I wanted to cry aloud like a baby. I plunged into
the woods, for the seldom traveled road was scarcely
a barrier to perfect solitude. I walked rapidly, and
closed my eyes to all the attractions of nature lest
they divert my mind, and appease my hungry heart.
I wanted to cry, and was even then doing so, before
I got ready for it. At length I came to a rivulet of
crystal water, as pure as the dew drops of Arcadia. I
sat down beside it and mingled the anguished tears of
my very soul, with its sparkling, ever-changing, nec-
tarian waters. I bathed my hot face and hands in
the pellucid stream, and still the lachrymal fountain
flowed on. I thought of my lonely mother, surround-
ed by those who were seeking the subversion of all



162 LIFE IN DIXIE

that her heart held dear, and I cried. I thought of
my brother — of his toilsome marches and weary
limbs, and of his consecrated life — and I cried. I
thought of the fair young sister, still hopeful in early
womanhood, and I refused to be comforted, and wept
bitterly. In this disconsolate frame of mind, I was
ready to give up all hope and yield to direful des-
pair. At this fearful crisis a still small voice whis-
pered, '*Peace, be still !" The glamour of love invest-
ed sky and earth with supernal glory. The fountain
of tears ceased to flow, and I looked around upon the
handiwork of the Great Supreme Being in whose cre-
ation I was but an atom, and wondered that He
should have been mindful of me — that He should
have given surcease of agony to my sorrowing soul.
