hat I wish I could
get out of them. You'll see it for yourself, and maybe we can get her
to tell us. I just found her by accident last week--or at least, I
found her; nothing happens by accident!"

We found her in a little faded green house, whose veranda was broken
through in many places. Scared-looking, dark-eyed children darted
shyly through the open door as we approached. In the darkened front
room she received us, and, without any surprise, pleasure, or
resentment in her voice, asked us to sit down. As our eyes became
accustomed to the gloom, we wondered more and more why the sunshine
was excluded, for there was no carpet to fade, nor any furniture which
would have been injured. The most conspicuous object in the room was
the framed family group taken just before "her man" went away. He was
a handsome young fellow in his tidy uniform, and the woman beside him
had such a merry face that I should never have known her for the sad
and faded person who had met us at the door. In the picture she was
smiling, happy, resolute; now her face was limp and frazzled, and had
an indefinable challenge in it which baffled me. My old friend was
right--there was a sore thought there!

The bright black eyes of the handsome soldier fascinated me; he was so
much alive; so fearless; so confident, so brave,--so much needed by
these little ones who clustered around his knee. Again, as I looked
upon this picture, the horrors of war rolled over my helpless heart.

My old friend was trying hard to engage the woman in conversation, but
her manner was abstracted and strange. I noticed her clothes were all
black, even the flannel bandage around her throat--she was recovering
from an attack of quinsy--was black too; and as if in answer to my
thoughts, she said:--

"It was red--but I dyed it--I couldn't bear to have it red--it
bothered me. That's why I keep the blinds down too--the sun hurts
me--it has no right to shine--just the same as if nothing had
happened." Her voice quivered with passion.

"Have you any neighbors, Mrs. C----?" I asked; for her manner made me
uneasy--she had been too much alone.

"Neighbors!" she stormed,--"neighbors! I haven't any, and I do not
want them: they would only lie about me--the way they lied about
Fred!"

"Surely nobody ever lied about Fred," I said,--"this fine, brave
fellow."

"He does look brave, doesn't he?" she cried. "You are a stranger, but
you can see it, can't you? You wouldn't think he was a