Two years after he had joined it his regiment passed through the region whence he had come.  The country thereabout had suffered severely from the ravages of war, having been occupied alternately (and simultaneously) by the belligerent forces, and a sanguinary struggle had occurred in the immediate vicinity of the Lassiter homestead.  But of this the young trooper was not aware.

Finding himself in camp near his home, he felt a natural longing to see his parents and sister, hoping that in them, as in him, the unnatural animosities of the period had been softened by time and separation.  Obtaining a leave of absence, he set foot in the late summer afternoon, and soon after the rising of the full moon was walking up the gravel path leading to the dwelling in which he had been born.

Soldiers in war age rapidly, and in youth two years are a long time.  Barr Lassiter felt himself an old man, and had almost expected to find the place a ruin and a desolation.  Nothing, apparently, was changed.  At the sight of each dear and familiar object he was profoundly affected.  His heart beat audibly, his emotion nearly suffocated him; an ache was in his throat.  Unconsciously he quickened his pace until he almost ran, his long shadow making grotesque efforts to keep its place beside him.

The house was unlighted, the door open.  As he approached and paused to recover control of himself his father came out and stood bare-headed in the moonlight.

“Father!” cried the young man, springing forward with outstretched hand—­“Father!”

The elder man looked him sternly in the face, stood a moment motionless and without a word withdrew into the house.  Bitterly disappointed, humiliated, inexpressibly hurt and altogether unnerved, the soldier dropped upon a rustic seat in deep dejection, supporting his head upon his trembling hand.  But he would not have it so:  he was too good a soldier to accept repulse as defeat.  He rose and entered the house, passing directly to the “sitting-room.”

It was dimly lighted by an uncurtained east window.  On a low stool by the hearthside, the only article of furniture in the place, sat his mother, staring into a fireplace strewn with blackened embers and cold ashes.  He spoke to her—­tenderly, interrogatively, and with hesitation, but she neither answered, nor moved, nor seemed in any way surprised.  True, there had been time for her husband to apprise her of their guilty son’s return.  He moved nearer and was about to lay his hand upon her arm, when his sister entered from an adjoining room, looked him full in the face, passed him without a sign of recognition and left the room by a door that was partly behind him.  He had turned his head to watch her, but when she was gone his eyes again sought his mother.  She too had left the place.

Barr Lassiter strode to the door by which he had entered.  The moonlight on the lawn was tremulous, as if the sward were a rippling sea.  The trees and their black shadows shook as in a breeze.  Blended with its borders, the gravel walk seemed unsteady and insecure to step on.  This young soldier knew the optical illusions produced by tears.  He felt them on his cheek, and saw them sparkle on the breast of his trooper’s jacket.  He left the house and made his way back to camp.