He needed a change of place and scene; and as she could not return to Arthur’s desolate home, whither the sad news had been sent at once, Maude assented to the Nashville arrangement, and in three weeks was comfortably settled at a Nashville hotel, with Lois as her attendant. Her uncle, Charlie, and Captain Carleton were with her, the latter constantly putting off his journey to Rockland, where they were so anxiously waiting for him. He had written to Rose immediately after his arrival at Nashville, telling her of all that had transpired, and speaking of Maude De Vere as one whom he hoped to make his wife. This time the letter went safely, and Rose replied at once, urging Tom to come, and insisting that Mr. Haverill, Maude and Charlie should accompany him.
“They saved Will’s life as well as yours,” Rose wrote. “I have a right to them all, and especially to the noble Maude. Bring her to me, Tom, and let me coax back the color to her dear face and the brightness to her eyes. I shall come myself and get her if she refuses.”
Maude had never known the companionship of a sister,—had never had a single intimate girl friend except Nettie Tunbridge, who died. Independent, strong willed and self-reliant, she had cared but little for any society except that which she found with nature in the wild mountains of Tennessee; but now, broken and shocked, and shorn of some of her strength, she longed for sympathy and companionship, and something in Rose Mather’s sprightly letter made her heart yearn toward the little lady who had written it, and the pleasant home which Rose described as beautiful with the summer bloom.
“I will think about it by and by,” she said to her uncle; “but for the present it is nice to rest here in Nashville.”
So for a time longer they lingered in Tennessee, while Rose waited impatiently for them and fretted at the delay.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
ANDERSONVILLE PRISONERS.
“This seems to be one of the worst cases we have had. I doubt if his mind will survive the horrors he has endured, even if his body does. Poor fellow! his mother would not recognize him now.”
This was what the physician at Annapolis said to Mrs. Simms of a miserable, emaciated skeleton, which had come up from Andersonville with the last arrival of prisoners.
While we in the mountains of Tennessee were tracing the wanderings of Will Mather and Captain Carleton, Mrs. Simms and Annie had stood untiringly at their posts beside the sick and dying soldiers who had learned to bless and watch for the stern widow, and to love and worship the beautiful Annie Graham. And well had she earned such appreciation, for she had been most faithful to the wretched ones committed to her care,—faithful both to body and soul, and in the better world she knew there was waiting to welcome her more than one, whose darkened mind she had led to the fountain of all light. And Annie had made a vow to stay till from that foul Southern prison, where 28,000 men had died, there came to her the one for whom she always looked so anxiously when new arrivals came, her blue eyes running rapidly over each wasted form, and then filling with tears when the scrutiny was found to be in vain.