"Come, Charley, let's drink. To Liberty! It is a war-cry for Satan or
Michael."
They drank, laughing, while Ben stood watching. Dorr turned to go, but Lamar called him back,—stood resting his hand on his shoulder: he never thought to see him again, you know.
"Look at Ruth, yonder," said Dorr, his face lighting. "She is coming to meet us. She thought you would be with me."
Lamar looked gravely down at the low field-house and the figure at the gate. He thought he could see the small face and earnest eyes, though it was far off, and night was closing.
"She is waiting for you, Charley. Go down. Good night, old chum!"
If it cost any effort to say it, Dorr saw nothing of it.
"Good night, Lamar! I'll see you in the morning."
He lingered. His old comrade looked strangely alone and desolate.
"John!"
"What is it, Dorr?"