pursed-up lips and with groanings and lam- 
 entations over her empty skillets and ket- 
 tles. " Whar is de ham dat ought to be 
 a-bilin' hyar, an' de tukky dat ought to be 
 a-roastin' till de smell o' it done gone clear 
 to de house? " 
 
 " For mercy's sake, hush," I cried petu- 
 lantly, "you make me hungry." 
 
 " An' narry a cake in de house. My 
 mouf 's been waterin' all day jes a-thinkin' o' 
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 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 all dem things dat did n't use to be any mo' 
 den de watah in de spring." 
 
 I sighed in sympathy. The thought was 
 tantalizing to my keen appetite, but as I 
 stood on the rough hearth and looked down 
 on its vacancy, I said softly, " There is some- 
 thing else to think of: Robert is here." 
 
 " When he done come ? " 
 
 " Now, Mammy, you know that is not 
 what I mean," impatiently ; " you know he 
 could n't be here, at this house." 
 
 " Hm ! " while I stood watching the gap- 
 ing, sooty chimney's mouth, the broken 
 andirons, the plenteous fire of that, at 
 least, there was enough. 
 
 " Dat 's a fac', dat 's a fac' ! " after a silence, 
 while Mammy stood on the other side of the 
 hearth as thoughtful as I. " But I tell you, 
 Miss Lucy," with an impatient toss of her 
 head and a shake of her fat shoulders, " when 
 you sets down to de table ter-morrer an' says 
 ' Fer what we are 'bout to receive, Lawd make 
 us thankful,' dyar won't be much dyar to 
 make a fuss ober." 
 
 Mammy bustled about, more from a sense 
 283
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 of irritation than because there was anything 
 to do, but I stood still thinking. I was tired 
 and worn. I had put into the energy needed 
 for that last week all that I had, and there 
 was no reserve strength left to buoy me up 
 at a moment when no call was being made 
 upon my faculties. I was exhausted. I 
 thought of the season, of that day in other 
 years. No holiday will ever be to human- 
 kind so much as Christmas. It is not only 
 the significance of that divine birth of which 
 it stands the constant reminder, it is that, 
 through the memory of the divine love 
 which gave so much, our hearts go out to 
 all our brotherhood, making life deep and 
 intense. The days stand out like sentinels, 
 and we unconsciously mark them as such, 
 even in our most careless years. I recalled 
 the first Christmas in this backwoods home, 
 our gay feasting, father's share in it, there 
 had been no news of him since Robert came, 
 Robert's delight and Robert himself 
 must go back in a week to his regiment. 
 Our household would be once more 
 Mammy, 'Zekiel, Dick, and I. If it had 
 284
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 not been for that comfort, which in answer 
 to my need and seeking I had begun to feel 
 as an atmosphere about me, I could not 
 have faced the thought of it ; as it was, I 
 drew a long breath standing there on the 
 old, worn hearth, peering into the flames 
 and watching the ruddy coals as if, as of 
 old, they held some hint of the future. 
 
 Mammy heard me and turned. " Chile," 
 she cried anxiously, " you '11 scorch yo' skirt 
 standin' dyar so close to de fiah. 'Clare ef 
 't ain't hot now ! " she ran her hands down the 
 front breadth ; " an' dat 's the onlies' one you 
 got. Miss Nancy 's thinkin' o' sumpin' else 
 now 'sides weavin'. You bettah go 'long in 
 de house an' res' yo'se'f." 
 
 I had stopped in the kitchen on my way 
 across the yard as I came home from Miss 
 Nancy's ; the glowing hearth, Mammy's com- 
 fortable self, her warm-hearted love were al- 
 ways a loadstone. My feet seldom carried 
 me along the path straight past it; it was a 
 half-way house for every errand. 
 
 " Go 'long in de house an' res' yo'se'f," she 
 repeated. " You looks clean tuckered out." 
 285
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 I went slowly. I was tired out with my 
 loneliness. The early dusk darkened the 
 land, but through the window-panes, which 
 were not patched with paper or sealed with 
 board, the firelight shone out on the yard. 
 I went into the empty chamber and took 
 from the closet the shirts I had made for 
 Robert and had saved through more than one 
 raid by pinning them beneath my voluminous 
 skirts, and the socks I had knitted on many 
 an evening when the gleaming needles were 
 all the company I could boast. I laid them 
 on my low flag chair and slipped down upon 
 the rug before them to smooth them and 
 fold them once more. As I did so with lov- 
 ing touch, I heard in the hall the sound of a 
 step which sent my heart into my throat. I 
 sat motionless, breathless, as the step came 
 nearer to the door ; a hand fumbled with the 
 latchstring ; the door was opened. I sprang 
 to my feet and ran to meet Robert ; there 
 behind him stood all the grinning house- 
 hold. 
 
 " We done brought you a Chris'mas gif," 
 cried Dick. 
 
 286
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Oh," I cried delightedly ; " did you know, 
 Mammy ? " 
 
 " To' Gawd, I did n't. Dey 'd nebbah 'a' 
 done it ef I had. 'T was 'Zekiel an' dat boy 
 what fixed up dis hash. I thought Miss 
 Nancy would 'a' had mo' sense." 
 
 " I 'm all right," cried Robert, as he sank 
 into his own big chair. " How good it is 
 to be here ! " 
 
 His face was deeply flushed ; it was from 
 excitement, of course, I told myself. I was 
 a goose for noticing it. " When did you 
 plan this ? " I asked joyfully. " Did you 
 know you were going to do it when you bade 
 me good-by to-day ? Oh ! " to his " yes," " it 
 was mean to let me think " 
 
 But they all laughed at me then, Robert 
 with the rest. I slipped back to my seat on 
 the rug. " Here are your Christmas presents, 
 sir ; since you have come in and found them 
 all spread out, you can have them now." 
 Laughing, I gave him the history of each 
 gift, but I watched him keenly. I feared he 
 had overtaxed himself, and when the red on 
 his cheek grew deeper, instead of fading with 
 287
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 the waning of his excitement, when I slipped 
 my hand over his where it lay on the wide 
 arm of his chair and felt it hot and dry, I 
 knew that mischief was afoot. 
 
 The evening was well past then. I made 
 some pretence of outside duties, and got out 
 of the room to Mammy's cabin. " Mammy, 
 Robert is worse; he has a fever!" I cried 
 before my foot was over the doorsill. 
 
 " Hush ! " in dismay. 
 
 " What are we going to do ? " 
 
 " Maybe he 's jes tiahed; he '11 be all right 
 by morninV 
 
 I shook my head. I believed worse was in 
 store than her hopefulness suggested. " Not 
 a drop of medicine in the house, not a doctor 
 to be had," I murmured. 
 
 " Is you got any quinine ? " 
 
 " Not a grain." We were a healthy family, 
 and the small store of remedies we had had 
 when such things were to be bought was 
 exhausted long ago. 
 
 " I s'pose if we nussed him through once, 
 we can do it again," declared Mammy, bel- 
 ligerently. 
 
 288
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Must we send for Miss Nancy ? " 
 
 " Guess I knows nigh 'bout as much as 
 she does. Is he got much fever ? Dick, set 
 dat kettle on to bile ! 'Zekiel, go fetch me de 
 mortar an' de pestle. Dyar 's some mustard 
 seed hyar, Miss Lucy. A good hot baf, an' 
 a plaster dat's de thing. 'T ain't much in 
 folks you cyarnt wuk out in a good sweat ; 
 yas 'm, dat 's de thing." 
 
 Mammy reached up to the rafters for a 
 bunch of the long slender seed-pods. " I '11 
 jes poun' 'em an' fix 'em an' put his feet in a 
 hot baf, an' in de mornin' we '11 see." 
 
 But we saw how ill he was long before that. 
 Mammy was scared to ashy whiteness when 
 we went in and found him already talking at 
 random. We got him upstairs and to bed, 
 the low room under the eaves was more com- 
 fortable than the chamber with its shattered 
 windows ; still the stream of talk flowed on. 
 
