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The months passed on, and brought ever-recurring
demands for more soldiers. Mr. King watched the
progress of the struggle with the deepest anxiety.

One day, when he had seen a new regiment depart for
the South, he returned home in a still more serious mood
than was now habitual to him. After supper, he opened
the Evening Transcript, and read for a while. Then turning
to his wife, who sat near him knitting for the army, he
said, “Dear Rosabella, during all the happy years that I
have been your husband, you have never failed to encourage
me in every good impulse, and I trust you will
strengthen me now.”

With a trembling dread of what was coming, she asked,
“What is it, dear Alfred.”

“Rosa, this Republic must be saved,” replied he, with
solemn emphasis. “It is the day-star of hope to the toiling
masses of the world, and it must not go out in darkness.
It is not enough for me to help with money. I
ought to go and sustain our soldiers by cheering words and
a brave example. It fills me with shame and indignation
when I think that all this peril has been brought upon us
by that foul system which came so near making a wreck
of you, my precious one, as it has wrecked thousands of
pure and gentle souls. I foresee that this war is destined,
by mere force of circumstances, to rid the Republic of that
deadly incubus. Rosa, are you not willing to give me up
for the safety of the country, and the freedom of your
mother's race?”

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She tried to speak, but utterance failed her. After a
struggle with herself, she said: “Do you realize how
hard is a soldier's life? You will break down under it,
dear Alfred; for you have been educated in ease and
luxury.”

“My education is not finished,” replied he, smiling, as
he looked round on the elegant and luxurious apartment.
“What are all these comforts and splendors compared with
the rescue of my country, and the redemption of an oppressed
race? What is my life, compared with the life of
this Republic? Say, dearest, that you will give me willingly
to this righteous cause.”

“Far rather would I give my own life,” she said. “But
I will never seek to trammel your conscience, Alfred.”

They spoke together tenderly of the past, and hopefully
of the future; and then they knelt and prayed together.

Some time was necessarily spent in making arrangements
for the comfort and safety of the family during his
absence; and when those were completed, he also went
forth to rescue Liberty from the jaws of the devouring
dragon. When he bade farewell to Flora's family, he
said: “Look after my precious ones, Blumenthal; and if
I never return, see to it that Percival carries out all my
plans with regard to George Falkner.”

Eight or ten weeks later, Alfred Blumenthal was lying
in a hospital at Washington, dangerously wounded and
burning with fever. His father and mother and Mrs. Delano
immediately went to him; and the women remained
until the trembling balance between life and death was determined
in his favor. The soldier's life, which he at first
dreaded, had become familiar to him, and he found a terrible
sort of excitement in its chances and dangers. Mrs.

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Delano sighed to observe that the gentle expression of
his countenance, so like the Alfred of her memory, was
changing to a sterner manhood. It was harder than
the first parting to send him forth again into the fiery
hail of battle; but they put strong constraint upon themselves,
and tried to perform bravely their part in the great
drama.

That visit to his suffering but uncomplaining son made
a strong impression on the mind of Mr. Blumenthal. He
became abstracted and restless. One evening, as he sat
leaning his head on his hand, Flora said, “What are you
thinking of, Florimond?”

He answered: “I am thinking, dear, of the agony I suffered
when I hadn't money to save you from the auction-block;
and I am thinking how the same accursed system is
striving to perpetuate and extend itself. The Republic
has need of all her sons to stop its ravages; and I feel
guilty in staying here, while our Alfred is so heroically
offering up his young life in the cause of freedom.”

“I have dreaded this,” she said. “I have seen for days
that it was coming. But, O Florimond, it is hard.”

She hid her face in his bosom, and he felt her heart beat
violently, while he talked concerning the dangers and duties
of the time. Mrs. Delano bowed her head over the
soldier's sock she was knitting, and tears dropped on it
while she listened to them.

The weight that lay so heavily upon their souls was suddenly
lifted up for a time by the entrance of Joe Bright.
He came in with a radiant face, and, bowing all round, said,
“I've come to bid you good by; I'm going to defend the
old flag.” He lifted up his voice and sang,

“'T is the star-spangled bauner, O long may it wave!”

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Flora went to the piano, and accompanied him with instrument
and voice. Her husband soon struck in; and Rosen
Blumen and Lila left their lessons to perform their part in
the spirit-stirring strain. When they had sung the last
line, Mr. Bright, without pausing to take breath, struck
into “Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled,” and they followed
his lead. He put on all his steam when he came to the
verse,


“By our country's woes and pains,
By our sons in servile chains,
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be free!”
He emphasized the word shall, and brought his clenched
hand down upon the table so forcibly, that the shade over
the gas-light shook.

In the midst of it, Mrs. Delano stole out of the room. She
had a great respect and liking for Mr. Bright, but he was
sometimes rather too demonstrative to suit her taste. He
was too much carried away with enthusiasm to notice her
noiseless retreat, and he went on to the conclusion of his
song with unabated energy. All earnestness is magnetic.
Mr. and Mrs. Blumenthal, and even the children, caught
his spirit. When the song ended, Mr. Blumenthal drew a
long breath, and said: “One needs strong lungs to accompany
you, Mr. Bright. You sang that like the tramp of a
regiment.”

“And you blazed away like an explosion of artillery,”
rejoined he.

