It was an interesting group, representing the types of much that is best in the civilization of the two regions. Their talk covered a great variety of subjects, but finally drifted into reminiscences of the war—reminiscences of its incidents rather than its passions.
"I have been told," said Miss Eustis, "that a dead Union soldier was brought here during the war, and buried. Was his name ever known?"
There was a long pause. General Garwood gazed steadily into the fire. His mother sighed gently. Hallie, who had been resting her head against Helen's shoulder, rose from her chair, and glided from the room as swiftly as a ghost.
"Perhaps I have made a mistake," said Helen in dismay. "The incident was so strange—"
"No, Miss Eustis, you have made no mistake," said General Garwood, smiling a little sadly. "One moment—" He paused as if listening for something. Presently the faint sound of music was heard. It stole softly from the dark parlor into the warm firelight as if it came from far away.
"One moment," said General Garwood. "It is Hallie at the piano."
The music, without increasing in volume, suddenly gathered coherency, and there fell on the ears of the listening group the notes of an air so plaintive that it seemed like the breaking of a heart. It was as soft as an echo, and as tender as the memories of love and youth.
"We have to be very particular with Hallie," said the general, by way of explanation. "The Union soldier in our burying-ground is intimately connected with her bereavement and ours. Hers is the one poor heart that keeps the fires of grief always burning. I think she is willing the story should be told."
"Yes," said his mother, "else she would never go to the piano."
"I feel like a criminal," said Helen. "How can I apologize?"