She rose, went back to her room, and lighted a dip. Then, shading the pallid smoky flame with her hand, she opened a door and peered into the next bedroom. "Grandfather!" she whispered, smiling, seeing that he was already awake. And as she leaned over him, searching the dim and wrinkled eyes, she read something in their unwonted luster that struck her silent. It was only when she heard her brother's step on the stairs that she roused herself, bent, and kissed the aged head lying there inert among the pillows. "It is cannon," she breathed softly--"you know that sound, don't you, grandfather? Does it make you happy? Why are you smiling? Look at me--I understand; you want something. Shall I open the curtains? And raise the window? Ah, you wish to hear. Hark! Horsemen are passing at a gallop. What is it you wish--to see them? But they are gone, dear. If any of our soldiers come, you shall see them. That makes you happy?--_that_ is what you desire?--to see one of our own soldiers? If they pass, I shall go out and bring one here to you--truly, I will." She paused, marveling at the strange light that glimmered across the ravaged visage. Then she blew out the dip and stole into the hall. "Billy!" she called, hearing him fumbling at the front door. "Oh, Celia! The cavalry trumpets! Do you hear? I'm going out. Perhaps _he_ may pass the house." "Wait for me," she said; "I am not dressed. Run to the cabin and wake Moses, dear!" She heard him open the door; the deadened thunder of the cannonade filled the house for an instant, shut out by the closing door, only to swell again to an immense unbroken volume of solemn harmony. The bird-music had ceased; distant hilltops grew brighter. Down in the village lights faded from window and cabin; a cavalryman, signaling from the church tower, whirled his flaming torch aside and picked up a signal flag. Suddenly the crash of a rifled cannon saluted the rising sun; a shell soared skyward through the misty glory, towered, curved, and fell, exploding among the cavalrymen, completely ruining the breakfasts of chief-trumpeter O'Halloran and kettle-drummer Pillsbury. For a moment a geyser of ashes, coffee, and bacon rained among the men. "Hell!" said Pillsbury, furiously wiping his face with his dripping sleeve and spitting out ashes. "Young kettle-drums, he don't love his vittles," observed a trooper, picking up the cap that had been jerked from his head by a whirring fragment. "Rich feedin' is the sp'ilin' o' this here hoss band," added the farrier, stanching the flow of blood from his scalp; "quit quar'lin' with your rations, kettle-drums!" "Y'orter swaller them cinders," insisted another; "they don't cost nothin'!" The band, accustomed to chaffing, prepared to retire to the ambulance, where heretofore their fate had always left them among luggage, surgeons, and scared camp niggers during an engagement.