"Billy!" said his sister quietly. And reseating herself and turning to the bandmaster, "Our neighbors differ with us," she said, "and my brother cannot understand it. I have to remind him that if they were not brave men our army would have been victorious, and there would have been no more war after Bull Run." The bandmaster assented thoughtfully. Once or twice his worn eyes swept the room--a room that made him homesick for his own. It had been a long time since he had sat in a chair in a room like this--a long time since he had talked with women and children. Perhaps the boy's sister divined something of his thoughts--he was not much older than she--for, as he rose, hooking up his sabre, and stepped forward to take his leave, she stood up, too, offering her hand. "Our house is always open to Union soldiers," she said simply. "Will you come again?" "Thank you," he said. "You don't know, I think, how much you have already done for me." They stood a moment looking at one another; then he bowed and turned to the boy, who caught his hand impulsively. "I knew my sister would like you!" he exclaimed. "Everybody is very kind," said the young bandmaster, looking steadily at the boy. Again he bowed to the boy's sister, not raising his eyes this time; and, holding the child's hand tightly in his, he walked out to the porch. Moses was there to assist him with his long blue mantle; the boy clung to his gloved hand a moment, then stepped back into the doorway, where the old servant shuffled about, muttering half aloud: "Yaas, suh. Done tole you so. He bow lak de quality, he drink lak de Garnetts--what I tole yo'? Mars Will'm, ef dat ossifer ain' er gin'ral, he gwine be mighty quick!" "I don't care," said the boy, "I just love him." The negro shuffled out across the moonlit veranda, peered around through the fragrant gloom, wrinkled hands linked behind his back. Then he descended the steps stiffly, and teetered about through the shrubbery with the instinct of a watchdog worn out in service. "Nuff'n to scare nobody, scusin' de hoot owls," he muttered. "Spec' hit's time Miss Celia bolt de do', 'long o' de sodgers an' all de gwines-on. Shoo! Hear dat fool chickum crow!" He shook his head, bent rheumatically, and seated himself on the veranda step, full in the moonlight. "All de fightin's an' de gwines-on 'long o' dis here wah!" he soliloquized, joining his shriveled thumbs reflectively. "Whar de use? Spound dat! Whar all de fool niggers dat done skedaddle 'long o' de Linkum troopers? Splain dat!" He chuckled; a whip-poor-will answered breathlessly. "Dar dat scan'lous widder bird a-hollerin'!" exclaimed the old man, listening. "'Pears lak we's gwine have moh wah, moh daid men, moh widders. Dar de ha'nt! Dar de sign an' de warnin'. G'way, widder bird." He crossed his withered fingers and began rocking to and fro, crooning softly to himself: