t. She had a personal success in
Richmond. Her name, her beauty, the at times quite divine expression of
her face, made the eye follow, after which a certain greatness of mind
was felt and the attention became riveted. The pictures moved again,
Mrs. Fitzgerald singing "positively, this time, the last!" Some of the
"belles," attended by the "beaux," drifted toward the portico, several
toward the smaller room and its softly lowered lights. A very young man,
an artillerist, tall and fair, lingered beside Judith. "'Auld lang
Syne!' I do not think that she ought to sing that to-night! I have
noticed that when you hear music just before battle the strain is apt to
run persistently in your mind. She ought to sing us 'Scots wha hae--'"

A gentleman standing near laughed. "That's good, or my name isn't Ran
Tucker! Mrs. Fitzgerald, Captain Pelham does not wish to be left in such
'a weavin' way.' He says that song is like an April shower on a bag of
powder. The inference is that it will make the horse artillery
chicken-hearted. I move that you give John Pelham and the assemblage
'Scots wha hae wi Wallace bled'--"

The singing ended, there was a wider movement through the room. Judith,
with Pelham still beside her, walked on the portico, in the warm,
rose-laden air. There was no moon, and the light in the east was very
marked. "If we strike McClellan's right," said the artillerist, "all
this hill and the ground to the north of it will be the place from which
to watch the battle. If it lasts after nightfall, you will see the
exploding shells beautifully." They stood at the eastern end, Judith
leaning against one of the pillars. Here a poet and editor of the
_Southern Literary Messenger_ joined them; with him a young man, a
sculptor, Alexander Galt. A third, Washington the painter, came, too.
The violins had begun again--Mozart now--"The Magic Flute." "Oh, smell
the roses!" said the poet. "To-night the roses, to-morrow the
thorns--but roses, too, among the thorns, deep and sweet! There will
still be roses, will there not, Miss Cary?"

"Yes, still," said Judith. "If I could paint, Mr. Washington, I would
take that gleam on the horizon."

"Yes, is it not fine? It is a subject, however, for a mystic. I have an
idea myself for a picture, if I can get the tent-cloth to paint it on,
and if some brushes and tubes I sent for ever get through the block."

"If I had a tent I certainly would give it to you," said Pelham. "What
would you pa