We have already noted the fact that when Lyon took Camp Jackson, he divided his force and sent different detachments of it along different routes, all converging on the encampment in Lindell’s Grove. A regiment of artillery went through Chestnut Street, on which this lady of bloody intent lived. Mr. Blair rode on horseback at the head of it. The street was not very wide. He sat majestically on his horse. He was a splendid target, enticing to any one who longed to shoot him. The house in which our lady lived had at the second story an iron balcony on which French windows opened. Some one said to her, “Frank Blair is coming.” She seized her loaded revolver. She panted to become famous, and saw not that at the same time, if she carried out her purpose, she would become infamous. She grasped and turned the knob of the window; it swung back on its hinges into the room; she put one foot out upon the balcony; Blair was now nearly abreast of her, and only a few feet from her; just behind him was a battery of artillery; this was the first time that she had seen the brazen throats of cannon. Did she fire at that living target on horseback? She utterly failed to act the assassin; the sight of those six and eight pounders sent the blood from her head to her heart; things went swirling around her; she faintly whispered “Oh! Oh!” and fell back into the room in a dead faint. Blair rode on all unconscious of his feminine foe, while the members of her family, with cold water and hartshorn, anxiously labored to restore her to consciousness. She at last opened her eyes, a sadder but wiser woman. During the years of the war that followed, her neighbors, when they greeted her, often asked, “And how is Frank Blair?” Just how we then made merry over intended murder, it is now difficult to explain. The lady of whom I write would have been shocked to have heard it so characterized. She simply meditated the deed of a patriotic heroine. But after her vaunted violence ended in a faint she seemed to lose all interest in the war. The sight of a few brass field pieces drove out of her forever all bitterness of spirit.