He handed me a dollar, in a hopeless way, which was a four-hundredth of
his income. The blacksmith's wife would not admit me at all, saying,
"There has been one beggar here already this morning!" The butcher's
wife gave five cents; but I had my doubts about accepting it, for while
I was indignantly relating the desolate condition of the home and tomb
of the Father of his Country, and something about its being a spot only
fit for a wild pelican to live in, the butcher himself passed through
the house, nodding his head at me, and saying loudly, "Not a cent,
wife!" The plasterer, Mr. Rice, a respectable Vermonter, asked me who
Washington was; and Mrs. Goodwin, the cabinet-maker's wife, said
cordially to me, "There 's ten cents towards a tomb. I don't never
expect to go down South myself, but maybe my son'll like to be buried
there." Her son was buried down South, with many more of our brave
Barton boys, little as we thought of it then!

Now, the butcher and baker, the plasterer, and all, have gone to the
war. They have learned what it is to have a country to live for. They
have learned to hold up the old flag through thunderings and blood, and
to die for it joyfully. What a baptism and regeneration it has been!
what a new creation! Behold, old things have passed away, and all has
become new!

Soon after the battle of Cedar Mountain, and Banks's retreat, we had
long, full letters from Robert. He wrote a separate note to me, in which
he said, "Be kind to Percy." It was the very thing I had not been,--had
not felt it possible to be. But, conscience-stricken, I went up to call
at Colonel Lunt's, and read our letters to them. Percy walked home with
me, and we talked over the prospects and reverses of the war. Of course
we would not allow there were any real reverses.

We went on to my little cottage, and I asked her to come in and rest. I
remember it was a very still evening, except for a sad south-wind. The
breeze sighed through the pines in front of the house, like the sound of
distant water. The long lingering of the sun slanted over Percy's brow,
as she sat leaning her head on her hand, and looking away off, as if
over thousands of miles. Her pretty pale fingers were purple with
working on hospital shirts and drawers, and bloody with pricking through
the slipper soles for the wounded men. She was the most untiring and
energetic of all the young people; but they all worked well.

We sat there some time without speaking.