with God now, Philemon,'
she said over her shoulder as she left me; 'don't let them bother me.'
Then she walked unbent and unshaken up the stairs."

So John Barclay, who tried for four years and more to live by his
faith, was given the opportunity to die for it, and went to his duty
with a glad heart.

* * * * *

We will give our cinematograph one more whirl. A day, a week, a month,
have gone, and we may glimpse the parliament for the last time. Watts
McHurdie is reading aloud, slowly and rather painfully, a news item
from the _Banner_. Two vacant chairs are formally backed to the wall,
and in a third sits General Ward. At the end of a column-long article
Watts drones out:--

"And there was considerable adverse comment in the city over the fact
that the deceased was sent here for burial from the National Soldiers'
Home at Leavenworth, in a shabby, faded blue army uniform of most
ancient vintage. Surely this great government can afford better
shrouds than that for its soldier dead."

Watts lays down the paper and wipes his spectacles, and finally he
says:--

"And Neal wrote that?"

"And Neal wrote that," replies the general.

"And was born and bred in the Ridge," complains McHurdie.

"Born and bred in the Ridge," responds the general.

Watts puts on his glasses and fumbles for some piece of his work on
the bench. Then he shakes his head sadly and says, after drawing a
deep breath, "Well, it's a new generation, General, a new generation."

There follows a silence, during which Watts works on mending some bit
of harness, and the general reads the evening paper. The late
afternoon sun is slanting into the shop. At length the general speaks.

"Yes," he says, "but it's a fine town after all. It was worth doing. I
wake up early these days, and often of a fine spring morning I go out
to call on the people on the Hill."

McHurdie nods his comprehension.

"Yes," continues the general, "and I tell them all about the new
improvements. There are more of us out on the Hill now than in town,
Watts; I spent some time with David Frye and Henry Schnitzler and Jim
Lord Lee this morning, and called on General Hendricks for a little
while."

"Did you find him sociable?" asks the poet, grinning up from his
bench.

"Oh, so-so--about as usual," answers the general.

"He was always a proud one," comments Watts. "Will Henry Schnitzler be
stiff-necked about his monument there by the gate?" ask