"George L. Hartsuff,
"Major-General Commanding."
Without the briefest deliberation I wrote and returned the following reply:—
"Mrs. Roger A. Pryor is not insensible to the generous offer of Major-General Hartsuff, but he ought to have known that the ration allowed the destitute women of Petersburg must be enough for
"Mrs. Roger A. Pryor."
As I sat alone, revolving various schemes for our sustenance,—the selling of the precious testimonial service (given by the Democracy of Virginia after my husband's noble fight against "Know-nothingism"), the possibility of finding occupation for myself,—the jingling of chain harness at the door arrested my attention. There stood a handsome equipage, from which a very fine lady indeed was alighting. She bustled in with her lace-edged handkerchief to her eyes, and announced herself as Mrs. Hartsuff. She was superbly gowned in violet silk and lace, with a tiny fanchon bonnet tied beneath an enormous cushion of hair behind, the first of the fashionable chignons I had seen—an arrangement called a "waterfall," an exaggeration of the plethoric, distended "bun" of the Englishwoman of a few years ago.
"Oh, my dear lady," she began, "we are in such distress at headquarters! George is in despair! You won't let him help you! Whatever is he to do?"
"I really am grateful to the General," I assured her; "but you see there is no reason he should do more for me than for others."
"Oh, but there is reason. You have suffered more than the rest. You have been driven from your home! Your house has been sacked. George knows all about you. I have brought a basket for you—tea, coffee, sugar, crackers."
"I cannot accept it, I am so sorry."
"But what are you going to do? Are you going to starve?"