“The fact is,” replied Blumenthal, “the war spirit
pervades the air, and I've caught it. I'm going to join
the army.”

“Are you?” exclaimed Mr. Bright, seizing his hand

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with so tight a grip that it made him wince. “I hope
you'll be my captain.”

Mr. Blumenthal rubbed his hand, and smiled as he said,
“I pity the Rebel that you get hold of, Mr. Bright.”

“Ask your pardon. Ask your pardon,” rejoined he.
“But speaking of the tramp of a regiment, here it goes!”
And he struck up “John Brown's Hallelujah.” They
put their souls into it in such a manner, that the spirit of
the brave old martyr seemed marching all through it.

When it came to a conclusion, Mr. Bright remarked:
“Only to think how that incendiary song is sung in Boston
streets, and in the parlors too, when only little more than a
year ago a great mob was yelling after Wendell Phillips,
for speaking on the anniversary of John Brown's execution.
I said then the fools would get enough of slavery
before they'd done with it; and I reckon they're beginning
to find it out, not only the rowdies, but the nabobs
that set 'em on. War ain't a blessing, but it's a mighty
great teacher; that's a fact. No wonder the slavites
hated Phillips. He aims sure and hits hard. No use in
trying to pass off shams upon him. If you bring him anything
that ain't real mahogany, his blows'll be sure to
make the veneering fly. But I'm staying too long. I
only looked in to tell you I was going.” He glanced round
for Mrs. Delano, and added: “I'm afraid I sung too loud
for that quiet lady. The fact is, I'm full of fight.”

“That's what the times demand,” replied Mr. Blumenthal.

They bade him “Good night,” and smiled at each other
to hear his strong voice, as it receded in the distance, still
singing, “His soul is marching on.”

“Now I will go to Mamita,” said Flora. “Her gentle

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spirit suffers in these days. This morning, when she saw
a company of soldiers marching by, and heard the boys
hurrahing, she said to me so piteously, `O Flora, these are
wild times.' Poor Mamita! she's like a dove in a tornado.”

“You seemed to be strong as an eagle while you were
singing,” responded her husband.

“I felt like a drenched humming-bird when Mr. Bright
came in,” rejoined she; “but he and the music together
lifted me up into the blue, as your Germans say.”

“And from that height can you say to me, `Obey the
call of duty, Florimond'?”

She put her little hand in his and answered, “I can.
May God protect us all!”

Then, turning to her children, she said: “I am going to
bring Mamita; and presently, when I go away to be alone
with papa a little while, I want you to do everything to
make the evening pleasant for Mamita. You know she
likes to hear you sing, `Now Phœbus sinketh in the west.' ”

“And I will play that Nocturne of Mendelssohn's that
she likes so much,” replied Rosen Blumen. “She says I
play it almost as well as Aunt Rosa.”

“And she likes to hear me sing, `Once on a time there
was a king,' ” said Lila. “She says she heard you singing
it in the woods a long time ago, when she hadn't anybody
to call her Mamita.”

“Very well, my children,” replied their mother. “Do
everything you can to make Mamita happy; for there will
never be such another Mamita.”

During the anxious months that followed Mr. Blumenthal's
departure, the sisters and their families were almost
daily at the rooms of the Sanitary Commission, sewing,

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packing, or writing. Henriet had become expert with the
sewing-machine, and was very efficient help; and even
Tulee, though far from skilful with her needle, contrived to
make dozens of hospital slippers, which it was the pride
of her heart to deliver to the ladies of the Commissions.
Chloe added her quota of socks, often elephantine in shape,
and sometimes oddly decorated with red tops and toes;
but with a blessing for “the boys in blue” running through
all the threads. There is no need to say how eagerly they
watched for letters, and what a relief it was to recognize
the writing of beloved hands, feeling each time that it
might be the last.

Mr. King kept up occasional correspondence with the
officers of George Falkner's company, and sent from time
to time favorable reports of his bravery and good habits.
Henriet received frequent letters from him, imperfectly
spelled, but full of love and loyalty.

Two years after Mr. King left his happy home, he was
brought back with a Colonel's shoulder-strap, but with his
right leg gone, and his right arm in a sling. When the
first joy of reunion had expressed itself in caresses and
affectionate words, he said to Rosa, “You see what a
cripple you have for a husband.”

“I make the same reply the English girl did to Commodore
Barclay,” she replied; “ `You're dear as ever to
me, so long as there's body enough to hold the soul.' ”

Eulalia wept tears of joy on her father's neck, while
Flora, and Rosen Blumen, and Lila clasped their arms
round him, and Tulee stood peeping in at the door, waiting
for her turn to welcome the hero home.

“Flora, you see my dancing days are over,” said the
Colonel.

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“Never mind, I'll do your dancing,” she replied.
“Rosen Blumen, play uncle's favorite waltz.”

She passed her arm round Eulalia, and for a few moments
they revolved round the room to the circling music.
She had so long been called the life of the family, that she
tried to keep up her claim to the title. But her present
mirthfulness was assumed; and it was contrary to her nature
to act a part. She kissed her hand to her brother-in-law,
and smiled as she whirled out of the room; but she
ran up stairs and pressed the tears back, as she murmured
to herself, “Ah, if I could only be sure Florimond and
Alfred would come back, even mutilated as he is!”

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