How he won her

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest, By all their country’s wishes blest! When spring with dewy fingers cold Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than fancy’s feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung. There honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay And freedom shall awhile repair To dwell, a weeping hermit, there.—COLLINS.

It was not until the morning succeeding his arrival, after breakfast, when they found themselves alone together in the drawing-room, that Justin told Erminie the story of his voyage and shipwreck, his preservation and residence on the Desert Island, and his rescue and return home.

She listened with breathless interest to his narrative, and when it was finished she earnestly thanked Heaven for his restoration to his home and friends.

And then, in return, she gave him the history of all that had occurred to her since he had first sailed.

She told him of those gathering clouds of disaffection in the South that no one could be made to believe would ever break in a storm of Civil War. She spoke of that solemn day in the Senate when the Southern senators withdrew. She whispered of the shameful, sorrowful day when Fort Sumter was taken, and, in the language of the man who commanded the assault, “The proud flag that had never been humbled before—the star-spangled banner—was humbled to the dust.” She told how these words had burned in the hearts of all true patriots until they lighted a flame of love of country, hate of traitors, never to be quenched; how, at the President’s call for seventy-five thousand men, four times that number started to arms; how even across the broad Atlantic, in Ireland, the warm-hearted lovers of the Union had banded together and offered their services to the Federal Government through our ministers and consuls abroad; how these had been declined en masse, as unneeded then.

Here the Lutheran minister’s orphan child paused to gather strength; for she had next to speak of the fatal fields of Bethel and Ball’s Bluff; and of Bull Run, where her brave father fell. She told the awful history amidst sobs and tears that she could not restrain.

“He died where he fell, before his men, in front of the enemy. He lies buried near the spot, his grave marked by the care of a brother officer, his honored remains waiting only the return of peace to be removed.”

“They shall not-await the return of peace, they shall be brought home immediately,” answered Justin.

Then Erminie spoke of opening her father’s will, and seeing there that he had left his property to his two children, to be divided between them, share and share alike.

“Then my dear father did not believe me to be lost?” said Justin.

“_Then_ we none of us did; there had not been time enough for us to grow anxious. We had got two letters from you, one mailed from Porto Praya, and one from the Cape of Good Hope. When my dear father died we were looking daily for a letter from you from Calcutta.”

“I am glad that he had suffered no anxiety on my account. Go on, sweet sister.”

“Oh, my brother! after that public and private woes came thick and fast. Defeat after defeat discouraged our army, until at length came the crushing shame and sorrow of the last battle of Manassas. Blow upon blow fell upon my own heart, until I thought that the Lord had forgotten to take care of me. I was still weeping, weeping day and night over the death of my dear father, when there came news of the wreck of the Sultana. It came through the officers of that Dutch merchantman who picked up the life-boat with the missionary party on board; and it came in the form of a narrative written by the Reverend Mr. Ely. It was published in all the papers. It contained a list of the names of those whose lives were lost. And, Justin, your name was among them!”

“Poor sister!”

“I laid down to die. I did so wish for death! But I suppose youth and life were too strong within me and I lived and suffered. Ah, Justin! I was a very self-occupied woman up to that time. I thought ‘no sorrow was like unto my sorrow.’ In the midst of that great bitterness of grief I received a telegram from New York calling me to the death-bed of our dear Uncle Friedrich.”

“Yes, I know.”

“I went on immediately and remained with him until he died. Ah, Justin! The scene of that good man’s peaceful departure went far to heal my spirit. He talked to me when he was able; his words were few, but very precious. He told me, in this great crisis of the country’s history, when for the high and holy cause of union and liberty hundreds were suffering more than I, and thousands quite as much; I must not sit down in selfish sorrow, I must get up and minister to those whose sorrows were as great as mine, and whose necessities were so much greater.”

“He was right, Erminie.”

