Faith walked down the field path, presently, to meet her husband, coming up. He held in his hand an open paper, that he had brought, just now from the village.
There was news.
Rout, horror, confusion, death, dismay.
The field of Manassas had been fought. The Union armies were falling back, in disorder, upon Washington.
Breathlessly, with pale faces, and with hands that grasped each other in a deep excitement that could not come to speech, they read those columns, together.
Down there, on those Virginian plains, was this.
And they were here, in quiet safety, among the clover blooms, and the new-cut hay. Elsewhere, men were mown.
"Roger!" said Faith, when, by and by, they had grown calmer over the fearful tidings, and had had Bible words of peace and cheer for the fevered and bloody rumors of men—"mightn't we take our wedding journey, now?"
All the bright, early summer, in those first months of their life together, they had been finding work to do. Work they had hardly dreamed of when Faith had feared she might be left to a mere, unworthy, selfish rest and happiness.
The old New England spirit had roused itself, mightily, in the little country town. People had forgotten their own needs, and the provision they were wont to make, at this time, each household for itself. Money and material, and quick, willing hands were found, and a good work went on; and kindling zeal, and noble sympathies, and hearty prayers wove themselves in, with toil of thread and needle, to homely fabrics, and embalmed, with every finger touch, all whereon they labored.