“He must be a bold man,” murmured Mrs. Brice.

“Does he think that the—­the Rebellion can be put down?”

“Not with seventy-five thousand men, nor with ten times that number.”

Mrs. Brice sighed, and furtively wiped her eyes with her handkerchief.

“I am afraid we shall see great misery, Stephen,” she said.

He was silent.  From that peaceful little room war and its horrors seemed very far away.  The morning sun poured in through the south windows and was scattered by the silver on the sideboard.  From above, on the wall, Colonel Wilton Brice gazed soberly down.  Stephen’s eyes lighted on the portrait, and his thoughts flew back to the boyhood days when he used to ply his father with questions about it.  Then the picture had suggested only the glory and honor which illumines the page of history.  Something worthy to look back upon, to keep ones head high.  The hatred and the suffering and the tears, the heartrending, tearing apart for all time of loving ones who have grown together,—­these were not upon that canvas, Will war ever be painted with a wart?

The sound of feet was heard on the pavement.  Stephen rose, glancing at his mother.  Her face was still upon her knitting.

“I am going to the Arsenal,” he said.  “I must see what as happening.”

To her, as has been said, was given wisdom beyond most women.  She did not try to prevent him as he kissed her good-by.  But when the door had shut behind him, a little cry escaped her, and she ran to the window to strain her eyes after him until he had turned the corner below.

His steps led him irresistibly past the house of the strange flag, ominously quiet at that early hour.  At sight of it anger made him hot again.  The car for South St. Louis stood at the end of the line, fast filling with curious people who had read in their papers that morning of the equipment of the new troops.  There was little talk among them, and that little guarded.

It was a May morning to rouse a sluggard; the night air tingled into life at the touch of the sunshine, the trees in the flitting glory of their first green.  Stephen found the shaded street in front of the Arsenal already filled with an expectant crowd.  Sharp commands broke the silence, and he saw the blue regiments forming on the lawn inside the wall.  Truly, events were in the air,—­great events in which he had no part.

As he stood leaning against a tree-box by the curb, dragged down once more by that dreaded feeling of detachment, he heard familiar voices close beside him.  Leaning forward, he saw Eliphalet Hopper and Mr. Cluyme.  It was Mr. Cluyme who was speaking.

“Well, Mr. Hopper,” he said, “in spite of what you say, I expect you are dust as eager as I am to see what is going on.  You’ve taken an early start this morning for sightseeing.”

Eliphalet’s equanimity was far from shaken.

“I don’t cal’late to take a great deal of stock in the military,” he answered.  “But business is business.  And a man must keep an eye on what is moving.”