He heard, too, as they chatted,
of John's regrets that his simple engineer dress was not as neat as he
would have desired and of whether his aunt would dislike it. Wearing the
station of Westways Crossing, John fell into a laughing account of his
first arrival and of the meeting with Leila. The home-tonic was of use
and he was glad with gay gladness that the war was over.
As the train stopped, he said as he got out, "There is no carriage--you
telegraphed, McGregor?"
"Yes, I did, but the service is, I fancy, snowed under just now with
messages. I will walk on and have them send for you."
"No," said John, "I am quite able to walk. Come along."
"Are you really able?"
"Yes--we'll take it easy."
"There isn't much left of you to carry what remains."
"My legs are all right, Tom." He led the way through the woods until they
came out on the avenue. "Think of it, Tom,--it is close to nine years
since first I left Grey Pine for the Point."
In the afternoon of this sunny day late in April the Colonel sat on the
porch with his wife. Below them on the step Rivers was reading aloud the
detailed account of Lincoln's death. Leila coming out of the house was
first to see the tall thin figure in dark undress uniform. She was
thankful for an unwatched moment of ability to gain entire self-command.
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