ed a place near her. The
others had choice between campstools and blankets on the grass. And the
oddest but most respectable of contrabands served us soon with our
supper, so homelike that we suspected 'Mrs. Major's' fair hands of
interference.

It was a happy evening. Merry laughter at our camp stories rang silverly
from her fair lips. Or we listened eagerly to her as she told us of the
homes we had left, and the bonny maidens there, sobered since our
departure into patriotic industry. Stories of touching self-denial, with
a wholesome pathos, and sometimes from her dainty musical talk she
dropped, pebble-like, a name, as 'Fanny,' 'Carry,' 'Maggie,' and
responsive blushes rippled up over sunburned, honest faces, and a soft
mist brightened for a second resolute eyes. Presently the band--a part
only of the regiment's--began to play soft, well-known tunes. Through a
few marches and national airs, I looked and listened as a year before,
in the village church at home. And as the 'Star-Spangled Banner' rose
inspiringly, I felt the coincidence strangely, and could scarcely say
which scene was real: the church aisle and the bridal party, in white
robes and favors, with mellow organ-tones rising in patriotic strains
concerning the 'dear old flag,' or the group under the oaks; the young
wife in her gray travelling dress, and the uniformed figures gathered
around her; the moon-rise over the hill, lighting softly the drooping
flag, the major's dark hair, and Mrs. Fanning's sunny braids, the wild
notes of the same beloved melody overswelling all. But voices near
aroused me, and we joined in the chorus, and in the following tune,
'Sweet Home,' the usual finale of our evening programme. Then, as the
tones died, Grace lifted her voice and sang with sweet, pure soprano
tones, an old-time ballad of love and parting and reunion.

We had a wild little battle song in 'Our Mess,' written by Charlie
Marsh, our fair-haired boy-poet soldier, speaking of home, and the
country's need, and victory, and possible deaths in ringing notes. We
sang it there in the light of the slowly rising moon. The chorus was
like this:

'Our country's foe before us,
Our country's banner o'er us,
Our country to deplore us,
These are a soldier's needs.'

As we closed, Grace caught the strain, and with soft, birdlike notes
sang:

'Your country's flag above you,
Your country's true hearts love you--
So let your country move you
To brave, un