, lights were
placed in every window, and horns were blown as at the coming of a new
year. Senator Hannibal St. John had lost his three boys and the hopes of
his old age in that terrible fight, but he caused his Washington house
to be illuminated from basement to garret.

And then he walked out in the streets alone, and the tears ran down his
old cheeks.

XXXVI

There had been a wedding in the hospital tent. Margaret bent over Peter
and kissed him goodby. She was in deep black, and by her side loomed a
great, dark figure, whose eyes were like caverns in the depths of which
burned coals. The great, dark man leaned heavily upon a stick, and did
not seem conscious of what was going on. The minister who had performed
the ceremony stood with averted face. Every now and then he moistened
his lips with the tip of his tongue. The wounded in neighboring cots
turned pitiful eyes upon the girl in black, for she was most lovely--and
very sad. Occasionally a throat was cleared.

"When you come, darling," said the dying man, "there will be an end of
sorrow."

"There will be an end of sorrow," echoed the girl. She bent closer to
him, and kissed him again.

"It is very wonderful to have been loved," said Peter. Then his face
became still and very beautiful. A smile, innocent like that of a little
child, lingered upon his lips, and his blind eyes closed.

St. John laid his hand upon Margaret's shoulder.

A man, very tall and lean and homely, entered the tent. He was clad in
an exceedingly long and ill-fitting frock-coat. Upon his head was a high
black hat, somewhat the worse for wear. He turned a pair of very gentle
and pitying eyes slowly over those in the tent.

Aladdin, his head almost concealed by bandages, sat suddenly upright
in a neighboring cot. A wild, unreasoning light was in his eyes, and
marking time with his hand, he burst suddenly into the "Battle Hymn of
the Republic"

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call
retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat
Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.

He sang on, and the wounded joined him with weak voices:

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me;
As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.

The tall man who had entered