 He babbled of camp, its wants, its hard- 
 ships things he had sedulously kept from 
 us ; he told how he had longed for home, for 
 me. Dignified Robert had the tongue of a 
 gossip as we tended him. 
 19 289
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 He flung shoulders and arms out of 
 the covers when we had tucked him in. 
 " You need n't coddle me," he laughed while 
 the glitter of delirium shone in his eyes. 
 " I 'm tough ! Bed ! pillows ! quilts ! Pshaw ! 
 I Ve slept many a night in a corn-furrow 
 and waked to find the water nearly over me 
 when it had rained while I slept, and I 
 did n't even know it, and I have gotten up 
 soaked, no breakfast, not a morsel, and 
 marched all day. Do you know, Lucy, what 
 was the best thing I ever tasted, none of 
 your hams ever equalled it. We were on the 
 march ; I had had nothing to eat for three 
 days but green corn, when we camped one 
 night near a farm-house. I wandered off, like 
 many another soldier, to look for something 
 to eat. The people there, in the house I 
 mean, would n't give us a thing ; said they 
 had nothing for themselves. I went around 
 to the kitchen window, " he began to laugh, 
 "the cook had just poured some hot fat 
 bacon and gravy into a dish. How good 
 it smelled ! I never said a word. I just 
 reached through that window and took up 
 290
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 that dish and drank every drop of gravy, 
 yes, drank it; the bacon I grabbed up 
 in my hands. I never did taste anything 
 so good, not even your Christmas doings. 
 It's Christmas now, is n't it? where am 
 I?" He tried to sit up in bed. "Oh, 
 yes, home, home; yes, I know; it's time 
 the wheat was planted and the cornfield 
 ploughed. 'Zekiel will have done it; oh, 
 yes. I can trust him. He is the good 
 farmer, not I. I never was good for any- 
 thing much. And Lucy will take care of 
 everything. When I go some day " the 
 talking broke, trailed off to indistinct mut- 
 terings. 
 
 He rambled on pitifully, mercilessly. 
 Every inmost feeling of his heart, hidden 
 and guarded with dignity, was laid bare. 
 Mammy's tears ran down her face as she 
 listened, but my eyes were hot and dry. By 
 and by he fell into a heavy sleep ; his ster- 
 torous breathing echoed through the attic. 
 The stars paled, the dawn of Christmas 
 broke. I gave the day no heed, nor the 
 night nor day which followed it. Daylight 
 291
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 and candle-light came and went again; and 
 then our household went hushed. 
 
 I shut every one of them out of the room. 
 I alone would nurse Robert and share his 
 danger. My meals could be brought to the 
 head of the stairs, water and wood could be 
 left there ; further none should come. There 
 was no danger from the outside. I knew 
 well enough that far away and lonely as we 
 lived, it would be bruited abroad that Robert 
 was at home. I waited, a fierce, resentful joy 
 at my heart when I thought of it, till they 
 should send, as I knew they would, to cap- 
 ture him. I trusted there would be no one 
 to interrupt them, no one about the place 
 seeing them before I should, who would stay 
 what I should do and say when that day 
 came. 
 
 It fell out as I wished. Dick and 'Zekiel 
 were hauling wood, Mammy was at the barn, 
 when I heard the clatter of the gate and 
 knew what it was. Robert was asleep ; I 
 prayed he should sleep on as I latched the 
 door behind me and stole softly down the 
 stair. 
 
 292
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 The leader of the little squad of soldiers 
 was already dismounted, the six men with 
 him were half-way out of their saddles. At 
 sight of me at the foot of the stairs, he strode 
 up the path, into the hall. 
 
 " We have heard that Robert Aylett is 
 here ; he lives here ? " 
 
 " Yes." My tone was low, my manner 
 calm and gracious. 
 
 " He is here ? " 
 
 " Yes," with still the same demeanor. 
 
 The leader turned, and made a gesture ; I 
 saw the men surrounding the house. 
 
 "Where is he? "shortly. 
 
 11 He is ill." 
 
 " So we have heard," as if he knew how 
 much credence to give such a report and was 
 not to be fooled. 
 
 " No one has seen him for three days 
 besides myself." 
 
 " You expect me to believe that ? " 
 
 " He is too ill to be in any way disturbed." 
 
 " Disturbed ? " sarcastically, " we will not 
 disturb him. Where is he ? " 
 
 I made a backward movement of my head. 
 293
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Up there." 
 
 " Stand aside ! " 
 
 I put my hand across the narrow space 
 between me and the other wall, so guarding 
 the way. " You go at your own peril," I 
 warned him sternly. 
 
 " Then he is not ill. Stand aside." 
 
 "At your own peril," I repeated with an 
 added seriousness. It was all turning out 
 just as I had in fancy seen it, but my imagin- 
 ation had gone no further than this. I had 
 not thought what next I should have said or 
 done had the responsibility been mine, for 
 some demon seemed to possess me. He 
 raised his hand to brush mine aside. I 
 stepped down from the last stair on which I 
 stood, courtesying as if I had been his part- 
 ner in a play ; the way was open. 
 
 But before he could mount a step, Maria 
 came running, panting along the path. 
 " Man ! " she halloaed. " Man ! " The soldier 
 turned as she paused for breath. 
 
 " Don't you go make a fool of yo'se'f. 
 Marse Robert 's got de small-pox ! " 
 
 294
 
 XXII 
 
 IS AT down on the stair and watched them 
 racing down the lane. Poor fellows ! 
 Small-pox was the dreaded scourge of 
 their camps and ours alike. Had I told the 
 officer when he entered that such was the 
 sickness I nursed, he would not have believed 
 me; as it was he knew the truth, and we 
 would go long untroubled. Of that I was 
 certain. Dire as was the disease it would 
 yet make a guard about us. I went with 
 lightened heart up to the attic room ; we 
 were shut in to our trouble, but we were 
 shut out from danger. 
 
 The days sped by ; I let no one come near 
 me ; even with Mammy I held counsel across 
 safe distances. 
 
 " Is he done broke out good ? " she in- 
 quired anxiously for several mornings after 
 the eruption had bespoken the disease. " Is 
 he done broke out good ? " 
 295
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Yes," I answered doubtfully. Robert 
 was not covered from head to foot, as I had 
 feared he would be. 
 
 " Is he got 'em thick ? " 
 
 " His chest is covered and about his wrists 
 and the edges of his hair." 
 
 " La ! de small-pox ought to kiver him till 
 you could n't put a pin p'int down on de 
 nat'ral skin." 
 
 I shuddered. 
 
 " Deed it ought, honey ; ef it don't come 
 out on his outsides it 's gwine to come out 
 on his insides, an' den " the fearful roll of 
 her eyes intimated what might be expected 
 to follow. " You '11 hab to give him suinpin' 
 to bring it out." 
 
 " What ? " Robert was resting more easily 
 and naturally than he had done since he was 
 taken ill. I hated the idea of dosing him 
 with hot drinks. " What would you give 
 him ? " 
 
 Mammy hesitated. " Well, I can make a 
 
 tea o' sassafras roots or cherry- bark or fod- 
 
 dah ; dey 's all good in dyar tuhn. But seein' 
 
 as dis is a sort o' skin disease lak," doubt- 
 
 296
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 fully, "you mought call it kind o' blood 
 trouble. I spec' it had bes' be sassafras/' 
 
 " Have you got the bark ? " I asked, fear- 
 ing it must be done. 
 
 " No 'm. I '11 jes' go straight out to de 
 woods an' git it." 
 
 "Just so that you have it ready by night," 
 I hesitatingly assented. 
 
 "Dat's de bes' time." 
 
 But teas had no effect on Robert. The 
 eruption was slight compared to the high 
 fever which preceded it. By and by Mammy 
 had another trouble. 
 
