They had exchanged names and addresses, then walked silently as far as the monument in the centre of the Square. As they were about to separate, Mrs. Swift said: “Mrs. Wallace, this dear shawl is yours, beyond the shadow of a doubt--and back it goes to you, be sure of that--but won’t you come to my house, in a day or two, and tell me its story?” Then, seeing refusal dawning on the other’s face, she quickly added, “I would so like to hear about your boy!” Ah, subtle tempter! What mother could resist such sweet flattery! Not this one, who for two long years had not named aloud that beloved son--who entering the army as an elegant young _beau_, had died in broken shoes and tattered clothing--fighting like a demoniac! Yes, she would come, and Mrs. Swift would tell her side of the story too--would she not? And then it would all come clear between them about the shawl--and there would be blame to no one but herself, perhaps, for her too hasty speech! And with these promises they parted--each thinking compassionately of the other: “How she must suffer, it is so terrible a thing to lose husband and child too!” The following Tuesday, on starting out to make the promised visit, Mrs. Wallace became conscious of a lightness, an alertness of movement--of a genuine feeling of interest in the approaching interview, as pleasant as unusual to her. And she wondered a little that she felt in her heart no enmity for this Northern woman who had, beyond a doubt, done her small best to help conquer the South and destroy the beloved “Cause”! But, considered simply as individuals, they were both conquered--beaten--broken down forever! In tastes, up-bringing and experience, they were as far apart as the poles, but between those two great cries of motherhood--one wrung from the body’s anguish at the man-child’s birth, and the other from the soul’s anguish at his death--the women understood and sympathized passionately with each other! With these thoughts in her mind, Mrs. Wallace made her way to the pretty house, with its bit of lawn, choice shrubs and late flowers, that belonged to Mrs. Swift, and had the door, after some delay, thrown open for her by an elderly and very angry gentleman--evidently a doctor--who continued an unequal contest with two hysterical and belligerent maidens from the “Old Isle”--one of whom, with the maddening iteration peculiar to her class, repeated again and again: “’Twas meself that heard it!--the Banshee! Bad ’cess to yees--’twas meself that heard it--the Banshee!--the Banshee!” while the other, with maudlin tears, vowed she’d “lave that minute for she couldn’t stand hearin’ talkin’ of blood and--shootin’ and such-like things--besides, when a woman was crazy, she might kill the lot of them--and such rucktions she couldn’t stand at all--at all! and lave she must and would!”