The reunited official staff of Obadiah moved on, one member limping, the other caressing his head.

Gentle peace returned for the moment to the emotion-swept aged ones. But now, through the gates of the Home rushes the fire department of South Ridgefield. With awe inspiring roar and mighty clangor of bells the engines advance, reflecting gorgeously in the afternoon sun. Taxpayers must have thrilled with pride as they remarked the speed of approach and energy with which these public servants entered upon their duties. Even as they halt, powerful pumps sound, ready to deluge the edifice with water while enthusiastic men with axes rush into the halls and upon the roof, prepared to hew.

"Where is the fire?" demanded the chief in a voice of authority.

Silently, Mrs. Bean led him to the blackened leaves.

"Who turned in that alarm?" he asked with great sternness.

"I did," calmly replied the widow of three.

For a moment he looked down into the wrinkled face filled with the pride and satisfaction of duty well done. He raised his helmet and scratched his head. "The whole department out for a bonfire," he grumbled.

Virginia came and smiled timidly at this burly man. "I am sorry that you have been given all of this trouble," she said. "I have arranged to serve refreshments to your men, if you don't object."

When his little hostess left him, the grim old fire fighter stood at the head of the steps and gazed at the waiters ministering with energy to the voracious appet.i.tes of his men. "Huh," he chuckled, "looks like that blame bonfire cooked up a pretty good feed for my boys."

The concert ended and the musicians awaited, in a group, the truck which was to take them back to the Soldiers' Home. Colonel Ryan went to speak to the leader. As he turned to Virginia, who had been at his side, he discovered her thanking the members of the organization individually for their part in the concert.

"Your music was beautiful," she told a cornet player. "Every one enjoyed it so much." She made apology to the entire number. "It is too bad that the fire alarm disturbed you."

"That weren't no disturbance, Ma'am," the cornetist rea.s.sured her. He was bowed with age and had a shrill cracked voice. Tucking his instrument under his arm, he filled a disreputable pipe and went on.

"No, Ma'am, that weren't what I'd call no disturbance. In the war our old Colonel used to make us go out on the skirmish line and play. Our leader allowed that the rattle of bullets on the drum heads ruined the time."

"How brave of you," Virginia marveled at this thumping tale of war.

"Had to be brave in my regiment, Ma'am. Old Colonel Dean was a bob-cat and he expected his men to be catamounts," he cackled.

A clarionetist chewed a stubby mustache and listened to the remarks of the cornet player with a hostile air. "They ain't over their squallin'

yit," he proclaimed, and the musicians roared with laughter.

Shaking his old pipe wrathfully at his fellows, the man with the cornet challenged them. "Colonel Dean was a bob-cat," he maintained. "A ragin', clawin', scratchin', bob-cat of a fighter and the whole regiment was just like the old man."

As the name Dean was mentioned, an old lady arose from a group with whom she had been chatting and drew near the musicians. She was tall and dignified and a cap of lace was pinned upon her snowy head. She peered at the cornetist through her spectacles. "Were you speaking of Colonel Dean of the Infantry?" she asked sweetly.

"Yes, Ma'am," the cornet player growled. "I was a talkin' about old Colonel Dean of my regiment, a ragin', clawin', scratchin', fightin'

man." His bellicose tones indicated the danger of contradiction and displayed a suspicion that his questioner lifted her voice in behalf of his opponents.

"Colonel Dean," she said gently, "was my husband. Were you with him at Shiloh?"

A great change swept over the cornetist. He bowed deeply, his hat sweeping the ground. His voice was reverential, even tender, as he replied, "I was behind him there, Ma'am--his bugler. I helped to carry him from the field."

The group was very serious now. When the old veteran spoke again he could not conceal the emotion which shook him. "Colonel Dean lived a brave man, Ma'am, and he died--" he hesitated, seeking words--"just like a soldier orter die." He straightened proudly, his old eyes flashing.

"Boys," he called, "my Colonel's lady. Attention!" As one man they stiffened. Each hand sought the rim of a hat and together swept forward in the old time salute.

Mrs. Dean acknowledged the honor with a bow of great dignity, but the wrinkled hand at her side was shaking. For an instant the frail body held its poise and then broke beneath the storm of feeling which beset it.

She seemed to shrink and would have fallen had not Virginia caught the withered form in her arms and helped the old lady to a seat. After a time the tears were fewer and the sobs lessened.

Mrs. Dean turned to the girl. "Forgive me, child," she begged.

"Forgive the weakness of an old woman." A withered hand stroked a soft white one. "You have given me great happiness today, dearie."

Her eyes returned to the waiting members of the band. "I think," she said very gently, "my soldier boys wish to speak to me." She arose and one by one and silently the musicians came forward and took her hand.

A little later Mrs. Henderson and Hezekiah found Virginia at the foot of the steps where she had just left Mrs. Dean. The girl was gazing off into the distance.

"Virginia Dale, you have been crying," Hennie said, as she noted a telltale moisture of the eyes.

"No, Hennie, I am wonderfully happy."

"So much so that you had to cry, dearie?" The older woman smiled tenderly. Raising her hands she caught Virginia's cheeks between them and looked down into the big blue eyes. "It was a success, dear--a great success," she giggled mischievously for one of her years. "You told us, remember, that the place needed stirring up. Bless your heart, you shook it with an earthquake."

CHAPTER XII

MORE TROUBLE

"It is a fine form of advertis.e.m.e.nt and comes cheap," thought Obadiah as he read, with pleasure, certain laudatory references to himself and his daughter, in an article regarding the concert at the Lucinda Home, prominently displayed in the morning paper.

He told her about it. "There is a very nice account of your concert at the Lucinda Home. They give you great credit." He glanced at her proudly. "You made a Dale success of it, didn't you?"

His words as well as her own satisfaction at the outcome of the concert made Virginia very happy. All that morning she sang as she went about her various affairs in the big house until Serena smiled to herself and muttered, "Dat chil' is a mekin mo'e noise an' er jay bird er yellin' caze de cher'ies is ripe."

The joyous mood was yet upon the girl when she went to the hospital that afternoon and found Joe Curtis sitting up in bed for the first time.

"You are looking fine," she told him.

"Don't make me blush. I am a modest youth," he protested.

Her cheeks flushed prettily. "I am not complimenting your looks but your health."

"It is all due to the shave, anyway," he grinned. "The fatal symptoms are not so apparent."

She observed his face with interest. "It does look smoother," she admitted. "Who shaved you? Did Miss Knight?"

"Hush!" he whispered in mock terror. "Don't let her hear you. She didn't shave me, but she might want to. That would be the last straw. My proud spirit would never survive the outrage of that woman wielding a razor over my tender skin."

"I will ask her to shave you. Perhaps she may let me help," giggled Virginia.

"I have always looked forward to your visits."

"You wouldn't be glad to see me even if I came to shave you?" she demanded with severity.

He closed his eyes.

"Answer me," she commanded in a stern voice.

"I suffer great pain," he groaned.