e told her that Watts was
going to serenade Nellie Logan at the Thayer House, and that Gabriel
Carnine was going to serenade Mary Murphy, and that Philemon Ward was
going to serenade Miss Lucy, and that he, John Barclay, had suggested
that it would be fine to serenade Mrs. Culpepper, because she was such
a nice woman, and they agreed that if he would bring his guitar, they
would!

When the boy and girl returned to the store, Ward and Miss Lucy went
to the Barclay home for the guitar. When they came back, Mrs. Barclay
noted a pink welt on one of Ward's fingers where his cameo ring had
been, and she observed that from time to time Miss Lucy kept feeling
of her hair as if to smooth it. It was long after midnight before the
girls from the hotel went home, and Miss Lucy and Mrs. Barclay lay on
the counter in the store, trying to sleep. They awoke with the sound
of music in their ears, and Miss Lucy said, "It's Captain Ward--and
the other boys, serenading us." They heard the high tenor voice of
Watts McHurdie and the strong clear voice of Ward rising above the
accordion and guitar:--

"For her voice is on the breeze,
Her spirit comes at will,
At midnight on the seas
Her bright smile haunts me still."

And underneath these high voices was the gruff bass voice of Gabriel
Carnine and the baritone of Jake Dolan. And when Mrs. Barclay heard
the piping treble of her son, and the tinkle of his guitar, her eyes
filled with tears of pride.

The serenaders waked the chickens, and the crowing roosters roused
Mrs. Barclay, and in the hurry of the hour she forgot to look for her
son. As "the gray dawn was breaking," a hundred men came into the
room, and found the smoking breakfast on the table. It was a good
breakfast as breakfasts go when men are hungry. But they sat in
silence that morning. The song was all out of them; the spring of
youth was crushed under the weight of great events. And as they
rose--they who had been so merry the day before, and had joked of the
things the soldier fears, they were all but mute, and left their
breakfasts scarcely tasted.

The women remember this,--the telltale sign of the untouched
breakfast,--and their memory is better than that of Martin Culpepper,
who wrote in that plumy chapter of the Biography, before mentioned:--

"The soldiers left their homes that beautiful August morning as the
sun was kissing the tips of the sycamore that gave the magnificent
little city its nam