Chapter III: Part 3

Kent was the flower of his flock as regarded his appearance, being tall and slender, with shiny black skin and unusually high features for a negro. He seemed to justify his mother's boast that she was "no low-blooded negro, but was of a good family in Africa." And she really had some foundation for this unusual pride among her race, for our grandmother, who died at a great age many years ago, was fond of telling among the incidents of her childhood, that once when a shipload of Africans was brought to her native city for sale, her husband went to purchase some for his plantation, and among several he brought back "Katura," Martha's ancestress. After the usual process of shutting them up until they could be induced to wear clothes, she, with the others, was sent up to the plantation. When they arrived there and began to mingle with the other negroes, one of those that had been bought some time before, at the sight of "Katura," rushed forward and prostrated herself at her feet with every mark of affection and respect. She could speak English and explained to the astonished onlookers that this was a princess in her country, who had been sold by her uncle to the slave-traders. It seemed a barbaric romance. Katura, however, took kindly to civilization, and soon settled herself in her new position with no undue repining. In time she was comforted by a partner, and brought into the world numerous progeny, who were noted for their integrity and fidelity unto the fifth generation, which brings us to that of Kent.

When the great war broke out, and all the men and youths were joining the army, our hearts were heavy, and we felt full of sad forebodings at Otranto, our country home, where parting and sorrow had never come. We were a large band of girls, with one young brother, the idol of our hearts, and the apple of our parents' eyes. Like everybody in those days, we were very patriotic, but when it dawned upon us that Harry must shoulder his rifle and go to Virginia we felt that love of country cost us dear. Harry completed his sixteenth year the April after the secession of South Carolina, and as there was no doubt that his college days were over, as he would not study, we were not surprised when the day after his birthday, he galloped up the avenue, dashed into the room where we were sitting, upsetting a chair, and exclaimed:

"How soon can you get me ready, girls? I joined the Hampton Legion this morning, and we are off to Virginia,--Hurrah!"

"Hush, Harry!" exclaimed our eldest sister; "pick up that chair; don't you see mother is faint?"

"No, it is past," murmured our mother, trying to smile, as we all turned to her. "God bless and keep you, my boy. I expected you to enlist; you could not do otherwise, and now," stifling a sigh, "I must think of your outfit, and you must take a servant too. I wonder which will be best."

"A private with a servant seems an anomaly," laughingly said Harry. "But I believe several of the boys have men, and anything to ease your mind, mother dear."

"Our minds must learn to do without ease, as well as our bodies, I fear, in the days that lie before us," she answered, stroking his curly head as he knelt by her chair; "but we must act, and not think now."

The days that followed were busy ones. The difficulty was not what was needed, but what could be carried. It was an exciting novelty to pack a knapsack, and its small capacity was a constant check to our zeal. Harry's constant reminder, "I will have to march with that on my back, nobody knows how far," brought a pang to our hearts. It was decided that he should take a "body-servant"--the old-fashioned Southern rendering of the French term "valet." After much deliberation and, I fear, heart burning among the servants, for in this, as in other instances, the post of danger was also that of honor, Kent was selected, much to his own and his mother's gratification.

The day appointed for the company to which Harry belonged to join the Legion in Virginia came all too soon. He shouldered his knapsack, and tore himself from us, followed by his colored attendant, with whom we all shook hands and whom we urged to "take care of Mas' Harry."

"Yes, Missus," he responded, looking preternaturally solemn.

Of course Harry left a great gap behind him, but we tried to excel each other in efforts at cheerfulness, and bright prognostications as to his future career as a soldier. We succeeded only tolerably in these laudable efforts, when Martha waddled in--she was our cook, and a decided character in her way. I believe, next to our mother, she thought herself of first importance among the feminine part of the household. She gave a keen glance at our mother, whom she idolized.

"Well, Missus," she said, dropping a little curtsy, "I come to see how you gettin' on. You all looks pretty blue, but I 'clare to gracious there's no 'casion to fret. Nuttin' gwine to hu't Mas' Harry w'en Kent gone to tak' care ov him. Missus, you dunno how smart dat boy is; an' I jus' tell him, 'Mas' Harry tinks he's a man and a soger, but you know he ain't nuttin' but a baby, an' a ma-baby at dat.' An' I jus' tell him he need not to come home if he let anyt'ing hu't Mas' Harry. So don't you fret, Missus."

"But how could Kent prevent Harry's being wounded or hurt, Martha?" I asked.

"Now, Miss Sallie, don't you go for to talk nonsense," responded the old woman. "An' your ma always says w'ere dere is a will dere is a way. Well, dat's what I tells Kent, an' I tells Affy, de gal he's courtin', it's no use for she to fret, fur 'less Kent brings Mas' Harry back safe, dere won't be no weddin' fur him."

"Oh," I said, "he is courting, is he? That is why he looked so serious when he left."

"It looks so, Missy. He tell me to look sharp at her, an' see if she notice anybody while he is gone. An' I will--an' let her know, too, if she do," she muttered as she left the room.

