“I don’t know,” he said finally, “as I’d ort to encourage ye in this thing. Mebbe it ain’t jest right. It’s a-goin’ ag’inst yer father’s wish an’ will. It’s a-makin’ yer mother an awful lot of anxiety. Mebbe it won’t amount to nothin’ anyway. Mebbe they won’t take ye. Mebbe they won’t leave him go free. Ef they do take ye, ye go to war, an’ ye know, or else ye don’t know, what war is. You’re jest a boy. You’ll hev to suffer. You’ll see some hard times. Ye ain’t use to it. Likely ye’ll git sick. Mebbe ye’ll git swamp fever, an’ that’s bad enough. Mebbe ye’ll git wounded, crippled for life. Mebbe ye’ll git killed, an’ yer body buried in a trench with a hundred others, like they buried ’em at Antietam an’ Gettysburg, an’ nobody never know where ye lay, nor how ye died. It’s awful, war is, it’s jest awful, an’ ye ortn’t to go, unless ye realize what’s likely to happen to ye; and I ortn’t to encourage ye in goin’ unless I’m ready to shoulder the responsibility fer what may happen, an’ I ain’t quite ready to do that.” “And I don’t want you to do that, Uncle Seth. I know what I’m about. I’ve thought it all out. I’ve thought about every dreadful thing that can possibly happen to me. But before I get through thinking what may happen to me, I begin to think about what is pretty sure to happen to my father if things go on as they are. And then I can’t hesitate any more. To have my father shot as a deserter, why, that would be worse for me, and worse for my mother, and for my little sister all our lives, than it would be to have me tired, or hungry, or sick, or wounded, or shot to death in battle and buried in a trench. And besides that I want to go for the sake of going. I want to do something for my country. Abraham Lincoln wants more soldiers, and if he wants them he should have them. I’m ready to go, and I’m going. I’ve made up my mind; and you couldn’t discourage me, Uncle Seth, if you talked a thousand years!” In the gray October twilight the boy stood erect, with flushed face and flashing eyes. The spirit of the time had entered his soul as it entered the souls of thousands of other boys in those soul-stirring days, and, like them, he was ready. Consequences were of no moment. His country was calling, his response rang fervent and true. So Seth Mills spoke no more discouraging words. But he put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and looked up into his eyes, for the boy was the taller of the two. “You’re right,” he said, “and I’m wrong. I hadn’t thought it was in ye. Go on. I’ll stand back o’ ye. God bless ye, I’m proud o’ ye!” Tears came into the old man’s eyes as he spoke, and coursed down the furrows in his cheeks, and his own patriotic heart was roused to a new pitch of loyalty. When, at last, the final arrangement with his old friend had been made, and the little details of his departure were settled, and the good-bys and hand-shaking were at an end, and Bob turned back into the meadow-path toward home, it was almost dark.