plantation looked upon her as little less than an angel; but she could never close her eyes to the miseries that slavery brought in its train.

She died a few days after Fort Sumter was fired upon. A few hours before she passed away she called Frederic to her bedside, told him how his great-grandfather had died on Bunker Hill, and asked him to give her a solemn promise to ever be true to the flag of his country.

"Remember, my son," she said, "that a just God will never prosper a nation whose chief corner-stone is human slavery."

These words sank deep into Frederic's heart, and were ever with him during all the dark and terrible days which followed. He readily gave his mother the promise she requested, and a few hours afterward she sank peacefully to rest.

As much as Frederic loved his mother, and as deeply as he grieved for her in the months and years that followed, he thanked God that she had been spared the misery and agony that would have been hers if she had lived.

Mr. Shackelford was so prostrated by the death of his wife that for some weeks he paid no attention to the turmoil going on around him. He was an old line Whig in politics, but a stout believer in the rights of the State. He deplored the war, and hoped against hope that some way might be found to avert it.

Judge Horace Pennington, the father of Calhoun, was one of the most honored citizens of Danville. He was a veritable Southern fire-eater, and had nothing but contempt for anything that came from the North. But his integrity was as sterling as his politics were violent. He was the soul of honor and truth, and despised anything that looked like deception. He had no words too strong in which to express his contempt for the part Kentucky was taking in the great drama that was being enacted. When the State refused to join the Southern Confederacy his rage knew no bounds. He would have nothing to do with the plotting that was going on. "Let us go out like men," he would say, "not creep out like thieves." When the State declared for neutrality, he said: "The State is sovereign; she can do as she pleases, but it is a cowardly makeshift; it will not last."

The mother of Calhoun was a sister of Mr. Shackelford, but she died when Calhoun was a baby, and for years another Mrs. Pennington had presided over the Judge's household. For this reason much of the childhood of Calhoun had been spent at the home of his uncle, and thus it was that he and Frederic were more like brothers than cousins.

The position of Kentucky, at the beginning of the great Civil War, was peculiar. She refused to furnish troops for the suppression of the rebellion; she refused to secede. Her governor was an ardent Secessionist; the majority of the members of the Legislature were for the maintenance of the Union. Her people were nearly equally divided. As a last resort the Legislature passed resolutions of neutrality, and both the Federal and Confederate governments were warned not to invade her sacred soil. For a time both governments, in part, respected her position, and sent no troops from other States into her territory. But the citizens of Kentucky were not neutral. They violently espoused the cause of one side or the other. Thousands of Kentuckians left the State and joined the armies of the Confederacy. All through the State the secession element was very active, and the Federal government saw it must take some action or the State would be lost to the Union. So Lieutenant William Nelson of the United States navy, and a native Kentuckian, was commissioned to raise ten regiments of Kentucky troops for service in the Union army. This movement met with the most violent opposition, even from many professed Union men, who claimed that Kentucky's position of neutrality should be respected. The militia of the State, known as "State Guards," was mostly officered and controlled by the Southern element. In opposition to the "State Guards," companies were organized throughout the State known as "Home Guards." The "Home Guards" were Union men. Thus Kentucky was organized into two great hostile camps. Such was the condition of affairs at the opening of this story.

It lacked just five minutes of ten o'clock when Fred reined in his reeking horse before the hotel at Nicholasville. Placing the bridle in the hands of the black hostler, and handing him a ten-dollar bill, Fred said: "I must take the train. This horse has been ridden fast and long. See that he has every attention. You know what to do in such cases."

"Trus' ole Peter fo' dat," answered the darky, bowing and scraping. "Youn' massa will hab his hoss bac' jes as good as ebber."

Fred just had time to catch the train, as it moved out from the depot. When Lexington was reached he had to make a change for Louisville. The news of the defeat of the Federal forces at Bull Run had reached Lexington, and late as it was the streets were thronged with an excited crowd. Cheers for Beauregard and the Southern Confederacy seemed to be on every tongue. If the Union had friends, they were silent. In the estimation of the excited crowd the South was already victorious; the North humbled and vanquished. It was now but a step before Washington would be in the possession of the Southern army, and Lincoln a prisoner or a fugitive.

That the Union army had been defeated was a surprise to Fred. He now knew why Nelson was so urgent about the dispatches, and realized as never before that the nation was engaged in a desperate conflict. The cries of the mob angered him. "I wonder where the Union men are," he growled; "are they cowards that they keep silent?" And Fred was about to let out a good old-fashioned yell for the Union, regardless of consequences, when he recollected the mission he was on. It must not be; he must do nothing to endanger the success of his journey, and he bit his lip and kept silent, but his blood was boiling. Just before the train started two gentlemen came in and took the seat in front of him. They were in excellent humor, and exulting over the Confederate victory in Virginia. One of them Fred knew by sight. He was a prominent politician, and an officer of the State Guards. The other gentleman was not so distinguished looking as his companion, but his keen eyes gave his clear-cut features a kind of dare-devil expression. But beyond this, there was something about the man that would give one the impression that he was not only a man of daring, but of cool, calculating judgment, just the man to lead in a movement that would require both daring and coolness. As soon as they had seated themselves, the first gentleman, whom we will call Major Hockoday, turned to his companion and said:

"Well, Morgan, isn't this glorious news? I knew those truckling Yankees could never stand before the gentlemen of the South. I hardly look for much war now. Washington will fall, and Lincoln will be on his knees before a week, begging for peace."

Major Hockoday's companion was no less a personage than John H. Morgan, afterward one of the most daring raiders and dashing cavalry leaders produced by the South.

Morgan did not answer for a moment, and then slowly replied:

"Major, I think that you politicians, both North and South, ought to show more sense than you do. There are those Northern politicians who have been declaring the war would not last for ninety days. The time is up, and the war has hardly begun. Now you fellows who have been associating so long with the dough-faces of the North, think the whole North is a truckling, pusillanimous set. In my business I have met another class in the North—thrifty and earnest. They are not only earnest, but brave; and not only brave, but stubborn. They will hold on like bulldogs. I fear the effects of this victory will be just