The sergeant entered the gate, and the thirsty men, hearing the order, looked after him. They saw the strange old figure on the porch, the torn blue jacket belted at the waist, the sword, the smiling, eager face. The captain saw, too.
"Three cheers for the old soldier," he cried, and hats were swung in the air.
"May we have a drink?" the sergeant asked, and grandfather pointed the way to the well.
He tried to go down the steps to help them pump, but his knees trembled, and he stayed where he was. He watched them, still smiling. He did not realize that the cheers were for him, he could not quite understand why suits which should be gray were so yellow, but he supposed it was the mud.
"Poor chaps," he sighed. "They're goin' back to Dixie."
One by one the companies drew up before the gate, and one by one they cheered. They had been cheering ever since the beginning of the encampment—for Meade, for Hancock, for Reynolds, among the dead; for the Governor, the colonel, the leader of the regiment band, among the living. They had enlisted for a good time, for a trip to Gettysburg, for a taste of camp-life, from almost any other motive than that which had moved this old man to enlist in '61. They suddenly realized how little this encampment was like war. All the drill, all the pomp of this tin soldiering, even all the graves of the battle-field, had not moved them as did this old man in his tattered coat. Here was love of country. Would any of them care to don in fifty years their khaki blouses? Then, before the momentary enthusiasm or the momentary seriousness had time to wear away, the order was given to march back to camp.
The old man did not turn to watch them go. He sat still with his eyes upon the distant hills. After a while his sword fell clattering to the floor.
"I'm glad I sneaked out and gave 'em something," he said, smiling with a great content.
The long leaves of the corn in the next field rustled in the wind, the sun rose higher, then declined, and still he sat there smilingly unheeding, his eyes toward the west. Once he said, "Poor chaps, it's dark for 'em."
The cows waited at the pasture gate for the master and mistress, who were late. Henrietta had wished that morning that grandfather could milk, so that they would not have to hurry home. Presently they came, tired and hungry, the children eager to tell of the wonders they had seen. At their mother's command, they ran to let down the pasture bars while their father led the horses to the barn, and she herself went on to the porch.