Here, tended by an aged negro--a former slave--ex-Lieutenant-Colonel James Brinton rotted his years away; while at the far end of town, in the new residence, or “Hill” section, dwelt his son, his son’s wife, and their only child--the little grandson who had been born a few months before Brinton’s return from Mexico. Through all those early nightmare times it had been this little grandson who formed James Brinton’s one worthy hold on life. He adored the child; and from the beginning, the dissolute human wreck had commanded from the youngster a greater and more complete love than did both the baby’s highly correct parents combined. Grandfather and grandson had ever been inseparable--to the hopeless horror of the boy’s mother, who dared not for appearances’ sake prohibit the intimacy--and had found in each other an exhaustless fund of truly marvelous and worshipful traits. From babyhood, the child, for some reason known to himself, had utterly eschewed the stately title of “Grandfather” or even the milder term “Grandpapa,” and had called Brinton “Dad.” His own male parent he always addressed decorously as “Father,” but his grandfather was invariably and lovingly “Dad.” The quaint term from a child toward a grandsire had “caught the town.” Before many years, half the nine thousand inhabitants of Ideala were hailing, or referring to, Brinton as “Dad.” The phrase seemed to go aptly with his disreputable yet lovably patriarchal personality. And “Dad” had long since become fixed upon him as a permanent nickname. Since the name had originated with his grandson, Brinton willingly accepted it. His own son was perhaps the sole acquaintance who never used it toward him. When the South seceded and the first call to arms rang from California to Maine, Dad’s blood had stirred like that of an ancient war horse. The warlike heritage of centuries of fighters blazed like fire in his veins. His impulse was to enlist at once. Then had come the agony of second thought. He had been “dishonorably dismissed from the service he had degraded.” How could he return to it? Once cashiered, forever cashiered. His services would unquestionably be rejected; as, for example, had those of that young Captain Grant who had been so decent to him down in Mexico. Grant had not been cashiered from the army nor had he left it in disgrace. He had merely resigned that he might better support his family. Yet when at the war’s outbreak--so a common friend had told Brinton--Grant had written to the government offering his services, no heed had been given to the offer. No, Brinton dared not risk a repulse; perhaps an insult. So he banished the tempting war-dream; and, to keep it banished, he had drunk a little deeper. But now--The morning air was cold and bracing. Only a single drink stood between him, thus far to-day, and stark sobriety. On the square the two companies of recruits were drilling.