“My dear sir,” he said, “this is war, and war is the most serious business that men can engage in.”
He resumed his seat as suddenly as he had left it, throwing one leg across the other with an easy familiarity that was not at all displeasing to the elder man.
“You would think war was my business,” remarked the commander, after a pause, during which his keen, restless eyes tried to solve the mysteries of the glowing coals; “but it is not. I am a school teacher. I had rather be yonder in Mississippi, training my college boys, than to be leading this army. But war is the price of union and peace, and here I am. Where is Aaron?”
“Aaron?” The question was so sudden and unexpected that the children’s grandfather was taken by surprise.
“Wasn’t that the name of some queer negro you owned?”
“Certainly. I will call him,” replied the grandfather.
At that moment there was a rap at the door, and Aaron opened it. He bowed as he saw the uniformed and booted stranger, and then proceeded to make his report. He told his master that all the horses, mules, and cattle had been brought back, and some more besides. He stood, half smiling, in an easy and yet an expectant attitude.
“This is Aaron,” said the commander. “I must take him by the hand.” He stepped across the floor with arm extended and clasped Aaron’s hand in his. “You are a good man, Aaron,” he remarked, “a good man. I want to read you something.”
The commander fumbled in the breast pocket of his coat and drew forth a huge morocco memorandum book. From this he took a letter.