“I remember the smoky lantern burning red within the tent, and the vast shadows it cast; and how he stood there, looking tranquilly at nothing while I, frightened, sobbed on his breast.  ‘Lois,’ he said, smiling, ’there is a bright company aloft, and watching me.  Raphael and Titian are of them.  And West will come some day.’  And, ‘God!’ he murmured, wonderingly, ’What fellowship will be there!  What knowledge to be acquired a half hour hence—­ and leave this petty sphere to its own vexed and petty wrangling, its kings and congresses, and its foolish noise of drums.’

“For a while he paid me no attention, save in an absent-minded way to pat my arm and say, ’There, there, child!  There’s nothing to it—­ no, not anything to weep for.  In less than half an hour my wife and I will be together, listening while Raphael speaks—­ or Christ, perhaps, or Leonardo.’

“Twice the brigade chaplain came to the tent, but seeing me retired.  The third time he appeared my foster father said:  ’He’s come to talk to me of Christ and Raphael.  It is pleasant to hear his kind assurance that the journey to them is a swift one, done in the twinkling of an eye....  So—­ I will say good-bye.  Now go, my child.’

“Locked in my desperate embrace, his wandering gaze came back and met my terror-stricken eyes.  And after another moment a slow colour came into his wasted face.  ‘Lois,’ he said, ’before I go to join that matchless company, I think you ought to know that which will cause you to grieve less for me....  And so I tell you that I am not your father....  We found you at our door in Caughnwagha, strapped to a Seneca cradle-board.  Nor had you any name.  We did not seek you, but, having you so, bowed to God’s will and suffered you to remain with us.  We strove to do our duty by you——­ ’ His vague gaze wandered toward the tent door where the armed guard stood, terrible and grim and ragged.  Then he unloosened my suddenly limp arms about him, muttering to himself of something he’d forgotten; and, rummaging in his pockets found it presently—­ a packet laced in deerskin.  ‘This,’ he said, ’is all we ever knew of you.  It should be yours.  Good-bye.’

“I strove to speak, but he no longer heard me, and asked the guard impatiently why the Chaplain tarried.  And so I crept forth into the dark of dawn, more dead than living.  And presently the rising sun blinded my tear-drowned eyes, where I was kneeling in a field under a tall tree....  I heard the dead-march rolling from the drums, and saw them passing, black against the sunrise....  Then, filing slowly as the seconds dragged, a thousand years passed in processional during the next half hour—­ ending in a far rattle of musketry and a light smoke blowing east across the fields——­”

She passed her fingers across her brow, clearing it of the clinging curls.

“They played a noisy march—­ afterward.  I saw the ragged ranks wheel and manoeuvre, stepping out Briskly to the jolly drums and fifes....  I stood by the grave while the detail filled it cheerily....  Then I went back to the farm house, through the morning dew and sunshine.