Nature left nothing to be desired in the weather as the hour approached for the concert at the Lucinda Home. Over the closely shaven lawn and beneath the shade of the trees lay the tranquillity of a summer’s afternoon.

This was disturbed, shortly after lunch, by the roaring of the Dale car as it rushed up the curving driveway to the main building. It was driven by Ike, and Serena sat beside him in the purity of apparel, freshly laundered and starched.

But, even at this hour, the aged ladies had retired to their apartments to make ready for the gaieties of the late afternoon.

The coming of the Dale car was the beginning of a series of commotions in this haven of peace. A big army truck arrived with a noise of thunder bringing trestles and plank for a temporary band stand. It stopped, and through the balmy silence sounded a rough, coarse, masculine voice, “Where in the devil do they want this blame thing?” Answered his companion, “You can search me.”

A window closed with a crash to shut out contamination from such vulgar sources.

As the army truck and its crew noisily departed, another machine entered the grounds. It was a quiet car, not given to loud or uncouth uproar. Stealing up the driveway, it stopped. Mr. Vivian emerged, garbed in spotless white. Other soft stepping, mild mannered men, similarly clothed, accompanied him, bearing freezers of cream and boxes of cake.

Serena entered into conference with the caterer. “Des ole ladies dey wants der tea mo’e den yo’alls sweet stuff.”

Mr. Vivian appeared pained at such taste.

Serena went on, “Ah’s gwine mek de tea in de kitchen an’ surve it an’ de sandwiches outen de side do’.”

Disgust sat upon Mr. Vivian’s features. “I shall serve the cream from under the trees, in the cool fresh air,” he announced.

“You gwine surve it full o’ bugs an’ flies den,” predicted Serena.

Mr. Vivian, through the exercise of self-control, stood mute.

Serena sought information. “Who gwine surve ma tea an’ ma sandwiches?” she inquired.

Mr. Vivian whistled a few measures of melody, softly. Being thus engaged, he could not respond.

Serena pressed for an answer. “Ain’ yo’all do dat?”

“Possibly my men may assist you,” the caterer conceded, as he glanced at his assistants grouped at his back.

Serena was supported by Ike and several colored females, employees of the Home, into whose good graces the chauffeur was endeavoring to ingratiate himself.The situation was tense.

Serena’s hands were upon her hips and her entire body vibrated. Her eyes glistened with rage and rested menacingly upon the caterer. She was clothed in an air of mystery. Her opponent could not determine whether she proposed to rely upon logical argument, abusive language, or physical violence.

Mr. Vivian noted uneasily the mass of vibrant temper he had aroused. He stood his ground, however, and did not retreat.

“Whoall is er givin’ dis yere sociable? Whoall pays fo’ dis yere ’tainment? Ah asts you dat? Answer me, whiteman?”

Ike drew nigh, inclining an ear that he might miss no word of the altercation. “Dats right,” he interjected in a rich mellow voice.

Mr. Vivian gave no heed to the aid and comfort vouchsafed his adversary.

“Ah tells you who pays. Ah’m right yere to tell yo’all who pays,” proclaimed Serena. “Miss Virginy done pay. Dat who.” Hers was a song of triumph now. “Ahs her nu’se. Ah’s her housekeeper.” She shook a great fist at the caterer. “Whiteman, wot ah sez, ah means. Ef yo’all ain’ gwine surve ma sandwiches an’ ma tea, jes tek yo’se’f an’ des yere white waiters away f’om yere.”

“Dat’s right,” concurred Ike, confident that he appeared to good advantage before the employees of the Home and that, through his stalwart support of Serena, he was laying up treasure for a rainy day.

“What’s all this talk about?” Mr. Vivian demanded suddenly as if being a stranger to the controversy he sought enlightenment. “Who said that I wouldn’t serve your sandwiches and tea?”

Serena, after the manner of her generation, was wise. She understood the whiteman and knew when to stop war and resort to diplomacy. She whirled upon the hapless Ike. “Ain’ yo’all got no bettah manners an’ to stan’ der er listin’ at dis gent’men an’ me a talkin’. You ’minds me o’ er ole turkey gobbler er standin der wid you’ haid twisted.”

