It already has been said that my father was too old for military service. Brother Harry was too young, being only thirteen when war broke out. The only near relatives who joined the army were two cousins of my mother, William Greene Ward and John Ward, and my father’s nephew, Thomas Beale Wales, Jr. Fortunately, none of the three was wounded. The two Wards were taken prisoner at Harper’s Ferry, but were paroled. Many of the young men of our acquaintance joined the army, some of them never to return. A sad case was that of Charlie Hickling, whose slight frame held a heroic spirit. In spite of his frail physique, he insisted on enlisting, only to return hopelessly broken in health. He died not long afterward. Tragedies were all around us. I was staying with my dear friend, Alice Weld, at Jamaica Plain, when news arrived of the capture of her brother, Stephen Minot Weld, Jr. The anxiety of his father may be imagined, yet he took the blow bravely. The horrors of the Southern prisons made confinement there a thing to be greatly dreaded. Libby was bad enough, but of Andersonville one cannot speak or think without deep indignation. I shall never forget the appearance of Arthur Sedgwick soon after his return from a Southern prison. With great black hollows under his eyes, he looked like a walking ghost. Another tragic picture comes to my mind. We were passing the day quietly at Lawton’s Valley when suddenly a distracted figure appeared among us. It was that of Mrs. McDonald—“D.D.,” as we affectionately called her—the matron of the School for Idiots. Her hair, always neatly arranged, was now blown by the wind and wet with the rain, but she was too deeply moved to think of that. She had braved the storm and come, in an open wagon, to seek help and comfort from the “Doctor”—a tower of strength to all who knew him. Her adored eldest son, serving on the Christian Commission, had been taken prisoner. After a time he came back to her, only to die a year or two later of tuberculosis. Like many other persons at that time, Mrs. McDonald found comfort in Elizabeth Stuart Phelps’s “Gates Ajar.” This was written, it will be remembered, after the author herself had passed through the bitterest sorrow. From the window of Miss Clapp’s school in Boston we saw the funeral cortege of Arthur Dehon Hill, who had been killed in the war. At the time we knew the family very slightly. A thoughtless school-girl, I little realized what death and sorrow meant. Six months later, when my own little brother died, I learned the sad lesson which all must learn for themselves. Visits to the camp at Readville, near Boston, were the order of the day, but, according to etiquette, these were made very sparingly. It was said of the Misses X—— that they went so often the officers could hardly find time to change their clothes!