"I was never so happy in my life as I am now," she wrote. "Indeed, I did not know that a married woman could be so happy; but then every woman has not a Bob for her husband, which makes a vast difference. You ought to see Juno. I know she envies me, though she affects the utmost contempt for matrimony, and reminds me forcibly of the fox and the grapes. You see, Arthur Grey is a failure, so far as Juno is concerned, he having withdrawn from the field and laid himself, with his forty-five years, at the feet of Sybil Grandon, who will be Mrs. Grey, and a bride at Saratoga the coming summer. Juno, I believe, intends going, too, as the bridesmaid of the party; but every year her chances lessen, and I have very little hope that father will ever call other than Bob his son, always excepting Morris, of course, whom he really has adopted in place of Wilford. You don't know, Katy, how much father thinks of you, blessing the day which brought you to us, and saying that if he is ever saved, he shall in a great measure owe it to your sweet influence and consistent life after the great trouble came upon you."
There were tears in Katy's eyes as she read this letter from Bell, and with a mental prayer of thanksgiving that she had been of any use in guiding even one to the Shepherd's fold, she took next the letter whose superscription made her tremble for a moment and turn faint, it brought back so vividly to her mind the daisy-covered grave in Alnwick, whose headstone bore Genevra Lambert's name. Marian, who was now at Annapolis, caring for the returned prisoners, did not write often, and her letters were prized the more by Katy, who read with a heating heart the kind congratulations upon her recent marriage, sent by Marian Hazelton.
"I knew how it would end, even when you were in Georgetown," she wrote, "and I am glad that it is so, praying daily that you may be as happy with Dr. Grant as to remember the sad past only as some dream from which you have awakened. I thank you for your invitation to visit Linwood, and when my work is over I may come for a few weeks and rest in your bird's nest of a home. Thank God the war is ended; but my boys need me yet, and until the last crutch has left the hospital, and the last worn figure gone, I shall stay where duty lies. What my life will henceforth be I do not know, but I have sometimes thought that with the ample funds you so generously bestowed upon me, I shall open a school for orphan children, taking charge myself, and so doing some good. Will you be the lady patroness, and occasionally enliven us with the light of your countenance? I have left the hospital but once since you were here, and then I went to Wilford's grave. Forgive me, Katy, if I did wrong in wishing to kneel once upon the sod which covered him. I prayed for you while there, remembering only that you had been his wife. In a little box where no eyes but mine ever look, there is a bunch of flowers plucked from Wilford's grave. They are faded now and withered, but something of their sweet perfume lingers still; and I prize them as my greatest treasure, for, except the lock of raven hair severed from his head, they are all that is remaining to me of the past, which now seems so far away. It is time to make my nightly round of visits, so I must bid you good-by. The Lord lift up the light of His countenance upon you, and be with you forever.
"MARIAN HAZELTON."
For a long time Katy held this letter in her hand, wondering if the sorrowful woman whose life was once so strangely blended with that of Marian Hazelton and the pale occupant of that grave at Greenwood, whence the flowers came, could be the Katy Grant who sat by the evening fire at Linwood, with no shadow on her brow, and only the sunshine of perfect happiness resting on her heart. "Truly, He doeth all things well to those who wait upon Him," she thought, as she laid down Marian's letter and took up the third and last, Helen's letter, dated at Fortress Monroe, whither with Mark Ray she had gone just after Bell Cameron's bridal.
"You cannot imagine," she wrote, "the feelings of awe and even terror which steal over me the nearer I get to the seat of war, and the more I realize the bloody strife we have been engaged in, and which, thank God, has now so nearly ceased. You have heard of John Jennings, the noble man who saved my dear husband's life, and of Aunt Bab, who helped in the good work? Both are here. It seems that suspicion was aroused against them at last, and Bab was cruelly whipped to make her confess where a Union prisoner was hidden; but, though the blows cut deep into her back, bringing the blood at every stroke, she never uttered a word; and with her wounds all smarting as they were, she helped the poor boy off, and then with her master, John Jennings, started for the North. I never saw Mark more pleased than when seized around the neck by two long, brawny arms, while a cheery voice called out: 'Hello, old chap, has you done forgot John Jennin's?' I verily believe Mark cried, and I know I did, especially when old Bab came up and shook 'young misses' hand.' I kissed her, Katy—all black, and rough, and uncouth as she was. I kissed her more than once, and felt honored in doing so. Poor Bab! her back is still a piteous sight, and I dress it every day, shuddering at the sight, and thanking God that slavery, with all its horrors, is at an end. I wish you could see how grateful the old creature is for every act of kindness. She says 'the very feel of misses' soft, white hands makes her old back better,' and she praises me continually to Mark, who is just foolish enough to believe all she says. When we come home again, both John and Bab will come with us, though what we shall do with John is more than I can tell. Mark says he shall employ him about the office, and this I know will delight Tom Tubbs, who has again made friends with Chitty, and who will almost worship John as having saved Mark's life. Aunt Bab shall have an honored seat by the kitchen fire, and a pleasant room all to herself, working only when she likes, and doing as she pleases.
"Did I tell you that Mattie Tubbs was to be my seamstress? I am getting together a curious household, you will say; but I like to have those about me to whom I can do the greatest amount of good, and as I happen to know how much Mattie admires 'the Lennox girls,' I did not hesitate to take her, even though Mark did ask if I intended bringing her into the parlor to help entertain my company. Mark is a saucy, teasing fellow, and I see more and more how he kept up that dreadful Andersonville while so many of his comrades died. Dear Mark! can I ever be grateful enough to God for bringing him home?
"We stopped at Annapolis on our way here, and I shall never forget the pale, worn faces, or the great, sunken eyes which looked at me so wistfully as I went from cot to cot, speaking words of cheer to the sufferers, some of whom were Mark's companions in prison, their dim eyes lighting up with joy as they recognized him and heard of his escape. There are several nurses here, but no words of mine can tell what one of them is to the poor fellows, or how eagerly they watch for her coming, following her with so greedy glances as he moves about the room, and holding her hand with a clasp, as if they would keep her with them always. Indeed, more than one heart, as I am told, has confessed its allegiance to her; but she answers all the same: 'I have no love to give. It died out long ago, and cannot be recalled.' Yon can guess who she is, Katy. The soldiers call her an angel, but we know her as Marian."
There were great tear-blots upon that letter as Katy put it aside, and nestling close to Morris, laid her head upon his knee, where his hand could smooth her golden curls, while she gazed long and earnestly into the fire, musing upon Helen's closing words, and thinking how much they expressed, and how just a tribute they were to the noble woman whose life had been one constant sacrifice of self for another's good—"The soldiers call her an angel, but we know her as Marian."