Such an unlooked-for attack, from one with whom he had publicly allied himself, grieved Ike sorely. He retreated crestfallen and humiliated.

When Virginia entered the kitchen she found Serena and Mr. Vivian laboring diligently and as intimate friends, decrying the efficiency of their assistants without regard to color or previous condition of servitude.

Another army truck brought the band. White collars and ties showed festively above brass buttoned blue coats. Hair, mustaches, and whiskers had been dressed with extraordinary care, and aged musicians looked from beneath campaign hats worn at a most rakish angle. As they took possession of the stand, there ensued a period of melancholy tootings as instruments were adjusted and lips made supple.

Excitement seized the old ladies at their toilets, as these isolated blarings smote their ears. Certain partially deaf ones, confident that the concert had begun and desirous of missing no note of it, descended, minus switches, false fronts and, indeed, in one case, an over-skirt. These omissions became the subject of great embarrassment when discovered later.

As three o’clock approached, a prim calmness fell upon the inmates of the home when they assembled stiffly gowned in best apparel.

Hezekiah Wilkins, in holiday garb of silk hat and cutaway frock, arrived. Mrs. Henderson came a few moments later. Certain uninvited ancient men dressed as for a fiesta followed. Mr. Jones and Kelly entered the grounds with an air of having casually dropped in and not intending to stay long. The stenographer wore a natty suit, the check of which caught the discriminating eye of Ike as it rounded the gate. At the scheduled moment for the concert, Colonel Ryan approached and, after saluting Virginia, seated himself upon the porch and viewed the band with the pride and pleasure of its proprietor.

At the tap of the leader, the onlookers were dazzled by golden reflections as the musicians lifted their instruments. With a burst of harmony, Virginia’s concert was on. Even at the first note, the stiff dignity of the audience melted and they conversed. Women whose taciturnity had been remarked for years in that place of silence became loquacious.

The concert made an attractive picture. The band was upon the lawn in front of the building. On the lower porch and in shady places about the grounds were groups of aged women. Their white hair blended softly with the dresses of grey and black, and soft fichus or treasured bits of lace were drawn about wrinkled necks by cameos and big brooches.

Mr. Wilkins conducted Mrs. Henderson to several spots from which to hear the music. They were rejected summarily by the fastidious widow on the grounds of ants below or spiders above and the general presence of bugs. Finally she made her own selection, confessing a suspicion of the presence in concealment of grasshoppers and the fear that the place was attractive to frogs and grass snakes.

Perceiving Hezekiah’s holiday attire and Mrs. Henderson’s manner, Mr. Vivian deemed them important personages and served them bountifully with his own hands. He was rewarded by hearing the widow tell her escort, “You can’t buy decent ice cream in South Ridgefield. It’s all adulterated and unfit for human consumption. The people who make such stuff should be put in jail for life.”

Hezekiah chuckled contentedly. “Why not chop off their heads?” he suggested kindly.

Mr. Vivian departed hastily.

From their position they could see Virginia moving busily about from group to group.

Mrs. Henderson indicated her. “There is a dear girl,” she said fondly. “It’s Elinor Dale come back again.”

“Virginia is very like her mother,” he agreed.

“Why did Elinor ever marry a man like Obadiah?” she sighed.

Hezekiah liked sandwiches. Particularly lettuce sandwiches with mayonnaise dressing. Mrs. Henderson’s question caught him unawares. “Wanted to,” he mumbled through his mouthful.

“Hezekiah Wilkins, an answer of that sort kills conversation. You give me a sociable reply.”

The muffling sandwiches had been gotten rid of. “Fascinated,” he suggested.

“Fascinated by a serpent,” sniffed Mrs. Henderson.The inference that Obadiah was a reptile failed to effect the appetite of his legal adviser. He appropriated another sandwich.

“Why do you work for him, anyway?” she demanded sharply.

“Money,” confessed Hezekiah, between bites.

“Hezekiah, there is something about your conversation which irritates me. I think that its brevity gets on my nerves.” She gave him a questioning look. “I want to talk seriously with an old friend, Hezekiah. I want to ask him to do something for me.”