 " Honey," she would ask, her forehead 
 deeply wrinkled, " how does you feel to- 
 day?" 
 
 " Fine ! " I would answer emphatically. 
 
 " I hearn you laughin' dis mornin' clean 
 down at de kitchen," she accused one 
 day, speaking as if she had hardly been 
 able to believe the evidence of her own 
 ears. 
 
 " Yes, indeed ! " I took off my bonnet 
 and swung it by its strings, letting the 
 morning air, cold as it was, blow about my 
 297
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 head. " Mammy, Robert is better ! " I an- 
 nounced it jubilantly. 
 
 " I s'pose so, honey ; I s'pose so." But 
 the note of anxiety was still there. 
 
 " He is going to get up to-morrow." 
 
 "Ain't you fear'd; 'deed you'd bettah be 
 keerful." 
 
 " I can't keep him in bed a day longer. 
 Tell Dick to pile up the passage with 
 wood." 
 
 "Ain't you got ernuff? Dat lazy boy " 
 
 " Oh, plenty ! But I want lots for to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " Don't you want to take a walk erroun' ? 
 Marse Robert won't miss you; you say he 
 is so much bettah." 
 
 "And have you all running out of my 
 way? No, I thank you." 
 
 " You knows ef we runs 't is 'cause you 
 done tol' us to." 
 
 " Mammy, what am I going to do for a 
 dress ? " I asked suddenly. " You know this 
 one will have to be burned." 
 
 " Miss Nancy sent me word she got yo' 
 dress nearly done. I done dyed de thread 
 298
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 yes, indeed, long ergo ; an' she done wove it, 
 an' now she 's makin' of it." 
 
 " Tell her to have it ready in a week," I 
 laughed. 
 
 But instead of answering, Mammy went 
 back to her old plaint. " Honey, how does 
 you feel?" 
 
 " How do you feel yourself ? " 
 
 " 'Zekiel 's got de rheumatiz wuss dan he 
 ebbahhaditbefo'!" 
 
 " How about you ? " 
 
 " Nuthin' don't ebbah mattah long me," 
 with a toss of her head. 
 
 " Nor me ! " 
 
 She made an exclamation under her breath, 
 and I determined to have it out, then and 
 there. " Look here, Mammy," I said, so 
 quickly that she started. " I know what you 
 are beating around, and you might just as 
 well stop it. You are scared to death with 
 thinking I am going to catch the small-pox. 
 Don't you worry yourself ; I am not going to 
 have it. Freckles are about the worst in that 
 line I shall have to endure," I added saucily. 
 
 " Gawd-a-mighty ! don't make fun 'bout 
 299
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 nuthin' lak' dat." Mammy turned away 
 with a groan, as she had done many a time 
 when I had been an unmanageable child 
 past her understanding. It was a sort of 
 " You 's past me, you got to fight it out wid 
 yo'se'f" adjuration, but it did not dampen 
 my spirits. I wanted to sing like the wren 
 that perched on the garden gate and swelled 
 its tiny throat with the ripple of its melody. 
 I wanted to tramp abroad, to feel the heavy 
 soil cling to my heel, to smell the clear, cold 
 air blowing beneath the pines while the dry 
 needles slipped under my foot ; to loiter on 
 the sunny side of some far-off fodder stack, 
 the smell of it in my nostrils, the sun stream- 
 ing over me, and when I threw back my 
 head against the rough rustling leaves to 
 look straight into the blue, to watch some 
 small cloud drifting to unknown and un- 
 named harborage, to hear the crows call 
 across empty fields but it was yet too 
 soon! I must go back to the little room 
 with its sloping roof and low mantel-shelf 
 and slits of windows peeping skyward. 
 Prison it might be, but that prison held 
 300
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 my husband. The unspeakable delight of 
 those long days when we talked ourselves 
 back to the intimacy when the mind of one 
 was an open page to the other ! The winter 
 hours drifted by unheeded, save for light 
 and shadow or star-gleams through the small 
 panes. 
 
 By the end of the month Robert was 
 downstairs. It was high time he was. 
 'Zekiel had taken to his bed. My hands 
 were fuller than they had been when nursing 
 was my single care. Robert declared he 
 never saw anything more of me than the 
 flitting of my brown homespun dress about 
 the yard, and he said it a trifle fretfully. 
 
 " You are spoiled, sir," I retorted. " Do 
 you expect me to stay by your side all day 
 long? You have had your coddling." 
 
 " Where are you going now ? " I had 
 stopped for but a moment by his side. 
 
 "Out to the barn." 
 
 " Sit down and rest." 
 
 " I am not tired. I am worn-out with 
 staying in the house," I declared, with a toss 
 of my head. 
 
 301
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " So am I ; I am going, too." 
 
 " You must not." I put my hands on his 
 shoulders and pressed him down again into 
 his chair. " It's cold and raw; we are going 
 to have a storm before morning. Dick and 
 I are trotting around to see if everything 
 is all right. It 's such fun ! " 
 
 Robert slipped his hand over mine, where 
 it lay on his shoulder, and drew it to his 
 cheek, kissed it. I felt a tremble of his lips 
 which touched my fingers, but I made no 
 sign of knowing it. 
 
 Brave it as I might, I was tired then, and 
 when I came back I was exhausted. I sat 
 down and leaned back in my chair, too 
 wearied to rub the mud from the heavy 
 brogans I wore. Robert was walking up 
 and down the room. 
 
 " I am not going to stay here shut up and 
 see you do this," he declared, a blaze of anger 
 in his brown eyes. 
 
 " What will you do, then ? " I asked, with 
 a weak pretence at airiness. 
 
 " I am going out, out-of-doors ! " 
 
 A howl of wind tore at the paper pasted 
 302
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 against the window ; the rain and snow came 
 spitting along the floor. 
 
 " Beautiful weather for it," I declared, as I 
 jumped up to reach for something to stuff in 
 the hole and keep out the storm. 
 
 Robert groaned. He leaned against the 
 mantel-piece watching me. His face was 
 flushed, his manner hesitant, vvhen I came 
 back to my chair. 
 
 "Lucy," he began, "you had corn-bread 
 for breakfast and for supper, and " 
 
 " We shall have it for breakfast and dinner 
 and supper again," I declared glibly. 
 
 This want was all that I had kept from 
 him ; it was so unbelievable to need food. 
 
 " Is that all you have ? " 
 
 " We are lucky, sir, to have that. We 
 can't starve." 
 
 " My God ! " It was all he said, but the 
 tone of it! 
 
 " What does it matter? " I cried, saying in 
 my excitement exactly what I thought. " If 
 we can only find something for you to eat ! " 
 
 "Me!" ' 
 
 " I look as if I were suffering, don't I ? " 
 303
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 I stood out boldly in the firelight, challeng- 
 ing his scrutiny. His lips curved into a 
 smile despite himself. 
 
 " You look- No, I will not tell you." 
 
 " You are afraid of feeding my vanity. 
 Well, the springtime will soon be here," I 
 added, thinking of our pressing wants. 
 " This is the first of February." 
 
 " Yes." Robert turned to finger his pipe. 
 " I must be gone by the fifteenth." 
 
 I had known it all along. It was I who 
 had written to the captain of his regiment of 
 his wound and of his illness, and had sent 
 the letters over to the next county where a 
 soldier, home on furlough, could carry it 
 with him when he returned. It was I who 
 had received the answer. But now I dared 
 not look at Robert's eyes. 
 
 That stormy day was the last when I held 
 Robert in check. As soon as the sun shone 
 and the ground dried, he slipped my leash. 
 Weak as he was, pitiably thin as he looked, 
 with the cruel pock-marks showing blue 
 against his fair skin, he would listen to no 
 word of caution. Unploughed fields and 
 304
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 broken fences and desolation fairly mad- 
 dened him. A very itching for work pos- 
 sessed his weak ringers. 
 