Harry saw much active service, was in many battles, and fortunately escaped with only one wound. He told us in his letters of Kent's faithful following, and attendance on long marches, and after a battle he always found him looking anxiously for him, with something to eat as nice as he could get. Indeed, he was a wonderful provider, but Harry was by no means sure that Kent could have made good his claim to many of the eatables he set before him, for his conscience was an elastic one as to the rights of property in food. So long as he got what he wanted for Harry, he stopped neither to buy, beg nor borrow, but helped himself. His kindness of heart, ready wit, and readiness to lend a helping hand to any one in need made him a general favorite in the company, where he was noted for the care he took of his young master.

The years of the war sped on, and brought privations and sorrows which each year seemed to intensify. Our home was no longer the bright place it used to be, for we had lost many friends, and self-denial was the order of the day. We were very busy, too, and that helped to keep us cheerful.

There were new accomplishments to acquire. We learned, and taught our maids, to card and spin the home-grown wool, and when that did not suffice for the extraordinary demand we had supernumerary wool mattresses ripped up; the ticking was considered to make handsome frocks for the servants, and the wool when dyed and woven made excellent homespun suits for ourselves, that were not to be despised for durability and warmth. There was quite a rivalry as to who could make the prettiest dyes for our dresses, but after a time black was most worn. Then we had our old light kid gloves to ink over carefully, so that we might not go barehanded to church. We thought those gloves a great success when we first dyed them, but when we came to wear them, the ink never seemed to dry, and would soak through, and dye our hands most uncomfortably. Our greatest achievement after all, I think, was the piles of socks we knitted by the lightwood blaze at night. Our old-fashioned butler always placed a candle--a tallow one, or still worse, a home-made myrtle wax one--upon the table, but we considered it an extravagance to light it unless there was something urgent to read. I am surprised now that we did not mind the heat of the blaze more in summer, but I do not remember our thinking of it. There was one great spasm of patriotism when every worsted curtain in the house was cut into soldiers' shirts. Some of these were of brilliant colors and patterns, and I cannot but think might have served as targets for bullets. We even undressed the piano and converted its cover into a blanket for a soldier. We were chagrined afterwards to hear from some of our friends who had done the same thing, that the latest advice from the field was that the soldiers found the garments, so improvised, very unsatisfactory, and begged the ladies not to sacrifice their belongings so recklessly.

There were no plum puddings or mince pies in those days, according to the accepted recipes, but we made Confederate fruit cake with dried peaches and apples instead of raisins and currants, with sorghum for sugar; and potato pones and puddings were very frequent, and both dishes had the merit of a little going a long way, especially after the supply of ginger gave out.

We never had any use for the potato, peas, ground-nut, or any sort of mock coffee, but we drank orange leaf, or sage tea in preference to any other home-made beverage. We managed to keep a little store of genuine tea for medicine, and when our mother pronounced any of us ill enough to need a little coddling, what a treat it was! The invalid never would consent to partake, unless it was a family tea party. What enjoyment those occasions gave!

In the latter part of '63, we were distressed to hear from Harry that he was ill in the hospital in Tennessee. He wrote: "I think we are falling back. Kent is ill with pneumonia, and the worst of it is that if we fall back I have no means of transportation for him; it will be hard to have to leave him."

Dire was the distress that letter brought us. We waited anxiously for further news. Harry brought it himself. He had been ill, and was sent home on furlough. He looked worn, and very unlike the bright boy who had left us.

"What of Kent?" we asked.

"I had to leave him," he said. "I could not help it. We were falling back rapidly. Many were left in the hospitals, and are now prisoners. It was only through my captain being such a friend of father's, and stirring himself to get me a place in an ambulance, that I was not left. I dragged myself to see the good fellow, although I could scarcely walk. He was very sick, and distressed to part with me. I told him the enemy would be in town that night, and he would be free. He said, 'Mas' Harry, that is nothing to me; if you don't see me home, you will know I am dead. Tell Missus, and Ma, and Affy so.'"

Martha was given the message, but our conscientious mother added: "But, Martha, if you do not see him you need not be sure he is not living; but you must not count too much on seeing him, for if he gets well he will doubtless be tempted to stay, and try a new experience."

The old woman twirled the corners of her apron, as she said sadly: "Missus, it is five generations since my fam'ly come from Africa, and Mausser's from France; we's been togedder since dat time, an' been fait'ful togedder; for once w'en times was hard wid Mausser, he mout hab sold us, but he didn't. He kep' us all togedder, an' you tink Kent such a fool as not to know dat, an' be happy 'mong strangers? He got to work w'erebber he is, an' nobody gwine to consider him like you all. No, ma'am, if he alive I'm lookin' for him, w'atever it seems like to you, ma'am." And she bobbed her curtsy and walked off, leaving her mistress feeling quite small.

Harry remained with us for some weeks. It was pleasant to see his enjoyment of home fare, even in its pruned condition. Everything seemed luxurious after the camp life; but he did not linger after he was well enough to return to the army. There still was no news of Kent. Harry refused to take another servant in his place, although urged to do so. "No," he said, "I could not find any one to fill Kent's place; and it is a demoralizing life. I do not know if even he could stand the restraints of civilization again."

