oods burnt, and fields
cut up and bare; and it rained all the time. A little before morning,
on the night of the third day, he reached the edge of the district and
plunged into its well-known pines, and just as day broke he entered the
old path which led up the little hill to his mother's cabin. All during
his journey he had been picturing the meeting with some one else besides
his mother, and if Vashti had stood before him as he crossed the old
log he would hardly have been surprised. Now, however, he had other
thoughts; as he reached the old clearing he was surprised to find it
grown up in small pines already almost as high as his head, and tall
weeds filled the rows among the old peach-trees and grew up to the very
door. He had been struck by the desolation all the way as he came along;
but it had not occurred to him that there must be a change at his own
home; he had always pictured it as he left it, as he had always thought
of Vashti in her pink calico, with her hat in her hand and her heavy
hair almost falling down over her neck. Now a great horror seized him.
The door was wet and black. His mother must be dead. He stopped and
peered through the darkness at the dim little structure. There was a
little smoke coming out of the chimney, and the next instant he strode
up to the door. It was shut, but the string was hanging out and he
pulled it and pushed the door open. A thin figure seated in the small
split-bottomed chair on the hearth, hovering as close as possible over
the fire, straightened up and turned slowly as he stepped into the room,
and he recognized his mother--but how changed! She was quite white
and little more than a skeleton. At sight of the figure behind her she
pulled herself to her feet, and peered at him through the gloom.

"Mother!" he said.

"Darby!" She reached her arms toward him, but tottered so that she would
have fallen, had he not caught her and eased her down into her chair.

As she became a little stronger she made him tell her about the battles
he was in. Mr. Mills had come to tell her that he had killed the man who
killed Ad. Darby was not a good narrator, however, and what he had to
tell was told in a few words. The old woman revived under it, however,
and her eyes had a brighter light in them.

Darby was too much engrossed in taking care of his mother that day to
have any thought of any one else. He was used to a soldier's scant fare,
but had never quite taken in the fact that his