Up went the sagging old head, up the sagging old shoulders! Old '61 was
back in "Georgy," marching through mud and pine-barrens, in cold and
hunger and weariness--with the boys, from Atlanta to the sea. Hurrah!
hurrah! the flag that made them free!

He was not old, not alone and forlorn and cumbering the earth. He was
young and straight and loyal, defying suffering and death, with glory
and fame, perhaps, on there ahead. His country needed him--he was
marching through Georgia for his country.

Billy played it over and over, untiring. A lump grew in her throat at
the sight of the old face down there on the lower step. For so much was
written on the old face!

Suddenly Old '61 got up and began to march, swinging his old legs out
splendidly. Down the walk, down the road, he went, as far as the music
went, then came marching splendidly back. Head up, shoulders squared,
the "boys" marching invisible beside him and before him and behind him,
he was no longer Old '61, but Young '61.

The next day Billy ate her breakfast quietly, helped clear away the
things, and went quietly away. She did not stop to read Laura Ann's
gay-painted "Compact" on the screen door. It might even have been
noticed, if anyone cared to notice, that she did not look at it, that
she hurried a little through the door, as if to avoid it.

Old '61 was waiting at the gate. She smiled at the eager invitation she
read in his face.

"No," she said, shaking her head for emphasis, "no, I'm not going to