Several months passed after Harry's departure, and we had given up any idea we might have had of hearing any more of Kent. Martha mourned him as dead, and induced her preacher to preach his funeral, she and Affy attending as chief mourners. Affy in a black cotton dress of Martha's which swallowed her up, and Martha with her very black face muffled in a square of black alpaca, from which, as she peered out, her teeth and eyeballs looked dazzlingly white.

One freezing night in December, as we were trying to summon resolution to leave the warm chimney corner and go to bed, we were startled by a rap at the door. Everything was startling in those days. Our father opened it, and the light fell on a tall figure clad in a United States uniform, surmounted by Kent's smiling countenance.

"Why, where do you come from?" we exclaimed.

"Well, I tole Mas' Harry if de Lord spare my life I'd come home, an' here I is, sir, and Missus, an' mighty proud," he added, as my mother extended her hand to him, and said:

"You are a faithful fellow. Your mother knew you better than I did."

We soon dismissed our returned wanderer to his rest. Martha's and Affy's delight may be imagined, and the speed with which they doffed their mourning was marvelous. The next morning we were anxious to have Kent's adventures, which he was pleased to narrate. His comfortable attire looked very spick and span beside the faded garments of those around, and his excellent shoes were a source of undisguised envy to his fellow-servants.

"Well, Miss Sallie," he said, when I remarked on his appearance, "I thought I'd better get myself the best I could while I was w'ere dey was plenty, as I could give ole Maussa one nigger less to clothe. You see, ma'am, w'en Mas' Harry an' our people lef', I felt pretty bad. That night, sure 'nuf, as Mas' Harry tole me, the Yankees came booming into town, an' it wasn't long befo' all our mens, who was in the hospitable, was took prisoners; but they seemed very kind to them. W'ile they was sick they give them everything. It was a cur'ous t'ing, w'en General Foster come through w'ere I was, he noticed me, and asked me w'at I was doin' there, an' I tole him how I had been wid my young Maussa, an' w'en I tole him w'ere I come from an' Mas' Harry's name, 'Oh,' say he, 'I know his father well. I was stationed at Fort Moultrie befo' de war, an' I have eaten many a good dinner at the old Colonel's.' I tole him, 'Yes, sir, Maussa had the bes' of everything, an' my ma was a splendid cook.' So then he say: 'If you come from them you knows your business, an' w'en you are well, I will take you into my service. You is free now, you know.' So they kep' me in the hospitable, an' give me nice things to make me well, an' w'en the hospitable discharged me, de General took me an' was rale kind. I had good greenback wages and plenty of everything, an' not much to do, an' rale coffee, as much as I wanted, too; but somehow I couldn't diskiver to be settled. I had been in de Soudern army so long, w'en they talked of beatin' it, it made me oneasy, an' w'en I studied on Mas' Harry back in de army wid nobody--for I know he wouldn't take nobody in my place--an' wid not 'nuf of even corn bread an' bacon, widout me to perwide," he added, with a grin, "I jest kep' studyin', but I never said nuttin', an' every day dey tole me how lucky I was to be free. I jes' made up my mind, an' I got the General to let me draw all de clo's I could, an' a overcoat an' shoes an' blankets on my wages, an' den I ask him for a month's wages in advance, an' he seem a little surprised, but he was very kind, an' he give it to me; so w'en I got everything I could, one night I waited on the General fust rate, w'en he was goin' to bed, an' fixed everything very nice, an' he said I was a rale good servant an' a treasure of a boy; but I jest took my things an' watched my chance, an' jest slipped off in the dark, an' dodged about until I got out of their lines an' into our'n. I had to walk a hundred miles befo' I got to our regiment. An', Mis', they jest gave me three cheers w'en I tole them how I come back; an' I took de liberty to bring a bottle of whiskey, an' I treated Mas' Harry's ole mess. Dey tole me he had jine another regiment. I had to walk a good piece more to de cyars; but one of our officers give me a letter to the conductors on de cyars, so I jest come through without payin' a cent. An' mighty glad I is to git home," he added, drawing a long sigh of relief.

"But did you not feel bad at robbing the kind officer who employed you?" I asked.

"Well, Missy," he answered, "seems like Mas' Harry has the bes' right to me, an' he was robbin' Mas' Harry ob me." And, turning to our mother, he said: "Please, ma'am, I would like a week at home to marry Affy, an' den can't I find Mas' Harry?"

It is needless to add that Kent's wedding was as festive as it could be made. It was a holiday on the plantation, and dancing was kept up to the sound of the rhythmic stick beating, from morning until night. The bride was proud, happy and dusky in white muslin; the groom a marvel in his attire, and with all the airs of a traveled man.

After the surrender Kent followed his young master home, and he and Affy settled on a pretty part of the plantation, declaring that they would live "faithful togedder" for the remainder of their lives.

