“I’m afraid of him already.  He’s so ferocious.”

“Isn’t he?  Oh, won’t you play with us, Mother?  I’ll—­I’ll let you be Mrs. Fatima.”  And then, as her mother’s face showed signs of doubt as to her histrionic ability, “If you were my little girl, I’d do it in a minute.”

“All right, dear, of course I will; but I’ve just remembered a bit of lace in your grandmother’s trunk in the attic.  I believe it will be exactly enough for the neck and sleeves of your new dress.”  She smiled courageously as she folded a piece of old silk she was remaking.  “You and—­” she cast a glance at Sally Ann—­“your respected brother-in-law can wait a few moments, can’t you?  You might rehearse a little more.  With all this important audience of solemn oaks you wouldn’t want to make the slightest slip in your parts.”

“That’s so,” agreed Virgie, raising her hands and clasping her tiny fingers thoughtfully.  “And I’ll tell you what—­we’ll mark off the castle walls around the bench where the window’s going to be.  We ought to have a stage.  Come on Sal—­I mean Blue Beard, pick up some sticks quick.”

Mrs. Cary started, but turned back an instant:  “By the way, have either of you seen Uncle Billy.  I’ must find him, too, and plan something for our lunch.”

“I seen ‘im early dis mawnin’,” piped Blue Beard, “makin’ for de woods.  I reckon he be back pres’n’y.”

“Very well,” answered Virgie’s mother, a shadow creeping into her face as she went on toward the house.  Could Uncle Billy possibly be leaving!  The most trusted negro of all!  No—­never!  She would almost as soon doubt the cause itself!

Three long years ago war had seemed a thrilling, daring necessity.  Caught in the dreadful net of circumstance she had vowed proudly in her own heart never to be less brave than the bravest.  In her ears still rang the echo of that first ...

* * * * *

Tara-tara!

From far away a faint fanfare of trumpets, borne on brazen wings from the distant clamor of the city’s streets.

Tara-tara!

“What’s that—­a bugle?”

R-r-r-r-rum-dum!

“And that—­a drum?”

Tramp—­tramp—­tramp—­the rolling thunder of ten thousand feet.

War has been declared!

From North to South, the marching lines fill the land—­a sea of men whose flashing bayonets glisten and glitter in the morning light.  With steady step and even rank, with thrill of brass lunged band and screaming fife the regiments sweep by—­in front, the officers on their dancing steeds—­behind them, line after line of youthful faces, chins in, chests out, the light of victory already shining in their eyes.

In just this way the Nation’s sons went forth to fight in those first brave days of ’61.  Just so they marched out, defiant, from South and North alike, each side eager for the cause he thought was right, with bright pennons snapping in the breeze and bugles blowing gayly and never a thought in any man’s mind but that his side would win and his own life be spared.