n sheer weariness of the
struggle, that face shining through the black veil of the darkness. If
he were to march away in the blue of his country (alas, not of hers!)
she would respect him for risking life for conviction. If he stayed at
home, she would not understand. It was his plain duty to his mother. And
yet he knew that Virginia Carvel and the women like her were ready to
follow with bare feet the march of the soldiers of the South.

The rain was come now, in a flood. Stephen's mother could not see in the
blackness the bitterness on his face. Above the roar of the waters she
listened for his voice.

"I will not go, mother," he said. "If at length every man is needed,
that will be different."

"It is for you to decide, my son," she answered. "There are many ways in
which you can serve your country here. But remember that you may have to
face hard things."

"I have had to do that before, mother," he replied calmly. "I cannot
leave you dependent upon charity."

She went back into her room to pray, for she knew that he had laid his
ambition at her feet.

It was not until a week later that the dreaded news came. All through
the Friday shells had rained on the little fort while Charleston looked
on. No surrender yet. Through a wide land was that numbness which
precedes action. Force of habit sent men to their places of business,
to sit idle. A prayerful Sunday intervened. Sumter had fallen. South
Carolina had shot to bits the flag she had once revered.

On the Monday came the call of President Lincoln for volunteers.
Missouri was asked for her quota. The outraged reply of her governor
went back,--never would she furnish troops to invade her sister states.
Little did Governor Jackson foresee that Missouri was to stand fifth of
all the Union in the number of men she was to give. To her was credited
in the end even more men than stanch Massachusetts.

The noise of preparation was in the city--in the land. On the Monday
morning, when Stephen went wearily to the office, he was met by Richter
at the top of the stairs, who seized his shoulders and looked into his
face. The light of the zealot was on Richter's own.

"We shall drill every night now, my friend, until further orders. It
is the Leader's word. Until we go to the front, Stephen, to put down
rebellion." Stephen sank into a chair, and bowed his head. What would
he think,--this man who had fought and suffered and renounced his native
land for his convictions?