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She had guessed aright, although she had not guessed deep enough in regard to Nelson. He watched the great wheels of light, he watched the river aflame with Greek fire, then, with a shiver, he watched the bombs bursting into myriads of flowers, into fizzing snakes, into fields of burning gold, into showers of jewels that made the night splendid for a second and faded. They were not fireworks to him; they were a magical phantasmagoria that renewed the incoherent and violent emotions of his youth; again he was in the chaos of the battle, or he was dreaming by his camp-fire, or he was pacing his lonely round on guard. His heart leaped again with the old glow, the wonderful, beautiful worship of Liberty that can do no wrong. He seemed to hear a thousand voices chanting:

“In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free!”

His turbid musings cleared–or they seemed to him to clear–under the strong reaction of his imagination and his memories. It was all over, the dream and the glory thereof. The splendid young soldier was an elderly, ruined man. But one thing was left: he could be true to his flag.

“A poor soldier, but enlisted for the war,” says Nelson, squaring his shoulders, with a lump in his throat and his eyes brimming. “I know by the way it hurts me to think of refusing her that it’s a temptation to wrong-doing. No, I can’t save myself by sacrificing a brother soldier for humanity. She is just as kind as she can be, but women don’t understand business; she wouldn’t make allowance for Richards.”

He felt a hand on his shoulder; it was Martin apologizing for hurrying Miss Brown; but the baby was fretting and—-

“I’m sorry–yes–well, I wish you didn’t have to go!” Nelson began; but a hoarse treble rose from under his elbows: “Say, Mr. Martin, Uncle and me can take Miss Brown home.”

“If you will allow me the pleasure,” said Nelson, with the touch of courtliness that showed through his homespun ways.

“Well, I WOULD like to see the hundred bombs bursting at once and Vulcan at his forge!” said Miss Brown.

Thus the matter arranged itself. Tim waited with the lady while Nelson went for the horse, nor was it until afterward that Miss Brown wondered why the lad did not go instead of the man. But Tim had his own reasons. No sooner was Nelson out of earshot than he began: “Say, Miss Brown, I can tell you something.”

“Yes?”

“That Richards is no good; but you can’t get Uncle to see it. At least it will take time. If you’ll help me we can get him round in time. Won’t you please not sell us out for six months and give me a show? I’ll see you get your interest and your money, too.”

“You?” Miss Brown involuntarily took a business attitude, with her arms akimbo, and eyed the boy.

“Yes, ma’am, me. I ain’t so very old, but I know all about the business. I got all the figures down–how much we raise and what we got last year. I can fetch them to you so you can see. He is a good farmer, and he will catch on to the melons pretty quick. We’ll do better next year, and I’ll try to keep him from belonging to things and spending money; and if he won’t lend to anybody or start in raising a new kind of crop just when we get the melons going, he will make money sure. He is awful good and honest. All the trouble with him is he needs somebody to take care of him. If Aunt Lizzie had been alive he never would have lent that dead-beat Richards that money. He ought to get married.”

Miss Brown did not feel called on to say anything. Tim continued in a judicial way: “He is awful good and kind, always gets up in the morning to make the fire if I have got something else to do; and he’d think everything his wife did was the best in the world; and if he had somebody to take care of him he’d make money. I don’t suppose YOU would think of it?” This last in an insinuating tone, with evident anxiety.