"The girls they laugh, the girls they cry,
'What shall their guerdon be?—
Alas! that some must fall and die!—
Bring forth our gauds to see.
'Twere all too slight, give what we might.'
Up spoke a soldier tall:
'Oh, Love is worth the whole broad earth;
Oh, Love is worth the whole broad earth;
Give that, you give us all!'"
"Do you remember the song?" Christine asked.
They shook their heads. Yet it seemed familiar. They remembered some such songs.
"Geoffrey Heron," said the girl, turning to one of the men, "you were Captain Heron in the old days. You remember that you were in the army."
"Was I?" He started. "No; yes. I remember. I was Captain Heron. We rode out of Portsmouth Dockyard Gates when we came home—all that were left of us. The women were waiting on the Hard outside, and they laughed and cried, and caught our hands, and ran beside the horses. Our ranks were thin, for we had been pretty well knocked about. I remember now. Yes—yes, I was—I was Captain Heron."
"Go into that room. You will find your old uniform. Take of the blue flannels, and show us how you looked when you were in uniform."
As if it was nothing at all unusual, the man rose and obeyed. It was observed that he now carried himself differently. He stood erect, with shoulders squared, head up, and limbs straight. They all obeyed whatever this girl ordered them to do.
Christine began to play again. She played another March, but always loud and triumphant.
When the soldier came back he was dressed in the uni-
