We found her in a little faded green house, whose veranda was broken through in many places.  Scared-looking, dark-eyed children darted shyly through the open door as we approached.  In the darkened front room she received us, and, without any surprise, pleasure, or resentment in her voice, asked us to sit down.  As our eyes became accustomed to the gloom, we wondered more and more why the sunshine was excluded, for there was no carpet to fade, nor any furniture which would have been injured.  The most conspicuous object in the room was the framed family group taken just before “her man” went away.  He was a handsome young fellow in his tidy uniform, and the woman beside him had such a merry face that I should never have known her for the sad and faded person who had met us at the door.  In the picture she was smiling, happy, resolute; now her face was limp and frazzled, and had an indefinable challenge in it which baffled me.  My old friend was right—­there was a sore thought there!

The bright black eyes of the handsome soldier fascinated me; he was so much alive; so fearless; so confident, so brave,—­so much needed by these little ones who clustered around his knee.  Again, as I looked upon this picture, the horrors of war rolled over my helpless heart.

My old friend was trying hard to engage the woman in conversation, but her manner was abstracted and strange.  I noticed her clothes were all black, even the flannel bandage around her throat—­she was recovering from an attack of quinsy—­was black too; and as if in answer to my thoughts, she said:—­

“It was red—­but I dyed it—­I couldn’t bear to have it red—­it bothered me.  That’s why I keep the blinds down too—­the sun hurts me—­it has no right to shine—­just the same as if nothing had happened.”  Her voice quivered with passion.

“Have you any neighbors, Mrs. C——?” I asked; for her manner made me uneasy—­she had been too much alone.

“Neighbors!” she stormed,—­“neighbors!  I haven’t any, and I do not want them:  they would only lie about me—­the way they lied about Fred!”

“Surely nobody ever lied about Fred,” I said,—­“this fine, brave fellow.”

“He does look brave, doesn’t he?” she cried.  “You are a stranger, but you can see it, can’t you?  You wouldn’t think he was a coward, would you?”

“I would stake everything on his bravery!” I said honestly, looking at the picture.

She came over and squeezed my hand.

“It was a wicked lie—­all a lie!” she said bitterly.

“Tell us all about it,” I said; “I am sure there has been a mistake.”

She went quickly out of the room, and my old friend and I stared at each other without speaking.  In a few minutes she came back with a “paper” in her hand, and, handing it to me, she said, “Read that and you’ll see what they say!”

I read the announcement which stated that her husband had been missing since September 29, and was now believed to have been killed.  “This is just what is sent to every one—­” I began, but she interrupted me.