He felt genuine gladness, and, shouting at the top of his voice, he waved his hand.  They recognized him, and all waved a welcome in return.  He saw the two colonels studying him through their glasses, but he knew that no attack would be made upon him and the little party with which he rode.  It was one of those increasing intervals of peace and friendship between battles.  The longer the war and the greater the losses the less men troubled themselves to shoot one another save when real battle was joined.

They were about four hundred yards apart and Dick used his glasses also, enabling him to see that the young Southern officers were unwounded—­ Langdon’s slight hurt had healed long since—­and were strong and hearty.  He thought it likely that they, as well as he, had found the brief period of rest and freedom from war a genuine luxury.

He waved his hand once more, and they waved back as before.  Then the course of the two little troops took them away from each other, and the Southerners were hid from his view by a belt of forest.  But he was very glad that he had seen them.  It had been almost as if there were no war.

Dick rode back to the camp, gave his horse to an orderly, and, walking toward his tent, was met by Warner and Pennington, carrying long slender rods on their shoulders—­Warner in fact carrying two.

“What’s this?” he exclaimed.

“We’re going fishing,” replied Warner.  “We’ve permission for you also.  There’s a fine stream about a half mile west of us, running through the woods, and it’s been fished in but little since the war started.  Here, take your rod!  You don’t expect me to carry it for you any longer do you?  It has a good hook and line and it’s easy for us to find bait under a big stone on soft soil.”

“Thank you, George,” said Dick happily.  “You couldn’t keep me from going with you two.  Do you know, I haven’t been fishing in more than three years, and me not yet of age?”

“Well, now’s your chance, and you may not have another until after the war is over.  They say it’s a fine stream, though, of course, it’s not like the beautiful little rivers of Vermont, that come dashing down from the mountains all molten silver, where they’re not white foam.  Splendid fish!  Splendid rivers!  Splendid sport!  Dick, do you think I’m facing now in the exact direction of Vermont?”

He had turned about and was gazing with a rapt look into the northeast.

“I should say,” said Dick, “that if your gaze went far enough it would strike squarely upon the Green Mountains of Vermont.”

Warner’s hand rose in a slow and majestic salute.

“Great little state, mother of men, I salute thee!” he said.  “Thou art stern and yet beautiful to the eye and thy sons love thee!  I, who am but one among them, love all thy rocks, and clear streams, and noble mountains and green foliage!  Here, from the battle fields and across the distance I salute thee, O great little state!  O mother of men!”