"You'll not get it from me!" exclaimed the young lady, looking boldly at him, every drop of her woman's blood aroused inflamed, and defiant at this cruel act.

Here the voice of a diminutive negro girl, who had seen the weapon secreted, and who took the Federal trooper in his gray coat for a Confederate, was heard exclaiming—

"La! Miss

'tis in the closet, where you put it!"

And in an instant the man had rushed thither and secured it. The house was now filled with men, rushing from top to bot tom of it, and breaking to pieces every object upon which they could lay their hands. In the house at the time was Captain

a wounded officer of artillery, and Lieutenant, a staff officer, who had been surprised, and was now secreted in a closet. Captain's room was visited, but he was not molested; Lieutenant was so skilfully concealed in his closet, against which a bed was thrust, that he was not discovered.

Smashed crockery, shattered parlour ornaments, followed spoons, knives, forks, shawls, blankets, books, daguerreotypes— these and many other movables speedily appeared in dwindling perspective; then they vanished.

Thus theft, insult, and outrage had their veritable carnivalbut the young ladies did not heed it. They were absorbed by the painful spectacle of the wounded gentleman, who, stretched upon the floor of the dining-room below, seemed about to draw his last breath. He still held the hand of the young lady who had removed his pistol; to this he clung with an unrelaxing clutch; and the sight of her tearful face, as she knelt beside him, seemed to afford him the only satisfaction of which he was capable. "Pray for me!" he murmured, clinging to her hand and groaning; "pray for me, but pray to yourself!"

"Oh, yes!" was the reply, and the wounded man sank back, moaning, amid the crowd of jeering troopers trampling around his "fallen head!"

To these an honourable exception speedily revealed himself.

This was a young Federal officer, who came to the side of the wounded man, gazed first at him, then at the young lady, and then knelt down beside them.

The glazing eyes of the wounded man looked out from his haggard face.

"Who are you?" he muttered.

"I am Lieutenant Cole," was the reply, in a sad and pitying voice; "I am sorry to see you so dangerously wounded." "Yes-I am dying."

"If you have any affairs to arrange, my poor friend, you had better do so," said Lieutenant Cole; "and I will try and attend to them for you."

"No-the ladies here-will-"

There he paused with a hoarse groan.

"You are about to die," said the Lieutenant; "there is no hope. I am a Christian, and I will pray for you."

As he spoke he closed his eyes, and remaining on his knees, silent and motionless, was evidently offering up a prayer for the dying man, who continued to writhe and toss, in his great agony.

There are men whom we regret, but are proud to have for our enemies; this man was one of them.

When he rose his expression was grave; he threw a last glance at the sufferer, and then disappeared. His fate was sad, and seemed an injustice to so brave a gentleman. On the very next day he was captured by a party of Confederates, and while being conducted across the Blue Ridge thought that he discovered an opportunity to escape. Drawing his pistol, which by some negligence had been left upon his person, he fired upon his guard. The bullet missed its aim-and the guard firing in turn, blew out Lieutenant Cole's brains.*

* A singular coincidence comes to the writer's memory here. The mother of the young ladies whose adventures are here related, had on this day gone to attend the funeral of young Carlisle Whiting at the "Old Chapel" some miles distant. Young Whiting had been killed by a Federal prisoner, whom he was conducting south, near Front Royal. The prisoner's pistol had been overlooked; he drew it suddenly, and fired upon his guard, the bullet inflicting a mortal wound.

At nightfall the Federal troopers had torn the house to pieces, taken all which they could not destroy, and had vanished. Mountjoy had succeeded in getting off with his men. At six o'clock on the next morning poor Braxton breathed his last, still holding the hand of the young lady, which seemed to be all by which he had clung to life.

Then a strange and unexpected difficulty arose.

