With the glory in his bosom which transfigures you and me.
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free
While God is marching on----"

The last time the Major had heard a woman sing that song had been in a
little French town just after the United States had gone into the war.
She was of his own country, red-haired and in uniform. She had stood on
the steps of a stone house and weary men had clustered about
her--French, English, Scotch, a few Americans. Tired and spent, they had
gazed up at her as if they drank her in. To them she was more than a
singing woman. She was the daughter of a nation of dreamers, _the
daughter of a nation which made its dreams come true_! Behind her stood
a steadfast people, and--God was marching on----!

He had had his leg then, and after that there had been dreadful
fighting, and sometimes in the midst of it the voice of the singing
woman had come back to him, stiffening him to his task.

And here, miles away from that war-swept land, another woman sang. And
there was honeysuckle outside, and late roses--and poppies, and there
was Peace. And the world which had not fought would forget. But the men
who had fought would remember.

He heard Randy's voice, sharp with nerves. "Sing something else, Becky.
We've had enough of war----"

The Major leaned across the table. "When did you last hear that song,
Paine?"

"On the other side, a red-haired woman--whose lover had been killed. I