"Oh, it’s Captain Jinks," said Lizbeth, but softly, when she saw. Prone on the battle-field lay the wounded Grenadier, his uniform gray with service in the wind and rain. "Captain!" you cried again, but he did not hear you. Then the Rag Doll bent her face to his, in the twilight, though she could not speak. A glimmer of recognition blazed for a moment, but faded in the Captain’s eyes. "He’s tired marching, I guess," said Lizbeth. "’Sh!" you said. "He’s dying." You bent lower to feel his fluttering pulse. You placed your ear to the cross of honor, rusted, on his breast. His heart was silent. And so he died—on the battlefield, his musket at his side, his heels together, his little fingers just touching the seams of his pantaloons. *Father* Every evening at half-past six there was a sound of footsteps on the front porch. You ran, you and Lizbeth, and by the time you had reached the door it opened suddenly from without, and you each had a leg of Father. Mother was just behind you in the race, and though she did not shout or dance, or pull his coat or seize his bundles, she won his first kiss, so that you and Lizbeth came in second after all. "Hello, Buster!" he would sing out to you, so that you cried, "My name ain’t Buster—it’s Harry," at which he would be mightily surprised. But he always called Lizbeth by her right name. "Well, Lizbeth," he would say, kneeling, for you had pulled him down to you, bundles and all, and Lizbeth would cuddle down into his arms and say: "_Fa_-ther." "What?" "Why, Father, now what do you think? My Sally doll has got the measles awful." "No! You don’t say?" And "Father!" you would yell into his other ear, for while Lizbeth used one, you always used the other—using one by two persons at the same time being strictly forbidden. "Father." "Yes, my son. "The Jones boy was here to-day and—and—and he said—why, now, he said—" "_Fa_-ther" (it was Lizbeth talking into _her_ ear now), "do you think my Sally doll—" It was Mother who rescued Father and his bundles at last and carried you off to supper, and when your mouth was not too full you finished telling him what the Jones boy said, and he listened gravely, and prescribed for the Sally doll. Though he came home like that every night except Sunday in all the year, you always had something new to tell him in both ears, and it was always, to all appearances, the most wonderful thing he had ever heard. But now and then there were times when you did not yearn for the sound of Father’s footsteps on the porch. "Wait till Father comes home and Mother tells him what a bad, bad boy you have been!"