Mechanically Sidney placed herself in the accustomed position, and half unconsciously began to recite the poem in a low tone. To her amazement and delight she went through it without a break. Whether it was the effect of association, or whether her recreant memory had suddenly chosen to return, she neither questioned nor cared, she was so overjoyed. She tried it again, then a third time, all unconscious of an interested listener beyond the closed door--Prof. Marlow, who stood there smiling to himself as the speaker’s voice rose higher and higher with returning confidence. As Sidney finished with a triumphant flourish, he clapped his hands softly, then opened the door to remark smilingly. “Well done, Miss Sidney. Now, rally to the charge again, and march on to victory.” Sidney blushed: she knew he had witnessed her failure. She felt that explanations were in order. Prof. Marlow held up a warning finger. “At the eleventh hour, Miss Sidney,” he said, with a smile. “It’s the twelfth hour that tells,” she retorted merrily, and passed into the school-room. Prof. Marlow followed her. He was curious to see how such a plucky effort would turn out. Sidney was met with many swift glances as she entered, but her radiant face showed no trace of her recent failure. A few moments later she again faced the many expectant eyes, now no longer dreaded. No sudden rat-a-tat-tat could scatter her wits again--no, not even a cannon’s roar, for the Dandy Fifth’s honor was at stake. The audience greeted her enthusiastically. It is human nature to admire courage even in small things. Self was forgotten; every thought and feeling was centred on the subject in hand--that famous regiment of young aristocrats, men who knew not toil, who had never suffered want or endured hardship, whose fastidiousness fastened upon them the scornful epithet, “The Dandy Fifth.” Her listeners saw it all: the old fort “somewhere down on the Rapidan” that the Dandy Fifth was ordered to hold; the fierce onslaught of the enemy along the whole line; the raging of battle day after day; how gloriously the old fort, the “key of the whole line,” on which hung the fate of the whole army, was held by the Dandy Fifth against all odds--a brave, determined foe without and starvation within. The water gave out; they fought on. Another day, and their rations were gone; they fought on. One by one, they sank to “rest where they wearied and lie where they fell.” A third day of fierce siege--a fourth, then reinforcements fought their way through, inch by inch, to the beleaguered men. And what a sight met their gaze!--a few gaunt-eyed men behind the guns, and many, many more lying as they fell, in the stupor of famine or ghastly and rigid in death. But the old flag floated still!--and the “kid-gloved Dandy Fifth” had proved that white hands are not incompatible with brave hearts. How their old comrades cheered!--and cheered! And how proud they were to clasp those brave, emaciated white hands!