Andrew the Glad

"And the girl," continued the major thoughtfully, "was born as her mother

died. He'd never let the mother come back and he never brought the child.

Now he's dead. I wonder--I wonder. We've got a claim on that girl,

Matilda. We--"

"And, dear, that is just what I came back in such a hurry to tell you

about--I felt it so--I haven't been able to say it right away. I began by

talking about Mary Caroline and--I--I--"

"Why, Matilda!" said the major in vague alarm at the tremble in his

wife's voice. He laid his hand over hers on the arm of his chair with a

warm clasp.

"It's just this, Major. You know how happy I have been, we all have been,

over the wonderful statue that has been given in memory of the women of

the Confederacy who stayed at home and fed the children and slaves while

the men fought. As you advised them, they have decided to put it in the

park just to the left of the Temple of Arts, on the very spot where

General Darrah had his last gun fired and spiked just before he fell and

just as the surrender came. It's strange, isn't it, that nobody knows

who's giving it? Perhaps it was because you and David and I were talking

last night about what he should say about General Darrah when he made

the presentation of the sketches of the statue out at the opening of the

art exhibition in the Temple of Arts to-night, that made me dream about

Mary Caroline all night. It is all so strange." Again Mrs. Buchanan

paused with a half sob in her voice.

"Why, what is it, Matilda?" the major asked as he turned and looked at

her anxiously.

"It's a wonderful thing that has happened, Major. Something, I don't know

what, just made me go out to the Temple this morning to see the sketches

of the statue which came yesterday. I felt I couldn't wait until to-night

to see them. Oh, they are so lovely! Just a tall fearless woman with a

baby on her breast and a slave woman clinging to her skirts with her own

child in her arms!

"As I stood before the case and looked at them the tragedy of all the

long fight came back to me. I caught my breath and turned away--and there

stood a girl! I knew her instantly, for I was looking straight into Mary

Caroline's own purple eyes. Then I just opened my arms and held her

close, calling Mary Caroline's name over and over. There was no one

else in the great room and it was quiet and solemn and still. Then she

put her hand against my face and looked at me and said in the loveliest

tenderest voice: "'It's my mother's Matilda, isn't it? I have the old daguerreotype!' And

I smiled back and we kissed each other and cried--and then cried some

more."