Our God is marching on--"


The Captain sat on the edge of his chair. His face was illumined.

"By Jove," he ejaculated, "that's topping!"

Drusilla stood up with her back to the piano, and sang without music.

"In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea--
With the glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me,
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on--"


She wore a gown of sheer dull blue, there was a red rose in her
hair--her white arms, her white neck, the blue and red, youth and fire,
strength and purity.

When she finished the room was very still. The big Englishman had no
words for such a moment. The music had swept him up to unexpected
heights of emotion. While Drusilla sang he had glimpsed for the first
time the meaning of democracy, he had seen, indeed, in a great and
lofty sense, for the first time--America.

Among the shadows a young man shrank in his seat. His vision was not
of Democracy, but of a freezing night--of a ragged old voice rising
from the blackness of a steep ravine--

"Oh, be swift, my soul--to answer--Him--