(Tell
was always square in spite of his Copperhead father), and for "Thomas
O'Meara." We hardly knew whom he meant.

Bud Anderson whispered later, "Thay, O'mie, you'll never get into
kingdom come under an athumed name. Better thtick to 'O'mie.'"

And last of all the good Doctor prayed for the wives and daughters, that
they "be strong and very courageous," doing their part of working and
waiting as bravely as they do who go out to stirring action. Then
ringing speeches followed. I remember them all; but most of all the
words of my father and of Irving Whately are fixed in my mind. My father
lived many years and died one sunset hour when the prairies were in
their autumn glory, died with his face to the western sky, his last
earthly scene that peaceful prairie with the grandeur of a thousand
ever-changing hues building up a wall like to the walls of the New
Jerusalem which Saint John saw in a vision on the Isle of Patmos. There
was

No moaning of the bar
When he put out to sea

for he died beautifully, as he had lived. I never saw Irving Whately
again, for he went down before the rebel fire at Chattanooga; but the
sound of his voice I still can hear.

The words of these men seemed to lift me above the clouds, and what
followed is like a dream. I know that when the speeches were done,
Marjie went forward with the beautiful banner the women of Springvale
had made with their own hands for this Company. I could not hear her
words. They were few and simple, no doubt, for she was never given to
display. But I remember her white dress and her hair parted in front and
coiled low on her neck. I remember the sweet Madonna face of the little
girl, and how modestly graceful she was. I remember how every man held
his breath as she came up to the group seated on the stage, how pink her
cheeks were and how white the china aster bloom nestling against the
ripples of her hair, and how the soldiers cheered that flag and its
bearer. I remember Jean Pahusca, Indian-like, standing motionless, never
taking his eyes from Marjie's face. It was that flag that this Company
followed in its awful charge up Missionary Ridge. And it was Irving
Whately who kept it aloft, the memory of his daughter making it doubly
sacred to him.

And then came the good-byes. Marjie's father gripped my hand, and his
voice was full of tears.

"Take care of them, Phil. I have no son to guard my home, and if we
never come back you will not let harm come to th