at the sight of him marching with erect grace at the head of his
company. But while all about her were tears and sobs, and modest
girls revealing unsuspecting attachments in the agitation of parting,
her eyes were undimmed. She was proud and serene, a heightening
of the color in her cheeks being the only sign of unusual feeling.
Harry came to her for a moment, held her hand tightly in his, took
the bud from his bosom, touched it significantly with his lips,
and sprang upon the train which was beginning to move away.

The days that followed were halcyon for her. While the other women
of Sardis, whose loved ones were gone, were bewailing the dangers
they would encounter, her proud spirit only contemplated the chances
that Harry would have for winning fame. Battles meant bright
laurels for him in which she would have a rightful share.

Her mental food became the poetry of love, chivalry and glorious
war. The lyric had a vivid personal interest. Tales of romantic
daring and achievement were suggestions of possibilities in Harry's
career. Her waking hours were mainly spent, book in hand, under
the old apple-tree that daily grew dearer to her.

The exalted mood in which we found her was broken in upon by the
sound of some one shutting the gate below very emphatically. Looking
down she saw her father approaching with such visible signs in face
and demeanor of strong excitement that she arose and went to him.

"Why, father, what can be the matter?" she said, stopping in front
of him, with the open book pressed to her breast.

"Matter enough, I'm afraid, Rachel. There's been a battle near a