It was a two-story wooden house, painted white, with green shutters, all closed now.  The doors were also locked and sealed until such time as the army authorities wished to open them, but on the portico, facing the Southern lines were two benches, on which the three youths sat, and looked again over the great expanse of rolling country, dotted at intervals by puffs of smoke from the long lines of trenches.  Where they sat it was so still that they could hear the faint crackle of the distant rifles, and now and then the heavier crash of a cannon.

Dick’s mind went back to the Wilderness and its gloomy shades, the sanguinary field of Spottsylvania, and then the terrific mistake of Cold Harbor.  The genius of Lee had never burned more brightly.  He had handled his diminishing forces with all his old skill and resolution, but Grant had driven on and on.  No matter what his losses the North always filled up his ranks again, and poured forward munitions and supplies in a vast and unbroken stream.  A nation had summoned all its powers for a supreme effort to win, and Dick felt that the issue of the war was not now in doubt.  The genius of Lee and the bravery of his devoted army could no longer save the South.  The hammer strokes of Grant would surely crush it.

And then what?  He had the deepest sympathy for these people of Virginia.  What would become of them after the war?  Defeat for the South meant nearer approach to destruction than any nation had suffered in generations.  To him, born south of the Ohio River, and so closely united by blood with these people, victory as well as defeat had its pangs.

Warner and Pennington rose and announced that they would return to the regiment which was held in reserve in a little valley below, but Dick, their leave not having run out yet, decided to stay a while longer.

“So long,” said Warner.  “Let the orchard alone.  Leave apples for others.  Remember that they are protected by strict orders against all wandering and irresponsible officers, but ourselves.”

“Yes, be good, Dick,” said Pennington, and the two went down the slope, leaving Dick on the portico.  He liked being alone at times.  The serious cast of mind that he had inherited from his famous great grandfather, Paul Cotter, demanded moments of meditation.  It was peaceful too on the portico, and a youth who had been through Grant’s Wilderness campaign, a month of continuous and terrible fighting, was glad to rest for a while.

The distant rifle fire and the occasional cannon shot had no significance and did not disturb him.  They blended now with the breeze that blew among the leaves of the apple trees.  He had never felt more like peace, and the pleasant open country was soothing to the eye.  What a contrast to that dark and sodden Wilderness where men fought blindly in the dusk.  He shuddered as he remembered the forests set on fire by the shells, and burning over the fallen.