the
roadside than go home like this."

"Well, you ain' much to look at, dat's sho'," replied Big Abel, his face
shining like polished ebony, "en I ain' much to look at needer, but dey'll
have ter recollect de way we all wuz befo' we runned away; dey'll have ter
recollect you in yo' fine shuts en fancy waistcoats, en dey'll have ter
recollect me in yo' ole uns. Sakes alive! I kin see dat one er yourn wid de
little bit er flow'rs all over hit des es plain es ef 'twuz yestiddy."

"The waistcoats are all gone now," said Dan gravely, "and so are the
shirts. The war is over and you are your own master, Big Abel. You don't
belong to me from this time on."

Big Abel shook his head grinning.

"I reckon hit's all de same," he remarked cheerfully, "en I reckon we'd es
well be gwine on home, Marse Dan."

"I reckon we would," said Dan, and they pushed on in silence.

X

ON THE MARCH AGAIN

That night they slept on the blood-stained floor of an old field hospital,
and the next morning Pinetop parted from them and joined an engineer who
had promised him a "lift" toward his mountains.

As Dan stood in the sunny road holding his friend's rough hand, it seemed
to him that such a parting was the sharpest wrench the end had brought.

"Whenever you need me, old fellow, remember that I am always ready," he
said in a husky voice.

Pinetop looked past him to the distant woods, and his calm blue eyes were
dim.

"I reckon you'll go yo' way an' I'll go mine," he replied, "for thar's one
thing sartain an' that is our ways don't run together. It'll never be the
same agin--that's natur--but if you ever want a good stout hand for any
uphill ploughing or shoot yo' man an' the police git on yo' track, jest
remember that I'm up thar in my little cabin. Why, if every officer in the
county was at yo' heels, I'd stand guard with my old squirrel gun and maw
would with her kettle."

Then he shook hands with Big Abel and strode on across a field to a little
railway station, while Dan went slowly down the road with the negro at his
side.

In the afternoon when they had trudged all the morning through the heavy
mud, they reached a small frame house set back from the road, with some
straggling ailanthus shoots at the front and a pile of newly cut hickory
logs near the kitchen steps. A woman, with a bucket of soapsuds at her
feet, was wringing out a homespun shirt in the yard, and as they entered
the little gate, she looked at them with