The Steamer "Escort"

MAY 9, 1863.]

HARPER'S WEEKLY.

301

PRINCE SALM-SALM, COLONEL 8TH REGIMENT NEW YORK VOLUNTEERS.

"Poor child!" he said, soothingly, laying his hand upon her bright hair, "would that it were not killed. But poor Walter died of his wound upon the battle-field."

The bright flush of excitement faded from her cheek. She raised her brown eyes to his with a pleading glance.

"He is not dead. No, no, not dead; only say he is not dead!" she uttered in a hoarse whisper.

Mr. Stuart shook his head sadly.

"Oh, my God, Walter, Walter!" she cried, in low, altered tones.

Bethel Stuart caught her ere she fell. Tenderly gathering her into his strong arms he laid her white and breathless upon the sofa.

A rush of cold air from the opened window roused her. The long dark eyelashes quivered almost imperceptibly, the pale mouth parted with a gasping sound.

Mr. Stuart left her for an instant and came back

PRINCE SALM-SALM.

WE publish herewith a portrait of PRINCE SALM-SALM, Colonel 8th New York Volunteers, from a photograph by Brady. This officer, who won distinction as a cavalry officer in Prussia, arrived here on the outbreak of our war with a letter from the King, and was received with cordiality. His first wish was to command a regiment of cavalry. This, however, was found to be impracticable in consequence of the Prince's ignorance of the English language. He was accordingly placed on General Blenker's staff. After serving in this capacity for some months he was appointed to the command of General Blenker's old regiment, the 8th New York Volunteers, which he has led throughout the war. The regiment has completed its term of service, and returned home last week. We presume that the Prince will soon find some new sphere in which he can continue serving the country.

WISER AND BETTER.

SHE was walking hastily up the hill-side in a fitful mood.

On the brow of the hill a large old maple spread its branches, targets for the golden arrows quivering from the autumn sunset.

Gertrude had flung her jaunty little flat with its curled dark-blue feather upon the ground, while seating herself under the old tree, and now, resting her soft cheek upon her hand, dreamed until the flush in the west faded to amber. When at length she raised her head a large tear was slowly rolling down her cheek. It fell upon a scarlet leaf tangled in the fringe of her shawl. "Mocking the happy days of last autumn," she sighed, brushing the glistening tear away. " I wonder if Walter will ever again twine bright leaves among my curls." Stooping forward she caught up her flat by one of its long ribbons, and gathering her shawl closely around her, leisurely descended the hill. At its base she struck into a path leading to a quaint little brown cottage.

"Och! Miss Gerthrude, ye been gone so long honey, an' a swate jintleman in rigimentals awaitin' to see yer party face,

 an' yer Aunt Milly at the Squire's lint party. Don't be so eager-like, dear; it's not the like o' Misther Walther at all, at all." Gertrude gasped frightfully, leaning against the hall table for support.

Bridget appeared distressed.

"Would I run for wather for ye, honey?"

"No, no." She paused, pressed her hand to her side as if in pain, then resolutely turned the handle of the parlor door and entered.

A gentleman was slowly walking back and forth before the wood fire crackling upon the hearth. As Gertrude closed the door behind her he paused, and then advanced a step or two toward her.

"I must introduce myself," said a rich, kind voice. "Bethel Stuart—Miss Fitz Hugel, a friend of Walter Steyn."

"And he? What news of him?" burst from Gertrude's lips, raising her eager eyes to his face.

"He was wounded."

"Oh! not killed, thank God, not killed!" she cried, interrupting him, clasping her small hands, her beautiful eyes brimful of sudden tears.

Mr. Stuart looked extremely distressed.

you are? Now that I have two little orphan nephews to care for I shall not return to the war. I had thrown up my commission before the last battle, but waited to see how Walter would fare. I am rejoiced that I did so. Good-by, Miss Fitz Hugh; I must be in the city this evening and have barely time to catch the down train."

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Edith Barclay stood before a mirror in her mother's softly-lighted parlors, fastening a japonica bud among her dark glossy braids.

"Mamma, how late Bethel is to-night!"

"Yes, my love."

"Edith, dear," Mrs. Barclay resumed, after a slight-cough of embarrassment, "it strikes me you are too exacting—that is—"

"Pray go on, mamma," said Edith, turning with an air of superb scorn toward her mother, a frail looking lady with a sweet, low voice.

"Never mind now, my love. That is Mr. Stuart's ring. I was in hopes you would have understood me," she added.

Mrs. Barclay kissed her daughter's forehead and left the room as Bethel Stuart entered it.

"How very late!" pouted Edith, withdrawing herself from his arms that he might not kiss her.

"I have had something to do which took me from town for a few hours."

"I don't see what," said Edith, petulantly.

"How should you, my dear?" resumed Mr. Stuart, with an absent air. "A few of Walter Steyn's things were forwarded to me from Washington by my directions. This afternoon I took the cars and delivered them myself to Miss Fitz Hugh. Poor girl, my heart bleeds for her. Edith, I must take you out there. And some day we will beg your mamma's permission to bring her here for a week or fortnight. The novelty of city life may divert her mind."

"She won't want to be gay. It will be so stupid having

with a glass of cool spring water. She drank a little, he holding the glass.

"I am quite strong now," she said, in a faint voice; "please go on."

The recital was a painful one. When Mr. Stuart had finished a look of relief spread over his fine features.

"You must let me be a friend to you now," he continued, bending toward her. "It was his wish."

Gertrude raised her wet face.

"You loved Walter," she said, in scarcely audible tones; "your breast pillowed his dying head —indeed, indeed your sympathy is very precious to me. Poor, poor Walter! Were those his last words," she continued, vainly striving to steady her voice.

"They were his words," Bethel Stuart answered, evasively. " Your name was the last word upon his lips."

"May I come this way sometimes and see how

her here." An expression of painful surprise crossed Mr. Stuart's face.

"You would be very much interested in her were you to see her," he replied, gravely. "Will you let me take you there some time?"

Edith would not speak, but sat with coldly averted face.

"Edith. Edith!" cried Mr. Stuart. drawing her toward him.

"where are your warm generous impulses? I scarcely recognize my darling in this strange mood." He imprisoned both her fair hands in one of his, and holding her close to his breast, gazed long and earnestly into her drooping face.

Presently her eyelids began to quiver, the pouting mouth grew tremulous. She burst into tears.

"You don't love me," she sobbed, hiding her face upon his shoulder.

There were no grieving accents in her tones. Mr. Stuart did not try to soothe her, but allowed the passionate tears to fall, still holding her tenderly to him. When at length he did speak, which was merely to pronounce her name, Edith started at the grave tone. Raising her head rather proudly, she strove to withdraw from the strong arms which held her, but in vain.

Bethel forced her to turn her face to his. He was all gentleness, but so grave, almost stern, Edith fancied.

THE STEAMER "ESCORT" RUNNING THE REBEL BATTERIES NEAR WASHINGTON, NORTH CAROLINA.—[SEE PAGE 299.]