ar of the boy and whispered hoarsely:
"You are weeping, eh? Granpa is your enemy, you stupid! To-morrow I will
give you the money for the college. You hate to look at granpa; he is
your enemy, eh?"

THE SURVIVORS[18]

_A Memorial Day Story_

BY ELSIE SINGMASTER

From _The Outlook_

[18] Copyright, 1915, by The Outlook Company. Copyright, 1916, by Elsie
Singmaster Lewars

In the year 1868, when Memorial Day was instituted, Fosterville had
thirty-five men in its parade. Fosterville was a border town; in it
enthusiasm had run high, and many more men had enlisted than those
required by the draft. All the men were on the same side but Adam
Foust, who, slipping away, joined himself to the troops of his mother's
Southern State. It could not have been any great trial for Adam to fight
against most of his companions in Fosterville, for there was only one of
them with whom he did not quarrel. That one was his cousin Henry, from
whom he was inseparable, and of whose friendship for any other boys he
was intensely jealous. Henry was a frank, open-hearted lad who would
have lived on good terms with the whole world if Adam had allowed him
to.

Adam did not return to Fosterville until the morning of the first
Memorial Day, of whose establishment he was unaware. He had been ill
for months, and it was only now that he had earned enough to make his
way home. He was slightly lame, and he had lost two fingers of his left
hand. He got down from the train at the station, and found himself at
once in a great crowd. He knew no one, and no one seemed to know him.
Without asking any questions, he started up the street. He meant to go,
first of all, to the house of his cousin Henry, and then to set about
making arrangements to resume his long-interrupted business, that of a
saddler, which he could still follow in spite of his injury.

As he hurried along he heard the sound of band music, and realized that
some sort of a procession was advancing. With the throng about him he
pressed to the curb. The tune was one which he hated; the colors he
hated also; the marchers, all but one, he had never liked. There was
Newton Towne, with a sergeant's stripe on his blue sleeve; there was
Edward Green, a captain; there was Peter Allinson, a color-bearer. At
their head, taller, handsomer, dearer than ever to Adam's jealous eyes,
walked Henry Foust. In an instant of forgetfulness Adam waved his hand.
But Henry did not see; Adam chose to t