Tramp, tramp, tramp!  They are here.  Now the band is blaring.  That is his company.  And that is his dear face, the second from the end.  Will she ever see it again?  Look, he is smiling bravely, as if to say a thousand tender things.  “Will, are the flannels in your knapsack?  You have not forgotten that medicine for your cough?” What courage sublime is that which lets her wave at him?  Well for you, little woman, that you cannot see the faces of the good doctor and his wife behind you.  Oh, those guns of Sumter, how they roar in your head!  Ay, and will roar again, through forty years of widowhood!

Mrs. Brice was in the little parlor that Friday night, listening to the cry of the rain outside.  Some thoughts such as these distracted her.  Why should she be happy, and other mothers miserable?  The day of reckoning for her happiness must surely come, when she must kiss Stephen a brave farewell and give him to his country.  For the sins of the fathers are visited on the children, unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate Him who is the Ruler of all things.

The bell rang, and Stephen went to the door.  He was startled to see Mr. Brinsmade.  That gentleman was suddenly aged, and his clothes were wet and spattered with mud.  He sank into a chair, but refused the spirits and water which Mrs. Brice offered him in her alarm.

“Stephen,” he said, “I have been searching the city for John.  Did you see him at Camp Jackson—­was he hurt?”

“I think not, sir,” Stephen answered, with clear eyes.

“I saw him walking southward after the firing was all over.”

“Thank God,” exclaimed Mr. Brinsmade, fervently.  “If you will excuse me, madam, I shall hurry to tell my wife and daughter.  I have been able to find no one who saw him.”

As he went out he glanced at Stephen’s forehead.  But for once in his life, Mr. Brinsmade was too much agitated to inquire about the pain of another.

“Stephen, you did not tell me that you saw John,” said his mother, when the door was closed.

CHAPTER XX

IN THE ARSENAL

There was a dismal tea at Colonel Carvel’s house in Locust Street that evening Virginia did not touch a mouthful, and the Colonel merely made a pretence of eating.  About six o’clock Mrs. Addison Colfax had driven in from Bellegarde, nor could it rain fast enough or hard enough to wash the foam from her panting horses.  She did not wait for Jackson to come out with an umbrella, but rushed through the wet from the carriage to the door in her haste to urge the Colonel to go to the Arsenal and demand Clarence’s release.  It was in vain that Mr. Carvel assured her it would do no good, in vain that he told her of a more important matter that claimed him.  Could there be a more important matter than his own nephew kept in durance, and in danger of being murdered by Dutch butchers in the frenzy of their victory?  Mrs. Colfax shut herself up in her room, and through the door Virginia heard her sobs as she went down to tea.