She shook her head gently. "It isn't that. You see, it's business men. Those who have stores or real estate and are successful. Or young lawyers. That's the kind father and mother----" They were not finishing their sentences. Groping for words. Fearful of hurting each other. He laughed. "I guess there won't be much choice among the lot of us when this is over." "Why, Jesse, it'll only last a few months--two or three. Father says it'll only last a few months. "It doesn't take that long to----" "To what?" "Nothing." He was whisked away after that. Charlotte saw him but once again. That once was her undoing. She did not even know the time set for his going. He had tried to get word to her, and had failed, somehow. With her father and mother, Charlotte was one of the crowd gathered about the Court House steps to hear Jules Lombard sing The Battle Cry of Freedom. George Root, of Chicago, George, whom they all knew, had written it. The ink was scarcely dry on the manuscript. The crowds gathered in the street before the Court House. Soon they were all singing it. Suddenly, through the singing, like a dull throb, throb, came the sound of thudding feet. Soldiers. With a great surge the crowd turned its face toward the street. Still singing. Here they came. In marching order. Their uniforms belied the name. Had they been less comic they would have been less tragic. They were equipped with muskets altered from flintlocks; with Harper's Ferry and Deneger rifles; with horse pistols and musketoons--deadly sounding but ridiculous. With these they faced Donelson. They were hardly more than boys. After them, trailed women, running alongside, dropping back breathless. Old women, mothers. Young women, sweethearts, wives. This was no time for the proprieties, for reticence. They were passing. The first of them had passed. Then Charlotte saw him. His face flashed out at her from among the lines. His face, under the absurd pancake hat, was white, set. And oh, how young! He was at the end of his line. Charlotte watched him coming. She felt a queer tingling in her fingertips, in the skin around her eyes, in her throat. Then a great surge of fear, horror, fright, and love shook her. He was passing. Someone, herself and yet not herself, was battling a way through the crowd, was pushing, thrusting with elbows, shoulders. She gained the roadway. She ran, stumblingly. She grasped his arm. "You didn't let me know! You didn't let me know!" Someone took hold of her elbow--someone in the crowd on the sidewalk--but she shook them off. She ran on at his side. Came the double-quick command. With a little cry she threw her arms about him and kissed him. Her lips were parted like a child's. Her face was distorted with weeping. There was something terrible about her not caring; not covering it. "You didn't let me know! You didn't let me know!" The ranks broke into double-quick. She ran with them a short minute, breathlessly, sobbing.