Widow Simms could keep silent no longer, and brandishing her polished shears by way of adding emphasis to what she said, she began: “And s’posin’ ’tis folks as poor as poverty struck, haint they feelin’s, I’d like to know? Haint they got bodies and souls, and mothers, and wives, and sisters? And s’posin’ ’tis _democrats_,—more shame for t’other side that helped get up the muss. Where be they now, them chaps that wore the big black capes, and did so much toward puttin’ Lincoln in that chair? Why don’t they help to keep him settin’ there, and not stand back with their hands tucked in their trouses’ pockets? Both my boys, Eli and John, voted t’other ticket, and Isaac would, but he wasn’t twenty-one. They’ve all jined, and I won’t say I’m sorry, for if there’s anything I hate, it’s a _sneak!_ It makes me _so_ mad!” and the big shears again clicked savagely, as Widow Simms resumed her work, after having thus delivered her opinion of the _black republicans_, besides having, in her own words, given “that puckerin Miss Mathers a piece of her mind.” Obtuse as Rose was on many points, she saw there was some homely truth in what the widow had said, but this did not impress her so much as the fact that she had evidently given offence, and she was about trying to extricate herself from the dilemma when George Graham appeared, ostensibly to bring some trivial message to the President of the Society, but really to see if his wife were there, and speak to her some kind word of encouragement. Rose recognized him as the young man she had seen at the war meeting, and the moment he left the hall, she broke out impetuously, “Isn’t he handsome?—so tall, so broad-shouldered, and such a splendid mark for a bullet,—I most know he will be shot?” “Hush-sh!” came warningly from several individuals, but came too late. The mischief was done. Ere Rose could collect her thoughts a group of frightened women had gathered around poor Annie, who had fainted. “What’s the matter? do tell!” cried Rose, standing on tiptoe and clutching at the dress of Widow Simms, who angrily retorted, “I should s’pose you’d ask. It’s enough to make the poor critter faint clean away to hear a body talk about her husband’s being a fust rate mark for a bullet!” With all her thoughtlessness, Rose had the kindest heart in the world; and forcing her way through the crowd, she knelt by the white-faced-Annie, and taking the drooping head in her lap, pushed back the thick braids of hair, noticing, with her quick eye for the beautiful, how soft and luxuriant they were, how pure was the complexion, how perfect were the features, how small and delicate the fingers, and how graceful was the slender neck. “I’m so sorry! I wish I’d staid at home; I _am_ so sorry,” she kept repeating; and when at last Annie returned to consciousness, Rose Mather’s was the first voice she heard, Rose’s the first face she saw.