er him. Mules
were shot around him and behind him. Shells exploded all over him; but
with undaunted courage he continued to wave his sword in all directions,
riding wherever the fight was hottest.

The battle raged for three days.

On the third day of the conflict, Randolph, his coat shot to rags, his
hat pierced, his trousers practically useless, still stood at Lee's
side, urging and encouraging him.

Mounted on his charger, he flew to and fro in all parts of the field,
moving the artillery, leading the cavalry, animating and directing the
infantry. In fact, he was the whole battle.

But his efforts were in vain.

He turned sadly to General Lee. "It is bootless," he said.

"What is?" asked Lee.

"The army," said Randolph. "We must withdraw it."

"Major Randolph," said the Confederate chief, "I yield to your superior
knowledge. We must retreat."

A few hours later the Confederate forces, checked but not beaten, were
retiring southward towards Virginia.

Eggleston, his head sunk in thought, rode in the rear.

As he thus slowly neared a farmhouse, a woman--a girl--flew from it
towards him with outstretched arms.

"Eggleston!" she cried.

Randolph flung himself from his horse. "Leonora!" he gasped. "You here!
In all this danger! How comes it? What brings you here?"

"We live here," she said. "This is Pa's house. This is our farm.
Gettysburg is our home. Oh, Egg, it has been dreadful, the noise of the
battle! We couldn't sleep for it. Pa's all upset about it. But come in.
Do come in. Dinner's nearly ready."

Eggleston gazed a moment at the retreating army. Duty and affection
struggled in his heart.

"I will," he said.

CHAPTER V

CONCLUSION

The strife is done. The conflict has ceased. The wounds are healed.
North and South are one. East and West are even less. The Civil War is
over. Lee is dead. Grant is buried in New York. The Union Pacific runs
from Omaha to San Francisco. There is total prohibition in the United
States. The output of dressed beef last year broke all records.

And Eggleston Lee Carey Randolph survives, hale and hearty, bright and
cheery, free and easy--and so forth. There is grey hair upon his temples
(some, not much), and his step has lost something of its elasticity (not
a great deal), and his form is somewhat bowed (though not really
crooked).

But he still lives there in the farmstead at Gettysburg, and Leonora,
now, like himself, an old woman, is still at his sid