Far away among the peaceful hills of his native State there fell upon his father's house a sorrow such as its inmates had never known before. Not that this family had escaped the ordinary bereavements of human life. On the contrary, two little children had been taken from them at intervals of time which seemed to them cruelly brief. But the death of an infant, while a sad, is a beautiful thing to witness. There is no flower that blooms on a baby grave that does not speak to the world-worn heart, of _Immortality_. The grief, therefore, is gentle in its touch. But with the ebb of a maturer life the sorrow is of a different character, and when the physician announced to this worthy couple that their daughter, Elvira, would die, they were stunned by the blow, and when the event came "they refused" like Rachel "to be comforted." The child that is going from us is, for the time, the favorite, and these afflicted parents could not realize that she who had grown up among them, the ewe lamb of their flock, could be torn from their loving arms, and go down, like coarser clay, to the dark grave. She was so good, so gentle, so loving to her kindred, that their simple hearts could not understand how God could let her die, in the very bloom and beauty of her maidenhood. But though crushed, they bowed their heads in submission. Their hearts were almost broken, but they rebelled not against the Hand that chastened them. Why is it that such examples of tender feeling and unquestioning faith are seldom found in cities? Is it that "the memories which peaceful country scenes call up, are not of this world; nor of _its_ thoughts and hopes?" That "their gentle influences teach us how to weave fresh garlands for the graves of those we love, purify our thoughts, and beat down old enmities and hatreds?" And that "beneath all this there lingers in the least reflective mind, a vague and half-formed consciousness of having held such feelings long before, which calls up solemn thoughts of distant times to come, and bends down pride and worldliness before it?" The physician had said that Elvira would not live another day, and the mother sat down to the sad task of writing the mournful news to her soldier son. Meanwhile beyond the Rappahannock, a scene was on the eve of being enacted, which was destined to inflict upon her a pain as poignant as that she was, now about to bestow. The night of October eighteenth was passed by Kilpatrick's command at Gainesville, but the first faint streak of dawn saw him and his faithful followers in the saddle, booted, spurred, and equipped for some enterprise as yet unexplained to them, but evidently, in their leader's estimation, one of "pith and moment." At the word of command, the force, including the "Harris Light," moved forward at a quick trot, taking the road to Warrenton, and anticipating a brush with Stuart's cavalry who, during the previous ten hours, had thrown out videttes in their immediate front.