By the time Bob reached the village the sky was gray along the eastern horizon, and a faint tinge of pink, seen through a gap in the hill-range, announced the coming of the sun. In front of the gate of Sarah Jane Stark he stopped, and looked longingly up at her house. Light shone from two of her lower windows, and a wisp of blue smoke curled lazily from the southern chimney. He thought he would like to go in and tell Miss Stark what he was about to do. He wondered what she would say if she knew. He felt, in his heart, that she would approve his course and bid him God-speed. However, there was not time to visit her. He wanted to get through the village before daybreak, so that he should not be seen of many people. So he gripped his satchel and hurried on. At the next corner he turned out of the main street, and skirted the closely built portion of the town by an outlying way. He met no one whom he knew until he came in again to the main traveled highway beyond the town. This road led directly to the railroad station at Carbon Creek. It had been his purpose to wait here for the stage that left Mount Hermon every morning for Carbon Creek, carrying passengers and mail. But he was in no mood to stand still, and, besides, the chilly October air made exercise a necessity. So he walked quickly along, feeling that the farther from Mount Hermon he could get the safer he would be. It was broad daylight now, and the stage was likely to overtake him at any moment. He began to wonder whom he would have for fellow passengers. But, even as he wondered, a horse and buggy, coming up rapidly from behind, was about to pass him, when the man who was driving turned in his seat and looked back at Bob. When he saw who it was, he reined up his horse and called out: “Why, Bob Bannister! is that you? Where are you going? Won’t you jump in and ride?” It was Henry Bradbury who spoke, the crippled veteran who had left an arm at Malvern Hill in ’62, and who had declared that he would gladly have left both arms, or even his life, if only “Little Mac” could have taken Richmond as the climax of that unfortunate Peninsular Campaign. For, somehow, after that campaign, McClellan, whom he, with a hundred thousand other soldiers, had worshiped as the one splendid hero of the war, lost lustre in his eyes, and never regained it to that November night, when, at Warrenton, Virginia, he was relieved from the command of the Army of the Potomac. And yet, to this day, Henry Bradbury will not permit any one, in his presence, to speak harshly of McClellan. “No, thank you, Mr. Bradbury,” replied Bob, very much confused. “I’m not going far. I was just waiting for the stage to come along.” “Well, if you’re going to Carbon Creek you might just as well jump in and ride with me. I’ve got lots of room and you’ll save your stage fare.” Bob hesitated for a moment. He did not know what embarrassing questions the veteran might ask. Then, suddenly, he made up his mind to accept the invitation.