a brazen
face, but soon found it hard to have no one to speak to. The great want
of the human heart in time of trouble is sympathy. Our wills may bear us
up awhile, but sooner or later we must unburden our feelings, or feel
the burning of a slow consuming fire, destroying all our peace and
happiness. The days were cheerless to Fanny. If she walked out upon the
street, she saw only the averted faces of her former friends. They would
not speak to her, and if she addressed them they turned away without
answering,--avoiding her as if she was infected with the plague. When
the cold northeast storms came, when the clouds hung low upon the hills,
when the wind howled in the woods, when the rain pattered upon the
withered leaves, how lonesome the hours! She was haughty and
self-willed, friendless and alone; but instead of becoming loyal and
behaving like a good, sensible girl, she nursed her pride; and comforted
herself by thinking that her great-grandfather Funk was a fine old
Virginian gentleman. If a still, small voice whispered that it was mean
and wicked in Philip to take money which did not belong to him, she
quieted her conscience by the reflection that it was right for the
Rebels to do all the damage they could to their enemies in securing
their independence. When the storm was loudest, she rejoiced in the hope
that some of the Yankee ships would be wrecked, or that the Mississippi
River would overflow its bank and drown the Yankee regiments in their
camps.

Not so did Azalia listen to the storm. When the great drops rattled upon
the roof and dashed against the windows, she thought of Paul and his
comrades as rushing into battle amid volleys of musketry; the mournful
sighing of the wind was like the wailing of the wounded. She thought of
him as marching wearily and alone through the dismal forest to perform
deeds of daring; she thought of him as keeping watch through the stormy
nights, cold, wet, hungry, and weary; not for glory, or fame, or hope of
reward, but because it was his duty. And these were not sad hours to
her.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE MARCH.

On Wednesday, the 12th of February, 1862, Paul found himself once more
upon the road leading from Fort Henry to Fort Donelson, not now alone,
but guiding an army of fifteen thousand men, with forty pieces of
artillery. He was on horseback, and sat so well in the saddle that the
cavalry-men said he rode like an old trooper. He was in uniform, and
wore straps on