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.