He accepted a position on the Daily News which yielded him twenty-five dollars a week. Meanwhile he must learn New York law.
There has been too much sorrow already in this story. Why tell of all the anguish, all the suffering of the next years? During the long, lonely winter of 1865 my husband nobly strove to sustain my hopes, and for his sake I would not allow my heart to break.
Early in February old Abram, the faithful servant in whose care my husband left me, announced that we had reached the end of all our resources at Cottage Farm. Rose, the little cow, had died, the turnips and potatoes Abram had raised were all gone, the two pigs he had reared had fulfilled their destiny long ago, and the government rations had ceased. He "could scuffle along himself, but 't wa'n't no use to pertend" he could "take care of Mistis an' the chilluns, not like they ought to be took care of."
"We must not despair, Abram," I said. "We'll feed the children, never fear! I must plan something to help."
"Plannin' ain't no 'count, Mistis, less'n you got sump'n to work on. What we all goin' to do for wood?"
"What you have done all along, I suppose."
"No'm. Dat's onpossible. We done burn up Fort Gregg an' Battery 45. Der ain' no mo' fortifications on de place as I knows of."
"Fortifications!" I exclaimed. "Why, Abram! you surely haven't been burning the fortifications?"
"Hit's des like I tell you, Mistis. De las' stick's on yo' wood-pile now."
"Well, Abram," I said gravely, "if we have destroyed our fortifications—burned our bridges—the time has come to change our base. We will move into town."