The boy went on to bed, and Rhett Bannister resumed his reading. But he could keep neither his mind nor his eyes on the printed page. He was thinking of his son upstairs. Once a sudden and startling thought came to him, more by way of intuition than suggestion. He dropped his book, rose to his feet, and stood staring at the door through which Bob had gone. But a sound of voices came to him faintly down the stairway, natural, reassuring voices, and after a minute he sat down again and took up his book, and whatever apprehensive thought it was that had so suddenly and strangely entered his mind, he dismissed it and resumed his reading. Upstairs Bob had found his mother sitting with Louise, who had long been asleep, and sewing. It seemed to him that when his mother was not busy about something else she was always sewing. He entered the room where she sat, and looked at her a moment before speaking. The anxiety of the last few months, the harassing dread of the last few days, had worn her greatly and left her haggard and pale. Bob was almost shocked as he gazed on her face under the lamplight. He had never seen her look so before. Would his conduct of the morrow bring to her added sorrow, or intense relief? He dared not stop to think about it then. He knew simply that he was doing right and could not change his plans. “Good-night, mother!” he said. “I’m going to bed.” “Good-night, Robbie! Come here and kiss me.” He went where she was, and leaned over, and she put her hands on his shoulders and kissed him. He started to go away, but at the door of the room he turned back. “Mother, if anything should happen to-night,--we don’t know what may happen these days,--but if anything should happen, and I had to do something, I don’t want you ever to think but that I felt I was doing the right thing.” “Yes, Robbie, yes. I don’t know just what you mean, but I know you mean to do what is right. And these are dreadful days, and dreadful nights. I don’t know how it’s all going to end. I’m in terror all the time. I wish your father could do something, or you could do something, or somebody could do something to help us. If this keeps on I shall die! Oh, why don’t they stop this cruel, _cruel_ war!” Bob went back into the room and put his arms about his mother’s shoulders. “There, mother, there. It’s terrible! I know it’s terrible. I wish the war would stop. I wish I could do something to stop it. Maybe I can, just a little. But the only way to stop it is to give Abraham Lincoln enough soldiers to defeat the Southern armies. We must do that. At any sacrifice, we _must_ do it. And, mother, I shall do my part.” She did not appreciate the significance of his words, but she wiped the tears from her eyes and said:-- “Don’t let’s think about it any more to-night, Robbie.” And she kissed him again, and again she took up her sewing.