"I'm sure I can't tell. We've given everything we have on earth except the clothes on our back. I haven't another piece of jewelry, or even an old dress."
"The tax and the costs may amount to a hundred and seventy-five dollars. There isn't a man in this county who has that much money, or I'd borrow it if I had to mortgage my body and soul to do it."
"I'll tell you what you might do," his wife suddenly exclaimed. "Telegraph your old college mate in Boston that you will accept his invitation to supply his pulpit those last two Sundays in August. They will pay you handsomely."
"It may be possible, but where am I to get the money for a telegram and a ticket?"
"Surely you can borrow some here!"
"I don't know a man in the county who has it."
"Then go to the young Commandant of the post here. Tell him the facts. Tell him that a widow of a brave Confederate soldier is about to be turned out of her home because she can't pay the taxes levied by this infamous negro government. Ask him to loan you the money for the telegram and the ticket."
The Preacher seized his hat and made his way as fast as possible to the camp. The young Captain heard his story with grave courtesy.
"Certainly, doctor," he said, "I'll loan you the forty dollars with pleasure. I wish I could do more to relieve the distress of the people. Believe me, sir, the people of the North do not dream of the awful conditions of the South. They are being fooled by the politicians. I'll thank God when I am relieved of this job and get home. What has amazed me is that you hot-headed Southern people have stood it thus far. I don't know a Northern community that would have endured it."
"Ah, Captain, the people are heartsick of bloodshed,
