Mr. Henry J. Sherman stood with his wife, Kitty and Willy Kimball--Kimball had developed a surprising interest in one of these home folks, at least--under the shade of the row of plane trees fringing the parade grounds. They tried to persuade themselves that they were seeing something worth while. This pleasing fiction wore thin with Mr. Sherman before fifteen minutes had passed. "Shucks, mother! The boys at the national-guard encampment down to Galesburg fair last year made a better showing than this." He pursed out his lips and regarded a passing battalion with a critical eye. "Looked more like soldiers, anyway," mother admitted. "Those floppy, broad-brimmed hats our boys wear make them look more--more romantic, I'd say." "But, my dear Mrs. Sherman"--Willy Kimball flicked his handkerchief from his cuff and fluttered it across his coat sleeve, where dust had fallen--"the guards back in the States are play soldiers, you know; these chaps, here--well, they are the real thing. They don't dress up like picture-book soldiers and show off----" "Play soldiers--huh!" Henry J. had fire in his eye, and the pearl buttons on his white linen waistcoat creaked with the swelling of a patriot's pride. "You've been a long time from home, Willy. Perhaps you've forgotten that your own father was at Corinth. Guess you've overlooked that soldiers' monument in Courthouse Square back in little old Kewanee. They were 'play soldiers,' eh?--those boys who marched away with your dad in sixty-one. Gimme a regiment of those old boys in blue, and they could lick this whole bunch of----" "Father!" Kitty had flipped her hand over her parent's mouth, her eyes round with real fear. "You'll get arrested again, talking that way here where everybody can hear you. Remember what that hotel man said last night about careless remarks about military things on the Rock? Be good, father." "There, there!" Sherman removed the monitory hand and patted it reassuringly. "I forgot. But when I get aboard the _Saxonia_ and well out to sea, I'm going to just bust information about what I think of things in general over here in this Europe place--their Bottycelly pictures and their broken-down churches and--and---- Why, bless my soul! The little store buyer and that Iowa girl who's married to the governor here!" The patriot stopped short in his review of the Continent's delinquencies to wave his hat at Lady Crandall and Jane Gerson, who were trundling down under the avenue of planes in a smart dog-cart. Lady Crandall answered his hail with a flourish of her whip, turned her horse off the road, and brought her conveyance to a stop by the group of exiles. Hearty greetings passed around. The governor's wife showed her unaffected pleasure at the meeting.