was a week of great excitement at Brookside. Head-quarters were established on the confines of the town to render it accessible to Taunton and the adjacent places. Hundreds thronged the camp daily; uniforms were sent down, and drilling commenced in good earnest.
Kathie began school on Monday morning. A large, pleasant room had been obtained, and Mrs. Wilder opened with ten young ladies, though nearly as many more had been enrolled.
"I feel as if I were drafted," she declared to Uncle Robert. "I know it is my duty to go and do the best that I can, but I would so much rather have remained at home."
"You find, then, that no one is quite exempt from the warfare?" and he smiled. "Still, I think I can trust you to be a good soldier."
"I am second in the regiment," she said. "Mr. Morrison must always stand first."
It seemed very quiet and lonesome in that large room, where you were put upon your honor not to speak, and the silence was broken only by the recitations, or some remark of Mrs. Wilder. A long, dull day, though the session closed at two, there being no intermission.
Lottie Thorne was the only girl Kathie was well acquainted with. That ambitious young lady had pleaded very hard for boarding-school, and, being disappointed, was rather captious and critical. Emma Lauriston sat next to her, and Kathie fancied she might like her very much. She had met her in the summer at the rowing-matches.
But she was glad enough to get home. Rob had his head full of Camp Schuyler, and Freddy had arrayed himself in gorgeous regimentals and sat out on a post drumming fearfully.
"I want a little more talk about this substitute business," said Uncle Robert, at the table. "Mr. Morrison offered to go for seven hundred dollars. He has three hundred of his own. Now what do you think we ought to give him?"
He addressed the question more particularly to Rob and Kathie.
Rob considered. In his boy's way of thinking he supposed what any one asked was enough.
"Would a thousand dollars be too much?" Kathie ventured, timidly. "It doesn't seem to me that any money could make up to Ethel for – "
There Kathie stopped.
"He will come back," exclaimed Rob.
"We were talking over Ethel's future this morning. Mr. Morrison would like to have her educated for a teacher. I am to be appointed her guardian in case of any misfortune."
"It ought not to be less than a thousand," said Aunt Ruth.
"I thought so myself. And I believe I shall pledge my word to provide a home for Ethel in case of any change at her uncle's."
Kathie's deep, soft eyes thanked him.
The next day the bargain was concluded. Mr. Morrison handed his small sum over to Mr. Conover for safe-keeping, and the whole amount, thirteen hundred dollars, was placed at interest. Then he reported himself at Camp Schuyler for duty.
Kathie tried bravely to like her school, but home was so much dearer and sweeter. It was quite hard after her desultory life, and spasmodic studying made so very entertaining by Uncle Robert's explanations, to come down to methodical habits and details. She meant to be a good soldier, even if it did prove difficult in the early marches.
But this week was one of events. On Thursday afternoon Mr. Meredith surprised them all again. It seemed to Kathie that there was something unusual in his face. Uncle Robert was absent on important business, and at first he appeared rather disappointed.
"It is such a glorious afternoon, Kitty, that I think you will have to invite me out to drive, by way of comfort. Are the ponies in good order?"
"Yes, and at home. How fortunate that Rob did not take them!"
Kathie ordered them at once.
"You have had great doings here. So you came near losing your dear uncle, my child?"
Kathie winked away a tear. There would always be a tender little spot in her heart concerning the matter.
"It is best under the circumstances," was Mr. Meredith's grave comment. "I should not want him to go."
They took their seats in the phaeton. "Where shall we drive?" Kathie asked. "To – " breaking off her sentence with a little blush.
"Miss Darrell is away from home. It is owing to that circumstance that you are called upon to entertain me"; and he laughed a little, but less gayly than usual.
It was a soft, lovely autumn day, full of whisperings of oaks and pines and cedars, fragmentary chirps of birds, and distant river music, Kathie drew a few long breaths of perfect content, then with her usual consideration for others she stole a shy glance to see if Mr. Meredith was enjoying it as well, he was so very quiet.
"I am afraid something troubles you," she said, softly; and her voice sounded as if it might have been a rustle of maple branches close at hand. "Is it about Uncle Robert?"
"No, child," in a grave, reflective tone; "it is – about myself."
She did not like to question him as she would have done with Uncle Robert.
"Kitten," he began, presently, "I have been thinking this good while, and thinking slowly. A great many things puzzle me, and all my perplexities have culminated at last in one grand step; but whether I am quite prepared for it – "
The sentence was a labyrinth to Kathie, and she was not quite sure that she held the clew.
"I am going to enlist – at least, I am going out for three months – with my regiment. They have volunteered, most of them."
"And what troubles you?" in her sweet, tender voice, and glancing up with an expression that no other eyes save Kathie Alston's could have had.
"Child," he asked, "how did you stand fire last winter when you were so suddenly brought to the front? About the singing, I mean."
She understood. He referred to the Sunday evening at Mrs. Meredith's when she had refused to join Ada in singing songs. The remembered pain still made her shiver.
"There is something about you, Kathie, just a little different from other children, – other girls. You often carry it in your face; and for the life of me I cannot help thinking how the wise virgins must have been illuminated with their tiny lamps while the others stood in darkness. Is it a natural gift or grace?"
She knew now what he meant. She was called upon to give testimony here, and it was almost as hard as in Mrs. Meredith's grand drawing-room. She felt the warm blood throbbing through every pulse.
"You did a brave thing that night, little girl. I shall never forget it – never. Can you answer my question? What is it?"
She could only think of one thing, one sentence, amid the whirl and confusion of ideas and the girlish shrinking back, – "The love of Christ constraineth us."
"It wasn't merely your regard for your mother or Uncle Robert?"
"It was all," – in her simple, earnest fashion.
"I'm going out there, Kathie," nodding his head southward, "to stand some pretty hard fire, doubtless. I am not afraid of physical pain, nor the dropping out of life, though existence never was sweeter than now; but if, in the other