He stopped eating and turned towards her. The humor had faded from his face and in its place was a certain sweetness with much of sorrow in it. “Over twenty years ago, you asked me to be a brother to you, Mary,” he said softly. “I have always tried to be a good one–to be ready to obey your slightest wish.”

There was pain and pity in her countenance as she reached over and patted his hand. “I know it, Hezekiah,” she whispered. “You have been too good a brother to me. You should have married.” There was a catch in her voice and her eyes were moist, when she continued, “I never intended to condemn you to a life of loneliness when I married Tom Henderson.”

His thoughts flew back over the long years. “It has been lonely, Mary,” he admitted. “Are you sorry that I could not forget?”

“No,” she whispered, winking back her tears. “It has been a beautiful tribute–too beautiful for me. I was never worthy of it.”

“I am the better judge of that,” he murmured quietly.For a time they were lost in the dreams of what might have been, when they were disturbed by the big booming laugh of Colonel Ryan.

“Hezekiah Wilkins,” exclaimed Mrs. Henderson with some sharpness, “we are a pair of sentimental old fools to dig up the past. We should save our strength for the future.”

“Implying that we might better be preparing to dig our own graves. Is that your idea?” he demanded.

Indignant eyes in which but little sentiment lingered, rested upon the lawyer. “I suppose that you wished to be amusing, Hezekiah, but for a man noted for his tact that was an inexcusably gruesome speech. We may be old, as you intimate,” she snapped, “but we have work to do before–we get busy on our own graves.” Her gaze traveled across the lawn and came to rest upon the girlish figure of Virginia standing beside the Colonel. Hennie’s mood softened, and when she spoke, it was as if she were thinking aloud. “If we have met sorrow and disillusionment in our own lives, Hezekiah, and with smiling lips have swallowed the bitter mouthful, should we not be willing to keep those whom we love from a similar experience?”

Hezekiah bowed in sober agreement.

“Virginia Dale is very happy this afternoon,” Mrs. Henderson went on, “because she is doing what her mother, Elinor, always loved to do–make others happy. It has never entered her head that her father is not generous and kind–that he is the mean and selfish man that you and I know.”

The widow reached over and laid her hand upon that of the lawyer. “I am going to tell you a story, Hezekiah. It is about those good old days when you and I used to dance and do other gay and frivolous things–before we laid ourselves on the shelf.” Her face saddened. “My story is mostly a guess,” she continued, “and it is about what I think happened to Elinor Dale in those long bedridden hours before she died.”

Again, he bowed and he was saddened, too, by the memories she recalled.

“It is my guess, Hezekiah,” she resumed, “that before Elinor Dale died, the scales fell from her eyes and she knew the true Obadiah.” Mrs. Henderson sighed. “Poor Elinor knew that she had to go. Too loyal to confide in any one, she wanted to fight his selfish influence over her baby girl after she had gone. Let me tell you what she did–the poor weapon she was forced to resort to, Hezekiah.” The widow shook her head sorrowfully. “Elinor marked a poem in a book and pledged me to give it to Virginia on her eighteenth birthday.

“This afternoon is one of the first fruits of the seed poor Elinor sowed years ago. Her daughter has grown, thanks to poor Serena’s efforts–they ought to be successful because I don’t believe that old negro ever bought the child a hat without taking it up in her prayers–into a beautiful woman. Fertile soil for the crop her mother would harvest, but–” Mrs. Henderson paused and her eyes flashed–“there is that Obadiah. Only the kindness of fate has kept Virginia from understanding him. When she does there will be a day of reckoning.”

Mrs. Henderson leaned towards Hezekiah and looked into his eyes with her own overflowing with a great tenderness. “My faithful brother,” she whispered, “when that day comes won’t you do your part in keeping that sweet girl happy even as she is trying to do it for these old ladies? In your way you can do more than I can, Hezekiah. Won’t you do it for Elinor?” She hesitated for a moment and continued, very softly, very gently, “Won’t you do it for me?”

He returned Hennie’s look, his face alight with tenderness. “I will, Mary,” he promised.

