“Gosh!” said his father anxiously, “you ain’t got any belly hardly at all. Hev’ they been starvin’ you?” “No, Dad, we have all we want to eat in camp, and we have the wust kind of appetite after one o’ them drills. I guess you don’t know what they do to a feller down here to take the fat off him and the kinks out of him?” “Yes, I do, Sam,” responded his father; “guess I’ve been trained a lot myself.” “Did y’ ever go through the settin’ up drill?” asked Sam. “Yes, Sam, I have set up nights a lot, but I never had to drill it. I got sort of used to it when I was courtin’.” “I guess, Dad, you don’t understand; now I will give the orders and drill you.” And then Sam put his father through enough of the physical exercise to show him what he meant and until Uncle Jim smiled to see him puff. The months of drill had certainly improved us physically. The difference between slouching country boys and soldierly youth, was written all over each of us. Muddy, too, had his receptions; and even Bill Jenkins who was again working on the farm, said: “Well, he’s a pretty good dog, and will do well enough now that he’s been trained.” My aunt was a proud woman when she took Jot and me to church with her, and introduced us to the new minister. The old church where my mother and father had worshipped was filled, and we were greeted on every side by friendly people, especially by the teachers and members of the Sunday School to which Jot and I had been constant attendants when at home. One of the young ladies of the class was Miss Emily Grant, of whom, in former times, I had been an ardent, though shy admirer. She introduced both Jot and me to a visiting friend, Miss Rose Rich, whom she had brought home with her from a Massachusetts boarding school. Jot, usually so reticent, showed his approval of her, by saying: “Isn’t she fine? Her father is a doctor and she is going to take up Red Cross work.” The friendliness of the two was observable to others besides myself. Miss Grant said to me, “Rose seems much taken with your friend.” “He is the smartest noncommissioned officer,” I replied, “in the training camp. He’s top sergeant, and that means something, I can tell you.” I told Uncle Jim about Colonel Burbank and what he said about my father. And Uncle Jim said, “Seems to me I heard your father mention him. I wonder if it was him that your father brought from between the lines badly wounded durin’ the Winchester fight? Shouldn’t wonder if it was.” But I had never heard about it. When Jot and I had visited, for the last time, the familiar scenes of the farm, and he had petted and talked to the horses and cows, we left our home for the camp again. A boy never realizes what a home means to him until he is leaving it, possibly forever; for I had a dim perception of what was possibly before me. Several friends, besides my aunt and uncle, were at the station to bid us good-bye. Among them were Emily Grant and Rose Rich.