od-by at the train two days before. But he said things were
going on at the Ridge about the same, and being away from home, he
grew confidential, and he told me Lige Bemis had lost all his money
bucking the board of trade--did you know that? If not, it isn't so,
and I never told you. John showed me the picture of little John B.
Ward--as likely a looking yearling as I ever saw. Well, I must
close. Remember me to all inquiring friends and tell them Comrade
Dolan is lying down by the still waters."

And now the screen is darkened for a moment to mark the passage of
months before we are given another peep into the parliament. It is
May--a May morning that every one of these old men will remember to
his death. The spring rise of the Sycamore has flooded the lowlands.
The odour of spring is in the air. In the parliament are lilacs in a
sprinkling pot--a great armful of lilacs, sent by Molly Culpepper.
The members who are present are talking of the way John Barclay has
sloughed off his years, and Watts is saying:--

"Boys will be boys; I knew him forty years ago when he was at least a
hundred years older, and twice as wise."

"He hasn't missed a ball game--either foot-ball or baseball--for for
nearly two years now," ventures Fernald. "And yell! Say, it's
something terrible."

McHurdie turns on the group with his glasses on his forehead. "Don't
you know what's a-happening to John?" he asks. "Well, I know. Whoever
wrote the Bible was a pretty smart man. I've found that out in
seventy-five years--especially the Proverbs, and I've been thinking
some of the Testament." He smiles. "There's something in it. It says,
'Except ye come as a little child, ye shall in no wise enter the
Kingdom.' That's it--that's it. I don't claim to know rightly what
the kingdom may be, but John's entering it. And I'll say this: John's
been a long time getting in, but now that he's there, he's having the
de'el of a fine time."

And on the very words General Ward comes bursting into the room,
forgetful of his years, with tragedy in his face. The bustle and
clatter of that morning in the town have passed over the men in the
parliament. They have not heard the shouts of voices in the street,
nor the sound of footsteps running towards the river. But even their
dim eyes see the horror in the general's face as he gasps for breath.

"Boys, boys," he exclaims. "My God, boys, haven't you heard--haven't
you heard?" And as their ol