The activities of Mr. Jones at this period were interesting. Regardless of his aches and pains, he deemed it his duty, as Obadiah’s private secretary, to assume an active part in making the entertainment a success. With this in mind, he had volunteered his services to Virginia. Rewarding him with a sweet smile, she had sent him for a cup of tea. Mr. Jones performed this errand with great expedition and dispatch, thereby winning the gratitude of an aged tea drinker. Virginia being busy, Mr. Jones determined to exhibit his zeal in so signal a manner that it might not be overlooked. Returning to the kitchen, he seized a tray of edibles and, bearing it forth, began to distribute its contents with great energy.

Instantly, excitement seized the white coated waiters. They laid aside their trays and conferred. Soon, above the music, even above conversation, the notes of a whistle sounded. It was not the piercing call of a policeman or of a referee, it was not the pipe of a boatswain, it was rather the low, mourning call of a dove. As it smote the ears of Mr. Vivian he became as one transfixed with horror. He became ghastly pale as he recognized that the earnest efforts of Mr. Jones alone stood between the guests and famine.

Recovering himself, the caterer hurried towards his assembled employees. From his manner it appeared he hoped for the best but suspected the worst. “What’s the matter here?” he demanded in low, tense tones.

“We have struck,” murmured the waiters.

Mr. Vivian’s worst expectations were confirmed. “Why?” he inquired, with the usual interest of employers under similar circumstances.

The strikers turned and pointed at the form of Mr. Jones as he distributed a tray of viands with such marvelous rapidity that the effect of the walkout was as yet unnoticed by the aged. “Scab,” they hissed in hostile sibilation. “Strikebreaker,” they groaned, impressed by the wonderful dexterity of the stenographer.

“Where did that bird come from?” demanded the amazed Mr. Vivian as he viewed the skill of the gratuitous laborer.

“You know,” taunted an irate waiter; but Mr. Vivian’s honest countenance gave him the lie in his teeth, noiselessly.

Curiosity held the little group. They examined Mr. Jones’s work with professional interest, making surmises as to his identity. “Looks like a jockey,” said one. “More like a barber,” urged another. “I’ll bet ten cents he is an ex-bartender,” wagered a sportive character.

Even as they watched, Mr. Jones approached Virginia, offering her food with profound bows and courtly manners.“He is a waiter,” declared the strikers with one accord, and again they rested suspicious eyes upon Mr. Vivian.

“That dub ain’t working for me,” affirmed the caterer.

Much elated at successfully allaying famine, Mr. Jones turned anew towards the kitchen. Had not Virginia smiled upon him? He swung his tray and whistled a merry tune. In the pleasure of serving others, the aches and pains of the athlete were forgotten. At the kitchen door he was surrounded by resolute men.

“Make no resistance,” a determined voice warned.

The white coated mob moved away escorting Mr. Jones as towards summary execution.

Scenting happenings of interest, Ike followed.

From the kitchen Serena sought information. “Whar yo’all gwine?” she demanded.

“Dey done struck. Yah–yah–yah,” laughed Ike.

“Shut you’ big mouf. Ah ain’ er astin’ you nothin’.” Serena reproved the chauffeur and then she charged into the midst of the mob. “Wot yo’all mean a leavin’ ma trays an’ dirty dishes out in dat ya’d? Ain’ you know how to wait?” Her eyes flashed her indignation. “Go git ma dishes an’ ma trays afo’e ah meks you move fas’er den you lak.”

As snow before an April sun the strike melted. The waiters departed hastily for their field of duty, leaving Mr. Jones alone with Serena. She glared at him fiercely. “How cum you mek ma waiters mad?” she demanded.Amazed at the strange results of his diligence, Mr. Jones stood silent under her accusation.

She inspected his slight figure contemptuously. “Clea’ out,” she commanded, “afo ah lays ma han’ on you an’ breks you, boy.”

This last victim of woman’s tongue moved rapidly towards the front lawn seeking safety amidst aged women. On the way he passed a fellow sufferer.