ROSE BLANKETS

In the busy rush of to-day it is sometimes a relaxation to pause for a moment and let memory carry us back, far back, to the peaceful, uneventful days before the Civil War. Life seemed to go slower then. We had no cables to tell us, and often harrow us, each morning with the events all over the world of the preceding day. And (inestimable boon) our only ideas of war were time-mellowed Revolutionary anecdotes. There was in these days no more beautiful place in all the luxuriant low country contiguous to Charleston than Hickory Hill. The plantation consisted of rice fields which bordered Goose Creek on both sides. The massive brick dwelling, built in Colonial days by the pioneer of the family which still dwelt there, stood beyond the rice fields in view of the creek; venerable moss-crowned live-oaks stood sentinels around. The approach was through an avenue of similar trees, whose branches formed a beautiful arch over the luxuriant sward beneath. These trees were the admiration and pride of the countryside.

Years had only added beauty to the rugged old house, for ivy and climbing rose vines had dressed its walls and framed many of its windows. In the springtime it was a veritable bower. At the time of which I write it was a "maidens' bower." From my earliest recollections three unmarried sisters, Miss Martha, Miss Joanna and Miss Mary, composed the family. My parents lived on an adjoining plantation, and although our dwelling houses were some distance apart, there was a short cut along the rice field banks, and a happy child was I when any pretext afforded an excuse for a visit to the ladies. Their individuality had a great charm even to my childish mind. When I first remember them they must have all been past their sixtieth birthdays, and were counted ladies of the old school. Miss Martha was the eldest. She took life very seriously, was very tall and thin, was the housekeeper and head, besides being considered "the clever woman of the family." She could be very tragic on the smallest provocation. Her drop of good Scotch blood made her hold her head very high, and also made her a rigid Presbyterian. When she was not hemming a pocket handkerchief she usually had one of Scott's novels in her hands. Miss Joanna, the second sister, who was as genial as her sister was severe, used to say she "did not know what Martha would have done if Scott had never written; he had really diversified her life by his novels."

Miss Joanna had the cheeriest old face imaginable, bright blue eyes, rosy cheeks, with high cheek bones, her gray hair waved becomingly, and she always wore a lavender ribbon in her cap. She was the social one of the sisters; that is, she performed the social duties. Miss Mary, the youngest, was at sixty the spoiled darling, having been considered the best looking, and delicate in her youth. All the airs of a beauty, and the privileges of an invalid still clung to her. Indeed, her very white skin and black eyes were very impressive. Her sisters always gave her the tenderest consideration and never failed to be affected by her gentle melancholy and pathetic sighs. They were all much given to charity, but Miss Mary was more lavish than wise. Whole families of beggars, not only preyed upon her, but tyrannized. There was a tradition that Miss Mary had been rescued in her youth from a runaway carriage by a lover who was anxious to marry her; she had inclined to him, but had been deterred by the fear of parting from Miss Joanna, who usually directed her affairs, and sometimes made up her mind for her.

The sisters were accounted quite wealthy. They owned a handsome residence in the neighboring city of Charleston, where they betook themselves when fear of country fever drove them from their beloved country home. The yearly exodus was a great trial to Miss Martha, who was supposed to manage the plantation. The neighbors said the negro foreman, Boston, managed the place and the ladies also. They would never employ a white overseer, as they said "a hireling could not make allowance for the negroes as they did." Indeed, their negroes were a terrible care to them; they had large retinues of house servants, both in the city and country, both having a sinecure during their absence.

Miss Martha frequently complained that she was "hard worked in finding something for the servants to do." The young ones grew up so rapidly, and to put certain families to field work was not to be contemplated.

That the ladies did not suffer more from their reckless management was providential. They had the affection of all their servants, but the women were lazy and the men great inebriates. Their idol, and coachman, Billy, was a terrible case. Their lives were often in peril when he was on the box. After some hair-breadth escape Billy would be summoned before the trio and Miss Martha would say tragically, "Billy, you will be the death of us." "Fore de Laud, Missis, I wouldn't hurt a hair of yore heads," would be his rejoinder. That he did not was not his fault, but his good fortune, for on one occasion, having been sent to meet Miss Martha and Miss Mary at one of the wharves, he was so far gone that he drove carriage and pair over them, knocking them down as they approached to get into the carriage. Miraculously they escaped with only bruises. Their black silk dresses were kept as curiosities, as the iron shod hoofs of the horses had left their impress in several places. On another occasion, having met them at the theater with the carriage, he drove them several miles up the road toward their country home at 11 o'clock at night before they could induce him to turn. These episodes, combined with the very apparent fact that their friends had ceased to borrow their carriage, which they enjoyed lending as much as using, sealed Billy's fate. To soften his downfall, they told him he could give Cuffie, his successor on the box, some "hints on driving," and they would be glad to fill his molasses jug when it was empty, and if he must drink, to take molasses and water. He could employ himself by sweeping the yard. Billy never said what he drank, but died shortly after of delirium tremens.