“I know it and I knew it then. He told me to go among the wounded soldiers in the numerous hospitals, and with hand and purse minister to them and relieve their wants. He told me to seek out the bereaved widows and orphans, and mothers of those who had fallen in the holy war; and to serve all as far as they should have need and I have power; but especially—oh! especially to minister to the mourning mothers. ‘Widows,’ he said, ‘may be consoled by second husbands; orphans grow up and forget their fathers; but the mother whose boy has fallen in battle is inconsolable and unforgetting forever. Therefore especially, motherless girl, comfort the childless mothers.’ And kneeling by his bed I kissed his hands and promised to obey his words. And that same day, as the sun went down, he died. But it was not until some days had passed that I knew he had left me all his wealth. Justin, I came home, and I have religiously obeyed his dying instructions, and—in comforting others I have found comfort.”

“As all mourners may, if they will, my sweet sister,” replied her brother. He fell into deep thought for a few minutes, and then, looking earnestly at his sister, he said:

“But, Erminie, in all this long story you have never once mentioned the name of Colonel Eastworth. Where is he? What is he doing? Why are you not married?”

Erminie grew even paler than she had before been; she compressed her lips until they too faded, and then slowly and steadily answered:

“‘Where is he?’ In South Carolina. ‘What is he doing?’ Warring upon his native land. ‘Why are we not married?’ Because the child of Ernest Rosenthal can never be the wife of a man in arms against his country. Never mention his name to me again, Justin. For he was the very caitiff who so gloried in his shame as to boast that he had humbled the proud flag that had never been humbled before!”

And the beautiful eyes of this “falcon-hearted dove” flashed as she spoke.

Justin put out his arms and drew her to his breast; for he saw that those flashing eyes were about to be drowned in tears.

“My dear sister! my dear, dear sister, blow upon blow has indeed fallen fast upon your heart. How much you have suffered!” he said, as he tenderly soothed her.

She wept upon his bosom for a little while, and then lifting her head and wiping her eyes, she smiled and said:

“But I have been comforted, Justin. In comforting others I have been comforted. And now I am more than comforted—I am rejoiced. How all is changed, in public and in private, from grief to joy. And oh! how suddenly changed, brother! In a day! Almost in an hour! Yesterday morning came the glorious news of the victory of Gettysburg, and I knew that the tide of war had turned. Soon after—very soon after—came a messenger of joy to me. The minister that brought me the news of your safe return from—the grave! It was like a miraculous resurrection. Coming directly upon the news of the great victory, it was almost overwhelming. There seemed too much joy for one day!”

“I entreated Dr. Sales to break the matter to you very cautiously,” said Justin.

“Ah! do you think that could be broken to me cautiously?” inquired Erminie, with a smile. “Why, Justin, as soon as he came into the room and I saw his face, I knew that he brought me ‘glad tidings.’ I naturally thought it was of the victory of Gettysburg, so I told him I had heard of it that very morning. But when he drew your name into the conversation, I knew in an instant that you were saved. Oh, Justin, it was such a shock of joy! But it did not kill me, as it might have done.”

“Yes, it might, my sweet sister, for you look very pale, and thin, and fragile—not well able to bear a shock of any sort,” said Justin tenderly.

“Ah, but all is well now. I am happy, so happy, although I weep. You must not mind my weeping, dear. We women often weep most when we are happiest, and—ah, yes! Heaven knows, smile most when we are most wretched!”

“‘Smile most when you are most wretched!’ Where have you learned that bitter lesson, my sister?” Justin gravely questioned.

“In the hospital, where I have seen the heart-broken mother smiling on her mutilated or dying boy to keep his spirits up, as long as he should live.”

“You seem to be very familiar with the wards of the hospitals, my sister.”

“It is the business, the blessing of my life to be so. But, Justin, dear, I wish to ask you about Britomarte. You took care of her on the Desert Island. She saved your life in the sea fight. Ah, how my heart thrilled to the touch of that story. Now you are betrothed, I hope, and soon to marry? Oh, Justin, how cordially I would welcome her here as my sister, and how willingly resign my position as mistress of the house, in her favor. For the house is yours, you know, Justin, and as your wife it would be her right.”

Justin slowly shook his head, compressed his lips, and frowned.

“What do you mean by that, my brother?”

“There is no possibility of a marriage between Miss Conyers and myself,” he said.

“JUSTIN!”