her--for I was standing at the door of her tomb!

I did not question. I knew, I comprehended.

In no other way could I have found such calm.

Though I flung myself on the shining marble steps that led in the
moonlight up to the top of the knoll where the tomb stood, I had no
tears to shed.

The present floated still further away.

Even the rush of the torrent died out of my ears.

Once more it seemed to me that lovely day in May when we three had
marched, shoulder to shoulder, down the city street--that spring day
in the early sixties, when the North was sending her flower to fight
for a united country.

Again I felt the warm sunshine on my head.

Once more I heard the ringing cheers, saw the floating flags, and the
faces of women who wept as well as women who smiled in the throngs
that lined the street.

Just as in all my life it had been his emotions and his enthusiasms
that led me, it was his excitement that impelled me forward at this
moment. His was the hand that in my school days, at college, in our
Bohemian days abroad, had swept my responsive nature as a master hand
strikes a harp, and made harmonies or discords at his will--or, I