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Updated: May 27, 2025
Staring at the wagons and the stamping horses, he noticed one of the farmers come out of the tavern. His appearance gave Prescott a happy inspiration. "Stay here a moment or two, Miss Catherwood," he said. "I want to talk to that man." She obeyed without a word of protest, and he approached the farmer, who lurched toward one of the wagons.
The watchers in the house said little, but they rejoiced all save Lucia Catherwood, who sat in silence. However the day might have ended, she did not believe the campaign had ended with it, and her hope continued. A messenger arrived in haste the next day. The house must be abandoned by all who could go. Grant had turned on his left flank and was advancing by a new road.
My house is your house, and all that is here is yours." "I know that, Charlotte," replied Miss Catherwood, "but I cannot take the bread from your mouth nor can I bring new dangers upon you." She spoke the last words in a low tone, but Prescott heard her nevertheless. What a situation, he thought; and he, a Confederate soldier, was a party to it!
Lucia Catherwood and Charlotte Grayson entered. At first they did not see Prescott, who stood near the window, but when his tall form met their eyes Miss Grayson uttered a little cry and the colour rose high in Lucia's face. "We are surprised to see you, Captain Prescott," she said. "But glad, too, I hope," he replied. "Yes, glad, too," she said frankly. She seemed to have changed.
Lucia Catherwood, looking at him, said to herself in unspoken words: "Here is a great man and he loves me." Her heart was cold, but a ray of tenderness came from it nevertheless. The Secretary paused and in his agitation leaned his arm upon the mantel. Again his eyes dwelt upon her noble curves, her sumptuous figure, and the soul that shone from her eyes.
"Miss Catherwood, I do not hide from any one," he said, all his ingrained pride swelling up. "It is best, Captain Prescott," she said quietly. "Not for your sake, but for that of two women whom you would not bring to harm." A note of pathetic appeal appeared in her voice, and, hesitating, he was lost.
"I am aware of that," he replied, "and I do not mean to be impolite, Miss Catherwood, when I say that I regret to find you still here." She pointed through the window to the white and frozen world outside. "I should be glad enough to escape," she said, "but that forbids." "I know it, or at least I expected it," said Prescott, "and it is partly why I am here. I came to warn you." "To warn me!
Hamlin Garland is another writer of genuine and original gift who centres at Chicago; and Mrs. Mary Catherwood has made her name well known in romantic fiction. Miss Edith Wyatt is a talent, newly known, of the finest quality in minor fiction; Mr. Robert Herrick, Mr. Will Payne in their novels, and Mr. George Ade and Mr.
"Why, sir," said Jack, "that's what we can't make out. Tom Catherwood, who is always doing queer things, you know, went to a Black Republican meeting last night, and met Stephen there. They came out in Tom's buggy to the Russells', and Tom got into his clothes first and rode over. Stephen was to have followed on Puss Russell's horse. But he never got here. At least I can find no one who saw him.
I insisted so much on my rights, at the same time declaring my innocence, that he became frightened and went away; but, oh, Lucia, I am more frightened now than he ever was!" Miss Catherwood soothed her and talked to her protectingly and gently, as a mother to her frightened child, while Prescott admired the voice and the touch that could be at once so tender and so strong.
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