"A thing that happened ten days ago. The burial of Latané. The women buried him, you know. At Summer Hill.—Mrs. Brockenborough, and her daughter-in-law and grandchildren. Somebody read me a letter about it—so simple it wrung your heart! 'By God,' I said, 'what Roman things happen still!' And I thought I'd like to paint the picture."
"I read the letter, too," said the poet. "I am making some verses about it—see if you like them—
| "For woman's voice, in accents soft and low, Trembling with pity, touched with pathos, read O'er his hallowed dust the ritual for the dead: "'Tis sown in weakness, it is raised in power'— Softly the promise floated on the air, While the low breathings of the sunset hour Came back responsive to the mourner's prayer. Gently they laid him underneath the sod And left him with his fame, his country and his God!" |
"Yes," said Judith, sweetly and gravely. "How can we but like them? And I hope that you will find the tent-cloth, Mr. Washington."
Reëntering, presently, the large room, they found a vague stir, people beginning to say good-night, and yet lingering. "It is growing late," said some one, "and yet I think that he will come." Her father came up to her and drew her hand through his arm. "Here is General Lee now. We will wait a moment longer, then go."
They stood in the shadow of the curtains watching the Commander-in-Chief just pausing to greet such and such an one in his progress toward the President. An aide or two came behind; the grand head and form moved on, simple and kingly. Judith drew quicker breath. "Oh, he looks so great a man!"
"He looks what he is," said Warwick Cary. "Now let us go, too, and say good-night."