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"Suppose it wasn't either."

when, just as our last note died among the trees one of us cried, "Listen!" and through the stillness there came from far away on our right the last three measures of a bugle sounding The March.

"Why, I can read my safety in your face. You can't read anything in mine; you're afraid to look."

She struck a mock-sentimental attitude and murmured musically--

"Oh, shut your dirty face!" replied the son, while one of his cronies warned both against being overheard. But when this one added something further the old man snarled:

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