and the reasons for the
latest appointments by the President. When the girl came in again they let
such topics go, and talked of home while she poured the coffee and helped
Dan to fried chicken. She belonged to the order of women who delight in
feeding a hungry man, and her eyes did not leave his face as she sat behind
the tray and pressed the food upon him.

"Dan thinks the war will be over before he gets his furlough," she said a
little wistfully.

A shadow crossed the Governor's face.

"Then I may hope to get back in time to watch the cradles in the wheat
field," he remarked. "There's little doing on the farm I'm afraid while I'm
away."

"If they hold out six months longer--well, I'll be surprised," exclaimed
Dan, slapping the arm of his chair with a gesture like the Major's.
"They've found out we won't give in so long as there's a musket left; and
that's enough for them."

"Maybe so, maybe so," returned the Governor, for it was a part of his
philosophy to cast his conversational lines in the pleasant places. "Please
God, we'll drink our next Christmas glass at Chericoke."

"In the panelled parlour," added Dan, his eyes lighting.

"With Aunt Emmeline's portrait," finished Virginia, smiling.

For a time they were all silent, each looking happily into the far-off
room, and each seeing a distinct and different vision. To the Governor the
peaceful hearth grew warm again--he saw his wife and children gathered
there, and a few friendly neighbours with their long-lived, genial jokes
upon their lips. To Virginia it was her own bridal over again with the fear
of war gone from her, and the quiet happiness she wanted stretching out
into the future. To Dan there was first his own honour to be won, and then
only Betty and himself--Betty and himself under next year's mistletoe
together.

"Well, well," sighed the Governor, and came back regretfully to the
present. "It's a good place we're thinking of, and I reckon you're sorry
enough you left it before you were obliged to. We all make mistakes, my
boy, and the fortunate ones are those who live long enough to unmake them."

His warm smile shone out suddenly, and without waiting for a reply, he
began to ask for news of Jack Powell and his comrades, all of whom he knew
by name. "I was talking to Colonel Burwell about you the other day," he
added presently, "and he gave you a fighting record that would do honour to
the Major."

"He's a nice old chap," responded Dan, easily