 While he still had strength for nothing 
 but commands he leaned against the garden 
 palings and made Dick plough the squares 
 of earth between the borders, I hovering 
 near with much the manner the "yaller" 
 hen showed over the lone chick she had pre- 
 maturely hatched. Then he must try jobs 
 of carpentry. Can I forget that day when, 
 worn with my own weariness and doubly so 
 from watching his white face, where the per- 
 spiration, bred of exhaustion, stood thick 
 upon his forehead despite the shrewish wind, 
 my fingers trembled on the board which I 
 held in place for his nailing and, stooping, 
 he kissed them without a word, without 
 looking up? It was well that he did not. 
 On some of those days my mood was happy, 
 on some wayward and bitter; that day the 
 blackness was thick that kiss dispelled it. 
 
 He straightened himself; the day's task 
 was done. When he began the work of the 
 next I protested with all my might. The 
 20 305
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 sky was cloudy or clear by fitful starts, the 
 wind bitterly cold. " You are not going out 
 this morning ? " I begged, as he wandered 
 restlessly to the door. 
 
 Instead of answering my question he 
 asked another. " You are going down to 
 see Miss Nancy ? " 
 
 " I had intended to, but it is too cold for 
 you." 
 
 " For me ? You might as well stop cod- 
 dling me." 
 
 " Then you want to go ? " The fireside 
 was most alluring on that sharp morning. 
 
 " No." Then after a pause, " Don't wait 
 for me." 
 
 " It 's you she wants to see." I pretended 
 a pout of jealousy. 
 
 " I can't go," decisively. 
 
 " Neither will I, then. You are not going 
 out? Wait! Here, sir!" as I ran back 
 with his worn but warm army coat, " you are 
 to wear this. There ! " I fastened the top- 
 most tarnished button, tiptoed to pinch his 
 cheek, and ran backwards from him down 
 the path. He caught me at the gate, and 
 306
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 there I saw what he had been trying to keep 
 me from knowing Dick was coming along 
 by the garden, driving a horse which was 
 hitched to the plough. 
 
 " I thought Dick was going to The Or- 
 dinary," I exclaimed. 
 
 " He is." 
 
 " Who is going to plough ? " 
 
 " I," calmly. 
 
 " You are not," I vowed hotly. 
 
 " You see that land ; it should have been 
 cultivated last fall." 
 
 " There was no one to do it." 
 
 " Who is going to do it now ? " 
 
 I sighed. Corn must be planted there if 
 we were to have bread for the next year. 
 " Oh, somebody," I said lamely. 
 
 Robert pretended no argument. The 
 need was too evident. 'Zekiel's rheumatism 
 had grown worse ; there was not a hand to be 
 hired. Robert picked up the reins, slipped 
 them around his shoulders, and put his 
 hands, white and thin, on the plough 
 handles; he trailed the share near to the 
 border of the lane and began running a fur- 
 307
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 row by its side straight down toward the 
 pines. The steel cut through the rich brown 
 soil; the smell of fresh-turned earth was in 
 the air. 
 
 The horse settled to his work; Robert 
 held the plough steady; I tramped by his 
 side. We had no fear of any stranger com- 
 ing through the vista ahead of us. Even our 
 neighbors kept away. We were as secure 
 as if peace, and peace alone, brooded over 
 our country. 
 
 But the clouds grew thicker as the morn- 
 ing lengthened, the winds chillier and 
 stronger; Robert stopped at the end of a 
 furrow near the house. 
 
 " Are you cold ? " he asked. 
 
 " No ! " My homespun dress, brogan 
 shoes, and heavy shawl kept me warm and 
 comfortable. 
 
 " I am. Wait here a moment." 
 
 I was leaning against the plough, my 
 back toward the house, when he came out. 
 He was quite close to me before I turned 
 and saw him. I shrieked with laughter. 
 Father's heavy gray shawl was pinned 
 308
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 around him above his army coat; a bright 
 woollen comfort of mine was tied around his 
 head and crossed under his chin, the fringed 
 ends of it hanging down behind ; and planted 
 firmly upon it was his big soft hat. The 
 pock-marks at the edge of his hair showed 
 blue and vivid in the cold. It was that 
 and his look of weakness which stilled my 
 laughter, and kept me watching him as we 
 tramped up and down, up and down. By 
 and by he pulled the horse to a stand-still. 
 
 " There is a spring about here some- 
 where," he said. " I am thirsty." 
 
 " It is over there under the hill, near the 
 path. Go on and find it. I will wait for 
 you." 
 
 A stream cut across the field close by, 
 running a rippling, dividing line between it 
 and the curving woods ; and bush and bram- 
 ble on its banks made a thicket, dry and 
 sheltering. I huddled down in the dry 
 leaves, the thick, small branches making a 
 brake between me and the wind, and waited, 
 listening to the sighing of the pines and the 
 gurgling stream. I could watch Robert as 
 309
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 he went along the path which led up the 
 hill and through the woods to The Ordi- 
 nary. The spring gushed from the hill hard 
 by the path and fed with trickling rills the 
 broader stream whose pools and clear shal- 
 lows were behind me. Robert knelt by the 
 sparkling water, and as he did so Dick came 
 singing and skipping along the path home- 
 ward. 
 
 Robert raised his head. At that instant 
 Dick, who had heard no sound and knew 
 of no one being near, espied him. The 
 boy threw his arms above his head, raised 
 one hoarse scream, and sprang across the 
 stream. 
 
 " De debbil, de debbil ! " he shrieked. " Ise 
 done seed de debbil." 
 
 " Dick, you goose ! " I shouted, but he 
 never heard. I jumped up and ran after 
 him. "Dick, Dick!" I called, though I 
 could scarcely run or call from laughter ; 
 but I heard only his sob, " De debbil ! Ise 
 done seed de debbil ! " 
 
 I gave up the chase and went back to 
 Robert. When we had had our laugh out, 
 310
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 we concluded to follow Dick. Robert had 
 sent him to The Ordinary for news. 
 
 As soon as the horse was taken out, I 
 started for the kitchen. " Where is Dick ? " 
 I called in at the door. 
 
 " In de cabin wid 'Zekiel." 
 
 " What 's the matter with him ? " 
 
 " Lawd only knows ! He 's skeered plumb 
 out o' his wits." 
 
 " What scared him ? " I insisted. 
 
 " He 'low as how he done see de debbil 
 an' he done come fer him." Mammy came 
 out to the door to answer me. " Some 
 foolishness; done seed sumpin' down in de 
 woods." 
 
 I pointed a shaking finger at Robert com- 
 ing around the chimney corner. Mammy 
 gave one roll of her eyes at him and plunged 
 back into the kitchen. A smothered voice 
 from a dark corner called, " Marse Robert, 
 dat boy had a note fer you ; he 'low as how 
 he lost it when down by de spring." 
 
 Tired as we were, Robert and I set out to 
 search for it; it was our just punishment. 
 Blown along with the sodden and drifted
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 leaves, down under a bramble tangle along 
 the gurgling stream, we found a bit of white 
 paper folded tightly. It contained but a few 
 words penned by a conscript officer, but it 
 shut the gate on all our careless joy. To 
 obey the command it held meant that Robert 
 must leave me at sunrise to-morrow morning, 
 and he must obey. 
 
 312
 
 XXIII 
 
 THE ploughing of the field was fin- 
 ished, but it was Dick and I who 
 accomplished it. Mammy stormed 
 and raved, cried furrows down her cheeks 
 over me, but I went my determined way. 
 'Zekiel's illness developed into long, slow, 
 rheumatic fever. With our blundering at- 
 tempts at healing he had but to live through 
 the pains and outlive them if he could. 
 
