ed against the
stiff bullion on his sleeve and collar, "if only I had the wretched
consolation of sending you away to fight fo' the Right--fo' God and
country--There, darling! Fo'give me--fo'give me. I am yo' wife
first of all--first of all, Curt. And that even comes befo'
country and--God!--Yes, it does! it _does_, dear. You are all
three to me--I know no holier trinity than husband, God, and native
land. . . . _Must_ you go so soon? So soon? . . . Where is my
boy--I'm crying so I can't see either of you--Stephen! Mother's
own little boy--mother's little, little boy--oh, it is ve'y
hard--ve'y hard----"

[Illustration: "_Must_ you go so soon? So soon?"]

"Steve--I think you'd better kiss your mother now"--his voice
choked and he turned his back and stood, the sun glittering on the
gold and scarlet of his uniform.

Mother and son clung, parted, clung; then Colonel Craig's
glittering sleeve was flung about them both.

"I'll try to bring him through all right, Celia. You must believe
that we are coming back."

So they parted.

And at three in the morning, Celia, lying in her bed, started to a
sitting posture. Very far away in the night reveille was sounding
for some regiment outward bound; and then the bugles blew for
another regiment and another, and another, until everywhere the
darkened world grew gaily musical with the bugle's warning.

She crept to the window; it was too dusky to see. But in obscurity
she felt that not far away husband and son were passing through
darkness toward the mystery of the great unknown; and there, in her
night-dress, she knelt by the sill, hour after hour, straining her
eyes and listening until dawn whitened the east and the rivers
began to marshal their ghostly hosts. Then the sun rose,
annihilating the phantoms of the mist and shining on columns of
marching men, endless lines of waggons, horse-batteries, foot
artillery, cavalry, engineers with gabions and pontoons, and entire
divisions of blue infantry, all pouring steadily toward Alexandria
and the river, where lay the vast transport fleet at anchor,
destined to carry them whither their Maker and commanding general
willed that they should go.

To Celia's wet eyes there seemed to be little variation in the dull
blue columns with the glitter of steel flickering about them; yet,
here and there a brilliant note appeared--pennons fluttering above
lances, scarfs and facings of some nearer foot battery, and, far
away to