“I was trying to see how Lyon would dispose his troops. I meant to tell you about a gentleman we met in the street car, a Major Sherman who used to be in the army. Mr. Brinsmade knows him, and Judge Whipple, and many other prominent men here. He came to St. Louis some months ago to take the position of president of the Fifth Street Line. He is the keenest, the most original man I have ever met. As long as I live I shall never forget his description of Lyon.” “Is the Major going back into the army?” said Mrs. Brice, Stephen did not remark the little falter in her voice. He laughed over the recollection of the conversation in the street car. “Not unless matters in Washington change to suit him,” he said. “He thinks that things have been very badly managed, and does not scruple to say so anywhere. I could not have believed it possible that two men could have talked in public as he and Judge Whipple did yesterday and not be shot down. I thought that it was as much as a man's life is worth to mention allegiance to the Union here in a crowd. And the way Mr. Sherman pitched into the Rebels in that car full of people was enough to make your hair stand on end.” “He must be a bold man,” murmured Mrs. Brice. “Does he think that the--the Rebellion can be put down?” “Not with seventy-five thousand men, nor with ten times that number.” Mrs. Brice sighed, and furtively wiped her eyes with her handkerchief. “I am afraid we shall see great misery, Stephen,” she said. He was silent. From that peaceful little room war and its horrors seemed very far away. The morning sun poured in through the south windows and was scattered by the silver on the sideboard. From above, on the wall, Colonel Wilton Brice gazed soberly down. Stephen's eyes lighted on the portrait, and his thoughts flew back to the boyhood days when he used to ply his father with questions about it. Then the picture had suggested only the glory and honor which illumines the page of history. Something worthy to look back upon, to keep ones head high. The hatred and the suffering and the tears, the heartrending, tearing apart for all time of loving ones who have grown together,--these were not upon that canvas, Will war ever be painted with a wart? The sound of feet was heard on the pavement. Stephen rose, glancing at his mother. Her face was still upon her knitting. “I am going to the Arsenal,” he said. “I must see what as happening.” To her, as has been said, was given wisdom beyond most women. She did not try to prevent him as he kissed her good-by. But when the door had shut behind him, a little cry escaped her, and she ran to the window to strain her eyes after him until he had turned the corner below.