 The long, glorious days of sunshine went 
 by; days of warm winds, of greening grass, 
 of budding leaves, of shy, blooming flowers ; 
 and gray days of rain blowing in slant lines 
 between us and the pines, of winds moan- 
 ing as if they voiced the desolation which 
 closed about us. 
 
 Had we been the only ones so afflicted, 
 
 remote as we were, we should have known 
 
 the touch of human kindness which would 
 
 have eased our burden somewhat; but far 
 
 3U
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 and near was want, heartache, despair. Our 
 strait was better than that of some, for still 
 there came news of Robert's safety and of 
 father's. In this knowledge I lived. 
 
 I worked as I had seen a slave do, but 
 without his strength, his ease of mind, his 
 jest, his song : there was no singing on my 
 lips. As day merged into day, as long twi- 
 lights and early dawns bespoke the summer, 
 I began to feel as if in all the void between 
 the sky overhead and the earth underfoot, 
 in all that magic space rimmed by the forest 
 with our small house for centre, there lived 
 but one soul and that was I. For me the 
 sun rose above the eastward pines and sent 
 long shafts of golden light across my world ; 
 for me the glorious shine of clear crimson 
 sky, of roseate clouds parting to show the 
 evening star against the breadths of green 
 when the world my world turned to its 
 rest ; for me the breath of winds, the purpling 
 of the grasses, the roses' bloom. The blue 
 sky overhead was God's outstretched hand, 
 and beneath it I walked in awful calm and 
 peace, holden beyond dreaming, strengthened 
 3H
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 beyond thought. No one gainsaid me, word 
 or deed ; I think they all feared me. 
 
 When 'Zekiel hobbled at last out to his 
 work, it was to follow my slightest words ; 
 Dick looked at me askance. Mammy's fore- 
 head and her cheeks were furrowed that 
 year into lines no after-peace smoothed 
 out. 
 
 The days went by. There were cornstalks 
 shoulder high in the fields, the sibilant rus- 
 tling of their leaves was on the wind, the 
 pungent smell of them in the air ; fresh, green 
 things for eating grew in our garden, by and 
 by the fodder was stacked, the corn hidden 
 in the cabin in the woods ; the green grass 
 was carpeted by yellow leaves down-drifted 
 from the cherry tree ; the wild grasses were 
 sered or purpled with seed-pods and the 
 day of which I had dared not think, the hour 
 for which no tender preparation could be 
 made, no aid invoked, and from which no 
 power could save me, but which I I alone 
 must meet and endure, had come. 
 
 It was an October night, but there was 
 no balminess of Indian summer in the air;
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 instead a cold, raw wind came blowing from 
 the east, sobbing in the chimneys, shaking 
 against doors and windows. A fire burned 
 on the chamber hearth and one in the 
 dining-room ; there our little world waited 
 awe-stricken. 
 
 " Mammy," I asked, when the first ago- 
 nizing thrill of pain set my nerves a-quiver, 
 "will it be long?" 
 
 " Gawd only knows." 
 
 " Is it is it very hard ? " as another pain 
 bent me in my chair before the fire. 
 
 " Gawd only knows," repeated the loving 
 soul, stricken to the core by my suffering. 
 " Lan', chile," as she gathered her courage, 
 " sometimes 't ain't nuthin' 't all, 't ain't no 
 mo' dan habin' a good ole-fashioned chill; 
 an' den " 
 
 "And then and then!" Was it the 
 gust that shrieked it ? was it my own lips ? 
 Was that Mammy kneeling by my bedside, 
 and 'Zekiel's restless feet tramping through 
 the hall, and Dick's ashy face peering inside 
 when Mammy called for wood ? Was it the 
 wind that moaned and moaned, or was it
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 voices in the house ? Was it the writhings 
 of the cherry tree, storm lashed, that thrilled 
 me with fear, or was it the twistings of my 
 own body lashed by pain ? Did I hear a 
 voice sob, " Pray, pray ; fer Gawd's sake, 
 pray ! You cyarn't do nuthin' else." 
 
 I know I asked, when nerve and 
 muscle were racked until it was unbeliev- 
 able that they could stand more, " Am I 
 dying ? " 
 
 Faint as the whisper was, it carried to the 
 black head bent above me. " Oh, Gawd ! 
 Oh, no, Miss Lucy, honey ! No, chile, 
 no ! Try an' stan' it ; it cyarn't be much 
 longer." 
 
 " What time is it ? " I whispered. 
 
 " I dunno, nigh to daybreak." 
 
 " Robert," my lips framed, " Robert " 
 There was a thought I tried to speak, but 
 it would not come. I was benumbed to 
 unconsciousness. Nor did it frame itself for 
 long hours. I opened my eyes on sunshine 
 streaming into the room, firelight gleaming 
 on the bare floor, on haggard faces by my 
 bedside.
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Robert ! " I framed the words at last, 
 " what will he say when he sees our child ? " 
 But there had been two days and three 
 nights between the first words of that sen- 
 tence and the last.
 
 XXIV 
 
 IT was that question, and that alone, 
 which filled night and day. When my 
 lips trembled into a smile, it was not 
 the baby, red and round, who evoked it it 
 was the thought of what Robert would say 
 to her. How would he touch her, hold her ? 
 How awkward he would be, how shy and 
 embarrassed ! In fancy I could see the flush 
 rising up his fair face to the edges of his 
 thick, waving hair, could see the sparkle of 
 love and wonder growing in the depths of his 
 dark eyes. How I longed for him ! his strong 
 touch for my languor, his cheery voice to 
 brighten my indifference. For I had lingered 
 long on the border land. The needle of 
 life's compass dipped unsteadily ; sometimes 
 it pointed to life and sometimes to its oppo- 
 site pole of death ; it was Christmas-tide 
 when it set its course at last lifewards. 
 
 The world, my little part of it, drifted by. 
 I had no thought for any phase of it. Once
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 there was news from Robert ; that was 
 enough. I knew my great truth now 
 God's love around me, God's love around 
 him ; so we were kept, so we were together. 
 I had fitted no theories, solved no scheme of 
 the unseen ; but this precious knowledge I 
 held fast. 
 
 The baby grew wonderfully. Mammy, 
 'Zekiel, and Dick were forever peeping at 
 her, hanging about her ; but I felt no great, 
 overwhelming, all-sweeping current of love 
 toward her; she was but a joy unfolding, 
 ready when I was strong enough. I was too 
 weak for any great emotion except that one 
 which was life itself my love for Robert. 
 
 When I could creep about the room and 
 sit in my low chair, I loved to have her in 
 my arms or on my lap, though they would 
 not let me hold her often. But one day, as I 
 sat with her on my knee, her small body lax 
 with sleep, her fingers stirring restlessly, a 
 smile twitching at her soft mouth, I heard 
 the sound of wheels, then voices, cries. 
 
 In my weakness I scarcely stirred to turn 
 my head when the door opened, but I smiled, 
 320
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 for Emily stood there, and I had not seen her 
 for a year. 
 
 She came to me quickly, knelt by my side, 
 put her arms about me ; and the tears were 
 running down her cheeks. 
 
 I looked at her, and I was as still as the 
 dead. My arms fell away from the baby on 
 my knee, my lips were motionless ; but my 
 eyes questioned, and she answered, " Robert 
 is dead." 
 
 21 
 
 321
 
 XXV 
 
 " f^\ OD's love ! " In the consciousness 
 I "W" of its truth, which I had wrested 
 from reading, from prayer, from 
 hours of fearful dreaming and realized 
 agony in that consciousness I lived. It 
 was about me by day, the whisper of it was 
 in the night watches, when I was restless, 
 though the baby lay warm on my arm and 
 the stars shone in through the patched win- 
 dow-panes. All the tender words for the 
 broken-hearted breathed through me, and 
 with the whispering of them in my heart, I 
 would turn my head upon my pillow and fall 
 at last asleep. I wakened with them on my 
 lips. I took courage from them for strength 
 and work. For there was work not only 
 ahead but already at hand. I felt the need 
 of garnering my strength for it. Life goes 
 on for the broken-hearted as well as the joy- 
 ous, and there is a duty for each. I must do 
 322
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 the work allotted one as I had known the 
 rapture of the other. 
 
