MATTIE. Act 1, Muslin dress and white apron; sleeves rolled up. Act 3, Evening dress. NOTE.—"ENLISTED FOR THE WAR," here presented in its most simple form, can be elaborately produced, if preferred. Where a military display is desirable, the second act will allow of "an awkward-squad drill," "relieving guard," a bayonet-drill, or the introduction of a camp song. At the end of the third act, the returning company might march across the stage, behind windows and door, illuminated with white and red lights, with the chorus "Marching through Georgia." ACT I.—SCENE. _Interior of farm-house. Door in flat_, R. C. _Window in flat_, L. C. _Outside the window arrange flowers in pots, and shrubbery. Inside, muslin curtain draped up at_ L. _Window open; between it and door, bureau or secretary. Lounge or sofa_, L. _Rocking-chair_, R. C. _Small table with a chair beside it_, L. C.; _writing-materials on table. Chair_, L. MRS. TRUEWORTH _discovered in rocking-chair, knitting and rocking_. MATTIE _in chair beside table, her arms folded on table, her face hidden in her arms_. _Hosea_ (_outside_). It's a downright shame. Look at it; a fine piece of property like this going, going at such a ruinous sacrifice; and I'm only offered nine hundred and fifty dollars for it; literally flowing with milk and honey. Shall I have ten,—ten, do you say? Quick, or you lose it; nine hundred and fifty once, nine hundred and fifty twice, nine hundred and fifty,—going, going, and gone to Wilder Rowell, Esq., for nine hundred and fifty dollars. You've got a bargain. _Mattie_ (_raising her head_). Do you hear, mother? To Wilder Rowell. _Mrs. T._ It's a shame to let it go for that price, and to a stranger. _Mattie._ Mr. Rowell is no stranger, mother. It's now five years since he came to Grainlow with Mr. Gifford. _Mrs. T._ For all that, he's a stranger,—a proud, haughty man, whom nobody likes, nobody has confidence in. _Mattie._ Mr. Gifford had confidence enough to give him the guardianship of his daughter when he died two years ago; and Gaylie likes him. As for being proud and haughty, to me he is always pleasant and condescending. _Mrs. T._ Condescending, indeed! You're just as good as he is. Bless you, child, the Trueworths held their heads as high as the best of folks until our troubles commenced. Your father took to borrowing to experiment with his patent wrinkles, and mortgaged the farm to that mean skinflint, Hosea Jenks. Ah, well! he did it for the best, no doubt. Only six months dead, and now the old farm has gone too. _Mattie._ Mother 'tis hard, 'tis cruel, to leave you homeless in your old age. Had father been wise—