oners
now. From this window where she stood John Brown had defended himself; the
marks of bullets were in the walls. She tried to think of all that had
followed that defence, of the four millions of slaves for whom he died,
whose friends in the North would convert their masters into their deadly
foes, and be slothful in helping them themselves. She tried to fill up the
half-hour thinking of this, but it seemed to her she was more to be pitied
than they. Chained to a man she hated. Why, more than four millions of
women had married as she had done: society drove them into it. "In half an
hour." He was coming then. She would be calm about it, would bid him
good-bye without crying. He would suffer less then,--poor Paul! She had
his likeness: she would give that back. She drew it from its hiding-place
and laid it down: the eyes looked at hers with a half-laugh: she turned
away quickly to the window, holding herself up by her shaking hands. If
she could keep it to look at,--at night, sometimes! She would grow old
soon, and in all her life if she had this one little pleasure!

"I will not," she said, pushing it from her. "I will go to God pure."

She heard a man's step on the clay path outside. Only the sentry's. Paul's
was heavier, more nervous. Pen came to her to button his coat.

"To-day are we going home, Sis?"

"Yes, to-day."

God forgive her, if for a moment she loathed the home!

"Pen, will you love me always?"--holding him tight to her breast. "I won't
have anybody but you."

Pen kissed her, the kiss meaning little, and ran out to the sentry, who
made a pet of him. But what the kiss meant was all the future held for
her: she knew that.

Now came the strange change which no logician can believe in or disprove.
While she stood there, holding her hands over her eyes, trying to accept
her fate, it grew too heavy and dark for her to bear. What Helper she
sought then, and how, only those who have found Him know. I only can tell
you that presently she bared her face, her nerves trembling, for the
half-hour was nearly over, but with a brave, still light in her hazel
eyes. The change had come of which every soul is susceptible. Very bitter
tears may have come after that; her life was but a tawdry remnant, she
might still think, for that foul lie of hers long ago; but she would take
up the days cheerfully, and do God's will with them.

There was another step: not the sentry's now. She bathed her red eyes, and
hastily d