One more reminiscence and the Grove Hill picture will be done. No Virginia home being complete without some prominent negro character, the picture lacking this would be untrue to nature, and without the "finishing touch." And not to have "stepped in" to pay our respects to old "Aunt Betsy" during a visit to Grove Hill, would have been considered--as it should be to omit it here--a great breach of civility; for the old woman always received us at her door with a cordial welcome and a hearty shake of the hand. "Lor' bless de childen!" she would say. "How they does grow! Done grown up young ladies! Set down, honey. I mighty glad to see you. And why didn't your ma (Miss Fanny) come? I would love to see Miss Fanny. She always was so good and so pretty. Seems to me it ain't been no time sence she and Miss Emma"--her own mistress--"used to play dolls together, an' I used to bake sweet cakes for 'em, and cut 'em out wid de pepper-box top, for thar doll parties; an' they loved each other like sisters." "Well, Aunt Betsy," we would ask, "how is your rheumatism now?" "Lor', honey, I nuver specs to git over that. But some days I can hobble out and feed de chickens; and I can set at my window and make de black childen feed 'em, an' I love to think I'm some account to Miss Emma. And Miss Emma's childen can't do without old 'Mammy Betsy,' for I takes care of all thar pet chickens. Me and my old man (Phil) gittin mighty ole now; but Miss Emma and all her childen so good to us we has pleasure in livin' yet." At last the shadows began to fall dark and chill upon this once bright and happy home. Old Aunt Betsy lived to see the four boys--her mistress' brave and noble sons--buckle their armor on and go forth to battle for the home they loved so well; the youngest, still so young that he loved his pet chickens, which were left to "Mammy Betsy's" special care; and when the sad news, at length, came that this favorite young master was killed, amid all the agony of grief, no heart felt more sincerely, than her's, the great sorrow. Another, and still another of these noble youths fell, after deeds of valor unparalleled in the world's history--their graves the battlefield, a place of burial fit for men so brave. Only one--the youngest--was brought home to find a resting place beside the graves of his ancestors. The old man--their father, his mind shattered by grief--continued day after day, for several years, to sit in the vine-covered porch, gazing wistfully out, imagining sometimes he saw in the distance the manly forms of his noble sons, returning home, mounted on their favorite horses, in the gray uniforms and bright armor worn the day they went off. Then, he too followed, where the "din of war, the clash of arms" is heard no more.