Very sad and heartrending were the scenes with which Iola came in constant contact. Well may Christian men and women labor and pray for the time when nations shall learn war no more; when, instead of bloody conflicts, there shall be peaceful arbitration. The battle in which Robert fought, after his last conversation with Captain Sybil, was one of the decisive struggles of the closing conflict. The mills of doom and fate had ground out a fearful grist of agony and death,

“And lives of men and souls of States
Were thrown like chaff beyond the gates.”

Numbers were taken prisoners. Pale, young corpses strewed the earth; manhood was stricken down in the flush of its energy and prime. The ambulances brought in the wounded and dying. Captain Sybil laid down his life on the altar of freedom. His prediction was fulfilled. Robert was brought into the hospital, wounded, but not dangerously. Iola remembered him as being the friend of Tom Anderson, and her heart was drawn instinctively towards him. For awhile he was delirious, but her presence had a soothing effect upon him. He sometimes imagined that she was his mother, and he would tell her how he had missed her; and then at times he would call her sister. Iola, tender and compassionate, humored his fancies, and would sing to him in low, sweet tones some of the hymns she had learned in her old home in Mississippi. One day she sang a few verses of the hymn beginning with the words—

“Drooping souls no longer grieve,
Heaven is propitious;
If on Christ you do believe,
You will find Him precious.”

“That,” said he, looking earnestly into Iola’s face, “was my mother’s hymn. I have not heard it for years. Where did you learn it?”

Iola gazed inquiringly upon the face of her patient, and saw, by his clear gaze and the expression of his face, that his reason had returned.

“In my home, in Mississippi, from my own dear mother,” was Iola’s reply.

“Do you know where she learned it?” asked Robert.

“When she was a little girl she heard her mother sing it. Years after, a Methodist preacher came to our house, sang this hymn, and left the book behind him. My father was a Catholic, but my mother never went to any church. I did not understand it then, but I do now. We used to sing together, and read the Bible when we were alone.”

“Do you remember where she came from, and who was her mother?” asked Robert, anxiously.

“My dear friend, you must be quiet. The fever has left you, but I will not answer for the consequences if you get excited.”

Robert lay quiet and thoughtful for awhile and, seeing he was wakeful, Iola said, “Have you any friends to whom you would like to send a letter?”

A pathetic expression flitted over his face, as he sadly replied, “I haven’t, to my knowledge, a single relation in the world. When I was about ten years old my mother and sister were sold from me. It is more than twenty years since I have heard from them. But that hymn which you were singing reminded me so much of my mother! She used to sing it when I was a child. Please sing it again.”

Iola’s voice rose soft and clear by his bedside, till he fell into a quiet slumber. She remembered that her mother had spoken of her brother before they had parted, and her interest and curiosity were awakened by Robert’s story. While he slept, she closely scrutinized Robert’s features, and detected a striking resemblance between him and her mother.

“Oh, I do wonder if he can be my mother’s brother, from whom she has been separated so many years!”

Anxious as she was to ascertain if there was any relationship between Robert and her mother, she forebore to question him on the subject which lay so near her heart. But one day, when he was so far recovered as to be able to walk around, he met Iola on the hospital grounds, and said to her:—

“Miss Iola, you remind me so much of my mother and sister that I cannot help wondering if you are the daughter of my long-lost sister.”

“Do you think,” asked Iola, “if you saw the likeness of your sister you would recognize her?”

“I am afraid not. But there is one thing I can remember about her: she used to have a mole on her cheek, which mother used to tell her was her beauty spot.”

“Look at this,” said Iola, handing him a locket which contained her mother’s picture.

Robert grasped the locket eagerly, scanned the features attentively, then, handing it back, said: “I have only a faint remembrance of my sister’s features; but I never could recognize in that beautiful woman the dear little sister with whom I used to play. Oh, the cruelty of slavery! How it wrenched and tore us apart! Where is your mother now?”

“Oh, I cannot tell,” answered Iola. “I left her in Mississippi. My father was a wealthy Creole planter, who fell in love with my mother. She was his slave, but he educated her in the North, freed, and married her. My father was very careful to have the fact of our negro blood concealed from us. I had not the slightest suspicion of it. When he was dead the secret was revealed. His white relations set aside my father’s will, had his marriage declared invalid, and my mother and her children were remanded to slavery.” Iola shuddered as she pronounced the horrid word, and grew deadly pale; but, regaining her self-possession, continued: “Now, that freedom has come, I intend to search for my mother until I find her.”

“I do not wonder,” said Robert, “that we had this war. The nation had sinned enough to suffer.”

“Yes,” said Iola, “if national sins bring down national judgments, then the nation is only reaping what it sowed.”

“What are your plans for the future, or have you any?” asked Robert.

“I intend offering myself as a teacher in one of the schools which are being opened in different parts of the country,” replied Iola. “As soon as I am able I will begin my search for my dear mother. I will advertise for her in the papers, hunt for her in the churches, and use all the means in my power to get some tidings of her and my brother Harry. What a cruel thing it was to separate us!”