The Mistress of Sydenham Plantation  The story of an elderly
Southern aristocrat, oblivious to what the war has cost her  A
high wind was blowing from the water into the Beaufort streets,
-- a wind with as much reckless hilarity as March could give to
her breezes, but soft and spring-like, almost early-summer-like,
in its warmth.  In the gardens of the old Southern houses that
stood along the bay, roses and petisporum-trees were blooming,
with their delicious fragrance. It was the time of wistarias and
wild white lilies, of the last yellow jasmines and the first
Cherokee roses. It was the Saturday before Easter Sunday.  In
the quaint churchyard of old St. Helena's Church, a little way
from the bay, young figures were busy among the graves with
industrious gardening. At first sight, one might have thought
that this pretty service was rendered only from loving
sentiments of loyalty to one's ancestors, for under the great
live-oaks, the sturdy brick walls about the family burying-
places and the gravestones thems