Near the head of Mr. Blair’s regiment is Tom.  His face is cast down as he passes the house from which he is banished.  Nor do father, or mother, or sister in their agony make any sound or sign.  George is coming.  The welcome and the mourning and the tears are all for him.

The band is playing “Dixie” once more.  George is coming, and some one else.  The girls are standing in a knot bend the old people, dry-eyed, their handkerchiefs in their hands.  Some of the prisoners take off their hats and smile at the young lady with the chiselled features and brown hair, who wears the red and white of the South as if she were born to them.  Her eyes are searching.  Ah, at last she sees him, walking erect at the head of his dragoons.  He gives her one look of entreaty, and that smile which should have won her heart long ago.  As if by common consent the heads of the troopers are uncovered before her.  How bravely she waves at them until they are gone down the street!  Then only do her eyes fill with tears, and she passes into the house.

Had she waited, she might have seen a solitary figure leaving the line of march and striding across to Pine Street.

That night the sluices of the heavens were opened, and the blood was washed from the grass in Lindell Grove.  The rain descended in floods on the distracted city, and the great river rose and flung brush from Minnesota forests high up on the stones of the levee.  Down in the long barracks weary recruits, who had stood and marched all the day long, went supperless to their hard pallets.

Government fare was hard.  Many a boy, prisoner or volunteer, sobbed himself to sleep in the darkness.  All were prisoners alike, prisoners of war.  Sobbed themselves to sleep, to dream of the dear homes that were here within sight and sound of them, and to which they were powerless to go.  Sisters, and mothers, and wives were there, beyond the rain, holding out arms to them.

Is war a thing to stir the blood?  Ay, while the day lasts.  But what of the long nights when husband and wife have lain side by side?  What of the children who ask piteously where their father is going, and who are gathered by a sobbing mother to her breast?  Where is the picture of that last breakfast at home?  So in the midst of the cheer which is saddest in life comes the thought that, just one year ago, he who is the staff of the house was wont to sit down just so merrily to his morning meal, before going to work in the office.  Why had they not thanked God on their knees for peace while they had it?

See the brave little wife waiting on the porch of her home for him to go by.  The sun shines, and the grass is green on the little plot, and the geraniums red.  Last spring she was sewing here with a song on her lips, watching for him to turn the corner as he came back to dinner.  But now!  Hark!  Was that the beat of the drums?  Or was it thunder?  Her good neighbors, the doctor and his wife, come in at the little gate to cheer her.  She does not hear them.  Why does God mock her with sunlight and with friends?