“It’s a Vermont regiment,” said Berkley; “they’re filing out of the Park Barracks.  What a lot of hawk-nosed, hatchet-faced, turkey-necked cow milkers!—­all heroes, too, Steve.  You can tell that because they’re in uniform and carry guns.”

Stephen watched the lank troops, fascinated by the long, silent, almost gliding stride of officers and men loaded down with knapsack, blanket, and canteen, their caps pushed high on their red and sweating foreheads.  There was a halt; big hands, big red knuckles, big feet, and the delicate curve of the hawk’s beak outlining every Yankee nose, queer, humourous, restless glances sweeping Gotham streets and windows where Gotham crowded to gaze back at the halted youngsters in blue; then a far tenor cry, nasal commands, thin voices penetrating from out of the crowded distance; a sudden steadying of ranks; the level flash of shouldered steel; a thousand men marking time; and at last the drums’ quick outbreak; and the 1st Vermont Infantry passed onward into the unknown.

“I’d rather like to go there—­to see what there is there,” observed Berkley.

“Where?”

“Where they’re going—­wherever that may be—­and I think I know.”

He glanced absently at his letter again.

“I’ve sold some stock—­all I had, and I’ve made a lot of money,” he said listlessly.

Stephen dropped an impulsive hand on his shoulder.

“I’m terribly glad, Berkley!  I’m delighted!” he said with a warmth that brought a slight colour into Berkley’s face.

“That’s nice of you, Stephen.  It solves the immediate problem of how to go there.”

“Go where?”

“Why—­where all our bright young men are going, old fellow,” said Berkley, laughing.  “I can go with a regiment or I can go alone.  But I really must be starting.”

“You mean to enlist?”

“Yes, it can be done that way, too.  Or—­other ways.  The main thing is to get momentum. . . .  I think I’ll just step out and say good-bye and many thanks to your father.  I shall be quite busy for the rest of my career.”

“You are not leaving here?”

“I am.  But I’ll pay my rent first,” said Berkley, laughing.

And go he did that very afternoon; and the office of Craig & Son knew him no more.

A few days later Ailsa Paige returned to New York and reoccupied her own house on London Terrace.

A silk flag drooped between the tall pilasters.  Under it, at the front door stood Colonel Arran to welcome her.  It had been her father’s house; he had planted the great catalpa trees on the grassy terrace in front.  Here she had been born; from here she had gone away a bride; from here her parents had been buried, both within that same strange year that left her widowed who had scarcely been a wife.  And to this old house she had returned alone in her sombre weeds—­utterly alone, in her nineteenth year.

This man had met her then as he met her now; she remembered it, remembered, too, that after any absence, no matter how short, this old friend had always met her at her own door-sill, standing aside with head bent as she crossed the sill.