One day, a short, slight Confederate prisoner, newly brought in, and hobbling about the place where he was confined, with a vile bullet-hole in his foot, came up to her and said:—
“Allow me, madam,—did that man call you by your right name, just now?”
Mary looked at him. She had never seen him before.
“Yes, sir,” she said.
She could see the gentleman, under much rags and dirt.
“Are you Mrs. John Richling?”
A look of dismay came into his face as he asked the grave question.
“Yes, sir,” replied Mary.
His voice dropped, and he asked, with subdued haste:—
“Ith it pothible you’re in mourning for him?”