Everybody was there—­except Judge Stone.  I remember looking through the open door at the great iron safe into which he had put the county satchel—­I am careful not to commit myself as to the money part of it—­and all the events of the previous visit came back through my mind; but mainly how angry I had been with Virginia for being kissed by Bob Wade.  And Bob was there, too, all spick and span in his new lieutenant’s uniform with Kittie Fleming hanging on his arm, her eyes drinking him in with every glance.  The governor was in no position to make a row about this.  The occasion had caused an armistice to be signed as to all our neighborhood quarrels, and Bob Wade was emancipated from the stern paternal control, as Jack had been when he went off with the first flight in the original seventy-five thousand—­emancipated by the uniform.  Bob and Kittie sailed along in the face and eyes of the governor and his wife in spite of the fact that such association was forbidden—­and sailed down to Waterloo where they were married before we went off hurrahing for the cause.

Virginia was there with the elder and grandma.  The old preacher and his wife looked more shabby than I had ever seen them, grandma’s gloves more extensively darned, the elder’s clothes shinier, his cuffs in all their whiteness more frayed, and there were beautifully darned places in the stiff starched bosom of his shirt.  He pressed my hand warmly as he said, “God bless you, Jacob, and bring you safe back to us, my boy!” Grandma’s eyes glistened as she echoed his sentiments and began asking me about my underwear and especially my socks.  Virginia looked the other way; but when I went off by myself, Will Lockwood came and drew me away into a corner to talk with me about old times along the canal; and suddenly we found Virginia there, and Will all at once thought of some one he wanted to speak to and left us together.

“I didn’t mean that I thought you ought not to go to the war, Teunis,” said she.  “You must go, of course.”

“Maybe your friends,” I said after standing dumb for a while, “will be on the Union side.”

“No,” said she.  “I have no relations—­and few friends there; but all I have will be on the other side, I reckon.  It makes no difference.  They’ve forgotten me by this time.  Everybody has forgotten me that once liked me—­everybody but Elder Thorndyke and Mrs. Thorndyke.  They love me, but nobody else does.”

“I thought some others acted as if they did,” I said.

“You thought a lot about it!” she scoffed.  Then we sat quite a while silent.  “I shall think every day,” said she at last, “about the only happy time I have had since Ann took sick—­and long before that.  The only happy time, and the happiest, I reckon, that I ever’ll have.  I’ll think of it every day while you’re at the front.  I want you to know when you are suffering and in danger that some one thinks of the kindest thing you ever did—­and maybe the kindest thing any boy ever did.  You don’t care about it now, maybe; but the time may come when you will.”