Serena’s cutting remarks had, for Ike, turned an afternoon of pleasure and recreation into a time of humiliation. Here was music, food, agreeable company, all turned into dust by public reprimands. Yet the inextinguishable fire of hope burned in his breast. In the fullness of time, Serena might forget, allow him to enter the kitchen as one in good standing and, in the alluring company of the colored maids, to partake of refreshments. Until then he must wait. Doing this, he watched the assemblage with melancholy eyes. He considered the band futile. It played no jazz. In an unhappy hour, tobacco brings solace to man. Ike produced a cigarette. Lighting it, he puffed nervously, suspecting the use of the weed in this haunt of aged women to be taboo. Happy laughter arose in the kitchen easily identified as the hearty tones of Serena, amused, a favorable augury to the courtier cooling his heels in the ante room. Casting down his cigarette, Ike turned to reconnoiter. The butt dropped beneath the porch into some ancient leaves, damp but inflammable.

The leaves ignited and smouldered. Fanned by a gentle breeze the fire grew into a burning which produced much smoke and little flame.Upon the porch sat Mrs. Comfort Bean. Life to her was an open book. She had survived three husbands. The first, a drunkard, had drowned, not in rum, but in the river into which he had the misfortune to fall while returning home from a convivial evening enjoyed with other gay lads at the village tavern. The second, a gambler, was shot in an altercation over the ill-timed presence of five aces in a card game. The third, a fragile thing, had faded like a flower. Mrs. Bean had neither regrets for, nor fear of, man. She knew him too well. She had come to anchor in the Lucinda Home like a storm ridden ship seeking safe harbor after a stormy passage. Here lay a peace the like of which she had never known.

But one cloud rested upon her horizon. Mrs. Bean was afraid of fire. She considered that because the inmates could not dwell upon the ground floor of the Home, the place was a fire trap and the most horrible holocaust, not only possible but probable. To inure herself to the inevitable, she read the harrowing details of every fire involving fatalities.

Having enjoyed refreshments, Mrs. Bean had retired to the porch that she might listen to the music in the peace of her own thoughts. She sniffed. It was but a tentative sniff. Not a full, deep whiff. Such sniffs she gave many times each day. “Somethin’s burnin’,” said Mrs. Comfort Bean. Hearers being absent, there was no sympathetic response. “I smell fire,” she announced in louder tones. A phenomenon puzzled Mrs. Bean’s highly developed olfactory nerves. Her nostrils were assailed by the odor of ignited hay instead of the fateful smell of burning wood.The fire smouldered and spread. A gust of wind came. Mrs. Comfort Bean, sniffing expectantly, was enveloped in a thin cloud of smoke. It caught her when, dissatisfied by preliminary investigations, she had taken a full, deep whiff. Mrs. Bean was almost asphyxiated. Gasping and choking she strangled in the efficient smudge of Ike’s preparing. A change in the wind relieved her. “Fire!” she screamed.

As this fateful cry, anguish-toned, rang over the festive throng, many an aged heart stood still. Shrieks arose as well as answering alarms. For the moment terror held them, and then certain women rushed for the building that they might ascend to their apartments and rescue choice possessions. Other more hardened spirits removed their chairs to positions of advantage that in greater comfort, they might “Watch the blamed old thing burn down.”

The coolness of military men was well exemplified by Colonel Ryan. He arose from his chair at the first alarm and shouted, “Sit down,” in a voice which had arisen above the roar of cannon. Perceiving the stampede towards the building, he thundered, “Two of you waiters keep those women out of there.” In utter disregard of the high cost of shoes, he roared, “Stamp that fire out!” In searching tones, he demanded, “Who set it?” No guilty man confessed, but Ike became ill at ease and sought retirement in the crowd.

The Colonel turned to the leader of the band which rested between numbers. “Play!” he commanded. These ancient musicians had little regard for modern music. They loved the tuneful airs of the past and were about to render some selections from “The Serenade.” At the word of the leader, the chorus from “Don Jose of Seville,” the words of which run, “Let her go, piff, paff,” pealed forth.

To avert impending peril, Mrs. Comfort Bean had remained upon the porch emitting loud screams at intervals as if they were minute guns. She disappeared into the hall. She was back in a moment. Kelly was gazing beneath the porch at the smouldering leaves. She called to him, “You big red-headed feller,” and when he looked up, she screamed, “Fire extinguisher.”

