“Never. I ’ll not sell my interest in all those acres of pretty girls just for one I never saw and a suit of clothes. No thanks. I’m going down there with a premonition I may find Her of whom I’ve dreamed. They say that town is full of beauties.” “You’re so conceited. That’s all the more reason you should look your best.” “I don’t care so much about looks. I’m going to do my best, whatever I look.” “Oh, you know you’re good looking and you don’t care,” said his foster mother with pride. On the 10th of May Independence was in gala robes. The long rows of beautiful houses, with dark blue grass lawns on which giant oaks spread their cool arms, were gay with bunting, and with flowers, flowers everywhere! Every urchin on the street and every man, woman and child wore or carried flowers. The reception committee met Gaston at the depot on the arrival of the excursion train that ran from Ham-bright. He was placed in an open carriage beside a handsome chattering society woman, and drawn by two prancing horses, was escorted to the hotel, where he was introduced to the distinguished old soldiers of the Confederacy. At ten o’clock the procession was formed. What a sight! It stretched from the hotel down the shaded pavements a mile toward the cemetery, two long rows of beautiful girls holding great bouquets of flowers. This long double line of beauty and sweetness opened, and escorted gravely by the oldest General of the Confederacy present, he walked through this mile of smiling girls and flowers. Behind him tramped the veterans, some with one arm, some with wooden legs. When they passed through, the double line closed, and two and two the hundreds of girls carried their flowers in solemn procession. Here was the throbbing soul of the South, keeping fresh the love of her heroic dead. They spread out over the great cemetery like a host of ministering angels. There was a bugle call. They bent low a moment, and flowers were smiling over every grave from the greatest to the lowliest. And then to a stone altar marked “To the Unknown Dead,” they came and heaped up roses. Then a group of sad-faced women dressed in black, with quaint little bonnets wreathing their brows like nuns, went silently over to the National Cemetery across the way and each taking a basket, walked past the long lines of the dead their boys had fought and dropped a single rose on every soldier’s grave. They were women whose boys were buried in strange lands in lonely unmarked trenches. They were doing now what they hoped some woman’s hand would do for their lost heroes. The crowd silently gathered around the speakers’ stand and took their seats in the benches placed beneath the trees.