“‘The sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children,’” she said musingly. Then she turned again to Bob.
“You’re no copperhead yourself, are you?” she inquired. “You’re not even a locofoco, are you?”
“No, indeed, Miss Stark! There isn’t one of those boys that believes in putting down the rebellion more than I do, that loves the old flag more than I do, or would fight for it, or for the government, or for Abraham Lincoln, quicker than I would if I had the chance—Miss Stark, I’m loyal, I’m loyal!”
He stood erect, eyes flashing, the color back in his cheeks, the soul within him speaking. Sarah Jane Stark went up to him and put her arm about his shoulders.
“Good!” she cried. “You’re the right sort. I wish Abe Lincoln had a hundred thousand at the front just like you. Now you leave that matter about the company to me. I’ll see those boys, the little brats, and if they don’t take you in I’ll—”
“No, Miss Stark, please don’t! I couldn’t go back in now. I couldn’t ever go in after this. But if the war lasts till I get old enough, I shall be a real soldier in a real company some day.”
“Bully for you!”
It was not a very dignified nor refined expression; but Sarah Jane Stark was noted for expressing herself forcibly when the occasion demanded it, and she felt that this was one of the occasions that demanded it.
“And,” she added, “you go tell Rhett Bannister for me, that if he had one thousandth part of the natural patriotism and horse-sense of his son— No, you needn’t tell him; I’ll tell him myself. I can do it better. You just trot along home and don’t let the conduct of those fool boys trouble you. You’re right and they’re wrong, and that’s all there is to it.”
So Bob went on his way. The Bannister home lay on the old North and South turnpike road, a full mile from the centre of the village. A very comfortable home it was, too, neat and prosperous in appearance, with a small and fertile farm behind the commodious house, and a well-kept lawn in front. For Rhett Bannister, theorist though he was, was no mere dreamer of dreams, he was a worker as well; both the fruit of his brain and the labor of his hands being evident in the comforts by which he was surrounded.