He nodded understandingly and in a moment had procured the apparatus from the hall and carried it to the end of the porch where a group of waiters, assisted by their late enemy, Mr. Jones, were endeavoring to stamp the fire out.

For an instant Kelly perused the directions. Then he inverted the extinguisher. There was a hissing as of a monstrous snake. From the nozzle gushed a fizzing, sizzling jet like a soda fountain in action. Kelly whirled about to bring the stream to bear upon the conflagration. As he turned, the frothing liquid circled with him and cut the check suit of Mr. Jones, the white coats of the waiters, and the Norfolk jacket of Ike, at the waist line. Now arose the protests and violent language of angry men.

“You big chump, ain’t you got no sense?” gasped Mr. Jones, ungrammatically.

“Get out of the way so that I can put this fire out. You are kicking it all over the place,” the bookkeeper responded.

“I have as much right here as you–you big lump of grease,” proclaimed Mr. Jones as he inspected with indignation the dark colored belt with which he had been invested.

Kelly cast a menacing look at the stenographer. “If you don’t shut up, I am going to stick this nozzle down your throat,” he threatened.

Mr. Jones watched the fizzling stream as if estimating its physiological effect under the conditions named, and remained silent.

Loud laughter sounded in the kitchen. Ike, cooled by his bath, had presented himself for comforting.

Serena thus welcomed him. “Dey souse you in saltpeter an’ you done smoke youse’f so you mus’ be cu’ed lak er ham. Sit by de stove. Ah gwine give you er cup o’ coffee,” she chuckled, “ef yo’all smells ham er feels youse’f er beginnin’ to fry, git out o’ yere afo you greases de flo.”

So Ike rested in comfort, sandwiches and coffee at his side, and smiled pleasantly upon the maids. Truly, after affliction, he had entered into the blessings of the promised land.

The fire was out. Kelly moved to return the extinguisher to its place. With a thud, a white bundle dropped from the third floor upon his head. It appeared soft but upon its touch Kelly sank to the ground, blinking vacantly.

Forgetful of their recent altercation, Mr. Jones rushed to his fellow worker’s assistance. “What’s the matter?” he demanded.

Kelly rubbed his head. “Somebody hit me with a rock,” he answered, observing Mr. Jones meanwhile with suspicion.

The stenographer kicked the bundle open. Then, howling with pain, he grabbed his toe. In the center of the bundle lay a mantel clock. “Might have killed you–easy,” he spluttered at Kelly, and raised indignant eyes to where an old woman, her wrinkled face filled with anxiety, leaned over the railing. “Did you throw that clock?” demanded Mr. Jones.

She held her hand to her ear and smiled sweetly. “What?” she called.

“Clock,” bawled Mr. Jones. “Did you drop that clock?”

“I can’t hear you,” she answered.

“Clock,” yelled the private secretary.

“Yes, it’s mine. Thank you for telling me that it is not hurt,” she responded in great contentment to the vexed Mr. Jones.

The reunited official staff of Obadiah moved on, one member limping, the other caressing his head.

Gentle peace returned for the moment to the emotion-swept aged ones. But now, through the gates of the Home rushes the fire department of South Ridgefield. With awe inspiring roar and mighty clangor of bells the engines advance, reflecting gorgeously in the afternoon sun. Taxpayers must have thrilled with pride as they remarked the speed of approach and energy with which these public servants entered upon their duties. Even as they halt, powerful pumps sound, ready to deluge the edifice with water while enthusiastic men with axes rush into the halls and upon the roof, prepared to hew.

“Where is the fire?” demanded the chief in a voice of authority.

Silently, Mrs. Bean led him to the blackened leaves.“Who turned in that alarm?” he asked with great sternness.

“I did,” calmly replied the widow of three.

For a moment he looked down into the wrinkled face filled with the pride and satisfaction of duty well done. He raised his helmet and scratched his head. “The whole department out for a bonfire,” he grumbled.

Virginia came and smiled timidly at this burly man. “I am sorry that you have been given all of this trouble,” she said. “I have arranged to serve refreshments to your men, if you don’t object.”

When his little hostess left him, the grim old fire fighter stood at the head of the steps and gazed at the waiters ministering with energy to the voracious appetites of his men. “Huh,” he chuckled, “looks like that blame bonfire cooked up a pretty good feed for my boys.”

