“I don't see you every day, my boy, sit down, sit down,” began the Governor, as he took his stand upon the hearth-rug. “Daughter, haven't you learned the way to the pantry yet? Dan looks as if he'd been on starvation rations since he joined the army. They aren't living high at Romney, eh?” and then, as Virginia went out, he fell to discussing the questions on all men's lips--the prospect of peace in the near future; hopes of intervention from England; the attitude of other foreign powers; and the reasons for the latest appointments by the President. When the girl came in again they let such topics go, and talked of home while she poured the coffee and helped Dan to fried chicken. She belonged to the order of women who delight in feeding a hungry man, and her eyes did not leave his face as she sat behind the tray and pressed the food upon him. “Dan thinks the war will be over before he gets his furlough,” she said a little wistfully. A shadow crossed the Governor's face. “Then I may hope to get back in time to watch the cradles in the wheat field,” he remarked. “There's little doing on the farm I'm afraid while I'm away.” “If they hold out six months longer--well, I'll be surprised,” exclaimed Dan, slapping the arm of his chair with a gesture like the Major's. “They've found out we won't give in so long as there's a musket left; and that's enough for them.” “Maybe so, maybe so,” returned the Governor, for it was a part of his philosophy to cast his conversational lines in the pleasant places. “Please God, we'll drink our next Christmas glass at Chericoke.” “In the panelled parlour,” added Dan, his eyes lighting. “With Aunt Emmeline's portrait,” finished Virginia, smiling. For a time they were all silent, each looking happily into the far-off room, and each seeing a distinct and different vision. To the Governor the peaceful hearth grew warm again--he saw his wife and children gathered there, and a few friendly neighbours with their long-lived, genial jokes upon their lips. To Virginia it was her own bridal over again with the fear of war gone from her, and the quiet happiness she wanted stretching out into the future. To Dan there was first his own honour to be won, and then only Betty and himself--Betty and himself under next year's mistletoe together. “Well, well,” sighed the Governor, and came back regretfully to the present. “It's a good place we're thinking of, and I reckon you're sorry enough you left it before you were obliged to. We all make mistakes, my boy, and the fortunate ones are those who live long enough to unmake them.” His warm smile shone out suddenly, and without waiting for a reply, he began to ask for news of Jack Powell and his comrades, all of whom he knew by name. “I was talking to Colonel Burwell about you the other day,” he added presently, “and he gave you a fighting record that would do honour to the Major.”