And when the end came, when the bravest soldiers returned, wretched and despairing, even weeping bitter tears within the faithful arms that sheltered them, the faces which bent above them still bravely smiled.  Beloved voices whispered of encouragement and hope, patient hearts assumed burdens under which men fainted and failed.

From the root of patriotism, deeply buried in the hearts of Southern women, sprung a new and vigorous growth.  Its tendrils overspread and concealed desolate places; the breath of its flowers filled all the land, stealing over the senses like an invigorating breeze.

“There is life in the old land yet,” said men to each other.  Let us cherish and develop it.  And so, once more each lifted his heavy burden, and finding it unexpectedly lightened, turned to find at his side, no longer a helpless clinging form which should hamper his every step, but a true woman, strong in the love which defied discouragement, “with a heart for any fate,” a helpmeet, indeed, who hereafter would allow no burden to remain unshared.

Thus faithful to the living, the women of the South never forgot their dead heroes.  At first it was impossible to do more than to “keep green” their sacred graves, or to deposit thereon a few simple flowers, but the earliest rays of the sun of prosperity fell upon many a “storied urn and animated bust,” raised by tireless love and self-sacrifice, to mark “the bivouac of the dead.”  In connection with one of these, erected by the ladies of New Orleans, in Greenwood Cemetery, I know an anecdote which has always seemed to me particularly beautiful and touching, as illustrative of an exquisite sentiment which could have had its birth only in the heart of a true and tender woman.  After the removal of the bones of the Confederate soldiers, who had died in and about New Orleans, from their lowly graves to their last resting-place, under their grand and beautiful monument, many people repaired thither as to a shrine.  Among them appeared one evening Mrs. H——­, a sister of the gallant and ever-lamented Major Nelligan, of the First Louisiana.  After viewing the monument, Mrs. H——­ strolled over among the graves, and there came upon a few bones of Confederate soldiers, which had been accidentally left upon the ground.

They seemed to her so precious, so sacred, that they must have sepulchre; but how should she accomplish this end?  Nothing that she had or could get, in short, nothing that had been used would do.  Instantly she sought the first store where a piece of new linen could be bought; returning with it, she reverently laid the bones within it, and, without speaking a word to any one of her intentions, buried them in the garden at home, where they now lie.

I have not yet told all I know about Confederate women, nor even the half, nor is it needful that I should.  While recounting their history to future generations, Fame will put by her brazen trumpet, yet sing their praises in tones so sweet and clear that all the world shall hear and wonder and admire.