Joe and Romeo, the butler and his assistant, were quite as harassing. Romeo's besetting sin was indolence. He had been known to shed tears at the prospect of one of the little tea parties in which the old ladies delighted. On these occasions their guests were their contemporaries, "the girls," of whom there were a great many in maiden state in the quiet old city. The handsome rooms were always lit by candles in tall silver candlesticks. Miss Martha would never consent to the introduction of gas, which the more progressive Miss Joanna advocated.

"No," decided Miss Martha, "candles are much more lady-like." What would she have thought of electric lights?

On these occasions Joe handed a waiter with tea, Romeo followed with delicate cakes, and then bread and butter, while a boy followed in the rear with a tray "to catch the cups" as they were emptied. Ice cream followed at "last bell ring," ten in summer and nine in winter, when the party broke up. Any more substantial refreshment would have been deemed "very unrefined" by the whole assembly.

There was a rumor that on one of these occasions both Joe and Romeo had been very unsteady as they handed their waiters. Dire was their mistresses' mortification. Miss Martha always seemed to feel responsible when her servants misbehaved. She would exclaim, "A single woman has great need of strength of mind." Miss Mary's unfailing rejoinder would be, "Thank God, you have it, sister." One evening Joe brought especial obloquy upon himself. He must have shared Billy's molasses jug, for he had not drawn the tea as directed.

Miss Martha, in consideration for some of "the girls" who were growing feeble, always accompanied Joe on his rounds. As he paused before a guest she would hold a lump suspended in the sugar tongs as she would say, "Green tea and black; dear, which will you have?" On this occasion Joe took advantage of her deafness to mumble, "Both made in de same pot." The guests were quite diverted, but did not enlighten Miss Martha as to Joe's confession, and their progress continued until they reached Miss Mary. When she overheard Joe's assertion, she looked at him with mild indignation, but only said, "Sister, you had better sit down. I will explain later my asking you to do so." Miss Mary's suggestion of any course of action to Miss Martha seemed to call for explanation.

The next morning, when she told of the duet she had interrupted, Joe was summoned. Miss Martha told him he had brought disgrace upon them and would further bring their gray hairs in sorrow to the grave. He of course expressed great penitence, and was vociferous in promises of amendment. His mistresses tried to feel faith. Miss Mary, however, had to take a great deal of orange-leaf tea before her nerves recovered the shock. Kindly Miss Joanna said privately, she had known nothing of what was occurring, but she was glad the girls had something to amuse them; she had thought them very merry, and though Joe had failed in his demeanor he had shown a wonderful regard for truth. Had the ladies and many of their generation lived to see emancipation they would have parted with many "an old man of the sea."

One April morning I set out to take a bunch of May roses over the rice field banks to Hickory Hill. These roses were especial favorites with the sisters, and I was pleased to have the earliest blossoms to carry. Miss Joanna kept a rose jar. Miss Martha was famous for the rose water she distilled. I only expected to see Miss Martha, for I knew Miss Mary had been drooping, and Miss Joanna had taken her to visit a friend, who, although long past her youth, had recently married a Northern gentleman, with whom she lived on her beautiful plantation near the city.

Miss Joanna and her sister had left only the day before, so I was surprised to see the carriage at the door and Cilia, the maid, removing their shawls and trappings. "Why, Cilia!" I exclaimed, "are the ladies back already?" "Yes, missy," she replied, grinning and dropping a curtsy, "Miss Joanna an' Miss May, an' Miss Burton had a kine uv upsettin', an' so we come home." Wondering what was amiss, I hastened in. I paused as I entered the sitting-room, for I saw the ladies were much perturbed (small excitements were very usual with them, but their demeanor betokened something serious); Miss Martha sat very erect, with her most judicial aspect, the needle with which she was sewing suspended. "Come in, child," she said as she saw me; "if my sisters make fools of themselves you may as well know it as the rest of the world."

Miss Mary and Miss Joanna sat with their bonnets on. Miss Mary with the air of a culprit, Miss Joanna decidedly ruffled, and her cheeks redder than usual. She said: "Don't jump too quickly to conclusions, sister; it does seem queer for us to return so hastily, but when I tell you about it quietly, you will, I am sure, see that we were not entirely to blame. You know Caroline's husband is rather abrupt in his manner."

"He has no Southern suavity," interrupted Miss Mary.

"The evening we got there I was feeling rather dull, and he really made me nervous by shouting in my ear several times, 'Cheer up, Miss Mary.' I jumped every time."

"He no doubt meant it kindly," said Miss Joanna, "but I dare say it prepared you for what followed."

"We had a pleasant evening on the whole, although I thought Mr. Burton did express his Northern views of slavery a little more than was called for, especially as he did not seem to object to Caroline's owning a great many. She was in high feather and seemed delighted to see us. At bed-time she accompanied us to our room, where there was a bright fire, and Cilia awaiting us. After Caroline left us Cilia begged leave to go to a dance at the negro quarter; she said it was in her honor, and she seemed in haste to be gone. So I promised to do what Mary would need and sent her off. After I was undressed I was standing by the fire brushing my hair. I saw Mary fumbling about the bed and asked her if she was ready for me to tuck her in. Instead of answering, she came, as I thought, mysteriously up to me and whispered, 'Negro.'

