Then in a flash Franklin saw it all.

He saw the picture.

His heart stopped! This music, it was the wail of trumpets! These steps, ordered, measured, were those of marching men.

These sounds, high, commingling, they were the voices of a day gone swiftly by.

These two, this one--this picture--it was not here, but upon the field of wheat and flowers that he saw it now again--that picture of grief so infinitely sad.
Franklin saw, and as he gazed, eager, half advancing, indecision and irresolution dropped from him forever.