“Hello, Beau!” called Champe, stretching out his hand as he drew near. “I just heard you were over here, so I thought I'd take a look. How goes the war?”
Dan refilled his pipe and borrowed a light from Pinetop.
“To tell the truth,” he replied, “I have come to the conclusion that the fun and frolic of war consist in picket duty and guarding mule teams.”
“Well, these excessive dissipations have taken up so much of your time that I've hardly laid eyes on you since you got routed by malaria. Any news from home?”
“Grandma sent me a Christmas box, which she smuggled through, heaven knows how. We had a jolly dinner that day, and Pinetop and I put on our first clean clothes for three months. Big Abel got a linsey suit made at Chericoke—I hope he'll come along in it.”
“Oh, Beau, Beau!” lamented Champe. “How have the mighty fallen? You aren't so particular now about wearing only white or black ties, I reckon.”
“Well, shoestrings are usually black, I believe,” returned Dan, with a laugh, raising his hand to his throat.
Champe seated himself upon the end of an oak log, and taking off his hat, ran his hand through his curling hair. “I was at home last summer on a furlough,” he remarked, “and I declare, I hardly knew the valley. If we ever come out of this war it will take an army with ploughshares to bring the soil up again. As for the woods—well, well, we'll never have them back in our day.”
“Did you see Uplands?” asked Dan eagerly.
“For a moment. It was hardly safe, you know, so I was at home only a day. Grandpa told me that the place had lain under a shadow ever since Virginia's death. She was buried in Hollywood—it was impossible to bring her through the lines they said—and Betty and Mrs. Ambler have taken this very hardly.”