ome,
and there was a decent showing of modern arms. Billy Maydew's
hunting-knife and spear would be changed on the morrow for a musket,
though in Billy's case the musket would certainly be the old smoothbore,
calibre sixty-nine.

Allan's own gun, left him by his father, rested against the wall. The
young man, for all his quietude, his conscientious ways, his daily work
with children, his love of flowers, and his dreams of books, inherited
from frontiersmen--whose lives had depended upon watchfulness--quickness
of wit, accuracy of eye, and steadiness of aim. He rarely missed his
mark, and he read intuitively and easily the language of wood, sky, and
road. On the bed lay his slouch hat, his haversack, knapsack, and
canteen, cartridge-box and belt, and slung over the back of a chair was
his roll of blanket. All was in readiness. Allan went over to the
window. Below him were the flowers he had tended, then the great forests
in their May freshness, cataracts of green, falling down, down to the
valley. Over all hung the sky, divinely blue. A wind went rustling
through the forest, joining its voice to the voice of Thunder Run. Allan
knelt, touching with his forehead the window-sill. "O Lord God," he
said, "O Lord God, keep us all, North and South, and bring us through
winding ways to Thy end at last." As he rose he heard the wagon coming
down the road. He turned, put the roll of blanket over one shoulder,
and beneath the other arm assumed knapsack, haversack, and canteen,
dragged the hair trunk out upon the landing, returned, took up his
musket, looked once again about the small, familiar room, then left it
and went downstairs.

Sairy and Tom were upon the porch, the owner of the wagon with them.
"I'll tote down yo' trunk," said the latter, and presently emerged from
the house with that article upon his shoulder. "I reckon I'll volunteer
myself, just as soon 's harvest's over," he remarked genially. "But,
gosh! you-all'll be back by then, telling how you did it!" He went down
the path whistling, and tossed the trunk into the wagon.

"I hate good-byes," said Allan. "I wish I had stolen away last night."

"Don't ye get killed!" answered Sairy sharply. "That's what I'm afraid
of. I know you'll go riskin' yourself!"

"God bless you," said Tom. "You've been like a son to us these five
years. Don't you forget to write."

"I won't," answered Allan. "I'll write you long letters. And I won't get
killed, Aunt Sairy. I'll take the