the son of a soldier who fought under General Washington and won our
freedom. You're named after Thomas Jefferson, the great President. Your
three brothers have just come home from New Orleans. Under Old Hickory
we drove the British back into their ships and sent 'em flying home to
England. The son of a soldier--the brother of soldiers--can't cry--"

"I will if I want to!"

"All right!" the man laughed--"I'll hold my hat and you can cry it
full--"

He removed his hat and held it smilingly under the boy's firm little
chin. The childish lips tightened and the cheeks flushed with anger.
His bare toes began to dig holes in the soft rich earth. The appeal to
his soldier blood had struck into the pride of his heart and the insult
of a hat full of tears had hurt.

At last, he found his tongue:

"Does Pa know I'm goin'?"

"Yes. He thinks you're a very small boy to go so far, but knows it's for
the best."

"That's why he kissed me when I left?"

"Yes."

"I thought it was funny," he murmured with a half sob; "he never kissed
me before--"