Of all Paul Haverill’s comfortable buildings, house, stables, barn and negro quarters, there was left him only one cabin which the fire had not consumed. That stood a little distant from the rest, and had been occupied by Lois before her husband died. It was superior to the other cabins then; it was neat and tidy now, and there they laid the dead lieutenant, in his grey uniform, with a little flag of stars and bars across his breast. This was Charlie’s thought, and it was very mete that he who to the last had believed in the righteousness of the Confederacy should have her sign above him. There was no other spot except the cabin where Maude could stay, and the entire day and night she sat by her dead Arthur, whom, now that he _was_ dead, she cherished in her heart as a martyr and a hero, questioning even the ground on which she had hitherto stood so firmly, and asking herself if, after all, the South was so very far out of the way, or if the Union were worth the fearful price the Southern people were paying for it. Maude did not know herself in this mood. It was so unlike all her former theories, and more than once she pressed her hot hands to her still hotter head, and asked if she was going mad. Crouched beside Maude, with his blue eyes fixed upon her with a pitying, remorseful look, was Charlie. “Poor Maude,—poor sister! I am so sorry. I never thought,—I did not know; you used to laugh about him so to Uncle Paul. I’d give my life to bring him back for you. Did you love him so very much?” Charlie said, in broken sentences, and then Maude shivered from head to foot, but made him no reply. She had not loved him so very much, but his violent death and all the horrors attending it had shaken her terribly, and could he have come back to life she would have tried to love him, and with her iron will would have crushed that other love, the very knowledge of which had made her heart throb with so much joy. But the dead come not to life again, and the next morning they buried Arthur Tunbridge in the grassy enclosure where Paul Haverill’s wife was sleeping with the infant son who, had he lived, would have been just Arthur’s age. The blue coated soldiery, who had been his deadly foes, paid him every military honor possible within their means, even marching to his grave behind the stars and bars which lay upon his coffin; but when they came back from the burial, they bore the national flag, whose folds that peaceful summer night floated in the breeze from the top of Lois’s cabin.