"Of course I thought there was a man under the bed. I remembered our watches, Mary's diamond pin, and how far we were from Caroline and Mr. Burton; for we were in the company wing. I screamed for help as loud as I could; the more noise I made the more distressed Mary seemed. Caroline and Mr. Burton came running, in most indescribable costumes," the old lady continued, with a look of amused retrospection. "There stood Mary in her bed-gown and curl-papers; I in my wrapper, and Mary staring at me as if she thought me crazy.

"'What is the matter?' they both exclaimed.

"'Oh,' I said, 'Mary says there is a negro under the bed.'

"We'll soon have the rascal out," said Mr. Burton, poking under the bed with a big stick.

"'Oh,' said Mary, 'I never said anything of the kind, Joanna. I meant,' she said, turning as red as a beet, 'that there were not rose blankets on the bed, but blankets without the rose embroidered on them, and I call those negro blankets. Joanna made such a noise I could not explain what I meant,' and she burst into tears. Mr. Burton bounced out of the room, muttering something. Caroline was very angry. She said that if she had had any idea that we girls could behave in such a way she would never have invited us to visit her. She had wished to give her husband an agreeable impression of Southern ladies, but she did not like to think what his impression must be; and as to rose blankets, we never could understand when things were out of date. Those were beautiful new blankets, bought in New York when refurnishing their guest-room. And in fact she was so angry," concluded Miss Joanna, "that I do not like to remember all she said."

"But I must tell you, sister," put in Miss Mary, "she said she knew I was always a fool, but she had thought Joanna had a little sense, and I agree with her, Joanna, that you ought not to have made such a noise. I never felt worse in my life than when you began to scream. And I never slept a wink all night, as you know. Now, Sister Martha, which do you think the most to blame?"

"I cannot say," said Miss Martha, "but I know I will never go to visit any friend with either of you. I don't wonder Caroline was angry, and what an impression you have made on her husband."

"Oh," said Miss Joanna, "we know he was furious. We had a most unpleasant time at breakfast the next morning. I tried to make a joke of the whole episode, but failed. They were too angry; so as Mary was feeling so shaken, and had taken all her orange-leaf water with no benefit to her nerves, I thought we had better come home; and I am delighted to be here; and too thankful neither of you are married," she continued, with a return of her genial smile. "For I nearly exhausted myself trying to mollify Mr. Burton."

"Yes," said Miss Mary, "with no success. I do not envy Caroline her new acquisition, and I am sure rose blankets are the best."

Such were the agitations and events of these tranquil lives. Their days glided by in peace and kindly ministrations. They were fortunate in following each other in quick succession to the old Scotch churchyard where their fathers slept in the "City by the Sea."

SOME LETTERS WRITTEN DURING THE LAST MONTHS OF THE WAR

OTRANTO, November 20, 1864.

I have not written to you for some time, as we have been moving about a good deal, and have had some interesting and funny experiences. Last summer we were tired of refugeeing, and decided to go back to Charleston, and lived in a house on Mary street, as we thought well out of shell range; our own residence on South Bay being in the grass, and glass-strewed district. Our family consists only of my mother, sister and myself, our mankind being in service, as you know, except father, who is in the home guard. My mother spent most of her time visiting the hospitals and devising comforts for the soldiers; my sister and I knit socks, and rejoiced when some of our soldier relatives could snatch a breathing-space from arduous duties at Sumter or on the islands to visit us and partake of the best we could bestow on them.

The sound of the shells with their sharp, rasping, hissing sound before they exploded was familiar, the interest being to venture into range sometimes and discover the last place hit. There was a method in Gilmore's management of his "Swamp Angel." We always noticed the shells came quicker at church time on Sunday, and at ten to eleven at night. To add to our troubles, yellow fever broke out this year, the only time during the war. It was not a violent epidemic, but there were some deaths. We thought we were immune, but in September my sister took it.

One evening early in September my sister was better and a friend of mine (whose house we faced in their rear) begged me to come to tea. I went over at dusk, and with her and another guest were enjoying a cup of real tea and a bit of toast--quite a feast, when there was a tremendous explosion apparently just at hand. We all sat quiet, tea cups in hand. The negro boy rushed in, rolling his eyes, with the announcement that the opposite house in Aiken's row was struck, and they were moving out. The lady and her daughter were both ill with fever, and both died shortly in consequence of the fright and removal.

