"Put your cap on! The sun's hotter than July."
"Oh, Manila has schooled me to this—and worse, if it comes." He compressed his lips, and gazed ahead, past the farm, to the utmost line of horizon, and beyond that.
"You're a true soldier, my boy. Face the music—we've all got to, sooner or later."
The dinner bell rang again with menace in its brassy tones.
"We'd better go back to the house. They'll give us Hail Columbia! Brace up, Glen, and remember—I'm with you!"
Over on the farm-house porch Mrs. Bunker was saying to Kitty: "It's the last of those men, once they get with the live-stock."
"Here they are," said Kitty. "Why, Mr. Stillwater! Dinner's ready long ago."
"Don't get excited, Kitty; keep cool. This is the hot part of the day. Do you observe that the sun has approached its meridian, Kitty? No occasion for rush here. Rest and quiet, Kitty—that's my cure. Say, look at Indiana! Isn't she the sweetest thing that ever happened?"
She peeped from behind her mother, dressed in the simple pink and white dimity. Her hair had been smoothly brushed, and hung in one long braid. She looked like a fair and happy child, of not more than fifteen; laughing, refreshed from sleep. Glen gazed at her, but said nothing. His recent confession to Indiana's father, had the effect of making him conscious and tongue-tied. There was a large orchard on the farm, where lay the afternoon shade. The family repaired there, according to the daily custom, as soon as dinner was over. Hammocks hung in the trees and Kitty spread shawls on the ground, and brought pillows galore.
Glen sat in the midst of the group, tuning his mandolin, which he kept at the farm. Glen and his mandolin were associated. All invitations issued to him included the clause, "Bring your mandolin!" He seldom made a social visit without it, except on doleful occasions, such as funerals or visits of condolence.