For a moment my tears blinded me at the bier, for there by the coffin-head stood Pearl, in the uniform of a sergeant, with three medals on his blue cape. A squad of veterans walled the passage. Pearl stood calm and erect, with strange authority in his scarred face. He was the soldier again. A little ahead of me, as I walked in line, were Jo and Colonel Busby. I saw the Colonel seize the hand of Pearl and speak to him, but only a word. I did my best to gain the side of Jo, and failed--there were so many between us. Soon I had lost sight of them in the crowd and the darkness beyond the open doors. It would all have been different maybe--all in these latter years of our history--but for those twenty feet or so that lay between us that night. Just that little glimpse of her face, ennobled by our common sorrow, revived my love of her, and then I knew that even if I lost her I should never lose that. I hoped that we should find them next day, and so contented myself. McCarthy and I walked to our inn together, and talked of the wonderful things we had seen and of the great captain of the people. We had read many columns in the press which had told of the gentleness of his heart and of his simplicity, which had amounted to uncouthness in the view of some. “The outside of a man isn't of so much importance, after all,” said my friend, as we were going to bed. “The gentleman is a lover of men, and seeks not to charm but only to serve them. And when he passes away it is as if there were some one dead in every house that knew him. Let us pray God to help us.” We knelt by our beds in silence, and so ended one of the saddest days in my history. Next morning I tried to find the Colonel and Jo, but with no success. I found Pearl, soon after dinner, sitting on the steps of an old church. His head rested on his hands; his cheeks were tear-stained. “Did you know Mr. Lincoln?” I asked. “Yes,” said he. “Tell me about him,” I said, as I sat down by my friend. “Oh, you'll hear of that some time,” he answered. “I'm goin' to stop talkin' and mournin', and go back to Rushwater and get to work.” “Let's find McCarthy,” I said, and we rose and walked toward the Delevan House. “Last night I saw you shake hands with Colonel Busby,” I remarked. “Yes; I knew the Colonel long ago, and we met here yesterday,” he said. “Do you know where they are now?” “They left this morning to make a trip around the world. She is to be married on their return.” “Married! To whom?” “I cannot tell you.” So it happened that I gave up the last dream of my youth. CHAPTER VI.--THE FIRST BATTLE OF PEACE [Illustration: 9294] HE end of the war was come, and McCarthy and I felt a sense of shame and sorrow that we had had no part in it--he, because of his wooden leg; and I, because of those who were dependent upon me. But soon we were to find ourselves in the first great battle of peace, one of those of which the iron-master had spoken.