In quick succession several houses in Aiken's row were struck. As I look back now it seems strange to me that we all sat quietly in the drawing-room waiting our turn to be hit. The man servant returning at intervals to report that another of the houses was hit. I welcomed my father, when at nine, he came for me. Nothing ever overcame his sense of humor. He brought a large cotton umbrella, which, he said, he had brought to please my mother, as a shell might spare its hideousness. When I got home I found my mother and sister anxiously awaiting me. I had a little cot in a corner of my sister's room, and my mother, being anxious, lay on the bed by her. I went to bed and was soon asleep, the shelling apparently having ceased, but they had only paused to try a new gun. The first shells always going farthest, I was awakened by the horrible familiar hiss and plaster and glass falling over me. The shell cut the corner of the house and passed so near me that the glasses of the window near by my bed were broken, and the plastering above fell on me. The monster buried itself in our yard, making a horrible deep pit, but not exploding. A few more inches and I would have been buried with it. It shows how accustomed we were to shocks that I do not remember feeling any terror, but remarked quietly in the dark to my mother, "I think we are hit." To my astonishment she broke forth in ejaculations of thanksgiving. The noise and crash had been so great she thought the side of the room with me in it had been taken away. That was the longest range shell that fell in Charleston. In a few days we went to the up-country to be with friends, and then last week came down to Otranto, where we are now.

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OTRANTO, January 15, 1865.

I have not written for some time, but we all are really so troubled and depressed that, as mother says, we have to be physically active to keep from thinking, so little writing have I done this winter. I suppose you know father has gone with his company of reserves to Summerville. They are all men of over sixty, but we hear that Summerville is pleased to have them. Aunts Anna and May became so tired of refugee life in Camden that they decided to join mother, Annie, and me on the plantation. With father and our brother away we are very lonely, but Aunt Anna's eighty odd years make us anxious to make her comfortable. She is better off with us, for the terrible scarcity of provisions has not touched us here. We have enough of home provisions, but mother gives every morsel she can spare to the hospitals and soldiers' wayside homes in Charleston. The aunts say that despite the enormous board they had to pay in Camden they had only fresh pork and biscuits, not even milk, as so many of the cattle have been impressed for the army.

Christmas was certainly a very gloomy day. The news that Sherman was in Savannah struck us cold. Our three cousins got leave of absence and came up for a few hours. Mother had a turkey and we did our best, but I think they feel very grave over the state of things. We are in terror lest Charleston will have to be abandoned. Hal begged mother to return to the up-country, but she says she went away three times and will not leave again. She manages the plantation, you know. The negroes are very good, but there is a spirit of restlessness perceptible. Hal was shocked when he heard that we never locked up the house at night.

All the white men are in the army and some women are nervous, but we do not feel so. This intensely cold winter makes us wretched about our poor bare-footed soldiers. Mother can knit a pair of socks a day. Maum Martha spins the wool. I can do only one sock a day. We are fortunate to have so much lightwood. It is the only source of light we have, but we can manage our knitting and Annie even reads sometimes, but the paper is so bad that it is hard to read the printing on it.

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OTRANTO, February 1, 1865.

I fear you are really having a dreadful time. The high price of provisions is certainly dreadful on people with fixed incomes.

We had quite an adventure last Wednesday. Father luckily came over from Summerville to dinner. It was a bitterly cold day. We were just sitting down to the luxury of calf's head soup, for father wished some veal to carry back to camp, when Quash came in with a rattled and rather bothered air, and said there was a Yankee soldier outside who wanted to give himself up. We all were thunderstruck, and followed father, who gave vent to great displeasure.

At the door stood a miserable looking creature, shivering in a tattered blue uniform. He was tall, thin, and white as a ghost, and his feet looked particularly white. I never saw a more abject object. Father tried to be very severe, but you know how kind-hearted he is, and while he was scolding the man I overheard Quash say aside to him, "Nebber min' what he say, Maussa doan' mean it. He is one ob de kindest mens in de wurl."

It seems that the man was a prisoner who had escaped from the cars on his way to prison some three months ago and was trying to make his way to the coast, hoping to get through our lines. He had been living among the negroes, sleeping in their houses by day and traveling by night; but the wretched existence had worn him out and he came to give himself up. He was an Englishman who was impressed on his arrival in New York and he begged father to ask the authorities to let him take the oath of allegiance and fight for us; but father said there had been enough of that and such galvanized Yankees had done more harm than good.

This poor wretch is the first enemy we have seen, and we could not help feeling sorry for him, although, as father says, no doubt he has been demoralizing the negroes. He gave him a good dinner and turned him over to Daddy Paul to take care of until the next day, when father took him to Charleston and delivered him to the authorities. Mother found him an old jacket and pair of shoes and socks, which she gave him. Surely she had never expected to give a pair of her socks to one of the enemy.

Maum Martha thinks our kindness misplaced and told us he talked very different to them from the way he talked to us, but she told us this only after he had left, although it would have made no difference. We may have "heaped coals of fire," etc.

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OTRANTO, February 15, 1865.

I have not heard from you for some time, but I know in these dark days you think of us. There is no doubt we live in dreadful times. We may soon be in the enemy's country, or rather our troops may have to retire from the coast.

Yesterday Annie and I determined to drive over to Summerville and dine with aunt, as she and Cousin Sue have begged us to do so. Mother did not want us to go. She feels the perilous times and all the sorrows she has had make her very anxious. But at last she consented to our going, much to Aunt May's disappointment, who thinks we should sit down and say, "Good Lord, deliver us," all the time.