 I never asked about Robert's death ; that 
 it was true was enough to know. I heard 
 that he had died on the battle-field, that 
 Lady had been shot under him. They 
 found the faithful beast, but Robert's body 
 they did not find. The thought of it in 
 some shallow trench pressed close by many 
 comrades brought no sting beneath my eye- 
 lids. What did that matter ? 
 
 Henry brought these details. His right 
 arm had been shattered, amputated, and he 
 had been mustered out. When he came to 
 see me his empty sleeve was pinned across 
 his breast. He had much to say, sad words 
 of disaster and defeat, hopeless ones of worse 
 yet to come. He told me of father, his 
 enthusiasm, his courage, his inspiriting 
 example. 
 
 And sharp on the heels of his visit came 
 that last great raid made by Fitzpatrick 
 through our country. When it swept on we 
 had left to us housings and land that was 
 all. 
 
 3 2 3
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 We lived after that dreadful tima as the 
 birds of the air or the shy beasts of field and 
 forest. We learned to be glad when the 
 dandelion showed its leaves and the polk put 
 up its stalks, when the blackberries ripened 
 beside the stream or the whortle-berries 
 purpled in the woods ; we learned the signifi- 
 cance of daily bread. Yet face to face with 
 want we never more than faced it. It stood 
 a grim phantom on the border line of each 
 day, but the next day's dawn found it no 
 nearer. There comes a keen, elated joy 
 from the knowledge that in time of dire 
 stress Our Father cares for our daily bread. 
 So Elijah must have felt when he awaited 
 the rustle of the raven's wings. 
 
 The blossom, the perfume of our existence, 
 was the new life in our home. Upon the 
 wreck and ruin of all we had known the 
 baby grew, with ever a laugh, a dimpling 
 cheek, and a sturdy will. The wonderful 
 love of her crept into my cold heart. Never 
 did I enter the room but her joyous smile 
 greeted me ; never did I slip into my chair 
 but she crept into my lap and cuddled 
 324
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 against my shoulder. As soon as she learned 
 the use of her soft, pink feet she would 
 toddle by my side, holding to my hand or 
 skirt with a sturdiness which defied all 
 weather and a joyousness which defied all 
 discomfort. 
 
 So she clung to me at the close of a cheer- 
 less November day when, basket in hand, I 
 sought the woodpile. Candles we had none, 
 and our store of pine knots was low ; I went 
 to search amongst chips and logs. The 
 dusk of the short day brooded over fenceless 
 yards and barren fields; the acrid smell of 
 smoke blown low about the chimneys was in 
 the air. The baby, when we reached the 
 woodpile, set up a whimper and raised a 
 bare, red foot. 
 
 " Ah ! " I cried pityingly, " there 's a 
 splinter in that foot ; " and I slipped down 
 on a log, lifted her on my knee, and turned 
 her tiny foot, cold and chapped, in my hands. 
 " There 's nothing here, dearie ! " I rubbed 
 the foot softly. " It must have been a chip 
 that hurt you ; that 's all right, get down ! " 
 But she cuddled the closer. 
 325
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 I tied the bonnet under her chin, kissed 
 her soft, warm mouth ; and then I saw that 
 her eyes were shy and affrighted, that they 
 gazed past me. I looked around. 
 
 Blurred against the brown fields loomed a 
 figure, awful in the dusk, gaunt, bent, hag- 
 gard. I put the child down gently, stumbled 
 to my feet. I gave a gasp that ghostly, 
 impalpable vision was alive. I clenched my 
 hands and leaned forward; the hands of 
 that wraith were lifted in passionate suppli- 
 cation. I shrieked aloud and the eerie sound 
 of it rang over the desolate yard and the 
 empty house. 
 
 "Stand back!" the wraith cried hoarsely; 
 but it need not have cautioned. My feet 
 were like lead, the blood beat and surged in 
 my ears until I could have distinguished no 
 word, heard nothing but that voice. 
 
 " Is it you ? " I whispered. " You, ALIVE ! " 
 
 " It is I." He passed his hands wearily 
 across his face. 
 
 II You ? You ? " I still whispered. I had 
 breath for nothing else. I moved toward 
 him. 
 
 326
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Stand back ! " He staggered from me. 
 " Keep away ! Send Maria here ! There 
 she is, thank God ! " My shrill cry had 
 brought her, running. He gathered his 
 strength. " Maria ! " he called. 
 
 " Marse Robert's ghos' ! Marse Robert's 
 ghos' ! " 
 
 " My God ! " he muttered brokenly. " Has n't 
 she got any sense ? Pull her up ! No, run to 
 the house ! Get me something to eat. I am 
 starving." 
 
 He said it to get me out of the way. 
 When I came back there was no living soul 
 there but the baby sitting still and scared 
 where I had left her. The wood stacks 
 towered black, the yard was empty ; one 
 light shone from Mammy's cabin. I rushed 
 to it, but the door was barred ; I threw my- 
 self with all my strength against it. 
 
 " Miss Lucy ! Miss Lucy ! " cried a voice, 
 almost inarticulate from emotion. " Wait a 
 minute, honey ; jes wait a minute ! " A low 
 moan seconded her. 
 
 I leaned against the battened door, striving 
 to hear every sound ; I fairly fell inside when 
 327
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 Mammy opened it, but she caught me, held 
 me, and fastened it behind her. 
 
 " Let me see him ! " I pushed against her 
 angrily. 
 
 " You cyarn't.'' 
 
 " I will." 
 
 She picked me up in her arms, carried me 
 to the house, and sat me down with a thump 
 on the step. " Now," she panted, " you stay 
 hyar. Dis ain't no time fer foolishness." 
 
 " It 's Robert ! " I cried hysterically. 
 
 " Ain't you got eyes ? ain't you seed him 
 yo'se'f?" ' 
 
 " He 's alive," I crooned. 
 
 " He jes is," Mammy snapped ; " an' ef you 
 don't show mo' sense, he '11 die right hyar on 
 yo' han's." 
 
 " Mammy, how " 
 
 " He 's been in prison, got out somehow, 
 come trompin' his way home. Chile, run 
 fer de uddahs, let 'em know. In de name o' 
 sense is you done lef dat baby at de wood- 
 pile ? " as a cry came from the back of the 
 yard. 
 
 " Miss Lucy," Mammy put her hands on 
 328
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 my shoulders, " he 's got to be washed, he 's 
 got to hab his hyar an' his whiskers cut ; an' 
 ebery las' rag he 's got on will hab to be 
 buhnt up. Go 'long, git dat baby an' call de 
 
 res'." 
 
 At midnight I was crouched outside of 
 the cabin. The tide of joy had swept into 
 the hearts of all and filled them ; all slept 
 but me. I tapped lightly on the little win- 
 dow, and Mammy came to the door, opened 
 it a crack, and peered out into the night. 
 
 " It 's me," I whispered, creeping close to 
 her. " Let me come in just to look at him 
 for one minute, one second." 
 
 Mammy closed the door behind her and 
 crouched down on the step, her big body 
 guarding the entrance. 
 
 " He 's asleep," she said shortly, " an' ain't 
 nobody gwine 'sturb him." 
 
 The light from the little window shone 
 on my face where I stood, my hand against 
 the wall. Mammy looked at me long and 
 earnestly. I could see the glow of her eyes 
 in the dusk. 
 
 329
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " No, you ain't gwine ter see him to-night." 
 I choked back the catch in my breath. " Ef 
 you was to stan' by his baid, ef you was to 
 fly dyar an' hover over him an' look at him 
 wid dem eyes, you 'd wake him. You 'd call 
 his soul back ef 't was slippin' erway. 'T ain't 
 no lovin' he wants now, 't is res', jes res'. 
 