It is safe to

say that the young ladies of New York or Philadelphia, at that moment buried in slumbers in their happy homes, surrounded by every comfort-it is safe to say that they would have found it difficult then-will find it difficult now-to conceive even the great dilemma which their young rebel "sisters" were called upon to face. The death of a friend would have been sad to the young New Yorker or Philadelphian, but at least they would have seen his body deposited in a rosewood coffin; the head would have rested on its satin cushion; lace handkerchiefs raised to streaming eyes, in the long procession of brilliant equipages, would have been soothing to his friends, as indicating the general grief.

Here, in that good or bad year 1864, on the border, things were different. There were no equipages-no lace handkerchiefs no satin, and rosewood, and silver-not even a coffin. In the midst of their grief for the loss of that brave soldier of one of the old Virginia families, their connexions, the young Confederate girls were met by this sudden obstacle-by this gross, material question, this brutal difficulty-where shall a coffin for the dead be procured? There lay the dead body pale, cold, terrible-how bury it as Christians bury their dead?

They did not cry or complain, but courageously set to work. Beside themselves, there were in the house two young cousins now, who had hastened to the place, Phil and George at that time mere boys. These went to the mill, past which Mountjoy had retreated, and painfully raising upon their shoulders some broad and heavy planks lying there, bore them up the hill to the house. Then, accompanied by the youngest of the girls, they went to an old saw-mill near the river, gathered together a number of rails from old timber there, returned, and began their lugubrious work.

The details of their employment were as sombre as the employment itself. The dead body was first to be measured; and this was courageously undertaken by the youngest girl, who, placing one end of a cord upon the dead man's forehead, measured to his feet. The length was thus determined, and the boys set to work, assisted by the girl, sawing, hammering, and nailing together the rude box which was to contain all that remained of the poor youth.

The work absorbed them throughout the short November day, and only at nightfall was it finished. Then the fear seized upon them that they had made the coffin too long; that the corpse would not lie securely in it, and move when carried. A singular means of testing the length of the coffin was suddenly hit upon. The eldest of the young ladies, who had been watching the corpse during the work, now approached, and without shrinking, lay at full length in the coffin, which was then found to be amply large. Then the body was deposited in it-the pious toil had been accomplished.

Was not that painfully in contrast with the decent city 'arrangements," which take from the mourner all the gross details-permitting his grief to hover serenely in the region of sentiment? This rude pine coffin differed from the rosewood; the funeral cortège which ere long appeared, differed, too, from the long line of shining carriages.

It consisted of three hundred horsemen, silent, muffled, and armed to the teeth, for the enemy were close by in heavy force. They appeared, without notice, about three hours past midnight, and at the head of them, we believe, was Mountjoy.

The body, still in its rude coffin, was lifted into a vehicle; some hasty words were exchanged with the young ladies, for a large force of the enemy was near Millwood within sight, a mile or two across the fields; then the shadowy procession of horsemen moved; their measured hoof-strokes resounded, gradually dying away; the corpse was borne through the river. ascended the mountain-and at sunrise the dead man was sleeping in the soil of Fauquier.

IV.

GENERAL PEGRAM ON THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS

DEATH.

I.

THE writer's object in the present paper is to chronicle the events of a day in the pine-woods of Dinwiddie in 1865, and to mention a circumstance which impressed him forcibly at the time; nearly convincing him of the truth of "presentiments," and warnings of approaching death.

It was early in February of the year 1865, and General Grant had for some time been straining every nerve to force his way to the Southside railroad-when General Lee would be cut off from his base of supplies, and compelled to retreat or surrender his army. Grant had exhibited a persistence which amounted to genius; and the Federal lines had been pushed from the Jerusalem to the Weldon road, from the Weldon to the Vaughan and Squirrel Level roads, and thence still westward beyond Hatcher's Run, toward the White Oak road, running through the now well-known locality of Five Forks. On the western bank of the run, near Burgess's Mill, General Lee's extreme right confronted the enemy, barring his further advance.

The Confederate right was almost unprotected by cavalry. This unfortunate circumstance arose from the fact that after the destruction of the Weldon Railroad as far south as Hicksford, fifty miles from Petersburg, the cavalry was obliged to repair to that distant point for forage. Never was anything more unfortunate; but it was one of those misfortunes which