“I knew how it would end, when you were in Georgetown,” she wrote, “and I am glad that it is so, praying daily that you may be happy with Dr. Grant and 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, I shall stay where duty lies. What my life will henceforth be I do not know; but I have sometimes thought that with the 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. 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 and withered, but something of their sweet perfume lingers still; and I prize them as my greatest treasure; for, except the lock of 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-bye. 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, could be the Katy Grant who sat by the evening fire at Linwood, with 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,” Helen 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 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, and I never saw Mark more pleased than when seized around the neck by two long brawny arms, while a cheery voice called out: ‘Hallow, old chap, has you done forgot John Jennins?’ 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 wish you could see how grateful the old creature is for every act of kindness. 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.
“We stopped at Annapolis on our way here, and I shall never forget the pale, worn faces, nor 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, and whose eyes lighted 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 greedy glances as she moves about the room, and holding her hand with a firm 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.’ You 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 pondered Helen’s closing words, 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.”
THE END.
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