the silence of her room, where the
whole night through she sat musing of the past, and raining kisses upon
the little lock of hair which from the Southern prison had come to her,
sole relic of the husband so dearly loved and truly mourned. How faded
it was from the rich brown she remembered so well, and Helen gazing at
it could realize in part the suffering and want which had worn so many
precious lives away. It was strange she never dreamed of him. She often
prayed that she might, so as to drive from her mind, if possible, the
picture of the prostrate form upon the low, damp field, and the
blood-stained face turned in its mortal agony toward the Southern sky
and the pitiless foe above it. So she always saw him, shuddering as she
wondered if the foe had buried him decently or left his bones to bleach
upon the open plain.

Poor Helen, she was widowed indeed, and it needed not the badge of
mourning to tell how terribly she was bereaved. But the badge was there,
too, for in spite of the hope which said "he is not dead," Mrs. Banker
yielded to Helen's importunities, and clothed herself and
daughter-in-law in the habiliments of woe, still waiting, still
watching, still listening for the step she should recognize so quickly,
still looking down the street; but looking, alas! in vain. The winter
passed away. Captive after captive came home, heart after heart was
cheered by the returning loved one, but for the inmates of No. ---- the
heavy cloud grew blacker, for the empty chair by the hearth remained
unoccupied, and the aching hearts uncheered. Mark Ray did not come back.

CHAPTER LIV.

THE DAY OF THE WEDDING.

Those first warm days of March, 1865, when spring and summer seemed to
kiss each other and join hands for a brief space of time, how balmy, how
still, how pleasant they were, and how bright the farmhouse looked,
where preparations for Katy's second bridal were going rapidly forward.
Aunt Betsy, as chief directress, was in her element, for now had come
the reality of the vision she had seen so long, of house turned upside
down in one grand onslaught of suds and sand, then righted again by
magic power, and smelling very sweet and clean from its recent
ablutions--of turkeys dying in the barn, of chickens in the shed, of
ovens heating in the kitchen, of loaves of frosted cake, with cards and
cards of snowy biscuit piled upon the pantry shelf--of jellies, tarts
and chicken salad--of home-made wine and home-brewed