When Rachel awoke the next morning the sky was lowering darkly. On going to the window she found a most depressing change from the scene of bright merriment she had studied the night before. A chill Winter rain was falling with dreary persistence, pattering on the dead leaves that covered the ground, and soaking into the sodden earth. A few forlorn little birds hopped wearily about, searching in vain in the dry husks and empty insect shells for the food that had once been so plentiful there. Up and down the streets, as far as she could see, men in squads or singly, under officers or without organization, plodded along dejectedly, taking the cold drench from above, and the clinging mud around their feet, with the dumb, stolid discontent characteristic of seasoned veterans. When mules and horses went by they seemed poor and shrunken. They drew their limbs and bodies together, as if to present the least surface to the inclement showers, and their labored, toilsome motion contrasted painfully with their strong, free movement on brighter days. Everything and everybody in sight added something to increase the dismalness of the view, and as Rachel continued to gaze upon it the “horrors” took possession of her. She began to brood wretchedly over her position as a spy inside the enemy's lines, and upon all the consequences of that position. It was late that night when Fortner came in. As he entered the two expectant women saw, by the ruddy light of the fire, that his face was set and his eyes flashing. He hung his dripping hat on a peg in the chimney, and kicked the blazing logs with his wet boots until a flood of meteor sparks flew up the throat of the fireplace. Turning, he said, without waiting to be questioned: “Well, the hunt's begun at last. Our folks came out'n Nashville this morning in three big armies, marchin' on different roads, an they begun slashin' at the Rebels wherever they could find 'em. Thar's been fouten at Triune an' Lavergne, an' all along the line. They histed the Rebels out'n ther holes everywhar, an' druv' em back on the jump. Wagon load arter wagon load o' wounded's comin' back. I come in ahead of a long train agwine ter the hospital. Hark! ye kin heah 'em now.” The women listened. They heard the ceaseless patter and swish of the gloomy rain--the gusty sighs of the wind through the shade-trees' naked branches--louder still the rolling of heavy wheels over the rough streets; and all these were torn and rent by the shrieks of men in agony. “Poor fellows,” said Rachel, “how they are suffering!” “Think ruther,” said Aunt Debby calmly, “of how they've made others suffer. Hit's God's judgement on 'em.” Rachel turned to Fortner. “What will come next? Will this end it? Will the Rebels fall back and leave this place?”