Betty had watched him with the keenest caution. The first glance at John's handsome face had convinced her of his boundless vanity and beneath it a streak of something cruel. She would have liked him instantly but for this. His vanity she could forgive. All good-looking men are vain. His character was a study of which she never tired. He strangely distressed and disturbed her--and this kept puzzling and piquing her curiosity. Every time she determined to end their association this everlasting question of the man's inner character came to torment her imagination. She was a little disappointed at his not volunteering at the first call as his gallant young brother had done. Yet his reasoning was sound. "What's the use?" he replied to her question. "Five men have already volunteered for every one who can be used. I'm not a soldier by profession or inclination. A campaign of thirty days, one big battle and the war's over. The President has more men than he can arm or equip. My paper needs me----" The army encamped along the banks of the Potomac received orders to advance for the long expected battle in the hills of Virginia. Betty stood with the crowds of sweethearts and wives and sisters and mothers and watched them march away through the dust and heat and grime of the Southern summer, drums throbbing, banners streaming, bayonets flashing and bands playing. John Vaughan was in the ranks of a New York regiment. He pressed Betty's hand with a lingering touch he hadn't intended. She seemed unconscious that he was holding it. "You are going to march in the ranks?" she asked in surprise. "Yes. I want to see war as it is. These boys are my friends from New York." "You will fight with them?" "No--just see with their eyes--that's all. And then tell you exactly what happened. I can hide behind a barn or a tree without being court-martialed." She looked at him quickly with a new interest, pressed his hand again and said: "Good luck!" "And home again soon!" he cried with a wave of his arms as he hurried to join his marching men. The army camped at Centreville, seven miles from Beauregard's lines, and spent the 19th and 20th of July resting and girding their loins for the first baptism of fire. The volunteers were eager for the fray. The first touch of the skirmishers had resulted in fifteen or twenty killed. But the action had been too far away to make any serious impression. Between the two armies crept the silvery thread of the little stream of Bull Run, its clear beautiful waters flashing in the July sun.