"What will the girls say when they come back?" was the mother's next sob; "they loved the place: do you think they will know it?"
I did not know how to reply. They retained my hands, and for a moment none of us spoke.
"Don't think, Mr. Townsend," said the chivalrous old gentleman again, "that we like you less because some of your country people have stripped us. Mother, where is the gruel you made for him?"
The good lady, expecting my return, had prepared some nourishing chicken soup, and directly she produced it. I think she took heart when I ate so plentifully, and we all spoke hopefully again. Their kindness so touched me, that as the evening came quietly about us, lengthening the shadows, and I knew that I must depart, I took both their hands again, doubtful what to say.
"My friends,—may I say, almost my parents? for you have been as kind,—good by! In a day, perhaps, you will be with your children again. Richmond will be open to you. You may freely go and come. Be comforted by these assurances. And when the war is over,—God speed the time!—we may see each other under happier auspices."
"Good by!" said Mr. Michie; "if I have a house at that time, you shall be welcome."
"Good by," said Mrs. Michie; "tell your mother that a strange lady in Virginia took good care of you when you were sick."
I waved a final adieu, vaulted down the lane, and the wood gathered its solemn darkness about me. When I emerged upon Savage's fields, a succession of terrible explosions shook the night, and then the flames flared up, at points along the railroad. They were blowing up the locomotives and burning the cars. At the same hour, though I could not see it, White House was wrapped in fire, and the last sutler, teamster, and cavalry-man had disappeared from the shores of the Pamunkey.
I tossed through another night of fever, in the captain's tent of the Sturgis Rifles,—McClellan's body guard. And somehow, again, I dreamed fitfully of the unburied corpses on the field of Gaines's Mill.