 " I done fixed him up good," she went on 
 after a while. " I done buhnt ebery las' rag 
 o' his clothes an' I done got some ole ones 
 Marse Willum give 'Zekiel all ready I holt 
 on to 'em spite o' all dis trapsin' an' goin' on. 
 Go 'long to de house an' git some sleep. 
 Ise gwine set by de fiah an' watch him all 
 night long." 
 
 " Let me stay here, outside ! " 
 
 " I 'clare to goodness I did think you 'd 
 got some sense dese las' days. No longer 
 dan dis ebenin' you thought he was daid, 
 daid an' buried somewhars whar you'd nebbah 
 eben know de spot. An' now he 's hyar 
 sleepin' peaceable, an' you a-standin' hyar 
 cotchin' yo' death o' col'. Honey, you 's got 
 a heap to lib fer. 'T is time you was begin- 
 nin' to tek cyar o' yo'se'f." 
 330
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 I had sense enough left to go back into 
 the house, but not to bed. By dawn I was 
 again at the cabin door, but Mammy had 
 for my low step the same caution : " He 's 
 asleep ! " 
 
 So he lay through that day and night and 
 into the next. Once or twice he had aroused 
 and Mammy had put the hot milk she had 
 ready to his lips ; he drank eagerly and sank 
 back again to slumber. 
 
 " 'T is de very bes' thing fer him," she 
 declared ; " de Lawd done took Marse Robert 
 in His han's, Marse Robert is a-restin' an' 
 a-gettin' well at de same time. Praise de 
 Lawd ! Glory hallelujah ! " 
 
 We went about in a trance of joy and 
 expectancy. That night we slept the sound 
 sleep of the rejoicing ; the next day, as I sat 
 in my room, the baby playing at my feet, the 
 door was pushed softly open ; Robert stood 
 there. 
 
 His sunken, dark eyes flamed as they met 
 mine ; his gaze searched me from head to 
 foot. I had had no consciousness of myself, 
 but as he gazed I knew that my hair had
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 whitened at the temples, that my dress was 
 worn to raggedness, my shoes to holes. The 
 wave of consciousness swept away. I was 
 aware of nothing but him. So for a breath's 
 space we gazed at one another, then with a 
 cry of joy I sprang toward him. 
 
 332
 
 XXVI 
 
 THERE was little that Robert would 
 ever tell of his prison life or his es- 
 cape, and that little was in broken 
 snatches ; once only he spoke freely. Father 
 was there that night, and Emily and Henry 
 they had been married as soon as he re- 
 turned disabled. It was spring-tide again, and 
 the winds, low and languid, stole through the 
 hall where we sat Emily and the men near 
 the door, I on the step where I could watch 
 the baby playing in the path. The jonquils 
 bloomed on the border, the grass was yellow 
 with dandelions, and from the distant swamp 
 came the chorus of the frogs' hoarse croaking. 
 When I turned I could see Mammy moving 
 slowly and contentedly about the kitchen, 
 'Zekiel smoking his pipe at the cabin door, 
 and Dick coming up from the pasture. 
 
 Father settled comfortably down into his 
 chair and lighted his pipe. He had stayed 
 333
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 with the army to the last day of its bitter 
 defeat, had come home unscathed, and with 
 a will and vigor undiminished. " Well," he 
 began, " they have settled the question for 
 us, now let them look out. I can't say that 
 I think it is the best way," sarcastically ; " but 
 it is done. The negroes are free, so am I. 
 I can pick and hire my own hands now." 
 
 " Whom are you going to have ? " Robert 
 asked. 
 
 " Hm ! I don't know that I have exactly 
 decided." Father's face reddened at the ad- 
 mission and at the laughter which followed 
 it ; for we all knew that his very first care had 
 been for the worst, the laziest, and the least 
 likely to provide for themselves of those 
 servants left. 
 
 The talk ran on like that of all eventful 
 hours, rapid sometimes, then short with 
 long silences between. It veered to the 
 battle in which Robert fell. 
 
 " I saw you fall ; I thought you were shot," 
 declared Henry. 
 
 " I thought so myself," Robert admitted, 
 with a short laugh ; " but it was Lady. Poor 
 334
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 horse! she had saved my life many a time 
 before, and she saved it then. She plunged 
 forward so suddenly that she carried me with 
 her, and I fell crumpled up under her side. 
 I broke my arm, and I suppose I fainted. 
 When I came to, a man was pulling at my leg ; 
 thought I was dead, but wanted to make sure. 
 He was good enough when he found out I 
 was n't. Got a rag from somewhere, tied up 
 my arm, and and then I was a prisoner. 
 I did n't have any too many clothes on, you 
 remember how we had gotten ? " to Henry, 
 who nodded a reply. " I had an old brim of 
 a hat left, and there were soles to my shoes 
 but little else." He laughed ruefully at the 
 remembrance. " Well, they marched us down 
 to the river, out on the wharf, and there they 
 kept us waiting for ten hours not a mouth- 
 ful to eat, not a drop to drink. The sun 
 scorched down on us, packed there like sar- 
 dines, and on the sand and the water and I 
 was fair dead for a drop of it, sweet and fresh. 
 " The boat came at last to take us to 
 Lookout, you know. They marched us on " 
 Robert's voice broke, I turned my face away. 
 335
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " They marched us two by two up the gang- 
 plank. The officer in charge and the captain 
 were leaning over the railing. I never lifted 
 my eyes as I fell into line and marched up 
 the plank. I heard an oath ripped out, and 
 then, ' My God, it 's Aylett ! ' I looked up. 
 It was Marsden ; I knew him in New York, 
 you know. 
 
 " By the time I got inside he was there by 
 the stairway and had me by the arm. I was 
 half dead, but I had sense enough to go with 
 him as he pulled me, and he was cursing a 
 blue streak right along. But I knew mighty 
 well when I had looked once at him Well, 
 I expect we all felt that way once or twice 
 these last few years. He took me to his 
 stateroom, locked the door. ' God ! Aylett,' 
 he said, ' what do you want ? ' 
 
 " I stumbled over to the water pitcher and 
 drained it. I laughed as I sat down on the 
 side of the bunk and thrust out my feet. 
 
 "'Clothes?' 
 
 " ' Something to eat.' 
 
 " When he came back I was snoring. He 
 shook me up, put the plate on my knees. 
 336
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 I ate, he questioned. Henry, what a good 
 thing soap and water and towels are ! He 
 put them in place, tumbled out a suit of his 
 own clothes, went out, and locked the door 
 on me. It is a good thing there was no one 
 on that boat who dared disobey him. I be- 
 lieve he would have fought if they had. And 
 he did n't forget the other men, either ; they 
 had enough to eat for once. 
 
 "Well!" He came to the doorway, knocked 
 the ashes from his pipe, looked down at me 
 and at the baby playing in the path. " I lost 
 those clothes soon enough." 
 
 They questioned him of his prison, but he 
 answered shortly, " It was hell ; " and that was 
 all he would say till pressed for his escape. 
 
 " It will do no harm now," he admitted ; 
 " the man is safe at home. You will never 
 know " But the very thought of those 
 prison days sealed his lips. He let slip no 
 word of description as he had started to do. 
 Instead, " I was sitting in front of my tent 
 one day, stripped took off my shirt to get 
 rid of unpleasant visitors I told you it was 
 no nice tale." 
 
 22 337
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " Go on," said Henry, shortly, and father 
 leaned forward in his chair. 
 