The concert ended and the musicians awaited, in a group, the truck which was to take them back to the Soldiers’ Home. Colonel Ryan went to speak to the leader. As he turned to Virginia, who had been at his side, he discovered her thanking the members of the organization individually for their part in the concert.

“Your music was beautiful,” she told a cornet player. “Every one enjoyed it so much.” She made apology to the entire number. “It is too bad that the fire alarm disturbed you.”

“That weren’t no disturbance, Ma’am,” the cornetist reassured her. He was bowed with age and had a shrill cracked voice. Tucking his instrument under his arm, he filled a disreputable pipe and went on. “No, Ma’am, that weren’t what I’d call no disturbance. In the war our old Colonel used to make us go out on the skirmish line and play. Our leader allowed that the rattle of bullets on the drum heads ruined the time.”

“How brave of you,” Virginia marveled at this thumping tale of war.

“Had to be brave in my regiment, Ma’am. Old Colonel Dean was a bob-cat and he expected his men to be catamounts,” he cackled.

A clarionetist chewed a stubby mustache and listened to the remarks of the cornet player with a hostile air. “They ain’t over their squallin’ yit,” he proclaimed, and the musicians roared with laughter.

Shaking his old pipe wrathfully at his fellows, the man with the cornet challenged them. “Colonel Dean was a bob-cat,” he maintained. “A ragin’, clawin’, scratchin’, bob-cat of a fighter and the whole regiment was just like the old man.”

As the name Dean was mentioned, an old lady arose from a group with whom she had been chatting and drew near the musicians. She was tall and dignified and a cap of lace was pinned upon her snowy head. She peered at the cornetist through her spectacles. “Were you speaking of Colonel Dean of the Infantry?” she asked sweetly.

“Yes, Ma’am,” the cornet player growled. “I was a talkin’ about old Colonel Dean of my regiment, a ragin’, clawin’, scratchin’, fightin’ man.” His bellicose tones indicated the danger of contradiction and displayed a suspicion that his questioner lifted her voice in behalf of his opponents.

“Colonel Dean,” she said gently, “was my husband. Were you with him at Shiloh?”A great change swept over the cornetist. He bowed deeply, his hat sweeping the ground. His voice was reverential, even tender, as he replied, “I was behind him there, Ma’am–his bugler. I helped to carry him from the field.”

The group was very serious now. When the old veteran spoke again he could not conceal the emotion which shook him. “Colonel Dean lived a brave man, Ma’am, and he died–” he hesitated, seeking words–“just like a soldier orter die.” He straightened proudly, his old eyes flashing. “Boys,” he called, “my Colonel’s lady. Attention!” As one man they stiffened. Each hand sought the rim of a hat and together swept forward in the old time salute.

Mrs. Dean acknowledged the honor with a bow of great dignity, but the wrinkled hand at her side was shaking. For an instant the frail body held its poise and then broke beneath the storm of feeling which beset it. She seemed to shrink and would have fallen had not Virginia caught the withered form in her arms and helped the old lady to a seat. After a time the tears were fewer and the sobs lessened.

Mrs. Dean turned to the girl. “Forgive me, child,” she begged. “Forgive the weakness of an old woman.” A withered hand stroked a soft white one. “You have given me great happiness today, dearie.” Her eyes returned to the waiting members of the band. “I think,” she said very gently, “my soldier boys wish to speak to me.” She arose and one by one and silently the musicians came forward and took her hand.

A little later Mrs. Henderson and Hezekiah found Virginia at the foot of the steps where she had just left Mrs. Dean. The girl was gazing off into the distance.

“Virginia Dale, you have been crying,” Hennie said, as she noted a telltale moisture of the eyes.

“No, Hennie, I am wonderfully happy.”

“So much so that you had to cry, dearie?” The older woman smiled tenderly. Raising her hands she caught Virginia’s cheeks between them and looked down into the big blue eyes. “It was a success, dear–a great success,” she giggled mischievously for one of her years. “You told us, remember, that the place needed stirring up. Bless your heart, you shook it with an earthquake.”