“I'm sure I hope it will be over before winter,” observed Mrs. Lightfoot, glancing round. “Things will be a little upset, I fear.” The Major twitched with anger. “There you go again--both of you!” he exclaimed. “I might suppose after all these years you would place some reliance on my judgment; but, no, you will keep up your croaking until our troops are dictating terms at Washington. Six months! Tush!” “Professor Bates thinks it will take a year,” returned Champe, his interest overleaping his discretion. “And when did he fight, sir?” inquired the Major. “Well, any way, it's safer to prepare for six months,” was Champe's rejoinder. “I shouldn't like to run short of things, you know.” “You'll do nothing of the kind, sir,” thundered the Major. “It's going to be a two weeks' war, and you shall take an outfit for two weeks, or stay at home! By God, sir, if you contradict me again I'll not let you go to fight the Yankees.” Champe stared for an instant into the inflamed face of the old gentleman, and then his cheery smile broke out. “That settles it, uncle,” he said soothingly. “It's to be a war of two weeks, and I'll come home a Major-general before the holidays.” BOOK THIRD THE SCHOOL OF WAR I HOW MERRY GENTLEMEN WENT TO WAR The July sun fell straight and hot upon the camp, and Dan, as he sat on a woodpile and ate a green apple, wistfully cast his eyes about for a deeper shade. But the young tree from which he had just shaken its last fruit stood alone between the scattered tents and the blur of willows down the gentle slope, and beneath its speckled shadow the mess had gathered sleepily, after the mid-day meal. In the group of privates, stretched under the gauzy shade on the trampled grass, the first thing to strike an observer would have been, perhaps, their surprising youth. They were all young--the eldest hardly more than three and twenty--and the faces bore a curious resemblance in type, as if they were, one and all, variations from a common stock. There was about them, too, a peculiar expression of enthusiasm, showing even in the faces of those who slept; a single wave of emotion which, rising to its height in an entire people revealed itself in the features of the individual soldier. As yet the flower of the South had not withered on its stalk, and the men first gathered to defend the borders were men who embraced a cause as fervently as they would embrace a woman; men in whom the love of an abstract principle became, not a religion, but a romantic passion. Beyond them, past the scattered tents and the piles of clean straw, the bruised grass of the field swept down to a little stream and the fallen stones that had once marked off the turnpike. Farther away, there was a dark stretch of pines relieved against the faint blue tracery of the distant mountains.