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PRINCE SALM-SALM, COLONEL 8TH REGIMENT NEW YORK
"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
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
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
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,
"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
"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
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
"Yes, my love."
"Edith, dear," Mrs. Barclay
resumed, after a slight-cough of embarrassment, "it strikes me you are too
"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,
"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