As he slid down from the hay and walked along beside George, he noticed for the first time how slow and faltering the steps beside his had grown.

As they climbed up the hill to the church, it seemed to him that the beloved face looked unusually thin and haggard in the strong light of the sunset.
George did not play long this evening.

He knew that the quiet little listener on the steps bent as readily to the changing moods of his melody as the clover does to the fitful breezes; so he changed abruptly from the minor chords that his fingers instinctively reached for, to an old hymn that smoothed away the pathetic pucker of the boy's forehead.
Then he pulled out the stops and began a loud burst of martial music, so glad and triumphant, that, listening, one felt all great things possible of achievement.

John Jay stood up, swinging his cap on the end of a stick which he carried, with all the curves and rythmic motions of a drum major.
After George came out and locked the door, he stood for a moment looking out fondly across the peaceful fields, still fair with the fading glow of the summer sun.

John Jay looked too, feeling at the same time the touch of a caressing hand laid lightly on his bare head, but he could not see the lips above him that moved in a silent benediction.
When Mammy came home that night, there was wood in the box and water in the pail.