The recovery was slow and for several days yet not certain. The Winter was well nigh spent before Oleah was sufficiently recovered to be conveyed to the Junction. His young wife accompanied him. Oleah was detained a few days before his parole could be signed and then he was allowed to return. During the time he was in the Union camp, the brothers were frequently thrown together, but not a word escaped their lips of welcome or recognition. Abner passed silently and coldly by and Oleah maintained the indifferent bearing of a stranger. Irene saw this complete estrangement and it embittered all her joy. On the day Oleah was paroled and was about to return home, Abner's company was on drill. The sleigh passed the drill-ground and so near the captain that his brother might have touched him with his hand. Abner, seeing who was passing, drew his cloak about his shoulders and turned coldly away. Winter passed and Spring came with its blooming flowers and singing birds. And not only the flowers awoke, and bird songs thrilled the air, armies, that had lain dormant all Winter, were in motion and the noise of battle was renewed. The farmers tilled the soil. Negroes, boys, and old men, and even women toiled at the plows, while fathers and brothers, and husbands and sons were engaged in grimmer work. Oleah had been exchanged at last and had joined his company, leaving his young wife to use all gentle endeavor to comfort and cheer the father and mother, who watched with sorrowful anxiety the movements of both armies. CHAPTER XXVI. ANOTHER PHASE OF SOLDIER LIFE. A long line of muddy wagons, and a longer line of muddy soldiers was moving southward. It was one of those dark, cold, rainy days in March, when the elements above, the earth beneath, the winds about, seem to conspire to make man miserable, and surely no men could have looked more miserable than the long line of muddy soldiers. Some were mounted, but the largest number by far were infantry and plodded along on foot. Various were the moods of the soldiers. Some were gay, singing, laughing, telling jokes; others were silent and morose, complaining and cursing their hard lot. The latter class were termed professional "growlers" by their comrades. One light-hearted fellow declared that any one, who would complain at their lot, would be capable of grumbling at the prospect of being hanged. A fine, persistent rain had been falling nearly all day, and the men were cold and wet and tired plodding through the mud. Two soldiers were toiling along behind an ammunition wagon, one with the stripes of corporal on his sleeves, the other a private. "I don't mind fighting or being shot," said the private, a young man and evidently a new recruit, "but the idea of a man's dragging himself apart and scattering the pieces along in the mud in this fashion is decidedly disagreeable." "No danger of that," said his companion, who was no other than the irrepressible Corporal Grimm.