away and settled himself comfortably into his chair. The others were
talking amongst themselves of old times, and Sylvia experienced a sense
of ease and security in the minister's company.

"Those people across there are talking of the Hoosiers that used to be,
and about the good folks who came into the wilderness and made Indiana a
commonwealth. I'm a pilgrim and a stranger comparatively speaking. I'm
not a Hoosier; are you?"

"No, Mr. Ware; I was born in New York City."

"Ho! I might have known there was some sort of tie between us. I was
born in New York myself--'way up in the Adirondack country. You've heard
of Old John Brown? My father's farm was only an hour's march from
Brown's place. I used to see the old man, and it wasn't my fault I
wasn't mixed up in some of his scrapes. Father caught me and took me
home--didn't see any reason why I should go off and get killed with a
crazy man. Didn't know Brown was going to be immortal."

"There must have been a good many people that didn't know it," Sylvia
responded.

She hoped that Ware would talk of himself and of the war; but in a
moment his thoughts took a new direction.

"Stars are fine to-night. It's a comfort to know they're up there all
the time. Know Matthew Arnold's poems? He says 'With joy the stars
perform their shining.' I like that. When I'm off camping the best fun
of it is lying by running water at night and looking at the stars. Odd,
though, I never knew the names of many of them; wouldn't know any if it