Thus everybody hoped. Dr. Sevier, wifeless, childless, had his hopes too, nevertheless. Hopes for the hospital and his many patients in it and out of it; hopes for his town and his State; hopes for Richling and Mary; and hopes with fears, and fears with hopes, for the great sisterhood of States. Richling had one hope more. After some weeks had passed Dr. Sevier ventured once more to say:-- "Richling, go home. Go to your wife. I must tell you you're no ordinary sick man. Your life is in danger." "Will I be out of danger if I go home?" asked Richling. Dr. Sevier made no answer. "Do you still think we may have war?" asked Richling again. "I know we shall." "And will the soldiers come back," asked the young man, smilingly, "when they find their lives in danger?" "Now, Richling, that's another thing entirely; that's the battle-field." "Isn't it all the _same_ thing, Doctor? Isn't it all a battle-field?" The Doctor turned impatiently, disdaining to reply. But in a moment he retorted:-- "We take wounded men off the field." "They don't take themselves off," said Richling, smiling. "Well," rejoined the Doctor, rising and striding toward a window, "a good general may order a retreat." "Yes, but--maybe I oughtn't to say what I was thinking"-- "Oh, say it." "Well, then, he don't let his surgeon order it. Doctor," continued Richling, smiling apologetically as his friend confronted him, "you know, as you say, better than any one else, all that Mary and I have gone through--nearly all--and how we've gone through it. Now, if my life should end here shortly, what would the whole thing mean? It would mean nothing. Doctor; it would be meaningless. No, sir; this isn't the end. Mary and I"--his voice trembled an instant and then was firm again--"are designed for a long life. I argue from the simple fitness of things,--this is not the end." Dr. Sevier turned his face quickly toward the window, and so remained. CHAPTER L. FALL IN! There came a sound of drums. Twice on such a day, once the day before, thrice the next day, till by and by it was the common thing. High-stepping childhood, with laths and broom-handles at shoulder, was not fated, as in the insipid days of peace, to find, on running to the corner, its high hopes mocked by a wagon of empty barrels rumbling over the cobble-stones. No; it was the Washington Artillery, or the Crescent Rifles, or the Orleans Battalion, or, best of all, the blue-jacketed, white-leggined, red-breeched, and red-fezzed Zouaves; or, better than the best, it was all of them together, their captains stepping backward, sword in both hands, calling "_Gauche! gauche!_" ("Left! left!") "Guide right!"--"_Portez armes!_" and facing around again, throwing their shining blades stiffly to belt and epaulette, and glancing askance from under their abundant plumes to the crowded balconies above. Yea, and the drum-majors before, and the brilliant-petticoated _vivandieres_ behind!