noticed that she went in the same direction. She went briskly, alertly,
like one with a definite end in view. Now, where did Billy go? Their
vagrant curiosity was aroused, but not yet to the point of
investigation.

Old '61 knew. Every morning since that first morning he had strained his
dim old eyes to catch a glimpse of a little figure coming blithely up
the road. On that first morning it had stopped in front of his little
house and said pleasant things to him as he sat on the doorsteps. He
remembered all the things.

"Good-morning! It's a splendid day, isn't it?"

And: "What a perfectly lovely place you live in! With the woods so near
you can shake hands with them out of your windows!"

And: "Don't the birds wake you up mornings? I wonder what they sing
about up here." Then she had glanced at his ancient army coat and added
the Pleasantest Thing Of All: "I think they must sing Battle Hymns and
Red, White and Blue songs and 'Marching Through Georgia,' don't they?"

"Not the last one," he had answered sadly. "They never sing that. If
they did, I'd 'a' learnt it of 'em long ago."

"Do you like that one best--very best?" she had asked, and he liked to
remember how she had smiled. He had stood up then and thrown back his
old shoulders proudly.

"Why, you see, marm," he had said simply, "I _marched_ through
Georgy!"