We had a pleasant drive over, as you know it is only nine miles. Daddy Moses drove us and mother insisted that Cully should go as an outrider. He rode Lamb, and went ahead. It showed that mother was nervous, but Annie and I were amused, as we did not know what he was expected to do. We found aunt and Cousin Sue delighted to see us and we enjoyed our day. We left at 5 o'clock, as we could not get off earlier. Father dined with us and tried to start us earlier. Aunt is delighted to have him in Summerville as she says she "never felt so safe, because she knows he will fight."

Our drive home was gloomy and we did not reach there until 7 o'clock. As we drew near we met several of the negroes on farm horses looking for us, and at the avenue gate our maid Fanny peering for us in the dark. Mother and the aunts were wretched about us, particularly as Uncle Pete had come up from the city full of bad news. Charleston is to be evacuated, as Sherman's movements have made that necessary. He was horrified when he heard that we had taken so long a drive, as he says the woods are full of stragglers and escaped galvanized Yankees. I do not know what is before us, or when you will hear from us again.

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OTRANTO, February 20, 1865.

Charleston is being evacuated and our army is passing all the time, and we reconcile ourselves to being left in the enemy's lines by the hope that our army, strengthened by the coast troops, may defeat Sherman. This letter will go by the last of our troops. The army has been passing for five days and many of the men come up to the house, where we give them everything we can for them to eat. They are full of courage and their appearance gives us renewed hope. They hate to leave us behind. Henry spent last night here. He got leave of absence with difficulty, but will rejoin his regiment at Strawberry Ferry. He begged mother to retire into the interior; but we mean to stay. He left us this morning. The captain in command of the rear-guard at Goose Creek Bridge has just come to bid us good-by, and he took two letters, which he promised to carry into our lines--one to papa and the other to aunt, which we knew would be the last tidings they would get from us.

This may, or may not reach you, but it is a comfort to write. The worst has come, or I hope it has. After my last letter we awaited the approach of the enemy with indescribable feelings. We tried not to think, and I must say I was afraid of being frightened out of my wits and was too thankful when the Yankees came. I was too angry to be scared. We tried to keep up each other's spirits and were very busy hiding things. We took only Paul, Jack and Martha into our confidence and they helped us faithfully.

Tuesday passed in quiet. Mother, Annie and I took our usual walk in the afternoon and met one of the negroes, who told us that our men had not burned the bridge, and we determined that if this was the fact, we would do it ourselves; but as we approached we were glad to see it blazing in the distance. We felt then that we were really cut off from our own people, but at the same time had satisfaction in knowing that if our army was pursued the enemy would here meet an obstacle.

At 5 o'clock Wednesday afternoon as we were again getting ready for a walk, a man was seen riding rapidly up the avenue. I called out, "The Yankees are here. I know them by their blue legs!" and you may be sure the family assembled quickly. In the mean while the man dashed past the house and rode quickly around it, evidently expecting some one to run out; finding no one, he returned to the front of the house, where we five ladies stood together on the piazza. By this time we saw many others coming up the avenue.

"Where is the man of the house?" demanded the man in an insolent tone.

Mamma replied, "He is not at home," and Aunt May added, "He is a gray-haired man."

He gave a leer and said, "But not too old to be in the Rebel army." This could not be denied, so we were silent. Then, with an expression of triumph he said, "You have never seen black troops, but you will soon have that pleasure; they are advancing now."

Mamma said, "I suppose they are not different from other negroes; we are accustomed to them and never have feared them."

This calm reply was evidently a disappointment, as he had hoped we would have been overcome with fear.

He turned off and said, "I must get some poultry for the General's supper," and went to the fowl-house, where about a dozen of his men joined him. In a few moments the cart, which just at the moment was coming up with a load of wood, was seized and filled with our fowls, turkeys, geese, etc., and driven off.

I happened to turn my eyes toward the western entrance from the main road and saw the negro soldiers rushing in.

To my latest day I will not forget their brutal appearance. They came up brandishing their guns with an air of wildness hard to describe, and in a short time were scattered over the plantation, committing every conceivable havoc. Their commander, Lieutenant J----, of New York, rode up to the house, accompanied by several white officers, and while we stood still and calmly upon the piazza he called out, "Where is the man of the house?"

Mother replied as before, when he said, "He is a Rebel," and turning to her said, "I am come to liberate your people," to which she quietly replied, "I hope you will be as kind to them as we have been." This visibly angered him and he exclaimed, "That is a strange reply to make to a Northern man, and an officer of a colored regiment." To which she replied, "We will not discuss the question."

He turned and said something to Quash, our waiting-man, and in a short time we heard him and the other officers upstairs in our bed-rooms. Mamma and Aunt Anna followed quietly and found that he had summoned our two maids, Rachel and Fanny, and was exhorting them to disclose where everything of value was concealed, saying, "Don't lie; that woman (meaning mother) is very bad," and a great deal more in the same strain, trying to incite them against us. They spoke to these servants as "Madam," and of mother as "that woman."