were soldiers who had crept through the lines to see Miss Evans and hear her sing.  The mother was disposed to object to her appearing at a time and place not conventionally appropriate to artistic performances, but, wrapping her travelling coat and robe about her, she went out into the moonlight with her mass of hair streaming in the wind like a flying cloud, and sang that thrilling song written by her friend, Randall, “Maryland, my Maryland.”  As the melodious tones swelled out upon the night and came floating back in echoes from the rugged peaks and mountain walls, they filled the audience with rapt delight.  When the song was finished the sobs and cheers that burst from the soldier-hearts formed an encore not to be denied, and again that battle-cry thrilled out upon the air.  The moment of silence that followed was broken by the high, shrill, quavering, penetrating note of the rebel yell.

The singer has passed into the land of the higher music and most of those who thrilled to the sound of her battle-song on that war-crowned height have passed away from the melodies of earth, but somewhere in this wide land there may be hearts through which yet pulses the music of that midnight song.

Among the most valued possessions of Mrs. Wilson were the rings, bracelets and baskets fashioned from buttons and fruit-seeds by her soldiers in hospital, tokens of their grateful remembrance of her.  I showed her a little cross cut from a button in a prison and given to me by my uncle, Colonel Phillips, of the Confederate Army, who had been a captive on Johnson’s Island.  The prisoners used the cross to certify to the validity of secret messages.  It was sent with the message and returned with the answer, carrying conviction of the truthfulness of both.

I told her the story of another cross, connected with the surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia.  Colonel Aylett, of the Fifty-Third Virginia, a very religious man, was talking with some friends when a letter came bringing the sad tidings.  “I do not believe it,” he said.  “If it could be true I should not have faith in God or in prayer.”  As he talked he took from his pocket a letter folded in the way that was followed when we had no envelopes, and, cutting it, let it fall to the floor.  One of his companions took it up, placing the pieces on the table to look for an address, and found that the fragments formed a crucifix, the cross at each side to which the thieves were nailed, the block supporting the crucifix, the block on which the dice were thrown, the sponge and the reed, as if in imitation of a celebrated painting of the Crucifixion.