The guerillas had burned my father’s tanyard and shoeshop, and his tobacco barn. They had stolen his horses — four fine grays which were kept on the plantation for plowing the tobacco fields and for hauling tanbark. And in the end, someone stole his farm. The trusted agent forgot to remit. My father then went as a scout with detachments the Union army. He served under Major E. N. Morrill, who was later Governor of Kansas, and a resident of Hiawatha for a number of years. The guerilla band was broken up. But hostilities did not stop altogether with the surrender of Lee. And bushwhacking” became a pastime with the embittered few. My mother, with her sister, Nan Porter, went back to Tennessee some years later for a visit. And about the first thing they did was to attend church—a new church in the old neighborhood. My resident aunt — Aunt Harriet Lovell—had said to her sisters, “You-all will meet lots of friends after church.” The two Kansas women, with their handsome and deeply religious young escort, marched into church a trifle late, and my mother was smiling and nodding to close seated old acquaintances, and properly attuned, all were living in the happy anticipation of a real love feast when church would be out. Then suddenly, abruptly, as if she had received some deadly stroke, the smile faded from her face. She looked at her sister, in crestfallen dejection, and whispered, “Let’s get out of here, Nan, just as soon as the services are over.” That pained look did not belong on my my mother’s sweet face. Some highly disturbing thing had happened. Quickly, my mother revised her plans. She could consistently have waited for the preacher to come down from the pulpit and address her as “sister” with more significance than ordinarily accrues to the church going woman. But no, thank you—not my mother. Not in that spot. She had recognized in that coarse-voiced preacher the leader of that guerilla mob. He was my non-consanguineous uncle — father’s own brother-in-law. And the accommodating young man who had been so kind as to “carry” them over in his shiny new buggy could not understand what made them in such a hurry to get away. That meeting house was set in a small clearing in the dense woods on top of a high ridge. It was called “Sentinary.” The worshippers came in from the lower settlements from every direction. It was their custom to tarry after services for a visit — and especially^ if there were strangers in the congregation they must be wholeheartedly welcomed, Southern style, as I was to learn.