Then a sad expression shadowed her face, as the thought crossed her mind that perhaps he might fall in battle. When she knelt at her bedside in her vestal robe, an appeal for the protection and safe return of the young lieutenant was not omitted, we will venture to say. * * * * * The sun came out bright and encouragingly the next morning, when a clear bugle-call roused the recruiting camp on the outskirts of Belton. The men were under order to leave for Washington by an early train. It was a memorable day for the town, and the citizens assembled to see the gallant lads off. The cavalry-men were dismounted, lightly equipped with blankets and haversacks, while their officers carried their sabres with all the pride of veterans. They defiled through the principal streets on their way to the railway-station, accompanied by the "Home Guard," and preceded by the Belton brass-band ringing out "John Brown's march," while the people cheered lustily. There was Mark with his cap bearing its insignia of crossed sabres set jauntily on one side of his head, marching proudly along, unmindful for the moment of his halting gait, which was more apparent than usual, as he kept step with the even ranks. As his eyes wandered towards the throng on the sidewalks, he caught sight of the figure of a young girl closely wrapped in a dark shawl. It was Edna; and as she stealthily waved her handkerchief he colored to the temples, bowed an acknowledgment, and so they parted. More leave-takings at the depot. Poor Mrs. Gildersleeve sobbing like a child, until her handkerchief was soaked in tears, and her husband, the bold captain of the "Home Guards," feeling probably almost as bad, but affecting an exaggerated bluffness, and proffering the rather un-military advice to Mark to "stand no nonsense and look out for number one." Then Dr. Wattletop had his good word of cheer and encouragement for young Rupert, as he called him; and the Rev. Mr. Sniffen said his kind say; and lastly, old Copp gave him a parting grip, whose intense heartiness nearly brought tears into his eyes. All this solicitude shown in his behalf, and regret expressed at his departure by his friends caused Mark to feel as if he didn't deserve it at all, and was rather an ungrateful wretch in going away. "What shall I do to merit all this?" was his reflection as the train sped on that bore him off. "I must not disappoint them, and I shall not. No, I'll not enter Belton again if the war lasts until I can wear spread-eagles on my shoulder-straps, unless I am brought in on a stretcher," vowed he, thinking probably that in either event the expectations of his friends would be met and his condition a source of satisfaction to them.