 "It was hot enough baking, steaming, 
 killing hot. I was doing the best I could 
 when the officer of the day turned the corner 
 and there I was. I looked queer, so did 
 he ; then he said kind of awkwardly, ' Go 
 ahead ! Go ahead ! I like to see you try to 
 keep clean.' I had to laugh, and I roared ; 
 so did he. That was just before I had the 
 fever." I turned quickly; he had told me 
 nothing of it. " Yes, I had the fever, and I 
 could n't get well. The men sickened and 
 died like flies around me. I would n't do 
 either," grimly ; " die or get well. I saw that 
 officer watching me many a day. There was 
 nothing he could do for me, but somehow 
 One day I was dragging my feet along out 
 beyond the tents and I met him. There 
 was no one within ten yards of us and the 
 guard had his back turned. He stopped 
 short ' Aylett,' he asked, quick as a flash, 
 'is there anybody at home waiting for 
 you ? ' 
 
 " 'My wife.' I gazed steadily back at him, 
 338
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 right into his eyes. I knew something was 
 coming, and it did, quick. 
 
 " ' There is to be an exchange of prisoners 
 to-morrow morning. You are not one of them, 
 but I am going to call the roll. Hang around 
 close, fall in as they march out; don't look at 
 me, I will be ticking them off. Don't turn 
 your head or speak a word, you will be shot 
 if you 're found out. It 's risky, but No, 
 hush ! I can't stand your face, man. I feel 
 as if I were committing murder when I look 
 at you. I want you out of sight.' 
 
 " I was there. I looked at him when I 
 crowded close and fell into step ; but he 
 never lifted his eyes after one last rapid 
 glance at us all. That is all." 
 
 " How did you get home? " 
 
 " The best way I could." 
 
 No one seemed to have anything to say 
 after that. Father went off to talk to Maria, 
 and Emily and Henry followed him. Robert 
 came out to the step and put his hand on my 
 head. 
 
 " I want to see your eyes," he declared 
 whimsically. 
 
 339
 
 CALLED TO THE FIELD 
 
 " I am not crying," I declared. 
 
 "Of course not," stoutly, "why should you?" 
 But he sat down by me and pulled my head 
 to his shoulder ; the baby toddling up put a 
 dimpled hand on his knee and his own closed 
 over it. 
 
 " There is nothing to be sad for," he said 
 bravely ; " all my work is lost " fenceless 
 yard and uncultivated fields told him that 
 " and all my money would not buy a bushel 
 of wheat, but God ! I am at home and 
 you are here ! " 
 
 " And the jonquils are abloom," sang my 
 heart, "and the cherries reddening; " and by 
 my side the trampled rose-vine straggled 
 upwards, holding forth a rose. 
 
 And looking at Robert, the flush of health 
 on his thin cheek, at the baby's rosy face 
 against his knee, I knew there is one mirror 
 of heaven on earth, and its setting is neither 
 wealth nor fame it is love. 
 
 340
 
 By the Author of " Called to the Field " 
 
 A GIRL OF VIRGINIA 
 
 By LUCY MEACHAM THRUSTON. Illustrated. 
 12mo. $1.50 
 
 A delightful present-day romance, with its scenes located 
 in the Old Dominion State. " One could scarcely find a more 
 delightful heroine than the pretty daughter of a professor 
 of the University of Virginia, Frances Holloway, who is 
 the same lovable, high-spirited young woman one so often 
 meets in real life, but for some reason or other so seldom in 
 stories," says the St. Louis Globe-Democrat. " The best story 
 of college life from the townspeople's point of view that 
 has been written in a long time." 
 
 " Not too light nor yet too tragic with a wholesome 
 out-of-door flavor," says the Boston Journal, while the New 
 York Commercial Advertiser says "the author has given us 
 a picture of modern girlhood that goes straight to the heart 
 and stays there." 
 
 By the same Author 
 
 MISTRESS BRENT 
 
 A Story of Lord Baltimore's Colony in 1638 
 Illustrated. 12mo. $1.50 
 
 The story is an interesting study of the life of the col- 
 onists, and has seldom been excelled as a picture of early 
 Maryland's history. Baltimore News. 
 
 No more able or remarkable woman figures in early 
 colonial history. The author has splendid material at 
 hand and uses it with commendable accuracy. The Outlook, 
 New York. 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, &f CO., PUBLISHERS 
 BOSTON, MASS.
 
 By the Author of " Called to the Field " 
 
 WHERE THE TIDE 
 COMES IN 
 
 By LUCY MEACHAM THRUSTON 
 
 Author of " Mistress Brent," " Where the Tide Comes In,' 
 
 " Called to the Field" etc. 
 Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth. $1.50. 
 
 A novel with a fine Southern atmosphere. Book News, 
 Philadelphia. 
 
 Mrs. Thruston gave her readers a charming portrayal of 
 individual femininity of the Southern type in " A Girl of 
 Virginia," but that girl at her best was no possible match 
 for Page Nottoway, the captivating heroine of "Where the 
 Tide Comes In." Baltimore Herald. 
 
 A novel of dramatic force, with a good plot, characters 
 which are distinct and consistent throughout in the draw- 
 ing, and a setting which is original and effective. The 
 heroine, Page Nottoway, is a typical American girl. NeiL 
 York Times. 
 
 The heroine, Page, is dainty, sweet, proud, and everything 
 else that goes with the scenery. The novel is well entitled 
 to a place among those tales of contemporary life which 
 possess value because of the author's actual knowledge. 
 Chicago Tribune. 
 
 "Written in a style whose quality is far superior to that 
 of either " A Girl of Virginia " or " Mistress Brent." . . . 
 The local color is remarkably good. Baltimore Sun. 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS 
 254 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON
 
 A New Novel by the Author of " Quo Vadis " 
 
 ON THE FIELD 
 OF GLORY 
 
 By HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ 
 
 Author of " Knights of the Cross," " With Fire and Sword," 
 " The Deluge," " Quo Vadis," etc. 
 
 Translated from the Polish by Jeremiah Curtin 
 12rao. Decorated Cloth, $1.50 
 
 This important work is the only one written by this 
 renowned author since the year 1900, when he completed 
 "Knights of the Cross." The scenes are laid in Poland, 
 and the period is the reign of the famous King John 
 Sobieski, just before the Turkish invasion in 1682 to 1683. 
 Sienkiewicz has woven a wonderful romance of great 
 brilliancy and strong character drawing, and in no book 
 by the author of "Quo Vadis" has he displayed his great 
 genius more strikingly. 
 
 He tells a charming, tender, and passionate love-story 
 of remarkable intensity, and gives the reader acquaintance 
 with characters not inferior in vigor and interest to those 
 of the great trilogy. The complete work has been trans- 
 lated by Jeremiah Curtin. 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS 
 254 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON
 
 A Distinctive Modern Romance 
 
 MAID OF ATHENS 
 
 By LAFAYETTE McLAWS 
 
 Author of " When the Land Was Young," etc. 
 
 12mo. Decorated Cloth, $1.50 
 
 A romance of great charm dealing with Lord Byron's 
 career in Greece, his poems "Thyrza" and "Maid of 
 Athens" furnishing the talented novelist with the germ 
 of a love-story which will appeal to many besides those 
 interested in the poet's romantic life. The scenes on the 
 Bosphorus and in the Imperial harem at Stamboul, the 
 attempted rising of the Greeks against the Turks, and 
 Lord Byron's love for the " Maid of Athens," are pictured 
 with great vividness and power, and Thyrza, the daughter 
 of a Greek patriot, is one of the most lovable creations of 
 modern romantic fiction. 
 
 Readers of " When the Land Was Young " need not be 
 told that Miss McLaws is gifted with a wealth of creative 
 imagination. Her new book is laden with the atmosphere 
 of the early nineteenth century, and it is a living, breathing 
 woman whose love and sorrows thrill us in this story. 
 Byron himself, though vividly present in these pages, is 
 second in interest to the lovely Greek girl Thyrza, who is 
 depicted with a sympathetic touch due perhaps to the 
 author's Southern birth and temperament. 
 
 LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., PUBLISHERS 
 254 WASHINGTON STREET, BOSTON
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
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