Year after year the mills of war ground steadily array after array, and crushed province after province, and still the ranks filled and poured with intrepid daring into the abyss of destruction, to be ground like their predecessors to dust; until at the end there was nothing left to grind. Some day the historian, annalist or novelist, may arise to tell the mighty story, but meantime this pen must pass it by as too great a theme, and deal with the times that come after. One or two incidents, however, must be mentioned to fill the break and explain what came afterward. Colonel Gray, who had been early promoted, fell at the head of his regiment on one of those great days which are the milestones of history. His body was brought home and buried in the old grave-yard at Red Rock among generations of Grays, of whom, as old Mr. Langstaff, who had been bodily haled back to his parish by his congregation, said to the neighbors and servants about the grave, not one was a better or a braver man, or a truer gentleman. Colonel Gray’s burial marked one of the steps of the war in that retired neighborhood. When it was all over, and the neighbors had gone home, and the servants had retired to their quarters, hushed to that vague quietude that follows the last putting away in the earth of those who have been near to us, Jacquelin came out of the office where he had held that last interview with his father, and walked into his mother’s room. His shoulders were square and his figure erect. Mrs. Gray rose from her knees as he entered, and stood before him in her black dress, her face deadly white; her eyes, full of fear, fastened on his face. “Mamma—.” He stopped as if that were all he had to say, and, perhaps, it was; for Mrs. Gray seated herself calmly. “Yes, my son.” The fine, sad eyes grew wistful. How like he was to his father! —“Because, you know, there ought to be one of us in the old company, mamma,” he said, quite as though he had spoken the other sentence. “Yes, my son, I know.” And the mother sighed, her heart breaking in spite of her resolve to be brave. “—And I am the only man of the name now—and I am fifteen and a whole head taller than Andy Stamper.” “Yes, I know, my son.” She had noticed it that day, and had known this would come. “And he is one of the best soldiers in the army—_He_ said so. And if—if anything happens, you have Rupert.” He went on arguing, as though his mother had not agreed with him. “Yes, my son, I know.” And Mrs. Gray rose suddenly and flung herself into his arms and hugged him and clung to him, and wept on his shoulder, as though he were his father. So the change comes: the boy in little trousers suddenly stands before the mother a man; the little girl who was in her pinafores yesterday, to-day has stepped into full-blown womanhood; and the children have gone; the old has passed; and the new is here.