ut it, have you?"

"No, but you and I know that it's all right however it goes."

Randy, standing very straight, looked out over the valley where the
river showed through the rain like a silver thread. "Well, we didn't
do it for praise, did we?"

"No, thank God."

Their eyes were seeing other things than these quiet hills. Things
they wanted to forget. But they did not want to forget the high
exaltation which had sent them over, or the quiet conviction of right
which had helped them to carry on. What the people at home might do or
think did not matter. What mattered was their own adjustment to the
things which were to follow.

Randy went up-stairs, took off his uniform, bathed and came down in the
garments of peace.

"Glad to get out of your uniform?" the Major asked.

"I believe I am. Perhaps if I'd been an officer, I shouldn't."

"Everybody couldn't be. I've no doubt you deserved it."

"I could have pulled wires, of course, before I went over, but I
wouldn't."

From somewhere within the big house came the reverberation of a
Japanese gong.

Randy rose. "I'm going over to lunch. I'd rather face guns, but
Mother will like it. You can have yours here."

"Not if I know it," the Major rose, "I'm going to share the fatted
calf."

VI

It was late that night when the Major went to bed. The feast in
Randy's honor had lasted until ten. There had been the shine of
candles, and the laughter of the women, the old Judge's genial humor.
Through the windows had come the fragrance of honeysuckle and of late
roses. Becky had sung for them, standing between two straight white
candles.

"In the beauty of the lilies, Christ was born across the sea,
With the glory in his bosom which transfigures you and me.
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free
While God is marching on----"

The last time the Major had heard a woman sing that song had been in a
little French town just after the United States had gone into the war.
She was of his own country, red-haired and in uniform. She had stood
on the steps of a stone house and weary men had clustered about
her--French, English, Scotch, a few Americans. Tired and spent, they
had gazed up at her as if they drank her in. To them she was more than
a singing woman. She was the daughter of a nation of dreamers, _the
daughter of a nation which made its dreams come true_! Behind her
stood a steadfast people, and--God was marching on----!