hard monotone against the "monstrous wrong of the North." They saw their
side with such downright sincerity and vividness that the offenders
appeared to be beyond the pale of humanity. Few men, even though the
frosts of many winters had cooled their blood and ripened their judgment,
could reason dispassionately in those days, much less women, whose hearts
were kept on the rack of torture by the loss of dear ones or the dread of
such loss.

It is my purpose to dwell upon the war, its harrowing scenes and intense
animosities, only so far as may be essential to account for my characters
and to explain subsequent events. The roots of personality strike deep,
and the taproot, heredity, runs back into the being of those who lived and
suffered before we were born.

Gentle Mary Burgoyne should have been part of a happier day and
generation. The bright hopes of a speedily conquered peace were dying
away; the foolish bluster on both sides at the beginning of the war had
ceased, and the truth so absurdly ignored at first, that Americans, North
and South, would fight with equal courage, was made clearer by every
battle. The heavy blows received by the South, however, did not change her
views as to the wisdom and righteousness of her cause, and she continued
to return blows at which the armies of the North reeled, stunned and
bleeding. Mary was not permitted to exult very long, however, for the
terrible pressure was quickly renewed with an unwavering pertinacity which
created misgivings in the stoutest hearts. The Federals had made a strong
lodgment on the coast of her own State, and were creeping nearer and
nearer, often repulsed yet still advancing as if impelled by the
remorseless principle of fate.

At last, in the afternoon of a day early in April, events occurred never