ed at the ceiling. He
was apparently selecting the first piece. It, was always the same, his
favorite, "Listen to the Mocking Bird." He played with a plaintive,
swaying melody that charmed his hearers. The whistler amazed them with
his marvelous imitation of birds and bird calls. The room throbbed with
every note of the garden, field and wood.

The mother's face was wreathed in smiles. The boy shouted. The baby
crooned. The first piece done, the audience burst into a round of
applause.

Bob gave them "Alabama" next, accompanied by the whistler and his bird
chorus.

Stuart laughed and called for the breakdown. Bob begins a jig on his
guitar, the whistler claps and the sable dancer edges his way to the
center of the floor in little spasmodic shuffles. He begins with his
heel tap, then the toe, then in leaps and whirls. The guitar swelled
to a steady roar. The whistler quickens his claps. And Stuart's boyish
laughter rang above the din.

"Go it, boy! Go it!"

The dancer's eyes roll. His step quickens. He cuts the wildest figures
in a frenzy of abandoned joy. With a leap through the door he is gone.
The guitar stops with a sudden twang and Stuart's laughter roars.

And then he gave an hour to play with his children before a mother's
lullaby should put them to sleep. He got down on his all fours and
little Jeb mounted and rode round the room to the baby's scream of joy.
He lay flat on the floor with the baby on his breast and let her pull
his beard and mustache until her strength failed.

The children were still sound asleep when they sat down and ate
breakfast before day.

At the first streak of dawn he was standing beside his horse ready for
the dash back to his headquarters and the work of the day.

The shadow had fallen across the woman's heart again. He saw and
understood. He put his hand under her chin and lifted it.

"No more tears now, my sweetheart."

"I'll try."

"We may be here for weeks."

"There'll be another fight soon?"

"I think not."

"For a month?"

"Not for a long time."

"Thank God!"

A far-off look stole into his eyes.

"It will be a good one though when it comes, I reckon."

"There can be no _good_ one--if my boy's in it."

"Well, I'll be in it!"

"Yes. I know."

She kissed him and turned back into the house, with the old fear
gripping her heart.

CHAPTER XL

The early months of the war were but skirmishes. The real work of
killing and maiming the flower of the