LITMIR.BIZ

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usage was now poignantly evident, and the very atmosphere was heavy with an unconquerable melancholy. Some half-tipsy members of the De Lancey militia singing about "King George the Third" only added to the sense of some incongruous disaster. Everyone has felt the intolerable ennui which follows a noisy merry-making – the deserted disorder, the spilled wine, the disdained food, the withered flowers, the silenced jest, the giving over of all left to desecration and destruction – all this, and far more was concentrated in that wretched ennui of unhappy souls which filled the streets of New York that hot summer afternoon. For an intense dejection lay heavy on every heart. Like people with the same disease, men avoided and yet sought each other. They dared not say, they hardly dared to think, that their love for the King was dying of a disease that had no pity – that their idol had himself torn away the roots of their loyalty. But they closed their shops early, and retreated to the citadel of their homes. Melancholy, hopelessness, silence, infected the atmosphere and became epidemic, and men and women, sensitive to spiritual maladies, went into their chambers and shut their doors, but could not shut out the unseen contagion. It rained down on them in their sleep, and they dreamed of the calamities they feared.

      It was on this afternoon that John Bradley received a new "call" and answered it. Affected deeply by the events of the day, he left his shop in the middle of the hot afternoon and went about some business which took him near the King's College Building, then crowded with American prisoners. As he came under the windows, he heard a thin, quavering voice singing lines very dear and familiar to him:

      Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take!

      The clouds ye so much dread

      Are big with mercy, and shall break

      In blessings on your head.

      Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,

      But trust him for his grace:

      Behind a frowning providence

      He hides a smiling face.

      Then there was a pause and Bradley called aloud: "Brother, who are you?"

      "William Watson," was the answer.

      "I thought so. How are you?"

      "Dying," then a pause, and a stronger voice added, "and in need of all things."

      "Brother Watson, what do you want that I can get now?"

      "Cold water to drink, and some fresh fruit," and then, as if further instructed the voice added, "when you can, a clean shirt to be buried in."

      "Tell William he shall have them." His whole manner had changed. There was something he could do, and he went at once for the fruit and water. Fortunately, he knew the provost of this prison and had done him some favors, so he had no hesitation in asking him to see that the small comforts were given to William Watson.

      "He was a member of my class meeting, Provost," said Bradley; "a Methodist leader must love his brother in Christ." Here Bradley's voice failed him and the Provost added, "I knew him too – he used to live in good style in Queen Street. I will see that he gets the fruit and water."

      "And if you need anything for yourself in the way of saddlery, Provost, I will be glad to serve you."

      "I was thinking of a new riding whip."

      "I will bring you the best I have. One good turn deserves another."

      Then, after a little further conversation he turned homeward, and men who met him on the way wondered what was the matter with John Bradley. For, without cessation, as he walked, he went over and over the same three words, "Christ forgive me!" And no one could smile at the monotonous iteration; the man was in too dead earnest; his face was too remorseful, his voice too tragic.

      The next morning he was very early in Superintendent Ludlow's office. The great man of the Court of Police had not arrived, but Bradley waited until he came.

      "You are an early visitor, Mr. Bradley," he said pleasantly.

      "I have a favor to ask, Judge."

      "Come in here then. What is it? You are no place or plunder hunter."

      "Judge, a month ago you asked me to make you a saddle."

      "And you would not do it. I remember."

      "I could not – at least I thought I could not; now, if you will let me, I will make you the fittest saddle possible – it shall be my own work, every stitch of it."

      "How much money do you want for such a saddle, Bradley?"

      "I want no money at all. I want a very small favor from you."

      "Nothing for the rebels, I hope. I cannot grant any favor in that direction."

      "I want nothing for the rebels; I want one hour every Sunday afternoon in the College prison with my class members."

      "Oh, I don't know, Bradley – "

      "Yes, you know, Judge. You know, if I give you my promise, I will keep every letter of it."

      "What is your promise?"

      "I want only to pray with my brothers or to walk awhile with them as they go through the Valley of the Shadow. I promise you that no word of war, or defeat or victory; that no breath of any political opinion shall pass my lips. Nor will I listen to any such."

      "Bradley, I don't think I can grant you this request. It would not be right."

      "Judge, this is a thing within your power, and you must grant it. We shall stand together at the Judgment, and when the Lord Christ says, 'I was hungered, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed me not: sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not:' don't let me be obliged to plead, 'Lord Christ, I would have fed, and clothed, and visited the sick and in prison, but this man barred my way.' Open the door, Judge, and it shall be well with you for it."

      Then, without a word, Ludlow turned to his desk and wrote an order permitting John Bradley to visit his friends for one hour every Sunday afternoon; and as he did so, his face cleared, and when he signed his name he had the glow of a good deed in his heart, and he said:

      "Never mind the saddle, Bradley. I don't want to be paid for this thing. You say William Watson is dying – poor Willie! We have fished together many a long summer day"; and he took a few gold pieces from his pocket and added, "they are for the old friend, not for the rebel. You understand. Good morning, sir."

      "Good morning, Judge. I won't overstep your grant in any way. I know better."

      From this interview he went direct to the prison and sent the gold to the dying man. And as he stood talking to the provost the dead cart came, and five nearly naked bodies were thrown into it, their faces being left uncovered for the provost's inspection. Bradley gazed on them with a hot heart; emaciated to the last point with fever and want, there was yet on every countenance the peace that to the living, passeth understanding. They had died in the night-watches, in the dark, without human help or sympathy, but doubtless sustained by Him whose name is Wonderful!

      "All of them quite common men!" said the provost carelessly – "country rustics – plebeians!"

      But when Bradley told his daughter of this visit, he added, passionately, "Plebeians! Well, then, Agnes, Plebeians who found out the secret of a noble death!"

      Sweeter than Joy, tho' Joy might abide;

      Dearer than Love, tho' Love might endure,

      Is this thing, for a man to have died

      For the wronged and the poor!

      Let none be glad until all are free;

      The song be still and the banner furled,

      Till all have seen what the poets see

      And foretell to the world!

      CHAPTER IV.

      A SONG OF A SINGLE NOTE

      The next morning, very soon after breakfast, Maria came down stairs ready to visit her friend. She was dressed like a schoolgirl in a little

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