usters them here, lifting up sweet voices in their hymn of praise to
the Heavenly Throne, pleading, pleading for the life and safety of those
who are their all in all. Oh, God! there is prophecy in the very words
of their mournful song, though they know it not. Pitying Father, listen,
and be merciful.

"E'en though it be a Cross
That raiseth me."

Vain the trembling hope, vain the tearful pleading. Far out on the
slopes of the Little Horn those for whom these prayers are lifted have
fought their last battle. God has, indeed, asked of these women that
henceforth "they walk on in the shadow and alone."

CHAPTER XI.

THE WOLF AND THE SHEEPFOLD.

The glorious Fourth has come and gone. The Centennial anniversary has
had its completed category of parade and picnic; speech and song; fun
and fireworks. The thronging cities of the East have rejoiced with
unusual enthusiasm, especially Philadelphia, whose coffers are plethoric
with the tribute of visiting thousands. Out on the frontier we have
celebrated with modified _eclat_, since the national celebrants are
mostly absent on active service, and have no blank cartridges to dispose
of. The big garrison flags have been duly hoisted and saluted. The
troops have been paraded where there were any to parade, as only a few
infantrymen remain to take care of the forts and the families. The
Declaration of Independence has been read in one or two of the bigger
posts, where enough remains of defenders to make up a fair-sized
demonstration. One of these is far up on the Missouri, where the cavalry
ladies are all invited to hear the infantry orator of the day--and go.
No news has come for some time from husbands and lovers on the war-path,
and it is best to be hopeful and cheery. They make a lovely picture, a
dozen of them in their dainty white dresses, their smiling faces, their
fluttering fans and ribbons. They applaud each telling point with
encouraging bravos and the clapping of pretty hands. How free from
care, how joyous, how luxurious is army life! How gleeful is their
silvery laughter! How beaming the smiles with which they reward the
young gallant who comes among them for their congratulations! _Vanitas,
vanitatum!_ They are nearly all widowed, poor girls, but they don't know
it--not yet. The steamer laden with the wounded and the fell tidings of
disaster is but a few hours away. Before the breaking of another day
there will be none to smile in all their number