So Bob went on his way. The Bannister home lay on the old North and South turnpike road, a full mile from the centre of the village. A very comfortable home it was, too, neat and prosperous in appearance, with a small and fertile farm behind the commodious house, and a well-kept lawn in front. For Rhett Bannister, theorist though he was, was no mere dreamer of dreams, he was a worker as well; both the fruit of his brain and the labor of his hands being evident in the comforts by which he was surrounded. When Bob went up the path to the porch he found his father and mother and his six-year-old sister all there, enjoying the coolness of the evening. It was already too dark for either of his parents to discover in Bob’s face any sign of distress, and he did not mention to them his experiences of the evening. But the quick ear of his mother caught the troubled cadence in his voice, and she went over and sat by him and began smoothing the hair back from his forehead. “You’re tired, Robbie,” she said, “and it’s been such a warm day.” “Did you hear anything new up town about the Pennsylvania raid?” inquired his father. “Nothing much,” replied the boy. “I believe there’s been some fighting around Gettysburg, and they’re expecting a big battle there to-day.” “Yes,” replied the man, “I suppose the two armies are facing each other there, very likely the slaughter has already begun. Perhaps there’ll be another holocaust like Fredericksburg. Doubtless thousands of lives will be sacrificed and millions of money squandered at Gettysburg, when ten words from the stiff-necked incompetents at Washington would have stopped the horrible conflict and brought peace to the country months ago.” Bob said nothing, he knew it was useless. He had, on two or three occasions, attempted in a feeble way to argue with his father questions pertaining to the war, but he had been fairly swept off his feet by a flood of logic and eloquence, and he had found silence on these matters to be the better part for him to take in the presence of his father. After a few minutes the man added: “If, even now, Lincoln would concede one half of what the South demands as a plain right--” Bannister paused. Somewhere in the darkness up the road there was a confused sound of voices. Then, from a score of lusty young throats there came in on the still air of the summer night the familiar words of a patriotic song. “My country, ’tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty--” “It sounds good, Robert,” said Rhett Bannister. “But what’s it all about? What does it mean?” “I don’t know, father,” said Bob; “I--I guess it’s just the boys a-marching.” The voices and the words of the song grew clearer and more distinct. Now the steady tramp of marching feet could be distinguished. Then another song broke in upon the night.