You see I have no battles to describe on this occasion, reader. We had some hard fighting in the cavalry, but I shall not dwell upon that. It is some handsome fire-necklaces, and a talk with an old woman, which I shall speak of. The fire-necklaces were manufactured by General Meade’s troops, just before their retreat. The men had fallen into line at the word; moved silently toward the Rapidan, and had not taken the trouble, in leaving the rebel woods, to extinguish their bivouac fires, amid the thickets, carpeted with leaves. The result was a splendid spectacle. The fires had gradually burned outward, devouring the carpet of dry leaves. Great circles of flame were seen everywhere in the woods, and these dazzling fire-necklaces grew larger and larger, twined together, became entangled, twisted about, sparkled, crackled,--of all the sights I ever saw I think this was the most curious! From time to time the flames crawled along and reached the foot of some tall tree, festooned with dry vines. Then the vine would catch; the flame would dart through the festoons; climb the trunk; stream from the summit,--and above the blazing rings, twisting in endless convolutions, would roar a mighty tongue of flame, crimson, baleful, and menacing. It was a new “torch of war,” invented by General Meade. Such was the picturesque spectacle which rose a moment ago to my memory. Now for the sad scene which I witnessed, as I rode back with Stuart. Passing a small house, a poor woman came out, and with eyes full of tears, exclaimed, addressing Stuart:-- “Oh, child! stop a minute! Are they coming back? They have took every thing I had--they are _not_ coming back!”[1] [Footnote 1: Her words.] Stuart stopped. He was riding at the head of his staff, preceded by his battle-flag. Not a trace of amusement was seen on his features, as he heard himself addressed in that phrase, “Oh, child!” “Have they treated you so badly?” he said, in his grave, kind voice. “Oh, yes!” exclaimed the poor woman, weeping bitterly, “they have took every hog, cow, and ear of corn I have, and every thing from my daughter; she is a widow, and lives near us. These are her children, my grandchildren, come to get out of the way.”[1] [Footnote 1: Her words.] And she pointed to two or three little girls, with frightened faces, and eyes wet with tears. Stuart seemed deeply affected. Under that stout heart, which never shrunk, was a wealth of sweetness and kindness. “Well, they are not coming back, my good woman,” he said, in a voice of deep feeling. “You need not be afraid--they are gone now.” The poor woman clasped her hands. “Oh! do you believe that, child!”[1] she said; “do you believe they’ll never come back?” [Footnote 1: Her words.] “I hope not, at least,” Stuart replied, in a low tone. “She clasped her hands, and for the third time addressing him as ‘child,’ sobbed:-- “Oh! if they will only never come back!”