mestic scene. Arthur is mending his best uniform, Harry stretched on
the leaves is resting and dreaming dreams, George is wondering how he
will get a new pair of shoes for the season, and the army is doing its
autumn washing."

Harry glanced up and down the stream, and he smiled at the homely sight.
Thousands of soldiers were washing their ragged clothes in the little
river and the equally ragged clothes of many others were drying on the
banks or on the bushes. The sun-browned lads who skylarked along the
shores or in the water, playing pranks on one another, bore little
resemblance to those who had charged so fiercely and so often into the
mouths of the cannon at Antietam.

Harry marvelled at them and at himself. It seemed scarcely possible
that human nature could rush to such violent extremes within so short
a space. But youth conquered all. There was very little gloom in
this great army which disported itself in the water or in the shade.
Thousands of wounded, still pale, but with returning strength, lay on
the October leaves and looked forward to the day when they could join
their comrades in either games or war.

Harry himself had suffered for a while from a great exhaustion. He
had been terribly anxious, too, about his father, but a letter written
just after the battle of Perryville, and coming through with unusual
promptness by the way of Chattanooga and Richmond, had arrived the
day before, informing him of Colonel Kenton's safety. In this letter
his father had spoken of his meeting with Dick Mason in his home at
Pendleton, and that also contributed to his new lightness of heart.
Dick was not a brother, but he stood in the place of one, and it was
good to hear again of him.

The sounds of shouts and laughter far up and down the Opequon became
steady and soothing. The October winds blowing gently were crisp and
fresh, but not too cold. The four boys ceased talking and Harry on his
bed of leaves became drowsy. The forests on the far hills and mountains
burned in vivid reds and yellows and browns, painted by the master hand
of autumn. Harry heard a bird singing on a bough among red leaves
directly over his head, and the note was piercingly sweet to ears used
so long to the roar of cannon and rifles.

His drowsy lids sank lower and he would have gone to sleep had he not
been roused by a shouting farther down the little river. His eyes
opened wide and he sat up.

"What is it, George?" he said to Da