Not until the surrender of Lee and Johnston did Calhoun give up every hope of the independence of the South. But the end came, and in bitter anguish he laid down his arms. He had given his young life to his country when only seventeen years of age. For four years he had fought and hoped. When the end came it seemed to him the sky was darkened, that every hope had perished, that everything worth living for was gone. Oh, the bitterness of defeat! Strong men wept like children. Even the victors stood in silence over the grief of those whom they had met so many times in battle. They were brothers now, and they took them by the hand and bade them be of good cheer, and divided their rations with them. The soldiers who had fought each other on so many bloody fields were the first to fraternize, the first to forget. When Calhoun gave his parole, he met his cousin Fred, who was on General Sherman’s staff. The meeting was a happy one for Calhoun, for it served to dispel the gloom which depressed his spirits. It seemed to be like old times to be with Fred again. Nothing would satisfy Fred, but that Calhoun should return home by the way of Washington. He consented, and was in Washington at the time of the Grand Review. All day long he watched the mighty armies of Grant and Sherman, as with steady tread they marched through the streets, showered with flowers, greeted with proud huzzahs. And then he thought of the home-coming of the ragged Confederates, and the tears ran down his cheeks. But as he looked upon the thousands and thousands as they marched along, and remembered the depleted ranks of the Southern army, his only wonder was that the South had held out so long as it did. Defeated they were, but their deeds are carved deep in the temple of fame, never to be erased. CHAPTER XXV. THE LONE RAIDER. It was near the close of a beautiful day in early June that Joyce Crawford was once more standing by the gate, looking down the road. It is nearly two years since we saw her last. She has grown taller, more womanly, even more beautiful, if that were possible. The sound of war had ceased in the land. No longer was the fierce raider abroad; yet Joyce Crawford stood looking down that road as intently as she did that eventful evening when Calhoun Pennington came riding to the door. She had not heard a word from him since his escape; nor had she expected to hear. All that she could do was to scan the papers for his name among the killed or captured Confederates. But the Northern papers published few names of Confederates known to have been killed, except the highest and most distinguished officers.