,
and to see Atwater sleeping all the while calmly at his side, the wakeful
ones making sport and keeping up the fires, and the flames glittering
dimly on the stacks of arms. The last time he awoke it was day; and the
short-lived camp-fires were paling their sad rays before the eternal
glory of the sunrise.

The veteran Sinjin beat the drummer's call. Frank seized his drum and
hurried to join his friend,--beating with him the last reveille which was
to rouse up the regiment in the Old Bay State.

After roll-call, breakfast; then the troops were drawn up under arms,
preparatory to their departure. A long train of a dozen cars was at the
depot, in readiness to receive the regiment, which now marched out of the
old camping-ground to the gay music of a band from a neighboring city.

After waiting an hour on the train, they heard the welcome whistle of the
engine, and the still more welcome clang of the starting cars, and off
they went amid loud cheers and silent tears.

Frank had no relatives or near friends in the crowd left behind, as many
of his comrades had, but his heart beat fast with the thought that there
were loved ones whom he should meet soon.

But the regiment reached Boston, and marched through the streets, and
paraded on the Common; and all the while his longing eyes looked in vain
for his friends, who never appeared. It seemed to him that nearly every
other fellow in his company saw friends either on the march or at the
halt, while he alone was left unnoticed and uncomforted. And so his
anticipated hour of enjoyment was changed to one of bitterness.

Why was it? His last letter must have had time to reach his family.
Besides, they might have seen by the newspapers that the regiment was
coming. Why then did they fail to meet him? His heart swelled with grief
as he thought of it,--he was there, so near home, for perhaps the last
time, and nobody that he loved was with him during those precious,
wasting moments.

But, suddenly, as he was casting his eyes for the twentieth time along
the lines of spectators, searching for some familiar face, he heard a
voice--not father's or mother's, or sister's, but one scarcely less dear
than the dearest.

"My bwother Fwank! me want my bwother Fwank!"

And turning, he saw little Willie running towards him, almost between the
legs of the policemen stationed to keep back the crowd.

VII.

THROUGH BOST