And she found the metal thing that had fallen: it was a round, gold-rimmed wafer of ambrotype which had been set in someone’s watch case, and God knew why it had been removed. Identification … it was a girl with dark hair drawn close around her face, neck and shoulders bare; she might have been beautiful—there was no telling, with only candlelight and glossy tricks of photography to inform. On the back was scratched in square, firm lettering: Triggie Richmond Aug 1861. Triggie, Irene thought, he is dead and you do not know it. He must have died on the library table, and Doctor Pell took this out of his watch to give to somebody, or to keep, so that they might tell you and give you back to yourself. And they forgot you, Triggie Richmond Aug 1861, when they went away with the wagons.

Again she heard the last crooning of the weak rows as they were hustled outside and laid hurriedly in the straw of the wagons. Rain would have drowned them yesterday, she prayed, before their wounds had time to become raw from the rubbing.

She put the rimmed picture on top of the cabinet. Her hand fell against the bass and made a mighty discord. Then she stiffened, and peered once more at the music … there came a rest, somewhere. Here.

Mrs. Duffey appeared in memory, as she had appeared in the flesh on Saturday night, but now part and parcel with Chopin. Mrs. Duffey in a baggy waterproof of the doctor’s, and with a boy soldier behind her. I just made him bring me, dear—I gave him two dollars—he said it was against orders to let folks pass, but I persuaded him. Now please give him some food to take back with him … Well, she gasped, dropping into the nearest chair and letting the muddy water drip unheeded from every part of her, I got good news for you folks and for Tyler’s mother. He’s all right. Tyler is. So’s Adam. Dan Bale brought me word, but they wouldn’t let him come any farther out this way than the Tiber Creek. I’d most given Adam up for lost … yes, he has got a wound—your husband has—but Dan says it isn’t in his vitals. Great heavens to Betsy, girl, but this house smells to fury … Confederates, poor souls, poor awful souls. You should be glad they didn’t leave them to die here, but carried them off with their army.