seemed the signal for annihilation; and then, indeed, it appeared that
the prophecy of Mary Ballard's old grandfather had been fulfilled and
the curse of slavery had not only been wiped out with blood, but that
the greater curse of anarchy and misrule had taken its place to still
further scourge the nation.

Mary Ballard's mother, while scarcely past her prime, was taken ill
with fever and died, and immediately upon this blow to the dear old
father who was not yet old enough by many years to be beyond his
usefulness to those who loved and depended on him, came the tragic
death of Lincoln, whom he revered and in whom all his hopes for the
right adjustment of the nation's affairs rested. Under the weight of
the double calamity he gave up hope, and left the world where all
looked so dark to him, almost before the touch of his wife's hand had
grown cold in his.

"Father died of a broken heart," said Mary, and turned to her husband
and children with even more intensity of devotion. "For," she said,
"after all, the only thing in life of which we can be perfectly sure
is our love for each other. A grave may open at our feet anywhere at
any time, and only love oversteps it."

With such an animating spirit as this, no family can be wholly sad,
and though poverty pinched them at times, and sorrow had bitterly
visited them, with years and thrift things changed. Bertrand painted
more pictures and sold them; the children were gay and vigorous and
brought life and good times to the home, and the girls grew up to be
womanly, winsome lasses, light-hearted and good to look upon.

Enough of the war and the evils thereof has been said and written and
sung. Animosity is dead, and brotherhood and mutual service between
the two opposing factions of one great family have taken the place of
strife. Useless now to say what might have been, or how otherwise that
terrible time of devastation and sorrow could have been avoided.
Enough to know that at last as a nation, whole and undivided, we may
pull together in the tremendous force of our united strength, and that
now we may take up the "White Man's Burden" and bear it to its
magnificent conclusion to the service of all mankind and the glory of
God.

CHAPTER VII

A NEW ERA BEGINS

Bertrand Ballard's studio was at the top of his house, with a high
north window and roughly plastered walls of uncolored sand, left as
Bertrand himself had put the plaster on, with his trowel marks ov