Had she waited, she might have seen a solitary figure leaving the line of
march and striding across to Pine Street.

That night the sluices of the heavens were opened, and the blood was
washed from the grass in Lindell Grove. The rain descended in floods on
the distracted city, and the great river rose and flung brush from
Minnesota forests high up on the stones of the levee. Down in the long
barracks weary recruits, who had stood and marched all the day long, went
supperless to their hard pallets.

Government fare was hard. Many a boy, prisoner or volunteer, sobbed
himself to sleep in the darkness. All were prisoners alike, prisoners of
war. Sobbed themselves to sleep, to dream of the dear homes that were
here within sight and sound of them, and to which they were powerless to
go. Sisters, and mothers, and wives were there, beyond the rain, holding
out arms to them.

Is war a thing to stir the blood? Ay, while the day lasts. But what of
the long nights when husband and wife have lain side by side? What of the
children who ask piteously where their father is going, and who are
gathered by a sobbing mother to her breast? Where is the picture of that
last breakfast at home? So in the midst of the cheer which is saddest in
life comes the thought that, just one year ago, he who is the staff of
the house was wont to sit down just so merrily to his morning meal,
before going to work in the office. Why had they not thanked God on their
knees for peace while they had it?

See the brave little wife waiting on the porch of her home for him to go
by. The sun shines, and the grass is green on the little plot, and the